was especially fond of Miss Rosalie, he delighted in coming to hoe her
flower beds, to tend her plants and water them, chatting with her the
while. The old lady during this would be seated in the garden, near a
spot where a deep niche in the wall had made it possible to cut a
loophole commanding the street. From her point of vantage she could
watch all St. Martin, and without moving keep in touch with its daily
events, which gave her inexhaustible food for comment.
So close became the friendship between these two, that the notary one
day announced that if certain old documents once seen by him at the
county town could be trusted, there was no doubt that their two families
were related. From that moment Miss Rosalie Rigal became "Aunt Rosalie"
to Monsieur Loiseau, and as the relationship was one which anybody might
claim, Miss Rosalie soon found herself "Aunt" to the entire village. She
duly appreciated the honour of this large connection, and with pride in
the universal friendliness, which seemed to her a natural return for her
own rather indiscriminate good will toward all, she let herself softly
float on the pleasure of being held in veneration by everyone in St.
Martin, which for her represented the universe.
The _curé_, who lived at two kilometers' distance, could come to see her
only at irregular intervals. But a lift in a carriage, or even a
friendly cart, often facilitated the journey, and although Aunt Rosalie
was not in the least devout, despite the saintly pictures on her walls,
the long conversations between her and the _curé_, from which the notary
was excluded, gave rise to the popular belief that they had "secrets"
together.
And the supposition was correct. There were "secrets" between Aunt
Rosalie and the priest. There were likewise "secrets" between Aunt
Rosalie and the notary, and they were, to be plain, money secrets. For
the irresistible attraction which drew all St. Martin-en-Pareds to Aunt
Rosalie's feet must here be explained. The simple-minded old spinster
supposed it the most natural thing in the world; she fancied her amiable
qualities sufficient to engage the benevolent affection of all who knew
her. Undeniably Aunt Rosalie's good humour and quiet fun were infinitely
calculated to foster friendly neighbourly relations. But there was more
to it than the uninquiring good soul suspected.
Aunt Rosalie was a poor relation of certain enormously rich people in
the neighbouring canton. She was a grand niece of the famous Jean
Bretaud, whose lucky speculations had made him the most important man in
the district. The Bretauds had entirely forgotten the relationship and,
taking the opposite course from the notary, would probably have denied
it had Aunt Rosalie claimed it.
Aunt Rosalie claimed nothing, but she did not forget her family. When
evening fell, and the blinds were closed, and the doors securely locked:
"Victorine, go and bring the documents," she would say, after a glance
all around to make sure that no one could spy on her in the mysterious
elaborations of the work under way. At these words, Victorine, with
sudden gravity, would extract from the wardrobe a little flat box,
cunningly tied with string, and place it respectfully on the table,
after having with much ado untied the knots and unrolled the complicated
wrappings which guarded the treasure from the gaze of the profane.
The treasure was simply a genealogy of the Bretauds with authentic
documents to support it. As soon as the papers had been spread out under
the lamplight, and set in order, the work would begin. The point was to
discover what catastrophes would have to occur in the Bretaud family
before the millions could fall into Aunt Rosalie's purse. A considerable
number of combinations were conceivable, and it was to the examination
of them all that Aunt Rosalie and Victorine devoted their nightly
labour. A quantity of sheets of white paper covered with pencil
scribbling showed incredible entanglements of calculation and
rudimentary arithmetical systems.
"Well, now, how far had we got?" said Aunt Rosalie.
"We had ended with the death of your grand niece Eulalie, Miss," said
Victorine.
"Ah, yes, the dear child. The fact is, that if she were to die it would
help greatly. There are still two cousins left who would have claims
prior to mine, it is true. But they have very poor health in that branch
of the family."
"I heard the other day that there was an epidemic of scarlet fever in
their neighbourhood."
"Ah! Ah!"
"And then they go to Paris so often. A railway accident might so easily
happen."
"Ah, yes! It is a matter of a minute----"
And they would continue in that tone for a good hour, warming up to it,
comparing the advantages between the demise of this one and that one.
As soon as a Bretaud received a hypothetical inheritance from some
relative, he was set down on Victorine's slip of paper as deceased.
