Finance
"Il n'est pas si dangereux de faire du mal à la plupart des
hommes que de leur faire trop de bien."
We have seen how the Baron Giraud was called suddenly away from those
pleasures of the country, which he had taken up too late in life, as
many do, to the busy--ay, and stormy--scenes of Paris existence during
the winter before the great war. It was perhaps a week later--one
morning, in fact, soon after the New Year--that my business bade me
seek the Vicomte in his study adjoining my own. These two apartments,
it will be remembered, were separated by two doors and a small
intervening corridor. In the days when the Hôtel Clericy was built,
walls had ears, and every keyhole might conceal a watching eye.
Builders understood the advantage of privacy, and did not construct
rooms where every movement and every spoken word may be heard in the
adjoining chambers.
No sound had come to me, and I had no reason for supposing the Vicomte
engaged at so early an hour. But as I entered the room, after
knocking and awaiting his permission as usual, I saw that some one
was leaving it by the other door. His back was presented to my sight,
but there was no mistaking the slim form and a nonchalant carriage.
Charles Miste again! And only the back of him once more.
"I have had a visit from my late secretary," said the Vicomte,
casually, and without looking up from his occupation of opening some
letters. There was no reason to suppose that he had seen me glance
towards the closing door, recognising him who went from it.
We were still engaged with the morning's correspondence, when a second
visitor was announced, and almost on the heels of the servant a little
fat man came puffing into the room, red-faced and agitated.
"Ah! Heaven be thanked that I have found you in," he gasped, and
although it was a cold morning, he wiped his pasty brow with a
gorgeous silk handkerchief whereupon shone the largest coronet
obtainable.
His face was quite white and flaccid, like the unbaked loaves into
which I had poked inquiring fingers in my childhood, and there was an
unwholesome look of fear in his little bright eyes. The Baron had been
badly scared, and lacked the manhood to conceal his panic.
"Ah! Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" he gasped again, and looked at me with
insolent inquiry. He was, it must be remembered, a very rich man, and
could afford to be ill-mannered. "I must see you, Vicomte."
"You do see me, my friend," replied the old nobleman, in his most
amiable manner. "And at your service."
"But--" and the fluttering handkerchief indicated myself.
"Ah! Let me introduce you. Monsieur Howard, my secretary--the Baron
Giraud."
I bowed as one only bows to money-bags, and the Baron stared at me.
Only very rich or very high-born persons fully understand the
introductory stare.
"You may speak before Monsieur Howard," said the Baron, quietly. "He
is not a secretary _pour rire_."
Had Miste been a secretary _pour rire_, I wondered?
I drew forward a chair and begged the Baron to be seated. He accepted
my invitation coldly, and seating himself seemed to lose nothing in
stature. There are some men who should always be seated. It is, of
course, a mistake to judge of one's neighbour at first sight, but it
seemed to me that the Baron Giraud only wanted a little courage to be
a first-class scoundrel. He fumbled in his pocket, glancing furtively
at me the while. At length he found a letter, which he handed to the
Vicomte.
"I have received that," he said. "It is anonymous, as you will see,
and cleverly done. There is absolutely no clue. It was sent to my
place of business, and my people there telegraphed for me in Provence.
Of course I came at once. One must sacrifice everything to affairs."
Naturally I acquiesced fervently, for the last remark had been thrown
to me for my good.
The Vicomte was looking for his spectacles.
"But, my friend," he said, "it is atrociously written. One cannot
decipher such a scrawl as this."
In his impatience the Baron leant forward, and taking the paper from
my patron, handed it to me.
"Here," he said, "the secretary--read it aloud."
Nothing loth, I read the communication in my loudest voice. The world
holds that a loud voice indicates honesty or a lack of brain, and the
Baron was essentially of that world. The anonymous letter was a
warning that a general rising against the rule of the Emperor was
imminent, and that in view of the probable state of anarchy that would
ensue, wise men should not delay in transferring their wealth to more
stable countries. Precisely--in a word--the information that it had
been decided to withhold from the recipient of the letter.
