“How, then! you do not know? You have not read what the Messenger says about you this morning?”
Beneath the dark tan of his cheeks the Nabob blushed like a child, and, his eyes shining with pleasure:
“Is it possible—the Messenger has spoken of me?”
“Through two columns. How is it that Moessard has not shown it to you?”
“Oh,” put in Moessard modestly, “it was not worth the trouble.”
He was a little journalist, with a fair complexion and smart in his dress, sufficiently good-looking, but with a face which presented that worn appearance noticeable as the special mark of waiters in night-restaurants, actors, and light women, and produced by conventional grimacing and the wan reflection of gaslight. He was reputed to be the paid lover of an exiled and profligate queen. The rumour was whispered around him, and, in his own world, secured him an envied and despicable position.
Jansoulet insisted on reading the article, impatient to know what had been said of him. Unfortunately Jenkins had left his copy at the duke’s.
“Let some one go fetch me a Messenger quickly,” said the Nabob to the servant behind him.
Moessard intervened.
“It is needless. I must have the thing on me somewhere.”