Presently there was strewn around these gentle maniacs on the subject of
inheritance a very hecatomb of Bretauds, such as the eruption of
Vesuvius which blotted out Pompeii would not more than have sufficed to
bring about. Herself on the edge of the grave, this septuagenarian built
up her future on the dead bodies of children, youths, men and women in
the flower of life, whom she theoretically massacred nightly, with a
quiet conscience, before going to sleep, she who would not willingly
have hurt the smallest fly!
When Aunt Rosalie's table had assumed the aspect of a vast cemetery,
they began their reckonings. If only eleven people were to die in a
certain order, Aunt Rosalie would get so and so much. If fourteen, she
would acquire another and fatter sum. Change the order, and there would
be a new combination. They assessed fortunes, and if they did not agree
in their valuations, they split the difference. But whatever happened,
the discussion always ended by Aunt Rosalie receiving an enormous
inheritance. Be it noted that whenever a real death or birth took place,
the combinations were disturbed, the game had to be commenced all over
on a new basis. This afforded fresh pleasure.
But the supreme joy lay in the distribution of the heritage. Neither
Aunt Rosalie nor Victorine had any use for their treasures. Without
personal needs, the harmless yet implacable dreamers experienced before
the fantastic riches fallen to them from Heaven the delightful
embarrassment of human creatures provided with the chance to be a
shining example of all the virtues at very small cost to themselves.
Victorine had never cared to receive her wages, and did not dream of
claiming them, living as she did in the constant vision of barrelfuls of
gold. Set down in the will for 50,000 francs, no more, she was only too
happy to participate royally in her mistress's generosities.
Two account books were ready at hand. One for the distribution of
legacies, and the other for "investments." Both presented an
inextricable tangle of figures scratched out, rewritten, and then again
scratched out for fresh modifications.
"Yesterday," said Rosalie, "we gave 100,000 francs to the hospital at La
Roche-sur-Yon. That is a great deal."
"Not enough, Miss," took up Victorine. "I meant to speak of it; 100,000
for the sick! What can they do with that?"
"Perhaps you are right. Let us say 150,000."
"No, Miss, 200,000."
"Very well, say 200,000. I do not wish to distress you for so little."
"And the Church?"
"Ah, yes, the Church----"
"You cannot refuse to give God His share, Miss, after He has given you
so much!"
"Quite true. Next week I shall add something in my will."
And for an hour the discussion would continue in this tone. The results
were duly consigned to the secret account book, and then would follow
the question of investments.
"Monsieur Loiseau tells me that the Western Railway shares have dropped.
He advises me to buy Northern. He says that Northern means Rothschild,
which means a good deal, you understand, Victorine."
"That Monsieur Loiseau knows everything! You must do as he says. Me, I
don't know anything about such things."
"Well, then, put down Northern instead of Western shares. As for the
dividends, they talk of changing the rate of interest."
"What does that mean?"
"It is just a way of making us lose money."
"What then?"
"Well, then, we may have to get rid of our stock. I will talk it over
with Monsieur Loiseau to-morrow, and perhaps also with the good _curé_
who is very well informed in these matters. Make a cross before those
shares, so that I may not forget."
And Aunt Rosalie actually did ply notary and _curé_ with questions about
her investments, and the use to be made of her fortune after her death.
These two had acquired a liking for the topic. On the day when Aunt
Rosalie, questioned by him with regard to her direct heirs, declared
that as she had seen none of the Bretauds for more than forty years she
"had decided not to leave any of them a penny's worth of her property,"
the _curé_ began pleading for the Church, for the Pope, and for his
charities. His efforts were amply rewarded, for Aunt Rosalie, though not
perhaps satisfying all his demands, generously wrote him down for large
sums, of which she handed him the list, with great mystery. In return
for which she received the confidential assurance of eternal felicity,
although she never performed any of her religious duties.
The notary, scenting something of this in the air, before long
insinuated delicately that he would be glad of a "remembrance" from his
old friend. How could she refuse, when his suggestions in the matter of
investments were so valuable?
