story of his evil days were a curious spectacle. Some seemed disgusted,
especially Monpavon. That display of old rags seemed to him in
execrable taste, and to denote utter lack of breeding. Cardailhac, that
sceptic and man of refined taste, a foe to all emotional scenes, sat
with staring eyes and as if hypnotized, cutting a piece of fruit with
the end of his fork into strips as thin as cigarette papers. The
Governor, on the contrary, went through a pantomime expressive of
perfunctory admiration, with exclamations of horror and compassion;
while, in striking contrast to him, and not far away, Brahim Bey, the
thunderbolt of war, in whom the reading of the article, followed by
discussion after a substantial repast, had induced a refreshing nap,
was sleeping soundly, with his mouth like a round O in his white
moustache, and with the blood congested in his face as a result of the
creeping up of his gorget. But the general expression was indifference
and ennui. What interest had they, I ask you, in Jansoulet's childhood
at Bourg-Saint-Andéol, in what he had suffered, and how he had been
driven from pillar to post? They had not come there for such stuff as
that. So it was that expressions of feigned interest, eyes that counted
the eggs in the ceiling or the crumbs of bread on the table-cloth, lips
tightly compressed to restrain a yawn, betrayed the general impatience
caused by that untimely narrative. But he did not grow weary. He took
pleasure in the recital of his past suffering, as the sailor in a safe
haven delights in recalling his voyages in distant seas, and the
dangers, and the terrible shipwrecks. Next came the tale of his good
luck, the extraordinary accident that suddenly started him on the road
to fortune. "I was wandering about the harbor of Marseille, with a
comrade as out-at-elbows as myself, who also made his fortune in the
Bey's service, and, after being my chum, my partner, became my
bitterest enemy. I can safely tell you his name, _pardi_! He is well
enough known, Hemerlingue. Yes, messieurs, the head of the great
banking-house of Hemerlingue and Son hadn't at that time the money to
buy two sous' worth of crabs on the quay. Intoxicated by the air of
travel that you breathe in those parts, it occurred to us to go and
seek a living in some sunny country, as the foggy countries were so
cruel to us. But where should we go? We did what sailors sometimes do
to decide what den they shall squander their wages in. They stick a bit
of paper on the rim of a hat. Then they twirl the hat on a cane, and
when it stops, they go in the direction in which the paper points. For
us the paper needle pointed to Tunis. A week later I landed at Tunis
with half a louis in my pocket, and I return to-day with twenty-five
millions."
There was a sort of electric shock around the table, a gleam in every
eye, even in those of the servants. Cardailhac exclaimed: "Mazette!"
Monpavon's nose subsided.
"Yes, my children, twenty-five millions in available funds, to say
nothing of all that I've left in Tunis, my two palaces on the Bardo, my
vessels in the harbor of La Goulette, my diamonds and my jewels, which
are certainly worth more than twice that. And you know," he added, with
his genial smile, in his hoarse, unmusical voice, "when it's all gone,
there will still be some left."
The whole table rose, electrified.
"Bravo! Ah! bravo!"
"Superb."
"Very _chic_--very _chic_."
"Well said."
"A man like that ought to be in the Chamber."
"He shall be, _per Bacco!_ my word for it," exclaimed the Governor, in
a voice of thunder; and, carried away by admiration, not knowing how to
manifest his enthusiasm, he seized the Nabob's great hairy hand and
impulsively put it to his lips. Everybody was standing; they did not
resume their seats.
Jansoulet, radiant with pleasure, had also risen.
"Let us have our coffee," he said, throwing down his napkin.
Immediately the party circulated noisily through the salons, enormous
rooms, in which the light, the decoration, the magnificence consisted
of gold alone. It fell from the ceiling in blinding rays, oozed from
the walls in fillets, window-sashes and frames of all sorts. One
retained a little of it on one's hands after moving a chair or opening
a window; and even the hangings, having been dipped in that Pactolus,
preserved upon their stiff folds the rigidity and sheen of metal. But
there was nothing individual, homelike, dainty. It was the monotonous
splendor of the furnished apartment. And this impression of a flying
camp, of a temporary establishment, was heightened by the idea of
travelling that hovered about that fortune drawn from distant sources,
like a cloud of uncertainty or a threat.
