mahogany commode were not spared by that cloud of devouring locusts
that swooped down upon "Moussiou Jansoulet's" salons. Nothing could be
more comical than the overbearing way in which those worthy islanders
negotiated their loans, abruptly and with an air of defiance. And yet
they were not the most terrible, except in the matter of boxes of
cigars, which vanished in their pockets so rapidly as to make one think
they proposed to open a _Civette_ on their return to the island. But
just as wounds grow red and inflamed on very hot days, so the election
had caused an amazing recrudescence in the systematic pillage that
reigned in the house. The expenses of advertising were considerable:
Moëssard's articles, sent to Corsica in packages of twenty thousand,
thirty thousand copies, with portraits, biographies, pamphlets, all the
printed clamor that it is possible to raise around a name. And then
there was no diminution in the ordinary consumption of the panting
pumps established around the reservoir of millions. On one side the
Work of Bethlehem, a powerful machine, pumping at regular intervals,
with tremendous energy; the _Caisse Territoriale_, with marvellous
power of suction, indefatigable in its operation, with triple and
quadruple action, of several thousand horse-power; and the Schwalbach
pump, and the Bois-l'Héry pump, and how many more; some of enormous
size, making a great noise, with audacious pistons, others more quiet
and reserved, with tiny valves, bearings skilfully oiled--toy-pumps as
delicately constructed as the probosces of insects whose thirst causes
stings, and which deposit poison on the spot from which they suck their
life; but all working with the same unanimity, and fatally certain to
cause, if not an absolute drought, at all events a serious lowering of
the level.
Already unfavorable reports, vague as yet, were in circulation on the
Bourse. Was it a manoeuvre of the enemy, of that Hemerlingue against
whom Jansoulet was waging ruthless financial war, trying to defeat all
his operations, and losing very considerable sums at the game, because
he had against him his own excitable nature, his adversary's
cool-headedness and the bungling of Paganetti, whom he used as a man of
straw? In any event, the star of gold had turned pale. Paul de Géry
learned as much from Père Joyeuse, who had entered the employ of a
broker as book-keeper, and was thoroughly posted on matters connected
with the Bourse; but what alarmed him more than all else was the
Nabob's strange agitation, the craving for excitement which had
succeeded the admirable calmness of conscious strength, of serenity,
the disappearance of his Southern sobriety, the way in which he
stimulated himself before eating by great draughts of _raki_, talking
loud and laughing uproariously like a common sailor during his watch on
deck. One felt that the man was tiring himself out to escape some
absorbing thought, which was visible nevertheless in the sudden
contraction of all the muscles of his face when it passed through his
mind, or when he was feverishly turning over the pages of his tarnished
little memorandum-book. The serious interview, the decisive explanation
that Paul was so desirous to have with him, Jansoulet would not have at
any price. He passed his evenings at the club, his mornings in bed, and
as soon as he was awake had his bedroom full of people, who talked to
him while he was dressing, and to whom he replied with his face in his
wash-bowl. If, by any miracle, de Géry caught him for a second, he
would run away or cut him short with a: "Not now, I beg you." At last
the young man resorted to heroic measures.
One morning about five o'clock, Jansoulet, on returning from his club,
found on the table beside his bed a little note which he took at first
for one of the anonymous denunciations which he received every day. It
was a denunciation, in very truth, but signed, written with the utmost
frankness, breathing the loyalty and youthful seriousness of the man
who wrote it. De Géry set before him very clearly all the infamous
schemes, all the speculations by which he was surrounded. He called the
rascals by their names, without circumlocution. There was not one among
the ordinary habitués of the house who was not a suspicious character,
not one who came there for any other purpose than to steal or lie. From
attic to cellar, pillage and waste. Bois-l'Héry's horses were unsound,
the Schwalbach gallery a fraud, Moëssard's articles notorious
blackmail. De Géry had drawn up a long detailed list of those impudent
frauds, with proofs in support of his allegations; but he commended
especially to Jansoulet's attention the matter of the _Caisse
Territoriale_, as the really dangerous element in his situation. In the
other matters money alone was at risk; in this, honor was involved.
Attracted by the Nabob's name, by his title of president of the
council, hundreds of stockholders had walked into that infamous trap,
seeking gold in the footsteps of that lucky miner. That fact imposed a
terrible responsibility upon him which he would understand by reading
the memorandum relating to the concern, which was falsehood and fraud,
pure and simple, from beginning to end.
"You will find the memorandum to which I refer," said Paul de Géry in
conclusion, "in the first drawer in my desk. Various receipts are
affixed to it. I have not put it in your room, because I am distrustful
of Noël as of all the rest. To-night, when I go away, I will hand you
the key. For I am going away, my dear friend and benefactor, I am going
away, overflowing with gratitude for the benefits you have conferred on
me, and in despair because your blind confidence has prevented me from
repaying them in part. My conscience as a man of honor would reproach
me were I to remain longer useless at my post. I am looking on at a
terrible disaster, the pillage of a Summer Palace, which I am powerless
to check; but my heart rises in revolt at all that I see. I exchange
grasps of the hand which dishonor me. I am your friend, and I seem to
be their confederate. And who knows whether, by living on in such an
atmosphere, I might not become so?"
