“Am I dazzled, am I going blind? Was that Cesarine?” he cried,
recollecting a blond head he had seen at the window.
He had actually seen his daughter, his wife, and Popinot. The lovers
knew that Birotteau never passed before the windows of his old home, and
they had come to the house to make arrangements for a fete which they
intended to give him. This amazing apparition so astonished Birotteau
that he stood stock-still, unable to move.
“There is Monsieur Birotteau looking at his old house,” said Monsieur
Molineux to the owner of a shop opposite to “The Queen of Roses.”
“Poor man!” said the perfumer’s former neighbor; “he gave a fine
ball--two hundred carriages in the street.”
“I was there; and he failed in three months,” said Molineux. “I was the
assignee.”
Birotteau fled, trembling in every limb, and hastened back to
Pillerault.
Pillerault, who had just been informed of what had happened in the Rue
des Cinq-Diamants, feared that his nephew was scarcely fit to bear the
shock of joy which the sudden knowledge of his restoration would cause
him; for Pillerault was a daily witness of the moral struggles of the
poor man, whose mind stood always face to face with his inflexible
doctrines against bankruptcy, and whose vital forces were used and spent
at every hour. Honor was to Cesar a corpse, for which an Easter morning
might yet dawn. This hope kept his sorrow incessantly active. Pillerault
took upon himself the duty of preparing his nephew to receive the good
news; and when Birotteau came in he was thinking over the best means
of accomplishing his purpose. Cesar’s joy as he related the proof of
interest which the king had bestowed upon him seemed of good augury, and
the astonishment he expressed at seeing Cesarine at “The Queen of Roses”
afforded, Pillerault thought, an excellent opening.
“Well, Cesar,” said the old man, “do you know what is at the bottom
of it?--the hurry Popinot is in to marry Cesarine. He cannot wait any
longer; and you ought not, for the sake of your exaggerated ideas of
honor, to make him pass his youth eating dry bread with the fumes of
a good dinner under his nose. Popinot wishes to lend you the amount
necessary to pay your creditors in full.”
“Then he would buy his wife,” said Birotteau.
“Is it not honorable to reinstate his father-in-law?”
“There would be ground for contention; besides--”
“Besides,” exclaimed Pillerault, pretending anger, “you may have the
right to immolate yourself if you choose, but you have no right to
immolate your daughter.”
A vehement discussion ensued, which Pillerault designedly excited.
“Hey! if Popinot lent you nothing,” cried Pillerault, “if he had called
you his partner, if he had considered the price which he paid to the
creditors for your share in the Oil as an advance upon the profits, so
as not to strip you of everything--”
“I should have seemed to rob my creditors in collusion with him.”
Pillerault feigned to be defeated by this argument. He knew the human
heart well enough to be certain that during the night Cesar would go
over the question in his own mind, and the mental discussion would
accustom him to the idea of his complete vindication.
“But how came my wife and daughter to be in our old appartement?” asked
Birotteau, while they were dining.
“Anselme wants to hire it, and live there with Cesarine. Your wife is
on his side. They have had the banns published without saying anything
about it, so as to force you to consent. Popinot says there will be much
less merit in marrying Cesarine after you are reinstated. You take six
thousand francs from the king, and you won’t accept anything from your
relations! I can well afford to give you a receipt in full for all that
is owing to me; do you mean to refuse it?”
“No,” said Cesar; “but that won’t keep me from saving up everything to
pay you.”
“Irrational folly!” cried Pillerault. “In matters of honor I ought to
be believed. What nonsense were you saying just now? How have you robbed
your creditors when you have paid them all in full?”
Cesar looked earnestly at Pillerault, and Pillerault was touched to see,
for the first time in three years, a genuine smile on the face of his
poor nephew.
“It is true,” he said, “they would be paid; but it would be selling my
daughter.”
“And I wish to be bought!” cried Cesarine, entering with Popinot.
