JACQUES FERRAND.
At the period when the events were passing which we are now relating, at
one end of the Rue du Sentier a long old wall extended, covered with a
coat of whitewash, and the top garnished with a row of broken
flint-glass bottles; this wall, bounding on one side the garden of
Jacques Ferrand, the notary, terminated with a _corps de logis_ facing
the street, only one story high, with garrets. Two large escutcheons of
gilt copper, emblems of the notarial residence, flanked the worm-eaten
_porte cochere_, of which the primitive colour was no longer to be
distinguished under the mud which covered it. This entrance led to an
open passage; on the right was the lodge of an old porter, almost deaf,
who was to the body of tailors what M. Pipelet was to the body of
boot-makers; on the left a stable, used as a cellar, washhouse,
woodhouse, and the establishment of a rising colony of rabbits belonging
to the porter, who was dissipating the sorrows of a recent widowhood by
bringing up these domestic animals. Beside the lodge was the opening of
a twisting staircase, narrow and dark, leading to the office, as was
announced to the clients by a hand painted black, whose forefinger was
directed towards these words, also painted in black upon the wall, "The
Office on the first floor."
On one side of a large paved court, overgrown with grass, were empty
stables; on the other side, a rusty iron gate, which shut in the garden;
at the bottom the pavilion, inhabited only by the notary. A flight of
eight or ten steps of disjointed stones, which were moss-grown and
time-worn, led to this square pavilion, consisting of a kitchen and
other underground offices, a ground floor, a first floor, and the top
rooms, in one of which Louise had slept. The pavilion also appeared in a
state of great dilapidation. There were deep chinks in the walls; the
window-frames and outside blinds, once painted gray, had become almost
black by time; the six windows on the first floor, looking out into the
courtyard, had no curtains; a sort of greasy and opaque deposit covered
the glass; on the ground floor there were visible through the
window-panes more transparent, faded yellow cotton curtains, with red
bindings.
On the garden side the pavilion had only four windows. The garden,
overgrown with parasitical plants, seemed wholly neglected. There was no
flower border, not a bush; a clump of elms; five or six large green
trees; some acacias and elder-trees; a yellowish grass-plat, half
destroyed by moss and the scorch of the sun; muddy paths, choked up with
weeds; at the bottom, a sort of half cellar; for horizon, the high,
naked, gray walls of the adjacent houses, having here and there
skylights barred like prison windows,--such was the miserable appearance
of the garden and dwelling of the notary.
To this appearance, or rather reality, M. Ferrand attached great
importance. In the eyes of the vulgar, carelessness about comfort almost
always passes for disinterestedness; dirt, for austerity. Comparing the
vast financial luxury of some notaries, or the costly toilets of their
wives, to the dull abode of M. Ferrand, so opposed to elegance, expense,
or splendour, clients felt a sort of respect for, or rather blind
confidence in, a man who, according to his large practice and the
fortune attributed to him, could say, like many of his professional
brethren, my carriage, my evening party, my country-house, my box at
the opera, etc. But, far from this, Jacques Ferrand lived with rigid
economy; and thus deposits, investments, powers of attorney, in fact,
all matters of trust and business requiring the most scrupulous and
recognised integrity, accumulated in his hands.
Living thus meanly as he did, the notary lived in the way he liked. He
detested the world, show, dearly purchased pleasures; and, even had it
been otherwise, he would unhesitatingly have sacrificed his dearest
inclinations to the appearances which he found it so profitable to
assume.
A word or two on the character of the man. He was one of the children of
the large family of misers. Misers are generally exhibited in a
ridiculous and whimsical light; the worst do not go beyond egotism or
harshness. The greater portion increase their fortune by continually
investing; some (they are but few) lend at thirty per cent.; the most
decided hardly venture any risk with their means; but it is almost an
unheard-of thing for a miser to proceed to crime, even murder, in the
acquisition of fresh wealth.
That is easily accounted for; avarice is especially a negative passion.
The miser, in his incessant calculations, thinks more of becoming richer
by not disbursing; in tightening around him, more and more, the limits
of strict necessity, than he does of enriching himself at the cost of
another; he is especially the martyr to preservation. Weak, timid,
cunning, distrustful, and, above all, prudent and circumspect, never
offensive, indifferent to the ills of his neighbour,--the miser at least
never alludes to these ills,--he is, before all and above all, the man
of certainty and surety; or, rather, he is only a miser because he
believes only in the substantial, the hard gold which he has locked up
in his chest. Speculations and loans, on even undoubted security, tempt
him but little, for, how improbable soever it may be, they always offer
a chance of loss, and he prefers rather to lose the interest of his
money than expose his capital. A man so timorous will, therefore, seldom
have the savage energy of the wretch who risks the galleys or his neck
to lay hands on the wealth of another.
Risk is a word erased from the vocabulary of the miser. It is in this
sense that Jacques Ferrand was, let us say, a very singular exception,
perhaps a new variety of the genus Miser; for Jacques Ferrand did risk,
and a great deal. He relied on his craft, which was excessive; on his
hypocrisy, which was unbounded; on his intellect, which was elastic and
fertile; on his boldness, which was devilish, in assuring him impunity
for his crimes, and they were already numerous.
Jacques Ferrand was a twofold exception. Usually these adventurous,
energetic spirits, which do not recoil before any crime that will
procure gold, are beset by turbulent passions--gaming, dissipation,
gluttony, or other pleasures. Jacques Ferrand knew none of these violent
and stormy desires; cunning and patient as a forger, cruel and resolute
as an assassin, he was as sober and regular as Harpagon. One passion
alone was active within him, and this we have seen too fatally exhibited
in his early conduct to Louise. The loan of thirteen hundred francs to
Morel at high interest was, in Ferrand's hands, a snare--a means of
oppression and a source of profit. Sure of the lapidary's honesty, he
was certain of being repaid in full some day or other. Still Louise's
beauty must have made a deep impression on him to have made him lay out
of a sum of money so advantageously placed.
