Once more Hemerlingue's cunning eyes disappeared between his cheeks, like two flies in butter.
"Dame! yes, I've played pretty close. You don't lack skill. That stroke of loaning fifteen millions to the bey was very shrewd. Ah! you're a cool one; but you don't hold your cards right. Others can see your hand."
Thus far they had spoken in undertones, as if awed by the silence of the great necropolis; but gradually selfish interests raised their tones, even amid the proofs of their nothingness displayed upon all those flat stones covered with dates and figures, as if death were simply a matter of time and reckoning, the desired solution of a problem.
Hemerlingue enjoyed seeing his friend so humble, he gave him advice concerning his business affairs, with which he seemed to be thoroughly acquainted. According to his view, the Nabob could still get out of his difficulties in very good shape. Everything depended on the confirmation of his election, on having another card to play. Then it must be played judiciously. But Jansoulet had no confidence. In losing Mora he had lost everything.
"You have lost Mora, but you have found me. One's worth as much as the other," said the baron, calmly.
"But no, you see yourself it's impossible. It's too late. Le Merquier has finished his report. It's a terrible report, so it seems."
"Very well! if he's finished his report, he must draw another, not so unfavorable."
"How can that be?"
The baron stared at him in amazement.
"Come, come, you're losing your hold! Why, by giving him one, two, three hundred thousand francs, if necessary."