[Illustration: THE BARON BLEW AND PUFFED LIKE A PRIZE-FIGHTER WHEN I
HAD FINISHED THE PERUSAL. "THERE," HE CRIED; "I RECEIVE A LETTER LIKE
THAT--I, THE BARON GIRAUD--OF THE HIGH FINANCE."]
The Baron blew and puffed like a prize-fighter when I had finished the
perusal.
"There," he cried; "I receive a letter like that--I, the Baron
Giraud--of the high finance."
"My poor friend, calm yourself," urged the Vicomte.
It is easy enough to tell another to calm himself, but who among us
can compass such a frame of mind when he is hit in a vital spot? The
Baron wiped his forehead nervously.
"But," he said, "is it true?"
The Vicomte spread out his hands, and never glanced at me as an
ordinary man would have done towards one who shared his knowledge.
"Who can tell--but yes! So far as human foresight goes--it is true
enough."
"Then what am I to do?"
I stared at the great financier asking such a question. Assuredly he,
of all men, needed no one's counsel in a matter of money.
"Do as I have done," said the Vicomte; "send your money out of the
country."
An odd look came over the Baron's face. He glanced from one of us to
the other--with the cunning, and somewhat the look, of a cat. The
Vicomte was blandly indifferent. As for me, I had, I am told, a hard
face in those days--hardened by weather and a disbelief in human
nature which has since been modified.
"It is a responsibility that you take there," said the financier.
"I take no responsibility. A man of my years, of my retired life,
knows little of such matters." (I thought he looked older as he
spoke.) "I only tell you what I have done with my small possessions."
The Baron shook his head with a sly scepticism. After all, the
cheapest cunning must suffice for money-making, for I dare swear this
man had little else.
"But how?" he said.
"In bank notes, by hand," was the Vicomte's astonishing answer. And
the Baron laughed incredulously. It seems that the highest aim of the
high finance is to catch your neighbour telling the truth by accident.
It would almost be safe to tell the truth always, so rarely is it
recognised.
It was not until the Vicomte produced his bankbook and showed the
amounts paid in and subsequently withdrawn that the Baron Giraud
believed what he had been told. My duties, it may be well to mention
in passing, had no part in the expenditure of the Vicomte de Clericy.
I had only to deal with the income derived from the various estates,
and while being fully aware that large sums had been placed within
the hands of his bankers, I had not troubled to be curious respecting
the ultimate destination of such moneys. My patron possessed, as has
already been intimated, a lively--nay, an exaggerated--sense of the
value of money. He was, indeed, as I remember thinking at this time,
somewhat of a miser, loving money for its own sake, and not, as did
the Baron Giraud, merely for the grandeur and position to be purchased
therewith.
"But I am not like you," said the financier at length.
"No; you have a thousand louis for every one that I possess."
"But I have nothing solid--no lands, no estates except my chateau in
Var."
His panic had by no means subsided, and presently he found himself on
the verge of tears--a pitiable, despicable object. The Vicomte--soothing
and benevolent--went on to explain more fully the position of his own
affairs. He told us that on information received from a sure source he
had months earlier concluded that the Emperor's illness was of a more
serious nature than the general public believed.
"You, my dear friend," he said, "engaged as you have been in the
affairs of the outside world--the Suez Canal, Mexico, the
Colonies--have perhaps omitted to watch matters nearer home. While
looking at a distant mountain one may fall over a little stone--is it
not so?"
He had, he informed us, withdrawn his small interest in such
securities as depended upon the stability of the Government, but that
for men occupying a public position, either by accident of birth
or--and he bowed in his pleasant way towards the Baron--by the force
of their genius, to send their money out of France by the ordinary
financial channels would excite comment, and perhaps hasten the crisis
that all good patriots would fain avoid. He talked thus collectedly
and fairly while the Baron Giraud could but wipe his forehead with a
damp handkerchief and gasp incoherent exclamations of terror.