This letter, which he read slowly, thoroughly, even to the spaces
between the words and the lines, made such a keen impression on the
Nabob that, instead of going to bed, he went at once to his young
secretary. Paul occupied a study at the end of the suite of salons,
where he slept on a couch, a provisional arrangement which he had never
cared to change. The whole house was still asleep. As he walked through
the long line of great salons, which were not used for evening
receptions, so that the curtains were always open and at that moment
admitted the uncertain light of a Parisian dawn, the Nabob paused,
impressed by the melancholy aspect that his magnificent surroundings
presented. In the heavy odor of tobacco and various liquors that filled
the rooms, the furniture, the wainscotings, the decorations seemed
faded yet still new. Stains on the crumpled satin, ashes soiling the
beautiful marbles, marks of boots on the carpet reminded him of a huge
first-class railway carriage, bearing the marks of the indolence,
impatience and ennui of a long journey, with the destructive contempt
of the public for a luxury for which it has paid. Amid that stage
scenery, all in position and still warm from the ghastly comedy that
was played there every day, his own image, reflected in twenty cold,
pale mirrors, rose before him, at once ominous and comical, ill-at-ease
in his fashionable clothes, with bloated cheeks and face inflamed and
dirty.
What an inevitable and disenchanting morrow to the insane life he was
leading!
He lost himself for a moment in gloomy thoughts; then, with the
vigorous shrug of the shoulders which was so familiar in him, that
packman's gesture with which he threw off any too painful
preoccupation, he resumed the burden which every man carries with him,
and which causes the back to bend more or less, according to his
courage or his strength, and entered de Géry's room, where he found him
already dressed and standing in front of his open desk, arranging
papers.
"First of all, my boy," said Jansoulet, closing the door softly on
their interview, "answer me this question frankly. Are the motives set
forth in your letter your real motives for resolving to leave me? Isn't
there underneath it all one of these infamous stories that I know are
being circulated against me in Paris? I am sure you would be frank
enough to tell me, and to give me a chance to--to set myself right in
your eyes."
Paul assured him that he had no other reasons for going, but that those
he had mentioned were surely sufficient, as it was a matter of
conscience.
"Listen to me then, my child, and I am sure that I shall be able to
keep you. Your letter, eloquent as it was with honesty and sincerity,
told me nothing new, nothing that I had not been convinced of for three
months. Yes, my dear Paul, you were right; Paris is more complicated
than I thought. What I lacked when I arrived here was an honest,
disinterested cicerone to put me on my guard against persons and
things. I found none but people who wanted to make money out of me. All
the degraded scoundrels in the city have left the mud from their boots
on my carpets. I was looking at those poor salons of mine just now.
They need a good thorough sweeping; and I promise you that they shall
have, _jour de Dieu!_ and from no light hand. But I am waiting until I
am a deputy. All these rascals are of service to me in my election; and
the election is too necessary to me for me to throw away the slightest
chance. This is the situation in two words. Not only does the bey not
intend to repay the money I loaned him a month ago; he has met my claim
with a counter-claim for twenty-four millions, the figure at which he
estimates the sums I obtained from his brother. That is infernal
robbery, an impudent slander. My fortune is my own, honestly my own. I
made it in my dealings as a contractor. I enjoyed Ahmed's favor; he
himself furnished me with opportunities for making money. It is very
possible that I have screwed the vise a little hard sometimes. But the
matter must not be judged with the eyes of a European. The enormous
profits that the Levantines make are a well-known and recognized thing
over yonder; they are the ransom of the savages whom we introduce to
western comforts. This wretched Hemerlingue, who is suggesting all this
persecution of me to the bey, has done very much worse things. But
what's the use of arguing? I am in the wolf's jaws. Pending my
appearance to justify myself before his courts--I know all about
justice in the Orient--the bey has begun by putting an embargo on all
my property, ships, palaces and their contents. The affair has been
carried on quite regularly, in pursuance of a decree of the Supreme
Council. I can feel the claw of Hemerlingue Junior under it all. If I
am chosen deputy, it is all a jest. The Council revokes its decree and
my treasures are returned with all sorts of excuses. If I am not
elected, I lose everything, sixty, eighty millions, even the possible
opportunity of making another fortune; it means ruin, disgrace, the
bottomless pit. And now, my son, do you propose to abandon me at such a
crisis? Remember that I have nobody in the world but you. My wife? you
have seen her, you know how much support, how much good advice she
gives her husband. My children? It's as if I had none. I never see
them, they would hardly know me in the street. My ghastly magnificence
has made an empty void around me, so far as affections are concerned,
has replaced them by shameless selfish interests. I have no one to love
but my mother, who is far away, and you, who come to me from my mother.
No, you shall not leave me alone among all the slanders that are
crawling around me. It is horrible--if you only knew! At the club, at
the theatre, wherever I go, I see Baroness Hemerlingue's little snake's
head, I hear the echo of her hissing, I feel the venom of her hatred.
Everywhere I am conscious of mocking glances, conversations broken off
when I appear, smiles that lie, or kindness in which there is a
mingling of pity. And then the defections, the people who move away as
if a catastrophe were coming. For instance, here is Felicia Ruys, with
my bust just finished, alleging some accident or other as an excuse for
not sending it to the Salon. I said nothing, I pretended to believe it.
But I understood that there was some infamy on foot in that quarter,
too,--and it's a great disappointment to me. In emergencies as grave as
that I am passing through, everything has its importance. My bust at
the Exhibition, signed by that famous name, would have been of great
benefit to me in Paris. But no, everything is breaking, everything is
failing me. Surely you see that you must not fail me."
END OF VOL. I.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Nabob, Volume 1 (of 2), by Alphonse Daudet