"Give me good information and advice, Monsieur Loiseau," said Aunt
Rosalie, with a kind smile. "You shall be rewarded. I will not forget
you."
And from time to time, by a codicil, of which he had taught her the
form, she would add something in her will to the sum she intended for
the good notary. Whereupon he would exert himself with renewed diligence
in her garden, which he jovially called "hoeing Aunt Rosalie's will."
Such things could not be kept secret. St. Martin-en-Pareds soon knew
that Aunt Rosalie had great wealth, which they surmised had come to her
through the generosity of her great uncle Bretaud. Having quarrelled
with her "heirs," she would leave everything to her "friends." Who could
withstand such generous affection as was exhibited toward her? Following
the example of the notary, all St. Martin had by the claim of friendship
become relatives. And visits were paid her, and good wishes expressed,
accompanied by gifts in produce, eggs, fruits, vegetables, bacon, or
chickens, all of which the good "Aunt" accepted with a pretty nodding of
her head, accompanied by an "I shall not forget you!" which everyone
stored in memory as something very precious.
Aunt Rosalie constantly received, and never gave. Even the poor got only
promises for the future. Nothing did so much to rivet her in the public
esteem. Her reputation for blackest avarice was the surest guarantee
that the hoard would be enormous.
Things had gone on like this for more than thirty years, when Aunt
Rosalie was carried off in two days by an inflammation of the lungs.
Victorine, in stupefaction, watched her die, thinking of the inheritance
which had not come, but which could not have failed to come eventually,
if only the old Aunt had continued to live. When the dead woman was
cold, Victorine, who was alone with her in the middle of night, ran to
the box of documents, muttering over and over, in an access of positive
madness: "No one will get anything, no one will get anything!" and threw
the box into the fire.
As she stood poking the bundle to make it kindle, a flame caught her
petticoats. The wretched creature was burned alive, without a soul to
bring her help.
Monsieur Loiseau, anxious for news, arrived on the spot at dawn and
discovered the horrible sight. The fire had crept to the bed. Sheets of
charred paper covered with figures fluttering about the room exposed
Victorine's crime, which had been followed by punishment so swift. When
the official seals had been removed, after the funeral, no trace of
funds could be found, nor any last will and testament. All the notary's
searching led to nothing.
It was concluded that Victorine, an "agent of the Bretauds," had made
everything disappear. Wrath ran high. There rose a chorus of angry
wailing and gnashing of teeth.
"Ah, the money will not be lost!" people said, heaping maledictions upon
the "thief." "The Bretauds will know, well enough, where to look for the
treasure!"
"Poor dear Aunt!" each of them added, mentally. "So rich, so kindly
disposed toward us! And that beast of a servant had to go and----"
As a sort of protest against the Bretauds, Aunt Rosalie was provided by
subscription with a beautiful white marble grave stone, while the
charred remains of Victorine, thrust in a despised corner of the
cemetery, were consigned to public contempt.
Such is the world's justice.
V
GIDEON IN HIS GRAVE
Everyone connected with the Cloth Market of Cracow still remembers
Gideon the Rich, son of Manasseh, who excelled in the cloth trade and
died in the pathways of the Lord. Not only for his prosperity was Gideon
notable. He was universally regarded as "a character," and the man truly
had been gifted by Heaven with a combination of qualities--whether good
or bad, yet well balanced--setting him apart from the common herd.
Gideon was a thick, rotund little Jew, amiable in appearance to the
point of joviality, with a fresh pink and white face in which two large
emotional blue eyes, always looking ready to brim over, bathed his least
words, whether of pity or business, with generous passions. Being an
orthodox Jew, he naturally wore a long, black levitical coat which
concealed his swinging woollen fringes. Where his abundant gray hair met
with his silky beard (unprofaned by shears) hung the two long _paillès_,
cabalistic locks which Jehovah loves to see brushing the temples of the
faithful. When the whole was topped by a tall hat, impeccably lustrous,
and Gideon appeared in the Soukinitza, silence spread, as all gazed at
the noble great-coat (of silk or of cloth, according to the season)
whose pockets offered a safe asylum to the mysteries of universal trade.