Except this weakness, Jacques Ferrand loved gold only. He loved gold for
gold's sake; not for the enjoyments it procured,--he was a stoic; not
for the enjoyments it might procure,--he was not sufficiently poetical
to enjoy speculatively, like some misers. With regard to what belonged
to himself, he loved possession for possession's sake; with regard to
what belonged to others, if it concerned a large deposit, for instance,
liberally confided to his probity only, he experienced in returning this
deposit the same agony, the same despair, as the goldsmith, Cardillac,
did in separating himself from a casket of jewels which his own
exquisite taste had fashioned into a _chef-d'oeuvre_ of art. With the
notary, his character for extreme probity was his _chef-d'oeuvre_ of
art; a deposit was to him a jewel, which he could not surrender but with
poignant regrets. What care, what cunning, what stratagems, what skill,
in a word, what art, did he use to attract this sum into his own strong
box, still maintaining that extreme character for honour, which was
beset with the most precious marks of confidence, like the pearls and
diamonds in the golden diadems of Cardillac. The more this celebrated
goldsmith approached perfection, they say, the more value did he attach
to his ornaments, always considering the last as his _chef-d'oeuvre_,
and being utterly distressed at giving it up. The more Jacques Ferrand
grew perfect in crime, the more he clung to the open and constant marks
of confidence which were showered upon him, always considering his last
deceit as his _chef-d'oeuvre_.
We shall see in the sequel of this history that, by the aid of certain
means really prodigious in plan and carrying out, he contrived to
appropriate to himself, with impunity, several very considerable sums.
His secret and mysterious life gave him incessant and terrible emotions,
such as gaming gives to the gambler. Against all other men's fortunes
Jacques Ferrand staked his hypocrisy, his boldness, his head; and he
played on velvet, as it is called, far out of the reach of human
justice, which he vulgarly and energetically characterised as a chimney
which might fall on one's head; for him to lose was only not to gain;
and, moreover, he was so criminally gifted that, in his bitter irony, he
saw a continued gain in boundless esteem, the unlimited confidence
which he inspired, not only in a multitude of rich clients, but also in
the smaller tradespeople and workmen of his district. A great many of
these placed their money with him, saying, "He is not charitable, it is
true; he is a devotee, and that's a pity; but he is much safer than the
government or the savings-banks." In spite of his uncommon ability, this
man had committed two of those mistakes from which the most skilful
rogues do not always escape; forced by circumstances, it is true, he had
associated with himself two accomplices. This immense fault, as he
called it, had been in part repaired; neither of his two associates
could destroy him without destroying themselves, and neither would have
reaped from denunciation any other profit but of drawing down justice on
themselves as well as on the notary; on this score he was quite easy.
Besides, he was not at the end of his crimes, and the disadvantages of
accompliceship were balanced by the criminal aid which at times he still
obtained.
A few words as to the personal appearance of M. Ferrand, and we will
introduce the reader into the notary's study, where we shall encounter
some of the principal personages in this recital.
M. Ferrand was fifty years of age, but did not appear forty; he was of
middle height, with broad and stooping shoulders, powerful, thickset,
strong-limbed, red-haired, and naturally as hirsute as a bear. His hair
was flat on his temples, his forehead bald, his eyebrows scarcely
perceptible; his bilious complexion was almost concealed by innumerable
red spots, and, when strong emotion agitated him, his yellow and murky
countenance was injected with blood, and became a livid red. His face
was as flat as a death's head, as is vulgarly said; his nose thick and
flat; his lips so thin, so imperceptible, that his mouth seemed incised
in his face, and, when he smiled with his villainous and revolting air,
his teeth seemed as though supplied by black and rotten fangs. His
pallid face had an expression at once austere and devout, impassible and
inflexible, cold and reflective; whilst his small, black, animated,
peering, and restless eyes were lost behind large green spectacles.
Jacques Ferrand saw admirably well; but, sheltered by his glasses, he
had an immense advantage; he could observe without being observed; and
well he knew how often a glance is unwittingly full of meaning. In spite
of his imperturbable audacity, he had met twice or thrice in his life
certain potent and magnetic looks, before which his own had compulsorily
been lowered; and in some important circumstances it is fatal to lower
the eyes before the man who interrogates, accuses, or judges you. The
large spectacles of M. Ferrand were thus a kind of covert retrenchment,
whence he could reconnoitre and observe every movement of the enemy; and
all the world was the notary's enemy, because all the world was, more or
less, his dupe; and accusers are but enlightened or disgusted dupes. He
affected a negligence in his dress almost amounting to dirtiness, or
rather, he was naturally so; his chin shaven only every two or three
days, his grimy and wrinkled head, his broad nails encircled in black,
his unpleasant odour, his threadbare coat, his greasy hat, his coarse
neckcloth, his black-worsted stockings, his clumsy shoes, all curiously
betokened his worthiness with his clients, by giving him an air of
disregard of the world, and an air of practical philosophy, which
delighted them.
They said: "What tastes, what passions, what feelings, what weaknesses,
must the notary sacrifice to obtain the confidence he inspires! He
gains, perhaps, sixty thousand francs (2,400_l._) a year, and his
household consists of a servant and an old housekeeper. His only
pleasure is to go on Sundays to mass and vespers, and he knows no opera
comparable to the grave chanting of the organ, no worldly society which
is worth an evening quietly passed at his fireside corner with the cure
of the parish after a frugal dinner; in fine, he places his enjoyment
in probity, his pride in honour, his happiness in religion."
Such was the opinion of the contemporaries of M. Jacques Ferrand.