"Ivan," said El Kobir, "your friend has come to take you for a walk."
He took the child to his side for a moment and gave him a little squeeze, then he kissed him on the forehead.
Ivan clapped his hand in that of Jacques, and the pair went off, while El Kobir returned to his accounts.
But the addition of figures made little way, and the eternal cigarette was unlit as he sat thinking, thinking, a hundred miles removed from the shop, from his business, from himself.
He was an old man and he had lost many friends. His business was indeed the only friend left to him. Jacques had never been his friend.
Just an acquaintance. They were people inhabiting different worlds, with ideas, tastes, and natures absolutely dissimilar. Ivan by his magic had drawn them together, but he had not united them.
Indeed, now that Ivan was gone, El Kobir felt a vague antagonism towards Jacques.
Jacques had divided them. This rascal of a Jacques had done a fine thing no doubt in parting with the child he was so fond of, for the child's sake—all the same, he had taken the child away.
It was after dark and the swaying lamp was lit in the shop when Jacques came back.
"Well," he said, "it's done, and they leave to-morrow for Oran. They made me stay for a while and talk——"