The electioneering whirlwind which had enveloped them in Corsica,
crossed the sea behind them like a blast of the sirocco and filled the
flat in the Place Vendome with a mad wind of folly. It was overrun from
morning to night by the habitual element, augmented now by a constant
arrival of little dark men, brown as the locust-bean, with regular
features and thick beards, some turbulent and talkative, like Paganetti,
others silent, self-contained and dogmatic: the two types of the race
upon which the same climate produces different effects. All these
famished islanders, in the depths of their savage country, promised
each other to meet at the Nabob’s table. His house had become an inn, a
restaurant, a market-place. In the dining-room, where the table was
kept constantly laid, there was always to be found some newly arrived
Corsican, with the bewildered and greedy appearance of a country cousin,
having something to eat.
The boasting, clamorous race of election agents is the same everywhere;
but these were unusually fiery, had a zeal even more impassioned and
the vanity of turkey-cocks, all worked up to white heat. The most
insignificant recorder, inspector, mayor’s secretary, village
schoolmaster, spoke as if he had the whole country behind him, and the
pockets of his threadbare black coat full of votes. And it is a fact,
in Corsican parishes (Jansoulet had seen it for himself) families are
so old, have sprung from so little, have so many ramifications, that any
poor fellow breaking stones on the road is able to claim relationship
with the greatest personages of the island, and is thereby able to exert
a serious influence. These complications are aggravated still more
by the national temperament, which is proud, secretive, scheming, and
vindictive; so it follows that one has to be careful how one walks amid
the network of threads stretching from one extremity of the people to
the other.
The worst was that all these people were jealous of each other,
detested each other, and quarrelled across the table about the election,
exchanging black looks and grasping the handles of their knives at the
least contradiction. They spoke very loud and all at once, some in the
hard, sonorous Genoese dialect, and others in the most comical French,
all choking with suppressed oaths. They threw in each other’s teeth
names of unknown villages, dates of local scandals, which suddenly
revived between two fellow guests two centuries of family hatreds. The
Nabob was afraid of seeing his luncheons end tragically, and strove to
calm all this violence and conciliate them with his large good-natured
smile. But Paganetti reassured him. According to him, the vendetta,
though still existing in Corsica, no longer employs the stiletto or the
rifle except very rarely, and among the lowest classes. The anonymous
letter had taken their place. Indeed, every day unsigned letters were
received at the Place Vendome written in this style:
“M. Jansoulet, you are so generous that I cannot do less than point out
to you that the Sieur Bornalinco (Ange-Marie) is a traitor, bought by
your enemies. I could say very differently about his cousin Bornalinco
(Louis-Thomas), who is devoted to the good cause, etc.”
Or again:
“M. Jansoulet, I fear your chances of election will come to nothing, and
are on a poor foundation for success if you continue to employ one named
Castirla (Josue), of the parish of Omessa. His relative, Luciani, is the
man you need.”
Although he no longer read any of these missives, the poor candidate
suffered from the disturbing effect of all these doubts and of all these
unchained passions. Caught in the gearing of those small intrigues, full
of fears, mistrustful, curious, feverish, he felt in every aching nerve
the truth of the Corsican proverb, “The greatest ill you can wish your
enemy is an election in his house.”
It may be imagined that the check-book and the three deep drawers in
the mahogany cabinet were not spared by this hoard of devouring locusts
which had fallen upon “Moussiou Jansoulet’s” dwelling. Nothing could
be more comic than the haughty manner in which these good islanders
effected their loans, briskly, and with an air of defiance. At the same
time it was not they who were the worst--except for the boxes of cigars
which sank in their pockets as though they all meant to open a “Civette”
on their return to their own country. For just as the very hot
weather inflames and envenoms old sores, so the election had given
an astonishing new growth to the pillaging already established in the
house. Money was demanded for advertising expenses, for Moessard’s
articles, which were sent to Corsica in bales of thousands of copies,
with portraits, biographies, pamphlets--all the printed clamour that
it was possible to raise round a name. And always the usual work of the
suction-pumps went on, those pumps now fixed to this great reservoir of
millions. Here, the Bethlehem Society, a powerful machine working with
regular, slow-recurring strokes, full of impetus; the Territorial Bank,
a marvellous exhauster, indefatigable, with triple and quadruple rows
of pumps, several thousand horse-power, the Schwalbach pump, the Bois
l’Hery pump, and how many others as well? Some enormous and noisy
with screaming pistons, some quite dumb and discreet with clack-valves
knowingly oiled, pumps with tiny valves, dear little pumps as fine
as the sting of insects, and like them, leaving a poison in the place
whence they have drawn life; all working together and bound to bring
about if not a complete drought, at least a serious lowering of level.