The coffee was served in the Oriental fashion, with all the grounds, in
small filigreed silver cups, and the guests stood around in groups,
drinking hastily, burning their tongues, watching one another
furtively, and keeping especially close watch on the Nabob, in order to
grasp the favorable moment to jump upon him, drag him into a corner of
one of those huge rooms, and arrange their loan at last. For it was
that for which they had been waiting for two hours, that was the object
of their visit, and the fixed idea that gave them that distraught,
falsely attentive air, during the breakfast. But now there was no more
embarrassment, no more grimacing. Everybody in that strange company
knew that, in the Nabob's crowded existence, the coffee hour alone was
left free for confidential audiences, and as every one wished to take
advantage of it, as they had all come for the purpose of tearing a
handful of wool from that golden fleece which offered itself to them so
good-naturedly, they no longer talked or listened, they attended
strictly to business.
Honest Jenkins is the one who begins. He has led his friend Jansoulet
into a window-recess and is submitting to him the drawings for the
house at Nanterre. A pretty outlay, by heaven! One hundred and fifty
thousand francs for the property, and, in addition, the very
considerable expense of installation, the staff, the bedding, the goats
for nurses, the manager's carriage, the omnibuses to meet the children
at every train. A great deal of money--But how comfortable the dear
little creatures will be there! what a service to Paris, to mankind!
The Government cannot fail to reward with a bit of red ribbon such
unselfish philanthropy. "The Cross, the 15th of August." With those
magic words Jenkins can obtain whatever he wants. With his hoarse,
cheerful voice, which seems to be hailing a vessel in the fog, the
Nabob calls, "Bompain." The man in the fez, tearing himself away from
the cellaret, crosses the salon majestically, whispers, goes away and
returns with an inkstand and a check-book, the leaves of which come out
and fly away of themselves. What a fine thing is wealth! To sign a
check for two hundred thousand francs on his knee costs Jansoulet no
more than to take a louis from his pocket.
The others, with their noses in their cups and rage in their hearts,
watch this little scene from afar. And when Jenkins takes his leave,
bright and smiling, and waving his hand to the different groups,
Monpavon seizes the Governor: "Now, it's our turn." And they pounce
together upon the Nabob, lead him to a divan, force him to sit down,
and squeeze him between them with a savage little laugh that seems to
mean: "What are we going to do to him?" Extract money from him, as much
of it as possible. It must be had in order to float the _Caisse
Territorial_, which has been aground for years, buried in sand to her
masthead. A magnificent operation, this of floating her again, if we
are to believe these two gentlemen; for the buried craft is full of
ingots, of valuable merchandise, of the thousand varied treasures of a
new country of which every one is talking and of which no one knows
anything. The aim of Paganetti of Porto-Vecchio in founding that
unrivalled establishment was to monopolize the exploitation of Corsica:
iron mines, sulphur mines, copper mines, marble quarries, chalybeate
and sulphur springs, vast forests of lignum vitæ and oak; and to
facilitate that exploitation by building a network of railroads
throughout the island, and establishing a line of steamboats. Such was
the gigantic enterprise to which he has harnessed himself. He has sunk
a large amount of money in it, and the new-comer, the laborer of the
eleventh hour, will reap the whole profit.
While the Corsican with his Italian accent, his frantic gestures,
enumerates the _splendores_ of the affair, Monpavon, dignified and
haughty, nods his head with an air of conviction, and from time to
time, when he deems the moment propitious, tosses into the conversation
the name of the Duc de Mora, which always produces its effect on the
Nabob.
"Well, what is it that you need?"
"Millions," says Monpavon superbly, in the tone of a man who is not
embarrassed by any lack of persons to whom to apply. "Yes, millions.
But it's a magnificent opening. And, as His Excellency said, it would
afford a capitalist an opportunity to attain a lofty position, even a
political position. Just consider a moment! in that penniless country.
One might become a member of the General Council, a Deputy--" The Nabob
starts. And little Paganetti, feeling the bait tremble on his hook,
continues: "Yes, a Deputy; you shall be one when I choose. At a word
from me all Corsica is at your service." Thereupon he launches out on a
bewildering extemporization, counting up the votes at his disposal, the
cantons which will rise at his summons. "You bring me your funds--I
give you a whole people." The affair is carried by storm.
"Bompain! Bompain!" calls the Nabob in his enthusiasm. He has but one
fear, that the thing will escape him; and to bind Paganetti, who does
not conceal his need of money, he hastens to pour a first instalment
into the _Caisse Territoriale_. Second appearance of the man in the red
cap with the check-book, which he holds solemnly against his breast,
like a choir-boy carrying the Gospel. Second affixture of Jansoulet's
signature to a check, which the Governor stows away with a negligent
air, and which effects a sudden transformation of his whole person.
Paganetti, but now so humble and unobtrusive, walks away with the
self-assurance of a man held in equilibrium by four hundred thousand
francs, while Monpavon, carrying his head even higher than usual,
follows close upon his heels and watches over him with a more than
paternal solicitude.