The lovers had heard Birotteau’s last words as they came on tiptoe
through the antechamber of their uncle’s little appartement, Madame
Birotteau following. All three had driven round to the creditors who
were still unpaid, requesting them to meet at Alexandre Crottat’s that
evening to receive their money. The all-powerful logic of the enamored
Popinot triumphed in the end over Cesar’s scruples, though he persisted
for some time in calling himself a debtor, and in declaring that he
was circumventing the law by a substitution. But the refinements of his
conscience gave way when Popinot cried out: “Do you want to kill your
daughter?”
“Kill my daughter!” said Cesar, thunderstruck.
“Well, then,” said Popinot, “I have the right to convey to you the sum
which I conscientiously believe to be your share in my profits. Do you
refuse it?”
“No,” said Cesar.
“Very good; then let us go at once to Crottat and settle the matter,
so that there may be no backing out of it. We will arrange about our
marriage contract at the same time.”
* * * * *
A petition for reinstatement with corroborative documents was at once
deposited by Derville at the office of the _procureur-general_ of the
Cour Royale.
During the month required for the legal formalities and for the
publication of the banns of marriage between Cesarine and Anselme,
Birotteau was a prey to feverish agitation. He was restless. He
feared he should not live till the great day when the decree for his
vindication would be rendered. His heart throbbed, he said, without
cause. He complained of dull pains in that organ, worn out as it was
by emotions of sorrow, and now wearied with the rush of excessive joy.
Decrees of rehabilitation are so rare in the bankrupt court of Paris
that seldom more than one is granted in ten years.
To those persons who take society in its serious aspects, the
paraphernalia of justice has a grand and solemn character difficult
perhaps to define. Institutions depend altogether on the feelings with
which men view them and the degree of grandeur which men’s thoughts
attach to them. When there is no longer, we will not say religion,
but belief among the people, whenever early education has loosened all
conservative bonds by accustoming youth to the practice of pitiless
analysis, a nation will be found in process of dissolution; for it will
then be held together only by the base solder of material interests, and
by the formulas of a creed created by intelligent egotism.
Bred in religious ideas, Birotteau held justice to be what it ought to
be in the eyes of men,--a representation of society itself, an august
utterance of the will of all, apart from the particular form by which it
is expressed. The older, feebler, grayer the magistrate, the more solemn
seemed the exercise of his function,--a function which demands profound
study of men and things, which subdues the heart and hardens it against
the influence of eager interests. It is a rare thing nowadays to find
men who mount the stairway of the old Palais de Justice in the grasp of
keen emotions. Cesar Birotteau was one of those men.
Few persons have noticed the majestic solemnity of that stairway,
admirably placed as it is to produce a solemn effect. It rises, beyond
the outer peristyle which adorns the courtyard of the Palais, from the
centre of a gallery leading, at one end, to the vast hall of the Pas
Perdus, and at the other to the Sainte-Chapelle,--two architectural
monuments which make all buildings in their neighborhood seem paltry.
The church of Saint-Louis is among the most imposing edifices in Paris,
and the approach to it through this long gallery is at once sombre and
romantic. The great hall of the Pas Perdus, on the contrary, presents at
the other end of the gallery a broad space of light; it is impossible to
forget that the history of France is linked to those walls. The stairway
should therefore be imposing in character; and, in point of act, it is
neither dwarfed nor crushed by the architectural splendors on either
side of it. Possibly the mind is sobered by a glimpse, caught through
the rich gratings, of the Place du Palais-de-Justice, where so many
sentences have been executed. The staircase opens above into an enormous
space, or antechamber, leading to the hall where the Court holds its
public sittings.
Imagine the emotions with which the bankrupt, susceptible by nature
to the awe of such accessories, went up that stairway to the hall of
judgment, surrounded by his nearest friends,--Lebas, president of the
Court of Commerce, Camusot his former judge, Ragon, and Monsieur l’Abbe
Loraux his confessor. The pious priest made the splendors of human
justice stand forth in strong relief by reflections which gave them
still greater solemnity in Cesar’s eyes. Pillerault, the practical
philosopher, fearing the danger of unexpected events on the worn mind of
his nephew, had schemed to prepare him by degrees for the joys of this
festal day. Just as Cesar finished dressing, a number of his faithful
friends arrived, all eager for the honor of accompanying him to the bar
of the Court. The presence of this retinue roused the honest man to an
elation which gave him strength to meet the imposing spectacle in the
halls of justice. Birotteau found more friends awaiting him in the
solemn audience chamber, where about a dozen members of the council were
in session.