Already evil rumours, vague as yet, were going the round of the Bourse.
Was this a move of the enemy? For Jansoulet was waging a furious money
war against Hemerlingue, trying to thwart all his financial operations,
and was losing considerable sums at the game. He had against him his own
fury, his adversary’s coolness, and the blunderings of Paganetti, who
was his man of straw. In any case his golden star was no longer in
the ascendant. Paul de Gery knew this through Joyeuse, who was now a
stock-broker’s accountant and well up in the doings on the Bourse. What
troubled him most, however, was the Nabob’s singular agitation, his need
of constant distraction which had succeeded his former splendid calm of
strength and security, the loss, too, of his southern sobriety. He kept
himself in a continual state of excitement, drinking great glasses
of _raki_ before his meals, laughing long, talking loud, like a rough
sailor ashore. You felt that here was a man overdoing himself to escape
from some heavy care. It showed, however, in the sudden contraction of
all the muscles of his face, as some unhappy thought crossed his
mind, or when he feverishly turned the pages of his little gilt-edged
note-book. The serious interview that Paul wanted so much Jansoulet
would not give him at any price. He spent his nights at the club, his
mornings in bed, and from the moment he awoke his room was full of
people who talked to him as he dressed, and to whom he replied, sponge
in hand. If, by a miracle, de Gery caught him alone for a second, he
fled, stopping his words with a “Not now, not now, I beg of you.” In the
end the young man had recourse to drastic measures.
One morning, towards five o’clock, when Jansoulet came home from his
club, he found a letter on the table near his bed. At first he took it
to be one of the many anonymous denunciations he received daily. It
was indeed a denunciation, but it was signed and undisguised; and it
breathed in every word the loyalty and the earnest youthfulness of him
who wrote it. De Gery pointed out very clearly all the infamies and all
the double dealing which surrounded him. With no beating about the bush
he called the rogues by their names. There was not one of the usual
guests whom he did not suspect, not one who came with any other object
than to steal and to lie. From the top to the bottom of the house all
was pillage and waste. Bois l’Hery’s horses were unsound, Schwalbach’s
gallery was a swindle, Moessard’s articles a recognised blackmail. De
Gery had made a long detailed memorandum of these scandalous abuses,
with proofs in support of it. But he specially recommended to
Jansoulet’s attention the accounts of the Territorial Bank as the real
danger of the situation. Attracted by the Nabob’s name, as chairman
of the company, hundreds of shareholders had fallen into the infamous
trap--poor seekers of gold, following the lucky miner. In the other
matters it was only money he lost; here his honour was at stake.
He would discover what a terrible responsibility lay upon him if he
examined the papers of the business, which was only deception and
cheatery from one end to the other.
“You will find the memorandum of which I speak,” said Paul de Gery, at
the end of his letter, “in the top drawer of my desk along with sundry
receipts. I have not put them in your room, because I mistrust Noel
like the rest. When I go away to-night I will give you the key. For I
am going away, my dear benefactor and friend, I am going away full of
gratitude for the good you have done me, and heartbroken that your blind
confidence has prevented me from repaying you even in part. As things
are now, my conscience as an honest man will not let me stay any longer
useless at my post. I am looking on at a disaster, at the sack of a
palace, which I can do nothing to prevent. My heart burns at all I see.
I give handshakes which shame me. I am your friend, and I seem their
accomplice. And who knows that if I went on living in such an atmosphere
I might not become one?”
This letter, which he read slowly and carefully, even between the lines
and through the words, made so great an impression on the Nabob that,
instead of going to bed, he went at once to find his young secretary. De
Gery had a study at the end of the row of public rooms where he slept on
a sofa. It had been a provisional arrangement, but he had preferred not
to change it.
The house was still asleep. As he was crossing the lofty rooms, filled
with the vague light of a Parisian dawn (those blinds were never
lowered, as no evening receptions were held there), the Nabob stopped,
struck by the look of sad defilement his luxury wore. In the heavy
odour of tobacco and various liqueurs which hung over everything, the
furniture, the ceilings, the woodwork could be seen, already faded and
still new. Spots on the crumpled satins, ashes staining the beautiful
marbles, dirty footmarks on the carpets. It reminded one of a huge
first-class railway carriage incrusted with all the laziness, the
impatience, the boredom of a long journey, and all the wasteful,
spoiling disdain of the public for a luxury for which it has paid.