Never suppose that such authority was a result of chance or any sudden
bold grasping of advantage. It was the fruit of long endeavour,
continually fortunate because he never embarked on an enterprise or a
combination without laborious calculations, in which all chances
favourable or adverse had been duly weighed. Manasseh had acquired a
very modest competence in the old clothes business, and everyone knows
that the old clothes of the Polish Jews are young when the rest of
mankind consider them past usefulness. One cannot accumulate any great
fortune in this business, which is why Gideon, at Manasseh's death, sold
his paternal inheritance and went unostentatiously to occupy the meanest
booth in the Cloth Market.
At first no one took any notice of him. The shops in that market are
little more than wardrobes. The doors fold back and become show-cases.
The proprietor sits on a chair in the middle, and the passer will hardly
get by without being deluged with reasons for buying exactly the entire
contents of the shelves. Gideon, at the front of his black cave, lighted
only by the big, hollow, smouldering eyes of his mother, seated
motionless for hours on a heap of rags, thought himself in a palace fit
for kings. Dazzled but calm, he skillfully spread his striking wares to
tempt the passer. Others ran after possible purchasers, soliciting them,
bothering them. The modest display which depended upon nothing but its
attractiveness obtained favour. "It may be cheaper in there," people
said, and submitted to persuasion. It was the beginning of a great
destiny.
Twenty years later Gideon, now surnamed "the Rich," had a wife and
children, whom he kept busy under the noisy arcade brightened by the
rainbow colours of silks for sale. He had clung to his humble counter
and was never willing to change it for another. He himself was seldom
found there; he was elsewhere occupied with large transactions planned
in the silence of the night. Rachel and his two sons, Daniel and Nathan,
represented him at the Soukinitza, where he only showed himself to
inquire concerning orders. There he would chatter for hours with the
peasants on market days, to make a difference of a few kreutzers in the
price of a piece of gossamer silk. No profit is too small to be worth
making. This is the principle of successful firms. His conduct excited
the admiration of all. How, furthermore, begrudge to Gideon his dues in
honour, when he was constantly bestowing hundreds of florins upon
schools, synagogues, and every sort of charitable institution?
For Gideon had a dual nature, as, brethren, is the case with many of
us. In business the subtle art of his absorbing rapacity circumvented
any attempt to lessen his profits by the shaving of a copper. "It is not
for myself that I work," he used to say, "it is for the poor." And as
this came near being the truth, people were afraid of appearing
heartless if they opposed him. They let themselves be caught by his
smiling good humour, his friendly familiar talk, and they were, after
all, not much deceived in him, for Gideon, though a victor in life's
bitter struggle, was happiest when stretching out a brotherly hand to
the vanquished. In the same way, those American billionaires whose
immoderate accumulations of wealth spread ruin all around them will
anxiously question the first comer as to the most humanitarian way of
spending the fortune thus acquired. I know of someone who when asked by
that foolish ogre, Carnegie, what he should do with his money, answered:
"Return it to those from whom you took it!"
Gideon could hardly have looked upon the matter in that light. He would
never have asked advice of any one in reference either to amassing or to
returning money. His chief interest, very nearly as important as his
business schemes, was religion. The poetry of Judaism roused in him an
ardour that nothing could satisfy but the feeling of substantially
contributing to the traditional work of his fathers. His charitable
gifts were simply a result. His object was the fulfilment of "the Law."
Daniel and Nathan, brought up in the same ideas, lived in silent respect
for their father's authority. In Israel, ever since the days of the
patriarchs, the head of the house has been, as with all Oriental
peoples, an absolute monarch. The sons of Gideon could therefore feel no
regret at their father's generosities. Like their father, they placed
the service of Jehovah above everything else. Having, however, been
reared by him, and taught all the combinations of exchange by which you
get as much and give as little as you can, they were conscious of
possessing invincible capacities for acquisition.
"They have something better than money," Gideon would say, "they know
how to make it."