After the cases were called over, Birotteau’s attorney made his demand
for reinstatement in the usual terms. On a sign from the presiding
judge, the _procureur-general_ rose. In the name of his office this
public prosecutor, the representative of public vindictiveness, asked
that honor might be restored to the merchant who had never really lost
it,--a solitary instance of such an appeal; for a condemned man can
only be pardoned. Men of honor alone can imagine the emotions of Cesar
Birotteau as he heard Monsieur de Grandville pronounce a speech, of
which the following is an abridgement:--
“Gentlemen,” said that celebrated official, “on the 16th of
January, 1820, Birotteau was declared a bankrupt by the commercial
tribunal of the Seine. His failure was not caused by imprudence,
nor by rash speculations, nor by any act that stained his honor.
We desire to say publicly that this failure was the result of a
disaster which has again and again occurred, to the detriment of
justice and the great injury of the city of Paris. It has been
reserved for our generation, in which the bitter leaven of
republican principles and manners will long be felt, to behold the
notariat of Paris abandoning the glorious traditions of preceding
centuries, and producing in a few years as many failures as two
centuries of the old monarchy had produced. The thirst for gold
rapidly acquired has beset even these officers of trust, these
guardians of the public wealth, these mediators between the law
and the people!”
On this text followed an allocution, in which the Comte de Grandville,
obedient to the necessities of his role, contrived to incriminate
the Liberals, the Bonapartists, and all other enemies of the throne.
Subsequent events have proved that he had reason for his apprehension.
“The flight of a notary of Paris who carried off the funds which
Birotteau had deposited in his hands, caused the fall of your
petitioner,” he resumed. “The Court rendered in that matter a
decree which showed to what extent the confidence of Roguin’s
clients had been betrayed. A _concordat_ was held. For the honor
of your petitioner, we call attention to the fact that his
proceedings were remarkable for a purity not found in any of the
scandalous failures which daily degrade the commerce of Paris. The
creditors of Birotteau received the whole property, down to the
smallest articles that the unfortunate man possessed. They
received, gentlemen, his clothes, his jewels, things of purely
personal use,--and not only his, but those of his wife, who
abandoned all her rights to swell the total of his assets. Under
these circumstances Birotteau showed himself worthy of the respect
which his municipal functions had already acquired for him; for he
was at the time a deputy-mayor of the second arrondissement and
had just received the decoration of the Legion of honor, granted
as much for his devotion to the royal cause in Vendemiaire, on the
steps of the Saint-Roch, which were stained with his blood, as for
his conciliating spirit, his estimable qualities as a magistrate,
and the modesty with which he declined the honors of the
mayoralty, pointing out one more worthy of them, the Baron de la
Billardiere, one of those noble Vendeens whom he had learned to
value in the dark days.”
“That phrase is better than mine,” whispered Cesar to Pillerault.
“At that time the creditors, who received sixty per cent of their
claims through the aforesaid relinquishment on the part of this
loyal merchant, his wife, and his daughter of all that they
possessed, recorded their respect for their debtor in the
certificate of bankruptcy granted at the _concordat_ which then
took place, giving him at the same time a release from the
remainder of their claims. This testimonial is couched in terms
which are worthy of the attention of the Court.”
Here the _procureur-general_ read the passage from the certificate of
bankruptcy.
“After receiving such expressions of good-will, gentlemen, most
merchants would have considered themselves released from
obligation and free to return boldly into the vortex of business.
Far from so doing, Birotteau, without allowing himself to be cast
down, resolved within his conscience to toil for the glorious day
which has at length dawned for him here. Nothing disheartened him.
Our beloved sovereign granted to the man who shed his blood on the
steps of Saint-Roch an office where he might earn his bread. The
salary of that office the bankrupt laid by for his creditors,
taking nothing for his own wants; for family devotion has
supported him.”
Birotteau pressed his uncle’s hand, weeping.