In the middle of this set scene, still warm from the atrocious comedy
played there every day, his own image, reflected in twenty cold and
staring looking-glasses, stood out before him, forbidding yet comical,
in absolute contrast to his elegant clothes, his eyes swollen, his face
bloated and inflamed.
What an obvious and disenchanting to-morrow to the mad life he was
leading!
He lost himself for a moment in dreary thought; then he gave his
shoulders a vigorous shake, a movement frequent with him--it was like a
peddler shifting his pack--as though to rid himself of too cruel cares,
and again took up the burden every man carried with him, which bows his
back, more or less, according to his courage or his strength, and went
into de Gery’s room, who was already up, standing at his desk sorting
papers.
“First of all, my friend,” said Jansoulet, softly shutting the door for
their interview, “answer me frankly. Is it really for the motives given
in your letter that you have resolved to leave me? Is there not, beneath
it all, one of those scandals that I know are being circulated in Paris
against me? I am sure you would be loyal enough to warn me and to give
me the opportunity of--of clearing myself to you.”
Paul assured him that he had no other reasons for going, but that those
were surely sufficient, since it was a matter of conscience.
“Then, my boy, listen to me, and I am sure of keeping you. Your letter,
so eloquent of honesty and sincerity, has told me nothing that I have
not been convinced of for three months. Yes, my dear Paul, you were
right. Paris is more complicated than I thought. What I needed, when I
arrived, was an honest and disinterested cicerone to put me on my guard
against people and things. I met only swindlers. Every worthless rascal
in the town has left the mud of his boots on my carpets. I was looking
at them just now--my poor drawing-rooms. They need a fine sweeping out.
And I swear to you they shall have it, by God, and with no light hand!
But I must wait for that until I am a deputy. All these scoundrels are
of use to me for the election, and this election is far too necessary
now for me to risk losing the smallest chance. In a word, this is the
situation: Not only does the Bey mean to keep the money I lent him three
months ago, but he has replied to my summons by a counter action for
eighty millions, the sum out of which he says I cheated his brother. It
is a frightful theft, an audacious libel. My fortune is mine, my own. I
made it by my trade as a merchant. I had Ahmed’s favour; he gave me the
opportunity of becoming rich. It is possible I may have put on the screw
a little tightly sometimes. But one must not judge these things from
a European standpoint. Over there, the enormous profits the Levantines
make is an accepted fact--a known thing. It is the ransom those savages
pay for the western comfort we bring them. That wretch Hemerlingue, who
is suggesting all this persecution against me, has done just as much.
But what is the use of talking? I am in the lion’s jaws. While waiting
for me to go to defend myself at his tribunals--and how I know it,
justice of the Orient!--the Bey has begun by putting an embargo on all
my goods, ships, and palaces, and what they contain. The affair was
conducted quite regularly by a decree of the Supreme Court. Young
Hemerlingue had a hand in that, you can see. If I am made a deputy, it
is only a joke. The court takes back its decree and they give me back
my treasure with every sort of excuse. If I am not elected I lose
everything, sixty, eighty millions, even the possibility of making
another fortune. It is ruin, disgrace, dishonour. Are you going to
abandon me in such a crisis? Think--I have only you in the whole world.
My wife--you have seen her, you know what help, what support she is
to her husband. My children--I might as well not have any. I never see
them; they would scarcely know me in the street. My horrible wealth
has killed all affection around me and has enveloped me with shameless
self-seeking. I have only my mother to love me, and she is far away, and
you who came to me from my mother. No, you will not leave me alone amid
all the scandals that are creeping around me. It is awful--if you only
knew! At the club, at the play, wherever I go I seem to see the little
viper’s head of the Baroness Hemerlingue, I hear the echo of her hiss,
I feel the venom of her bite. Everywhere mocking looks, conversation
stopped when I appear, lying smiles, or kindness mixed with a little
pity. And then the deserters, and the people who keep out of the way as
at the approach of a misfortune. Look at Felicia Ruys: just as she had
finished my bust she pretends that some accident, I know not what, has
happened to it, in order to avoid having to send it to the _Salon_. I
said nothing, I affected to believe her. But I understood that there
again was some new evil report. And it is such a disappointment to me.
In a crisis as grave as this everything has its importance. My bust in
the exhibition, signed by that famous name, would have helped me greatly
in Paris. But no, everything falls away, every one fails me. You see now
that I cannot do without you. You must not desert me.”