"There's a good stroke of business well done," says the Nabob to
himself, "and I'll go and drink my coffee." But ten borrowers are lying
in wait for him. The quickest, the most adroit, is Cardailhac, the
manager, who hooks him and carries him off into an empty salon. "Let us
talk a bit, my good friend. I must set before you the condition of our
theatre." A very complicated condition, no doubt; for here comes
Monsieur Bompain again, and more sky-blue leaves fly away from the
check-book. Now, whose turn is it? The journalist Moëssard comes to get
his pay for the article in the _Messager_; the Nabob will learn what it
costs to be called "the benefactor of infancy" in the morning papers.
The provincial curé asks for funds to rebuild his church, and takes
his check by assault with the brutality of a Peter the Hermit. And now
old Schwalbach approaches, with his nose in his beard, winking
mysteriously. "Sh! he has vound ein bearl," for monsieur's gallery, an
Hobbema from the Duc de Mora's collection. But several people have
their eye on it. It will be difficult to obtain. "I must have it at any
price," says the Nabob, allured by the name of Mora. "You understand,
Schwalbach, I must have that _Nobbema_. Twenty thousand francs for you
if you hit it off."
"I vill do mein best, Monsieur Jansoulet."
And the old knave, as he turns away, calculates that the Nabob's twenty
thousand, added to the ten thousand the duke has promised him if he
gets rid of his picture, will make a very pretty little profit for him.
While these fortunate ones succeed one another, others prowl about
frantic with impatience, biting their nails to the quick; for one and
all have come with the same object. From honest Jenkins, who headed the
procession, down to Cabassu, the _masseur_, who closes it, one and
all lead the Nabob aside. But however far away they take him in that
long file of salons, there is always some indiscreet mirror to reflect
the figure of the master of the house, and the pantomime of his broad
back. That back is so eloquent! At times it straightens up indignantly.
"Oh! no, that is too much!" Or else it collapses with comical
resignation. "Very well, if you will have it so." And Bompain's fez
always lurking in some corner of the landscape.
When these have finished, others arrive; they are the small fish that
follow in the wake of the great sharks in the savage hunting in the
sea. There is constant going and coming through those superb white and
gold salons, a slamming of doors, an unbroken current of insolent
extortion of the most hackneyed type, attracted from the four corners
of Paris and the suburbs by that enormous fortune and that incredible
gullibility.
For these small sums, this incessant doling out of cash, he did not
have recourse to the checkbook. In one of his salons the Nabob kept a
commode, an ugly little piece of furniture representing the savings of
some concierge; it was the first article Jansoulet bought when he was
in a position to renounce furnished apartments, and he had kept it ever
since like a gambler's fetish; its three drawers always contained two
hundred thousand francs in current funds. He resorted to that
never-failing supply on the days of his great audiences, ostentatiously
plunging his hands in the gold and silver, stuffing it into his pockets
to produce it later with the gesture of a cattle-dealer, a certain
vulgar way of raising the skirts of his coat and sending his hand "down
to the bottom of the pile." A tremendous inroad must have been made
upon the little drawers to-day.
* * *
After so many whispered conferences, requests more or less clearly
stated, anxious entrances and triumphant exits, the last client
dismissed, the commode drawers locked, the apartment on Place Vendôme
was left in solitude in the fading light of four o'clock, the close of
the November days which are prolonged so far beyond that hour by the
aid of artificial light. The servants removed the coffee cups, the
_raki_ and the open, half-emptied boxes of cigars. The Nabob, thinking
that he was alone, drew a long breath of relief: "Ouf! that's all
over." But no. A figure emerges from a corner already in shadow, and
approaches with a letter in his hand.
"Another!"
Thereupon the poor man instinctively repeated his eloquent
horse-dealer's gesture. At that the visitor, also instinctively,
recoiled so quickly and with such an insulted air that the Nabob
realized that he was in error and took the trouble to observe the young
man who stood before him, simply but correctly dressed, with a sallow
complexion, absolutely no beard, regular features, perhaps a little too
serious and determined for his years, which fact, with his extremely
light hair, curling tightly all over his head like a powdered wig, gave
him the aspect of a young deputy of the Tiers État under Louis XVI.,
the face of a Barnave at twenty. That face, although the Nabob then saw
it for the first time, was not altogether unfamiliar to him.
"What do you wish, monsieur?"
Taking the letter the young man handed him, he walked to a window to
read it.
"Ah!--it's from mamma."
He said it with such a joyous inflection, the word "mamma" lighted his
whole face with such a youthful, attractive smile, that the visitor,
repelled at first by the parvenu's vulgar appearance, felt in full
sympathy with him.