On one point alone could, possibly, some ferment of dissension in the
family have been found. Gideon took a rich man's pride in living
modestly. He never would have more than one servant in the house. The
young men, with vanity of a different kind, would have delighted in
dazzling the twelve tribes. As they were not given the necessary means,
they made up their minds to migrate. During the long evenings of whole
winter nothing else was talked of. Gideon did not begrudge the very
considerable outlay involved, knowing that it was a good investment.
Only one consideration troubled him at the thought of launching his
progeny "in the cities of the West." Under penalty of closing the
avenues to social success, they would be obliged to relinquish the
orthodox long coat and clip off the two corkscrew locks on their
temples. Without attaching too much importance to these outward signs,
Gideon grieved over what seemed to him a humiliating concession.
"Father," said Daniel, "in Russia the orthodox Jews are obliged to cut
their hair, in conformity with an edict of the Czar. But even without
_paillès_ Jehovah receives them in his bosom, for it is a case of
superior force."
"Yes, that is it, superior force," said Gideon, nodding assent. "The
only thing that troubles me is that I have always noticed that one
concession leads to another. Where shall you stop? One of these days you
may think it necessary to your social success to become Christians!"
"That!... Never!" cried Daniel and Nathan in one voice, horror-stricken.
"I know, I know that you have no such intention. Like me, you are
penetrated by the greatness of our race, and like me you stand in
admiration before the miracles of destiny. By their holy books the Jews
have conquered the West. Upon our thought the thought of our rulers has
been modelled. That, you must know, is the fundamental reason for their
reviling us; they are aware of having nothing but brutal force to help
them, and of living upon our genius. Though vanquished, we are their
masters. Even in their heresy, which is a Jewish heresy, they proclaim
the superiority of the children of Jehovah. When their God was incarnate
in man, his choice fell upon a Jewish woman. He was born a Jew. He
promised the fulfilment of the Law. His apostles were Jews. Go into
their temples. You will see nothing but statues of Jews which they
worship on their knees. How sad a thing it is, when signs of our grace
are so striking on all sides, to see the wealthiest among us seeking
alliances with the barbarous aristocracy who subjugated us. Some of
them, while remaining Jews, make donations to the church of Christ, so
as to win the favour of nations and kings. Others submit to the disgrace
of baptism. Should you, Daniel, or you, Nathan, commit such a crime, I
should curse you, if living; if dead, I should turn in my grave."
Terrified by this portentous threat, Daniel and Nathan, rising with a
common impulse, swore, calling upon the Lord, to live as good Jews, like
their forefathers.
"That is well done," said Gideon. "I accept your oath. Remember that if
you break it, I shall turn in my grave."
Nathan and Daniel acquired great wealth by every means that the law
tolerates. Gideon was gathered to his fathers. In accordance with his
will, the greater part of his fortune was distributed in charities. A
considerable sum, however, fell to each of his sons, accompanied by a
letter in which affection had dictated final injunctions. The last word
was still: "If ever one of you should become a Christian,--forswear the
pure faith of Abraham for Christian idolatry, I should turn in my
grave."
Time passed. Daniel and Nathan, loaded with riches, had friends in
society, at court, and most especially among those great lords who in
the midst of their reckless magnificence may sometimes be accommodated
by a pecuniary service. Daniel wished to marry. The daughter of an
impoverished prince was opportunely at hand. But his conversion was
required. The Vatican conferred a title upon him. From the class of mere
manipulators of money, the son of the Cloth Market was raised to the
higher sphere of world politics. Daniel did not hesitate. His absent
brother coming home found him turned into a Christian count.
No violent scene ensued between the two sons of Gideon. Nathan
understood perfectly. One thought, however, tormented him.
"I agree with you," he said, "that the Christians are but a sect of
Israel, that they are sons of the synagogue, and that you remain loyal
in spirit to our faith, though overlaid by debatable additions. The fact
none the less remains that we had given our oath to our father.... He
foresaw only too well the thing that has occurred. And you know what he
said: 'I shall turn in my grave.'"
"One says that sort of thing----"
"Gideon, son of Manasseh, was not the man to speak idle words. Think of
it, Daniel, if we were to lift the grave stone and our eyes were to
behold----"
"Nathan, say no more, I beg of you. The mere thought turns me cold with
fear."