Ruin
"Il ne faut regarder dans ses amis que la seule vertu qui
nous attache à eux."
If the Baron Giraud was unable in the nature of human affairs to take
his wealth with him, it accompanied him, at all events, to the grave,
where feathers made a fine show of grief, where priests growled
consolatory words, and cherub-faced boys swung themselves and censers
nonchalantly along. Some who owed their wealth to Giraud sent their
empty carriages to mourn his decease; others, with a singular sense of
fitness, despatched wreaths of tin flowers to be laid upon his grave.
The Vicomte had been early astir that morning; indeed, I heard him
moving before daylight in the room where the coffin was. I was glad
when that same morning dawned, for my kind old patron seemed unhinged
by these events, and could not keep away from the apartment where the
Baron lay.
There was, of course, no keeping him from the funeral, which ceremony
I also attended, and if ever earth was laid to earth it was when we
consigned the great financier to his last resting-place. Alphonse
Giraud, in his absurd French way, embraced me when the last carriage
drove away from the gates of Père la Chaise.
"And now, mon ami," he said, with a sigh of relief, "let us go and
lunch at the club."
He meant no disrespect towards his departed sire. It was merely that
his elastic nature could not always be at a tension. His quick bright
face was made for smiles, and naturally relaxed to that happy state.
He clapped me on the back.
"You are my best friend," he cried.
And I had, indeed, arranged the funeral for him. Those who had
honoured the ceremony with their presence showed much sympathy for
Alphonse. They pressed his hand; some of them embraced him. A
few--elderly men with daughters--told him that they felt like fathers
towards him. All this Alphonse received with a bland innocence which
his Parisian education had no doubt taught him.
When they were gone, rattling away in their new carriages, he looked
after them with a laugh.
"And now," he said, "for ruin. I wonder what it will be like--new at
all events. And we all live for novelty nowadays. There is the price
of a luncheon at the club, however. Come, my friend, let us go
there."
"One change you must, at all events, be prepared for," I said, as we
stepped into his carriage. "A change of friends."
Alphonse understood and laughed. Cynicism is an arid growth, found to
perfection on the pavement, and this little Frenchman wore his boots
out thereon.
During luncheon my host recovered his spirits; although, to do him
justice, he was melancholy enough when he remembered his recent loss.
Once or twice he threw down his knife and fork, and for quite three
minutes all food and drink were nauseous to him.
"Ah!" he cried, "that poor old man. It tears the heart to think of
him."
He sat for a few moments with his chin in the palm of his hand, and
then slowly took up again the things of this life, wielding them
heartily enough.
"I wonder," he went on in a reflective voice, "if I did my duty
towards him. It was not difficult, only to make a splash and spend
money, and I did that--beautifully!"
"Coffee and chartreuse," he said to the waiter, when we had finished.
"And leave the bottle on the table. You know," he added, addressing
me, his face beaming with conscious pride, his hand laid impressively
on my arm--"you know this club drinks chartreuse in claret glasses.
It is our great distinguishing feature."
While religiously observing this law we fell to discussing the future.
"One cannot," observed my companion, philosophically, "bring on the
thunder-storm, however heavy the air may be. One can only gasp and
wait. I suppose the crash will come soon enough. But tell me how I
stand; I have not had time to think the last few days."
He had, indeed, thought only of others.
"We have," answered I, "done all that is possible to stop the payment
of these cheques; but a clever villain might succeed in realising them
one by one in different parts of the world, and thus outwit us."
"I wonder how it is," said my companion, afloat on a side issue like
any woman, "that a fool like myself--an incompetent ass with no
brains, eh?--always finds such a friend as you."
He leant forward and tapped me on the chest in his impulsive way, as
if sounding that part of me.
"A solid man," he added, apparently satisfied with the investigation.
"I do not know," answered I, truthfully enough; "unless it be that
solid men are fools enough to place themselves in such a position."
"How have you placed yourself in such a position? When you have
finished that cup of coffee--you have no sugar, by the way--you have
but to take your hat and--'_Bon jour._' You leave me still in your
debt."
With a few quick gestures he illustrated his argument, so that I saw
myself--somewhat stiff and British, with my hat upon my head--quit the
room, having wished him good day, and leaving him overwhelmed in my
debt in a chair.
"I told your father that I would share the responsibility as regarded
the safety of his money," I replied. "It was said only half in
earnest, but he took it seriously."
"Ah! the poor, dear man! He always took money matters seriously," put
in Alphonse.
"I am, at all events, going to try to recover your wealth for you.
Besides, I have a singular desire to twist the neck of Monsieur
Charles Miste. I ought to have known that the Vicomte was too old to
be trusted with the arrangement of affairs such as that. Your father
knew it, but thought that I was taking an active part in the matter. I
was a fool."
"Ah!" said Alphonse Giraud. "We are all fools, _mon cher_, or knaves."
And long afterwards, remembering the words, I recognised that truth
often bubbles to the lips of irresponsible people.
I told him of my plans, which were simple enough, for I had called in
the aid of men whose profession it was to deal with scoundrels. It is
only until we know vice that we think it complicated or interesting.
