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Mohammed-Ben-Omar belonged to that class of Algerians who, listening to the counsel of French financiers, always cherished the project of making Algeria into a veritable El Dorado, and had now come to France to lend the support of his name and authority to some one of the speculations built on the sands of the desert, of which the Tuileries people were so fond.
With a gravity that was truly oriental, and with his face half concealed in the folds of his mantle, his brown hands folded on his breast, Mohammed-Ben-Omar advanced. Laisangy went forward to meet him. In fact, he could hardly believe in his good fortune.
And now let us have a glass." "Can't stop, have a commission to perform!" Nevertheless, Coucon did stop to drink a little, and to gossip. "When did you come to Paris?" he asked. "This very day, in the escort of Mohammed-Ben-Omar, a sort of Pasha, you know, and to-night he slipped on the stairs and wrenched his ankle. Take another glass, friend.
The orchestra was playing delightfully, and lacqueys were announcing the first names of the empire counts, and barons, and princes. Suddenly a new name was heard: "Mohammed-Ben-Omar!" And a magnificent personage, wearing the Legion of Honor on his white bournous, entered the room. Every one turned to look at him. He was a magnificent looking Arab.
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