"Ah! I know it, Monsieur Joyeuse. But in order to get out of it with honor, we must have money, much money, must sacrifice two or three millions more; and we haven't them. That is why I am going to Tunis, to try and extort from the bey's rapacity a small portion of the great fortune which he so unjustly withholds. At this moment I have some chance of success, whereas a little later perhaps--" "Go at once then, my dear boy, and if you return with a bag full of money as I trust you will, attend first of all to the Paganetti gang. Remember that one shareholder less patient than the rest will be enough to blow the whole thing into the air, to demand an inquiry; and you know as well as I what an inquiry would disclose. On reflection," added M. Joyeuse, wrinkling his brow, "I am surprised that Hemerlingue in his hatred of you has not secretly procured a few shares--" He was interrupted by the concert of maledictions, of imprecations which the name of Hemerlingue always called forth from all those young people, who hated the corpulent banker for the injury he had done their father and for the injury he wished to do the worthy Nabob, who was adored in that household for Paul de Gery's sake. "Hemerlingue, the heartless creature! Villain! Wicked man!" But, amid that chorus of outcries, the _Imaginaire_ worked out his theory of the stout baron becoming a shareholder in the _Territoriale_ in order to drag his enemy before the courts. And we can imagine Andre Maranne's stupefaction, knowing absolutely nothing of the affair, when he saw M. Joyeuse turn toward him, his face purple and swollen with rage, and point his finger at him with these terrible words: "The greatest rascal here is yourself, monsieur!" "O papa, papa! what are you saying?" "Eh? What's that?--Oh! I beg your pardon, my dear Andre. I imagined that I was in the examining magistrate's office, confronting that villain. It's my infernal brain that is forever rushing off to the devil." A roar of laughter rang out through all the open windows, mingling with the rumbling of innumerable carriages and the chatter of gayly-dressed crowds on Avenue des Ternes; and the author of _Revolte_ took advantage of the diversion to inquire if they did not propose to start soon. It was late--the good places in the Bois would all be taken. "The Bois de Boulogne, on Sunday!" exclaimed Paul de Gery. "Oh! our Bois is not the same as yours," replied Aline with a smile. "Come with us, and you will see." * * * * *