And the Nabob, with brotherly aid, led him to one of those benches dotted here and there among the tombs, on which those inconsolable mourners rest who make the cemetery their usual walk and abode. He settled him in his seat, gazed upon him tenderly, pitied him for his infirmity, and, following what was quite a natural channel in such a spot, they came to talking of their health, of the old age that was approaching. This one was dropsical, the other subject to apoplectic fits. Both were in the habit of dosing themselves with the Jenkins pearls, a dangerous remedy--witness Mora, so quickly carried off. “My poor duke!” said Jansoulet. “A great loss to the country,” remarked the banker with an air of conviction. And the Nabob added naively: “For me above all, for me; for, if he had lived--Ah! what luck you have, what luck you have!” Fearing to have wounded him, he went on quickly: “And then, too, you are clever, so very clever.” The baron looked at him with a wink so droll, that his little black eyelashes disappeared amid his yellow fat. “No,” said he, “it is not I who am clever. It is Marie.” “Marie?” “Yes, the baroness. Since her baptism she has given up her name of Yamina for that of Marie. She is a real sort of woman. She knows more than I do myself about banking and Paris and business. It is she who manages everything at home.” “You are very fortunate,” sighed Jansoulet. His air of gloom told a long story of qualities missing in Mlle. Afchin. Then, after a silence, the baron resumed: “She has a great grudge against you, Marie, you know. She will not be pleased when she hears that we have been talking together.” A frown passed over his heavy brow, as though he were regretting their reconciliation, at the thought of the scene which he would have with his wife. Jansoulet stammered: “I have done her no harm, however.” “Come, come, neither of you has been very nice to her. Think of the affront put upon her when we called after our marriage. Your wife sending word to us that she was not in the habit of receiving quondam slaves. As though our friendship ought not to have been stronger than a prejudice. Women don’t forget things of that kind.” “But no responsibility lay with me for that, old friend. You know how proud those Afchins are.” He was not proud himself, poor man. His mien was so woebegone, so supplicating under his friend’s frown, that he moved him to pity. Decidedly, the cemetery had softened the baron.