He read the announcement twice, thinking that his eyes must have deceived him. There was a buzzing in his ears. The letters, two of each, danced before his eyes with the red circles caused by looking at the sun. He had been so certain of seeing his name in that place; and Jenkins—only the day before—had said to him so confidently: "It is all settled!" that it still seemed to him that he must be mistaken. But no, it was really Jenkins. It was a deep, heart-sickening, prophetic blow, like a first warning from destiny, and was the more keenly felt because, for years past, the man had been unaccustomed to disappointments, had lived above humanity. All the good that there was in him learned at that moment to be distrustful.
"Well," he said to de Géry, entering his room, as he did every morning, and surprising him with the paper in his hand and evidently deeply moved, "I suppose you have seen,—my name is not in the Officiel?"
He tried to smile, his features distorted like those of a child struggling to restrain his tears. Then, suddenly, with the frankness that was so attractive in him, he added: "This makes me feel very badly,—I expected too much."
As he spoke, the door opened and Jenkins rushed into the room, breathless, panting, intensely agitated.
"It's an outrage—a horrible outrage. It cannot, shall not be."
The words rushed tumultuously to his lips, all trying to come out at once; then he seemed to abandon the attempt to express his thoughts and threw upon the table a little shagreen box and a large envelope, both bearing the stamp of the chancellor's office.
"There are my cross and my letters patent," he said. "They are yours, my friend, I cannot keep them."
In reality that did not mean much. Jansoulet arraying himself in Jenkins' ribbon would speedily be punished for unlawfully wearing a decoration. But a coup de théâtre is not necessarily logical; this particular one led to an effusion of sentiment, embraces, a generous combat between the two men, the result being that Jenkins restored the objects to his pocket, talking about protests, letters to the newspapers. The Nabob was obliged to stop him again.
"Do nothing of the kind, you rascal. In the first place, it would stand in my way another time. Who knows? perhaps on the 15th of next August—"
"Oh! I never thought of that," cried Jenkins, jumping at the idea. He put forth his arm, as in David's Serment: "I swear it by my sacred honor!"