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 Géry'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 André 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 André. 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 Révolte 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 Géry.
"Oh! our Bois is not the same as yours," replied Aline with a smile. "Come with us, and you will see."