There is really no man so simple as your thorough scoundrel. A picture
all shade is less difficult to comprehend than one where light and
shade are mingled. I had only asked to be put on the track of Charles
Miste, for evil men, like water, run in one channel and one direction
only. I wished to deal with him myself, law or no law. Indeed, there
had been a sufficiency of law and lawyers in my affairs already.
"And I will help you," exclaimed Alphonse Giraud, when he had heard,
not without interruption, my proposed plan of campaign. "I will go
with you."
"No; you cannot do that. You may be sure that Miste has accomplices
who will, of course, watch you, and warn him the moment they suspect
you of being on the right scent. Whereas I am nobody. Miste does not
even know me. I wish I knew him."
And I remembered with regret how ignorant I was.
"Besides," I added, "you surely have other calls. The Vicomte requires
some one near him--the ladies will be glad of your advice and
assistance."
He was scarcely the man to whom I should have applied for either, but
one can never tell with women. Some of them look up to us when we know
in our hearts that we are no better than asses.
We talked of details which may well be omitted here, for the majority
of them were based upon assumptions subsequently to be proved
erroneous. It seemed that Alphonse Giraud had almost given up hope of
recovering his lost wealth, and as I raised this anew in his breast so
his face grew graver. A great hope makes a grave face.
"You must not," he said, "make me believe that, unless you have a good
foundation for your own faith."
"Oh, no!" I answered, and instinctively changed the subject. His
gravity disturbed me.
But he returned to his thought again and again.
"It is not the money," he said at length, when I, who knew what was
coming, could no longer hold him. "It is--" he paused, his face
suddenly red as he looked hard into his coffee-cup. "It is Lucille."
I made no answer, and it was Alphonse who spoke again, after a pause.
"What a hard face you have, mon ami!" he said. "I never noticed it
before. I pity that poor Miste, you know--if you catch him."
The same evening I spoke to my old patron, whom I found in the
morning-room, where he sat alone and in meditation. The doors of his
own study were still locked, and no one was allowed to enter there.
His manner was so feverish and unnatural that I almost abandoned my
project of leaving the Rue des Palmiers.
"Ah!" he said, "what a terrible day--and that poor Alphonse! How did
you leave him?"
I thought of Alphonse as I had left him, smiling under his mourning
hat-band, waving a black glove gaily to me in farewell.
"Oh," I answered, "Alphonse will soon be himself again."
"Ah, my friend," exclaimed the Vicomte, after a sorrowful pause. "The
surprises of life are all unpleasant. Pfuit!" he spread out his hands
suddenly as if indicating a quick flight, "and I lose a friend and
four hundred thousand francs in the twinkling of an eye. To think that
a mere shock can kill a man as it killed the poor Baron."
"He had no neck, and systematically ate too much," I said. "I am now
going to see if we cannot repair some of the harm that has been done."
"How?" asked the old man, with all the suspicion that had recently
come into his character.
"I am going to look for Miste."
He shook his head.
"Very quixotic, but quite useless," said he; and then set himself to
dissuade me from my quest with every argument that he could bring to
bear upon me. Some of these, indeed, I thought he might well have
omitted.
"We cannot spare you at this time, when the political world is so
disturbed, and internal affairs are on the brink of catastrophe. We
cannot spare you, I, the Vicomtesse--Lucille. It was only last night
that she was rejoicing at your presence with us in our time of
trouble. I shall tell her that you wish to leave us, and she will, I
am sure, dissuade you."
Which threat he carried out, as will be recorded later. I was,
however, fixed in my determination, and only gave way in so far as to
promise to return as soon as possible. These details are recorded thus
at length, as they are all links of a chain which pieced itself
together later in my life. Such links there are in the story of every
human existence, and no incident seems to stand quite alone.
After dinner that evening I went to my own study, leaving the Vicomte
to join the ladies in the drawing-room without me. So far as I was
able I had arranged during the last few days the affairs which had
been confidingly placed in my care, and desired to leave books and
papers in such a condition that a successor could at once take up the
thread of management.
The Vicomte was so disturbed at the mention of my departure that the
topic had been carefully avoided during dinner, though I make no doubt
that he knew my purpose in refusing to go to the drawing-room.
I was at work in my room--between the two tall candles--when the
rustle of a woman's dress in the open doorway made me look up. Lucille
had come into the room--her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed. And I
knew, or thought I knew, her thoughts.
"My father tells me that you are going to leave us," she said in her
impetuous way.
"Yes, Mademoiselle."
"I have come to ask you not to do so. You may--think what you like."
I did not look at her, but guessed the expression of her determined
lips.
"And you are too proud," I said, "to explain. You think that I, like a
schoolboy, am going off in a fit of wounded vanity--pleased to cause a
little inconvenience, and thus prove my own importance. You think that
it is yourself who sends me away, and your father cannot afford to
lose my services at this time. You consider it your duty to suppress
your own feelings, and tread under foot your own pride--to serve the
Vicomte. Your pride further prompts you to give me permission to
think what I like of you. Thank you, Mademoiselle."
I was making pretence, in a shallow way no doubt, to study the papers
on the table, and Lucille standing before my desk was looking down at
my bent head, noting perhaps the grey hairs there. Thus we remained
for a minute in silence.
Then turning, she slowly left the room, and I would have given five
years of my life to see the expression of her face.