The conquest of Morocco had been accomplished two months back. France,
mistress of Tangiers, held the whole of the African shore of the
Mediterranean as far as Tripoli, and had guaranteed the debt of the
newly annexed territory. It was said that two ministers had gained a
score of millions over the business, and Laroche-Mathieu was almost
openly named. As to Walter, no one in Paris was ignorant of the fact
that he had brought down two birds with one stone, and made thirty or
forty millions out of the loan and eight to ten millions out of the
copper and iron mines, as well as out of a large stretch of territory
bought for almost nothing prior to the conquest, and sold after the
French occupation to companies formed to promote colonization. He had
become in a few days one of the lords of creation, one of those
omnipotent financiers more powerful than monarchs who cause heads to
bow, mouths to stammer, and all that is base, cowardly, and envious, to
well up from the depths of the human heart. He was no longer the Jew
Walter, head of a shady bank, manager of a fishy paper, deputy suspected
of illicit jobbery. He was Monsieur Walter, the wealthy Israelite.
He wished to show himself off. Aware of the monetary embarrassments of
the Prince de Carlsbourg, who owned one of the finest mansions in the
Rue de Faubourg, Saint Honore, with a garden giving onto the Champs
Elysees, he proposed to him to buy house and furniture, without shifting
a stick, within twenty-four hours. He offered three millions, and the
prince, tempted by the amount, accepted. The following day Walter
installed himself in his new domicile. Then he had another idea, the
idea of a conqueror who wishes to conquer Paris, the idea of a
Bonaparte. The whole city was flocking at that moment to see a great
painting by the Hungarian artist, Karl Marcowitch, exhibited at a
dealer's named Jacques Lenoble, and representing Christ walking on the
water. The art critics, filled with enthusiasm, declared the picture the
most superb masterpiece of the century. Walter bought it for four
hundred thousand francs, and took it away, thus cutting suddenly short a
flow of public curiosity, and forcing the whole of Paris to speak of him
in terms of envy, blame, or approbation. Then he had it announced in the
papers that he would invite everyone known in Parisian society to view
at his house some evening this triumph of the foreign master, in order
that it might not be said that he had hidden away a work of art. His
house would be open; let those who would, come. It would be enough to
show at the door the letter of invitation.
This ran as follows: "Monsieur and Madame Walter beg of you to honor
them with your company on December 30th, between 9 and 12 p. m., to view
the picture by Karl Marcowitch, 'Jesus Walking on the Waters,' lit up by
electric light." Then, as a postscript, in small letters: "Dancing after
midnight." So those who wished to stay could, and out of these the
Walters would recruit their future acquaintances. The others would view
the picture, the mansion, and their owners with worldly curiosity,
insolent and indifferent, and would then go away as they came. But Daddy
Walter knew very well that they would return later on, as they had come
to his Israelite brethren grown rich like himself. The first thing was
that they should enter his house, all these titled paupers who were
mentioned in the papers, and they would enter it to see the face of a
man who had gained fifty millions in six weeks; they would enter it to
see and note who else came there; they would also enter it because he
had had the good taste and dexterity to summon them to admire a
Christian picture at the home of a child of Israel. He seemed to say to
them: "You see I have given five hundred thousand francs for the
religious masterpiece of Marcowitch, 'Jesus Walking on the Waters.' And
this masterpiece will always remain before my eyes in the house of the
Jew, Walter."
In society there had been a great deal of talk over these invitations,
which, after all, did not pledge one in any way. One could go there as
one went to see watercolors at Monsieur Petit's. The Walters owned a
masterpiece, and threw open their doors one evening so that everyone
could admire it. Nothing could be better. The _Vie Francaise_ for a
fortnight past had published every morning a note on this coming event
of the 30th December, and had striven to kindle public curiosity.
Du Roy was furious at the governor's triumph. He had thought himself
rich with the five hundred thousand francs extorted from his wife, and
now he held himself to be poor, fearfully poor, when comparing his
modest fortune with the shower of millions that had fallen around him,
without his being able to pick any of it up. His envious hatred waxed
daily. He was angry with everyone--with the Walters, whom he had not
been to see at their new home; with his wife, who, deceived by
Laroche-Mathieu, had persuaded him not to invest in the Morocco loan;
and, above all, with the minister who had tricked him, who had made use
of him, and who dined at his table twice a week. George was his agent,
his secretary, his mouthpiece, and when he was writing from his
dictation felt wild longings to strangle this triumphant foe. As a
minister, Laroche-Mathieu had shown modesty in mien, and in order to
retain his portfolio, did not let it be seen that he was gorged with
gold. But Du Roy felt the presence of this gold in the haughtier tone of
the parvenu barrister, in his more insolent gestures, his more daring
affirmation, his perfect self-confidence. Laroche-Mathieu now reigned in
the Du Roy household, having taken the place and the days of the Count
de Vaudrec, and spoke to the servants like a second master. George
tolerated him with a quiver running through him like a dog who wants to
bite, and dares not. But he was often harsh and brutal towards
Madeleine, who shrugged her shoulders and treated him like a clumsy
child. She was, besides, astonished at his continual ill-humor, and
repeated: "I cannot make you out. You are always grumbling, and yet your
position is a splendid one."
He would turn his back without replying.
He had declared at first that he would not go to the governor's
entertainment, and that he would never more set foot in the house of
that dirty Jew. For two months Madame Walter had been writing to him
daily, begging him to come, to make an appointment with her whenever he
liked, in order, she said, that she might hand over the seventy thousand
francs she had gained for him. He did not reply, and threw these
despairing letters into the fire. Not that he had renounced receiving
his share of their profits, but he wanted to madden her, to treat her
with contempt, to trample her under feet. She was too rich. He wanted to
show his pride. The very day of the exhibition of the picture, as
Madeleine pointed out to him that he was very wrong not to go, he
replied: "Hold your tongue. I shall stay at home."
Then after dinner he suddenly said: "It will be better after all to
undergo this affliction. Get dressed at once."
She was expecting this, and said: "I will be ready in a quarter of an
hour." He dressed growling, and even in the cab he continued to spit out
his spleen.
The court-yard of the Carlsbourg mansion was lit up by four electric
lights, looking like four small bluish moons, one at each corner. A
splendid carpet was laid down the high flight of steps, on each of which
a footman in livery stood motionless as a statue.
Du Roy muttered: "Here's a fine show-off for you," and shrugged his
shoulders, his heart contracted by jealousy.