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With my old friend Cardailhac, whom I now present, that makes the first batch. There are others to come. Prepare yourself for a fine upsetting. We entertain the Bey in four days." "The Bey again!" said the old woman, astounded. "I thought he was dead." Jansoulet and his guests could not help laughing at this comical terror, accentuated by her southern intonation. "It is another, mamma.
Sitting in the sumptuous dining-room, with their elbows on the table, warmed by wine and with full stomachs, they planned and discussed. Cardailhac, whose views were broad, had his plan all formed. "Carte blanche, of course, eh, Nabob?" "Carte blanche, old fellow. And let old Hemerlingue burst with rage."
There were present the manager of the theatre financed by the Nabob, Cardailhac, renowned for his wit almost as much as for his insolvencies, a marvellous carver who, while he was engaged in severing the limbs of a partridge, would prepare one of his witticisms and deposit it with a wing upon the plate which was presented to him.
Cardailhac, the manager of the Nouveautes, sent for him to inform him that his play was to be produced immediately that it would be put on next month.
During this wild play, of which Mora was, however, the involuntary cause, and, as it were, the soul, his name was not once uttered. Neither Cardailhac nor Jenkins put in an appearance. Monpavon had taken to his bed, stricken more deeply than he wished it to be thought. Nobody had any news. "Is he dead?"
Amid the heartfelt congratulations that were showered on Jansoulet, Cardailhac, who had not been seen since morning, suddenly appeared, triumphant and perspiring. "Didn't I tell you that there was something to work with! Eh? Isn't this chic? There's a grouping for you! I fancy our Parisians would pay something handsome to attend a first performance like this."
They laughed and talked and smoked there, making a great uproar; the manager always came to pay his respects to his partner. That evening, not a soul. And the absence of Cardailhac, with his keen scent for success, showed Jansoulet the full measure of his disgrace. "What have I done to them? Why is it that Paris will no longer have anything to do with me?"
And as she stood there, her nosegay in her hand, with the stupid expression of a balked fairy, Cardailhac said to her with the blague of a Parisian who speedily makes the best of things: "Take away your flowers, my dear, your affair has fallen through. The Bey isn't coming he forgot his handkerchief, and as that's what he uses to talk to ladies, why, you understand " Now, it is night.
There was Monpavon, his shirt-front bulging like a whipped egg. Cardailhac breathlessly giving his last orders, and the honest face of Jansoulet, whose sparkling eyes, set over his fat, sunburnt cheeks, looked like two gold nails in a goffering of Spanish leather. Suddenly an electric bell rang. The station-master, in a new uniform, ran down the line: "Gentlemen, the train is signalled.
A splendid house, crammed to the roof, notwithstanding the late period of the spring and the fashionable taste for early departure to the country; a house that Cardailhac, a declared enemy of nature and the country, endeavouring always to keep Parisians in Paris till the latest possible date, has succeeded in crowding and making as brilliant as in midwinter.
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