“His wife and his daughter poured their earnings into the common
fund, for they too espoused the noble hope of Birotteau. Each came
down from the position she had held and took an inferior one.
These sacrifices, gentlemen, should be held in honor, for they are
harder than all others to bear. I will now show you what sort of
task it was that Birotteau imposed upon himself.”
Here the _procureur-general_ read a summing-up of the schedule, giving
the amounts which had remained unpaid and the names of the creditors.
“Each of these sums, with the interest thereon, has been paid,
gentlemen; and the payment is not shown by receipts under private
seal, which might be questioned: they are payments made before a
notary, properly authenticated; and according to the inflexible
requirements of this Court they have been examined and verified by
the proper authority. We now ask you to restore Birotteau, not to
honor, but to all the rights of which he was deprived. In doing
this you are doing justice. Such exhibitions of character are so
rare in this Court that we cannot refrain from testifying to the
petitioner how heartily we applaud his conduct, which an august
approval has already privately encouraged.”
The prosecuting officer closed by reading his charge in the customary
formal terms.
The Court deliberated without retiring, and the president rose to
pronounce judgement.
“The Court,” he said, in closing, “desires me to express to
Birotteau the satisfaction with which it renders such a judgment.
Clerk, call the next case.”
Birotteau, clothed with the caftan of honor which the speech of the
illustrious _procureur-general_ had cast about him, stood dumb with joy
as he listened to the solemn words of the president, which betrayed the
quiverings of a heart beneath the impassibility of human justice. He was
unable to stir from his place before the bar, and seemed for a moment
nailed there, gazing at the judges with a wondering air, as though they
were angels opening to him the gates of social life. His uncle took him
by the arm and led him from the hall. Cesar had not as yet obeyed the
command of Louis XVIII., but he now mechanically fastened the ribbon of
the Legion of honor to his button-hole. In a moment he was surrounded by
his friends and borne in triumph down the great stairway to his coach.
“Where are you taking me, my friends?” he said to Joseph Lebas,
Pillerault, and Ragon.
“To your own home.”
“No; it is only three o’clock. I wish to go to the Bourse, and use my
rights.”
“To the Bourse!” said Pillerault to the coachman, making an expressive
sign to Joseph Lebas, for he saw symptoms in Cesar which led him to fear
he might lose his mind.
The late perfumer re-entered the Bourse leaning on the arms of the
two honored merchants, his uncle and Joseph Lebas. The news of his
rehabilitation had preceded him. The first person who saw them enter,
followed by Ragon, was du Tillet.
“Ah! my dear master,” he cried, “I am delighted that you have pulled
through. I have perhaps contributed to this happy ending of your
troubles by letting that little Popinot drag a feather from my wing. I
am as glad of your happiness as if it were my own.”
“You could not be otherwise,” said Pillerault. “Such a thing can never
happen to you.”
“What do you mean by that?” said du Tillet.
“Oh! all in good part,” said Lebas, smiling at the malicious meaning of
Pillerault, who, without knowing the real truth, considered the man a
scoundrel.
Matifat caught sight of Cesar, and immediately the most noted merchants
surrounded him and gave him an _ovation boursiere_. He was overwhelmed
with flattering compliments and grasped by the hand, which roused some
jealousy and caused some remorse; for out of every hundred persons
walking about that hall fifty at least had “liquidated” their affairs.
Gigonnet and Gobseck, who were talking together in a corner, looked at
the man of commercial honor very much as a naturalist must have looked
at the first electric-eel that was ever brought to him,--a fish armed
with the power of a Leyden jar, which is the greatest curiosity of the
animal kingdom. After inhaling the incense of his triumph, Cesar got
into the coach to go to his own home, where the marriage contract of
his dear Cesarine and the devoted Popinot was ready for signature. His
nervous laugh disturbed the minds of the three old friends.
It is a fault of youth to think the whole world vigorous with its own
vigor,--a fault derived from its virtues. Youth sees neither men nor
things through spectacles; it colors all with the reflex glory of its
ardent fires, and casts the superabundance of its own life upon the
aged. Like Cesar and like Constance, Popinot held in his memory a
glowing recollection of the famous ball. Constance and Cesar through
their years of trial had often, though they never spoke of it to each
other, heard the strains of Collinet’s orchestra, often beheld
that festive company, and tasted the joys so swiftly and so cruelly
chastised,--as Adam and Eve must have tasted in after times the
forbidden fruit which gave both death and life to all posterity; for it
appears that the generation of angels is a mystery of the skies.