The Nabob read in an undertone these few lines written in a coarse,
incorrect, trembling hand, in striking contrast to the fine laid paper
with the words "Château de Saint-Romans" at the top.
"MY DEAR SON,--This letter will be handed to you by the oldest of
Monsieur de Géry's children, the former justice of the peace at
Bourg-Saint-Andéol, who was so kind to us--"
The Nabob interrupted himself to say:
"I ought to have known you, Monsieur de Géry. You look like your
father. Take a seat, I beg you."
Then he finished running through the letter. His mother made no precise
request, but, in the name of the services the de Géry family had
formerly rendered them, she commended Monsieur Paul to him. An orphan,
with his two young brothers to support, he had been admitted to
practice as an advocate in the South and was starting for Paris to seek
his fortune. She implored Jansoulet to assist him, "for he sorely
needed it, poor fellow." And she signed: "Your mother, who is dying
for a sight of you, FRANÇOISE."
That letter from his mother, whom he had not seen for six years, the
Southern forms of expression in which he recognized familiar
intonations, the coarse handwriting which drew for him a beloved face,
all wrinkled and sunburned and furrowed, but smiling still beneath a
peasant's cap, made a profound impression upon the Nabob. During the
six weeks he had been in France, immersed in the eddying whirl of
Paris, of his installation, he had not once thought of the dear old
soul; and now he saw her in every line. He stood for a moment gazing at
the letter, which shook in his fat fingers.
Then, his emotion having subsided, "Monsieur de Géry," he said, "I am
happy to have the opportunity to repay a little of the kindness your
family has showered upon mine. This very day, if you agree, I take you
into my service. You are well educated, you seem intelligent, you can
be of very great service to me. I have innumerable plans, innumerable
matters in hand. I have been drawn into a multitude of large industrial
undertakings. I need some one to assist me, to take my place at need.
To be sure, I have a secretary, a steward, that excellent Bompain; but
the poor fellow knows nothing of Paris. You will say that you are fresh
from the provinces. But that's of no consequence. Well educated as you
are, a Southerner, open-eyed and adaptable, you will soon get the hang
of the boulevard. At all events, I'll undertake your education in that
direction myself. In a few weeks you shall have a foot as thoroughly
Parisian as mine, I promise you."
Poor man! It was touching to hear him talk about his _Parisian foot_
and his experience, when he was fated never to be more than a beginner.
"Well, it's a bargain, eh? I take you for my secretary. You shall have
a fixed salary which we will agree upon directly; and I will give you a
chance to make your fortune quickly."
And as de Géry, suddenly relieved of all his anxieties as a new-comer,
a petitioner, a neophyte, did not stir for fear of waking from a dream,
the Nabob added in a softer tone:
"Now come and sit here by me, and let us talk a little about mamma."
III.
MEMOIRS OF A CLERK.--A CASUAL GLANCE AT THE "CAISSE TERRITORIALE."
I had just finished my humble morning meal, and, as my custom is, had
bestowed the balance of my provisions in the safe in the directors'
room, a magnificent safe with a secret lock, which has served as my
pantry during the four years, or nearly that, of my employment in the
_Territoriale_; suddenly the Governor enters the office, red as a
turkey-cock, his eyes inflamed as if he were fresh from a feast,
breathing noisily, and says to me in vulgar phrase, with his Italian
accent:
"There's a horrible smell here, _Moussiou_ Passajon."
There was not a horrible smell, if you please. But--shall I say it?--I
had sent out for a few onions to put around a bit of knuckle of veal,
brought down to me by Mademoiselle Séraphine, the cook on the second
floor, whose accounts I write up every evening. I tried to explain to
the Governor; but he worked himself into a rage, saying that in his
opinion there was no sense in poisoning offices in that way, and that
it wasn't worth while to pay twelve thousand francs a year for a suite
of rooms with eight windows on the front, in the best part of Boulevard
Malesherbes, to cook onions in. I don't know what he didn't say to me
in his effervescent state. For my part, I was naturally vexed to be
spoken to in that insolent tone. The least one can do is to be polite
to people whom one neglects to pay, deuce take it! So I retorted that
it was too bad, really; but, if the _Caisse Territoriale_ would pay
what they owe me, to wit my arrears of salary for four years, plus
seven thousand francs advanced by me to the Governor to pay for
carriages, newspapers, cigars and American drinks on the days the
council met, I would go and eat like a Christian at the nearest cheap
alehouse, and should not be reduced to cooking for myself, in the
directors' room, a wretched stew which I owed to the public compassion
of cooks. And there you are!
