Ferailleur, if you don't want the young girl
you love to be deprived of her rightful heritage. You do not know
into what unworthy hands the Chalusse property is about to fall."
He was on the point of telling Pascal the story of Madame
d'Argeles and M. Wilkie, when he was interrupted by the sound of a
lively controversy in the hall.
"Who's taking such liberty in my house?" the baron began. But the
next instant he heard some one fling open the door of the large
room adjoining, and then a coarse, guttural voice called out:
"What! he isn't here! This is too much!"
The baron made an angry gesture. "That's Kami-Bey," said he, "the
Turk whom I am playing that great game of cards with. The devil
take him! He will be sure to force his way in here--so we may as
well join him, M. Ferailleur."
On reentering the adjoining apartment Pascal beheld a very
corpulent man, with a very red face, a straggling beard, a flat
nose, small, beadlike eyes, and sensual lips. He was clad in a
black frock-coat, buttoned tight to the throat, and he wore a fez.
This costume gave him the appearance of a chunky bottle, sealed
with red wax. Such, indeed, was Kami-Bey, a specimen of those
semi-barbarians, loaded with gold who are not attracted to Paris
by its splendors and glories, but rather by its corruption--people
who come there persuaded that money will purchase anything and
everything, and who often return home with the same conviction.
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