“Do you think so? The fact is I am in terrible straits,” said the other, shaking his head.
Hemerlingue’s cunning eyes disappeared again beneath the folds of his cheeks like two flies in butter.
“Well, yes; I have played a strong game. But you don’t lack shrewdness, all the same. The loan of the fifteen millions to the Bey—it was a good stroke, that. Ah! you are bold enough; only you hold your cards badly. One can see your game.”
Till now they had been talking in low tones, impressed by the silence of the great necropolis; but little by little human interests asserted themselves in a louder key even there where their nothingness lay exposed on all those flat stones covered with dates and figures, as if death was only an affair of time and calculation—the desired solution of a problem.
Hemerlingue enjoyed the sight of his friend reduced to such humility, and gave him advice on his affairs, with which he seemed to be fully acquainted. According to him the Nabob could still get out of his difficulties very well. Everything depended on the validation, on the turning up of a card. The question was to make sure that it should be a good one. But Jansoulet had no more confidence. In losing Mora, he had lost everything.
“You lose Mora, but you regain me; so things are equalized,” said the banker tranquilly.
“No, do you see it is impossible. It is too late. Le Merquier has completed the report. It is a dreadful one, I believe.”
“Well, if he has completed his report, he will have to prepare another.”
“How is that to be done?”
The baron looked at him with surprise.