In speaking thus I gave way to an indignant impulse very excusable in
the eyes of anybody who is acquainted with my position here. However, I
had said nothing unseemly, but had kept within the limits of language
suited to my age and education. (I must have stated somewhere in these
memoirs that I passed more than thirty of my sixty-five years as
apparitor to the Faculty of Letters at Dijon. Hence my taste for
reports and memoirs, and those notions of academic style of which
traces will be found in many passages of this lucubration.) I had, I
repeat, expressed myself to the Governor with the greatest reserve,
refraining from employing any of those insulting words with which every
one here regales him during the day, from our two censors, M. de
Monpavon, who laughingly calls him _Fleur-de-Mazas_, whenever he comes
here, and M. de Bois-l'Héry of the Trompettes Club, who is as vulgar in
his language as a groom, and always says to him by way of adieu: "To
your wooden bed, flea!" From those two down to our cashier, whom I have
heard say to him a hundred times, tapping his ledger: "There's enough
in here to send you to the galleys whenever I choose." And yet, for all
that, my simple observation produced a most extraordinary effect upon
him. The circles around his eyes turned bright yellow, and he said,
trembling with anger, the wicked anger of his country: "Passajon,
you're a blackguard! One word more and I discharge you." I was struck
dumb with amazement. Discharge me--me! And what about my four years'
arrears, and my seven thousand francs of advances! As if he read my
thoughts as they entered my head, the Governor replied that all the
accounts were to be settled, including mine. "By the way," he added,
"just call all the clerks to my office. I have some great news to tell
them." With that he entered his office and slammed the door behind him.
That devil of a man! No matter how well you may know him, know what a
liar he is and what an actor, he always finds a way to put you off with
his palaver. My account! Why, I was so excited that my legs ran away
with me while I was going about to notify the staff.
Theoretically there are twelve of us at the _Caisse Territoriale_,
including the Governor and the dandy Moëssard, manager of the _Vérité
Financière_; but really there are less than half that number. In the
first place, since the _Vérité_ ceased to appear--that was two years
ago--M. Moëssard hasn't once set foot inside our doors. It seems that
he is swimming in honors and wealth, that he has for a dear friend a
queen, a real queen, who gives him all the money he wants. Oh! what a
Babylon this Paris is! The others look in occasionally to see if by
chance there is anything new at the _Caisse_; and, as there never is,
weeks pass without our seeing them. Four or five faithful ones, poor
old fellows all, like myself, persist in appearing regularly every
morning, at the same hour, as a matter of habit, because they have
nothing else to do, and are at a loss to know what to turn their hand
to; but they all busy themselves with matters that have no connection
whatever with the office. One must live, there's no doubt of that! And
then a man cannot pass his day lounging from chair to chair, from
window to window, to look out (eight front windows on the boulevard).
So we try to get such work as we can. For my part, I write for
Mademoiselle Séraphine and another cook in the house. Then I write
up my memoirs, which takes no small amount of time. Our receiving
teller--there's a fellow who hasn't a very laborious task with
us--makes netting for a house that deals in fishermen's supplies. One
of our two copyists, who writes a beautiful hand, copies plays for a
dramatic agency; the other makes little toys worth a sou, which are
sold by hucksters at the street corners toward New Year's Day, and in
that way succeeds in keeping himself from starving to death the rest of
the year. Our cashier is the only one who does no outside work. He
would think that he had forfeited his honor. He is a very proud man,
who never complains, and whose only fear is that he may seem to be
short of linen. Locked into his office, he employs his time from
morning till night, making shirt-fronts, collars and cuffs out of
paper. He has attained very great skill, and his linen, always
dazzlingly white, would deceive any one, were it not that, at the
slightest movement, when he walks, when he sits down, it cracks as if
he had a pasteboard box in his stomach. Unluckily all that paper does
not feed him; and he is so thin, he has such a gaunt look, that one
wonders what he can live on. Between ourselves, I suspect him of
sometimes paying a visit to my pantry. That's an easy matter for him;
for, in his capacity of cashier, he has the "word" that opens the
secret lock, and I fancy that, when my back is turned, he does a little
foraging among my supplies.
Surely this is a most extraordinary, incredible banking-house. And yet
what I am writing is the solemn truth, and Paris is full of financial
establishments of the same sort as ours. Ah! if I ever publish my
memoirs. But let me take up the interrupted thread of my narrative.
When we were all assembled in his office, the manager said to us with
great solemnity:
"Messieurs and dear comrades, the time of our trials is at an end. The
_Caisse Territoriale_ is entering upon a new phase of its existence."