Popinot, however, could dream of the fete without remorse, nay, with
ecstasy. Had not Cesarine in all her glory then promised herself to
him--to him, poor? During that evening had he not won the assurance
that he was loved for himself alone? So when he bought the appartement
restored by Grindot, from Celestin, when he stipulated that all should
be kept intact, when he religiously preserved the smallest things that
once belonged to Cesar and to Constance, he was dreaming of another
ball,--his ball, his wedding-ball! He made loving preparation for
it, imitating his old master in necessary expenses, but eschewing all
follies,--follies that were now past and done with. So the dinner was
to be served by Chevet; the guests were to be mostly the same: the Abbe
Loraux replaced the chancellor of the Legion of honor; the president of
the Court of Commerce, Monsieur Lebas, had promised to be there; Popinot
invited Monsieur Camusot in acknowledgment of the kindness he had
bestowed upon Birotteau; Monsieur de Vandenesse and Monsieur de Fontaine
took the place of Roguin and his wife. Cesarine and Popinot distributed
their invitations with much discretion. Both dreaded the publicity of
a wedding, and they escaped the jar such scenes must cause to pure and
tender hearts by giving the ball on the evening of the day appointed for
signing the marriage-contract.
Constance found in her room the gown of cherry velvet in which she had
shone for a single night with fleeting splendor. Cesarine cherished
a dream of appearing before Popinot in the identical ball-dress about
which, time and time again, he had talked to her. The appartement was
made ready to present to Cesar’s eyes the same enchanting scene he had
once enjoyed for a single evening. Neither Constance, nor Cesarine, nor
Popinot perceived the danger to Cesar in this sudden and overwhelming
surprise, and they awaited his arrival at four o’clock with a delight
that was almost childish.
Following close upon the unspeakable emotion his re-entrance at the
Bourse had caused him, the hero of commercial honor was now to meet the
sudden shock of felicity that awaited him in his old home. He entered
the house, and saw at the foot of the staircase (still new as he had
left it) his wife in her velvet robe, Cesarine, the Comte de Fontaine,
the Vicomte de Vandenesse, the Baron de la Billardiere, the illustrious
Vauquelin. A light film dimmed his eyes, and his uncle Pillerault, who
held his arm, felt him shudder inwardly.
“It is too much,” said the philosopher to the happy lover; “he can never
carry all the wine you are pouring out to him.”
Joy was so vivid in their hearts that each attributed Cesar’s
emotion and his stumbling step to the natural intoxication of his
feelings,--natural, but sometimes mortal. When he found himself once
more in his own home, when he saw his salon, his guests, the women in
their ball-dresses, suddenly the heroic measure in the finale of the
great symphony rang forth in his head and heart. Beethoven’s ideal
music echoed, vibrated, in many tones, sounding its clarions through the
membranes of the weary brain, of which it was indeed the grand finale.
Oppressed with this inward harmony, Cesar took the arm of his wife
and whispered, in a voice suffocated by a rush of blood that was still
repressed: “I am not well.”
Constance, alarmed, led him to her bedroom; he reached it with
difficulty, and fell into a chair, saying: “Monsieur Haudry, Monsieur
Loraux.”
The Abbe Loraux came, followed by the guests and the women in their
ball-dresses, who stopped short, a frightened group. In presence of that
shining company Cesar pressed the hand of his confessor and laid his
head upon the bosom of his kneeling wife. A vessel had broken in his
heart, and the rush of blood strangled his last sigh.
“Behold the death of the righteous!” said the Abbe Loraux solemnly,
pointing to Cesar with the divine gesture which Rembrandt gave to Christ
in his picture of the Raising of Lazarus.
Jesus commanded the earth to give up its prey; the priest called heaven
to behold a martyr of commercial honor worthy to receive the everlasting
palm.