“That I shall never do,” he uttered. “I have not sufficient
confidence in my son. I cannot expose myself to have him compromise
the consideration which I have acquired for myself.”
And, revealing to a certain extent the secret of his conduct:
“A cashier,” he added, “who like me handles immense sums cannot be
too careful of his reputation. Confidence is a delicate thing in
these times, when there are so many cashiers constantly on the road
to Belgium. Who knows what would be thought of me, if I was known
to have such a son as mine?”
Mme. Favoral was insisting, nevertheless, when he seemed to make up
his mind suddenly.
“Enough,” he said. “Maxence is free. I allow him two years to
establish himself in some position. That delay over, good-by: he
can find board and lodging where he please. That’s all. I don’t
want to hear any thing more about it.”
It was with a sort of frenzy that Maxence abused that freedom; and
in less than two weeks he had dissipated three months’ earnings of
his mother and sister.
That time over, he succeeded, thanks to M. Chapelain, in finding a
place with an architect.
This was not a very brilliant opening; and the chances were, that
he might remain a clerk all his life. But the future did not trouble
him much. For the present, he was delighted with this inferior
position, which assured him each month one hundred and seventy-five
francs.
One hundred and seventy-five francs! A fortune. And so he rushed
into that life of questionable pleasures, where so many wretches have
left not only the money which they had, which is nothing, but the
money which they had not, which leads straight to the police-court.
He made friends with those shabby fellows who walk up and down in
front of the Cafe Riche, with an empty stomach, and a tooth-pick
between their teeth. He became a regular customer at those low cafes
of the Boulevards, where plastered girls smile to the men. He
frequented those suspicious table d’hotes where they play baccarat
after dinner on a wine-stained table-cloth, and where the police make
periodical raids. He ate suppers in those night restaurants where
people throw the bottles at each other’s heads after drinking their
contents.
Often he remained twenty-four hours without coming to the Rue St.
Gilles; and then Mme. Favoral spent the night in the most fearful
anxiety. Then, suddenly, at some hour when he knew his father to be
absent, he would appear, and, taking his mother to one side:
“I very much want a few louis,” he would say in a sheepish tone.
She gave them to him; and she kept giving them so long as she had
any, not, however, without observing timidly to him that Gilberte
and herself could not earn very much.
Until finally one evening, and to a last demand:
“Alas!” she answered sorrowfully, “I have nothing left, and it is
only on Monday that we are to take our work back. Couldn’t you
wait until then?”
He could not wait: he was expected for a game. Blind devotion begets
ferocious egotism. He wanted his mother to go out and borrow the
money from the grocer or the butcher. She was hesitating. He spoke
louder.
Then Mlle. Gilberte appeared.
“Have you, then, really no heart?” she said. “It seems to me, that,
if I were a man, I would not ask my mother and sister to work for me.”