"I could realize a couple of million," said the financier, "in two
days, but there is much that I cannot sell just now--the fall of the
government makes it necessary to hold much that I could have sold at a
profit a fortnight ago."
The Vicomte was playing with a quill pen. How well I knew the action!
It seemed that the millionaire was recovering from his shock, of which
re-establishment the outward and visible sign was a dawning gleam of
cunning in the eyes.
"But I have no one I can trust," he said; and I almost laughed, so
well the words bespoke the man. "It is different for you," he added;
"you have--Monsieur."
And he glanced keenly at me. Indeed, we were a queer trio; and I began
to think that I was as big a scoundrel as my maiden aunts maintained.
"I would trust Mr. Howard with all my possessions," said the old
Vicomte, looking at me almost affectionately; "but in this matter I
have found another messenger, less valuable to me personally, less
necessary to my comfort and daily happiness, but equally trustworthy."
"And if I gave him twenty million francs to take abroad for me--?"
suggested the great financier.
"Then, my friend, we should be in the same boat--that is all."
"_Your_ boat," said the Baron, with an unpleasant laugh.
Monsieur de Clericy shrugged his shoulders and smiled. This grave
political crisis had rejuvenated him, and he seemed to rise to meet
each emergency with a buoyancy that sat strangely on white hairs.
They talked together upon the fascinating topic, while I, who had no
part in the game, sat and listened. The Baron was very cunning, and,
as it seemed to me, very contemptible. With all the vices that are
mine, I thank heaven that I have never loved money; for that love, it
seems, undermines much that is manly and honest in upright hearts.
Money, it will be remembered, was at the root of the last quarrel I
had with my father--the last fatal breach, which will have to be
patched up in another world. Money has, as it will be seen by such as
care to follow me through these pages, dogged my life from beginning
to end. I have run my thick head against those pursuing it, each in
his different manner, getting lamentably in their way, and making
deadly enemies for myself.
Monsieur de Clericy, in his frank and open way, gave fuller details of
his own intentions. It seemed that his possessions were at that moment
in the house--in a safe hiding-place; that the messenger was to make
several journeys to London, carrying at one time a sum of money which
would be no very pleasant travelling companion. A safe depository
awaited the sums in England, and, in due course, reinvestment would
follow. Money, it will be suspected, was by now beginning to be
somewhat of a red rag for me, and I thought I saw some signs of its
evil influence over my kindly patron. He spoke of it almost as if
there were nothing else on earth worth a man's consideration. In the
heat of argument he lowered his voice, and was no longer his open,
genial self.
What astonished me most, however, was the facility with which the
Baron made a catspaw of him. For the old Vicomte slowly stepped down
as it were from his high standpoint of indifference, and allowed
himself to be interested in the financier's schemes. It was out of
keeping with the attitude which my patron had assumed a few days
earlier at the meeting which we had attended, and I was more than ever
convinced that the Vicomte was too old and too simple to hold his own
in a world of scoundrels.
The Baron led him on from one admission to another, and at last it was
settled that twenty millions of francs were to be brought to the Hôtel
Clericy and placed in the Vicomte's keeping. To my mind the worst part
of the transaction lay in the fact that the financier had succeeded in
saddling my patron with a certain moral responsibility which the old
man was in no way called upon to assume.
"Then," he said, "I may safely leave the matter thus in your hands? I
may sleep to-night?"
"Ah!" replied the other. "Yes--you may sleep, my friend."
"And Monsieur shares the responsibility?" added the upstart, turning
to me.
"Of course--for all I am worth," was my reply, and I did not at the
time think that even the Vicomte, whose faculties were keener in such
matters, saw the sarcasm intended by the words.
"Then I am satisfied," the Baron was kind enough to say; and I thought
that his low origin came suddenly to the fore in the manner in which
he bowed. A low origin is like an hereditary disease--it will bear no
strain.
"By the way," he said, pausing near the door, having risen to go, "you
have not told me the name of your trusted messenger."
And before the Vicomte opened his lips the answer flashed across my
mind.
"Charles Miste," he said.