Royamount's fat sides shook with laughter at the mere recollection of
the funny story that he had promised to his friends, and throwing
himself back in the great arm-chair, which he completely filled, _that
picker up of bits of pinchbeck_, as they called him at the club, at last
said:
"It is perfectly true, Bordenave does not owe anyone a penny and can go
through any street he likes and publish those famous memoirs of
sheriff's officers, which he has been writing for the last ten years,
when he did not dare to go out, and in which he carefully brought out
the characters and peculiarities of all those generous distributors of
stamped paper with whom he had had dealings, their tricks and wiles,
their weaknesses, their jokes, their manner of performing their duties,
sometimes with brutal rudeness and at others with cunning good nature,
now embarrassed and almost ashamed of their work, and again ironically
jovial, as well the artifices of their clerks to get a few crumbs from
their employer's cake. The book will soon be published and Machin, the
Vaudeville writer, has promised him a preface, so that it will be a most
amusing work. You are surprised, eh? Confess that you are absolutely
surprised, and I will lay you any bet you like that you will not guess
how our excellent friend, whose existence is an inexplicable problem,
has been able to settle with his creditors, and suddenly produce the
requisite amount."
"Do get to the facts, confound it," Captain Hardeur said, who was
growing tired of all this verbiage.
"All right, I will get to them as quickly as possible," Royaumont
replied, throwing the stump of his cigar into the fire. "I will clear my
throat and begin. I suppose all of you know that two better friends than
Bordenave and Quillanet do not exist; neither of them could do without
the other, and they have ended by dressing alike, by having the same
gestures, the same laugh, the same walk and the same inflections of
voice, so that one would think that some close bond united them, and
that they had been brought up together from childhood. There is,
however, this great difference between them, that Bordenave is
completely ruined and that all that he possesses are bundles of
mortgages, laughable parchments which attest his ancient race, and
chimerical hopes of inheriting money some day, though these expectations
are already heavily hypothecated. Consequently, he is always on the
look-out for some fresh expedients for raising money, though he is
superbly indifferent about everything, while Sebastien Quillanet, of the
banking house of Quillanet Brothers, must have an income of eight
thousand francs a year, but is descended from an obscure laborer who
managed to secure some of the national property, then he became an army
contractor, speculated on defeat as well as victory, and does not know
now what to do with his money. But the millionaire is timid, dull and
always bored, the ruined spendthrift amuses him by his impertinent ways,
and his libertine jokes; he prompts him when he is at a loss for an
answer, extricates him out of his difficulties, serves as his guide in
the great forests of Paris which is strewn with so many pit-falls, and
helps him to avoid those vulgar adventures which socially ruins a man,
no matter how well ballasted he may be. Then he points out to him what
women would make suitable mistresses for him, who make a man noted, and
have the effect of some rare and beautiful flower pinned into his
buttonhole. He is the confidant of his intrigues, his guest when he
gives small, special entertainments, his daily familiar table companion,
and the buffoon whose sly humor one stimulates, and whose worst
witticisms one tolerates."
"Really, really," the captain interrupted him, "you have been going on
for more than a quarter of an hour without saying anything."
So Royaumont shrugged his shoulders and continued: "Oh you can be very
tiresome when you please, my dear fellow!... Last year, when he was at
daggers drawn with his people, who were deafening him with their
recriminations, were worrying him and threatening him with a lot of
annoyance, Quillanet got married. A marriage of reason, and which
apparently changed his habits and his tastes, more especially as the
banker was at that time keeping a perfect little marvel of a woman, a
Parisian jewel of unspeakable attractions and of bewitching delicacy,
that adorable Suzette Marly who is just like a pocket Venus, and who in
some prior stage of her existence must have been Phryne or Lesbia. Of
course he did not get rid of her, but as he was bound to take some
judicious precautions, which are necessary for a man who is deceiving
his wife, he rented a furnished house with a courtyard in front, and a
garden at the back, which one might think had been built to shelter some
amorous folly. It was the nest that he had dreamt of, warm, snug,
elegant, the walls covered with silk hangings of subdued tints, large
pier-glasses, allegorical pictures, and filled with luxurious, low
furniture that seemed to invite caresses and embraces. Bordenave
occupied the ground floor, and the first floor served as a shrine for
the banker and his mistress. Well, just a week ago, in order to hide the
situation better, Bordenave asked Quillanet and some other friends to
one of those luncheons which he understands so well how to order, such a
delicious luncheon, that before it was quite over, every man had a woman
on his knees already, and was asking himself whether a kiss from coaxing
and naughty lips, was not a thousand times more intoxicating than the
finest old brandy or the choicest vintage wines, and was looking at the
bedroom door wishing to escape to it, although the Faculty altogether
forbids that fashion of digesting a dainty repast, when the butler came
in with an embarrassed look, and whispered something to him.
"Tell the gentleman that he has made a mistake, and ask him to leave me
in peace," Bordenave replied to him in an angry voice. The servant went
out and returned immediately to say that the intruder was using threats,
that he refused to leave the house, and even spoke of having recourse to
the commissary of police. Bordenave frowned, threw his table napkin
down, upset two glasses and staggered out with a red face, swearing and
stammering out:
"This is rather too much, and the fellow shall find out what going out
of the window means, if he will not leave by the door." But in the
ante-room he found himself face to face with a very cool, polite,
impassive gentleman, who said very quietly to him:
"You are Count Robert de Bordenave, I believe. Monsieur?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"And the lease that you signed at the lawyer's, Monsieur Albin Calvert,
in the _Rue du Faubourg-Poissonnière_, is in your name, I believe?"
"Certainly, Monsieur."
"Then I regret extremely to have to tell you that if you are not in a
position to pay the various accounts which different people have
intrusted to me for collection here, I shall be obliged to seize all the
furniture, pictures, plate, clothes etc., which are here, in the
presence of two witnesses who are waiting for me downstairs in the
street."
"I suppose this is some joke, Monsieur?"
"It would be a very poor joke, Monsieur le Comte, and one which I should
certainly not allow myself towards you!"
The situation was absolutely critical and ridiculous, the more so, that
in the dining-room the women who were slightly _elevated_, were tapping
the wine glasses with their spoons, and calling for him. What could he
do except to explain his misadventure to Quillanet, who became sobered
immediately, and rather than see his shrine of love violated, his secret
sin disclosed and his pictures, ornaments and furniture sold, gave a
check in due form for the claim there and then, though with a very wry
face. And in spite of this, some people will deny that men who are
utterly cleared out, often have a stroke of luck.