“Have you any idea,” he said, “what display can be made with a
million? Let us admit that your father spent two, four millions
even. The loss of the Mutual Credit is twelve millions. What has
become of the other eight?”
And, as Maxence made no answer,
“It is those eight millions,” he added, “that I want, and that I
shall have. It is in Paris that your father is hid, I feel certain.
We must find him; and we must make him tell the truth, which I
already more than suspect.”
Whereupon, throwing on the table the pint of beer which he had not
drunk, he walked out of the cafe with Maxence.
“Here you are at last!” exclaimed the coachman, who had been
waiting at the corner for over three hours, a prey to the utmost
anxiety.
But M. de Tregars had no time for explanations; and, pushing
Maxence into the cab, he jumped in after him, crying to the
coachman,
“24 Rue Joquelet. Five francs extra for yourself.” A driver who
expects an extra five francs, always has, for five minutes at least,
a horse as fast as Gladiateur.
Whilst the cab was speeding on to its destination,
“What is most important for us now,” said M. de Tregars to Maxence,
“is to ascertain how far the Mutual Credit crisis has progressed;
and M. Latterman of the Rue Joquelet is the man in all Paris who
can best inform us.”
Whoever has made or lost five hundred francs at the bourse knows M.
Latterman, who, since the war, calls himself an Alsatian and curses
with a fearful accent those “parparous Broossians.” This worthy
speculator modestly calls himself a money-changer; but he would
be a simpleton who should ask him for change: and it is certainly
not that sort of business which gives him the three hundred thousand
francs’ profits which he pockets every year.
When a company has failed, when it has been wound up, and the
defrauded stockholders have received two or three per cent in all
on their original investment, there is a prevailing idea that the
certificates of its stocks are no longer good for any thing, except
to light the fire. That’s a mistake. Long after the company has
foundered, its shares float, like the shattered debris which the
sea casts upon the beach months after the ship has been wrecked.
These shares M. Latterman collects, and carefully stores away; and
upon the shelves of his office you may see numberless shares and
bonds of those numerous companies which have absorbed, in the past
twenty years, according to some statistics, twelve hundred millions,
and, according to others, two thousand millions, of the public
fortune.
Say but a word, and his clerks will offer you some “Franco-American
Company,” some “Steam Navigation Company of Marseilles,” some “Coal
and Metal Company of the Asturias,” some “Transcontinental
Memphis and El Paso” (of the United States), some “Caumart Slate
Works,” and hundreds of others, which, for the general public, have
no value, save that of old paper, that is from three to five cents
a pound. And yet speculators are found who buy and sell these
rags.
In an obscure corner of the bourse may be seen a miscellaneous
population of old men with pointed beards, and overdressed young
men, who deal in every thing salable, and other things besides.
There are found foreign merchants, who will offer you stocks of
merchandise, goods from auction, good claims to recover, and who
at last will take out of their pockets an opera-glass, a Geneva
watch (smuggled in), a revolver, or a bottle of patent hair-restorer.
Such is the market to which drift those shares which were once
issued to represent millions, and which now represent nothing but
a palpable proof of the audacity of swindlers, and the credulity
of their dupes. And there are actually buyers for these shares,
and they go up or down, according to the ordinary laws of supply
and demand; for there is a demand for them, and here comes in the
usefulness of M. Latterman’s business.
Does a tradesman, on the eve of declaring himself bankrupt, wish
to defraud his creditors of a part of his assets, to conceal
excessive expenses, or cover up some embezzlement, at once he goes
to the Rue Joquelet, procures a select assortment of “Cantonal
Credit,” “Rossdorif Mines,” or “Maumusson Salt Works,” and puts
them carefully away in his safe.
And, when the receiver arrives,
“There are my assets,” he says. “I have there some twenty, fifty,
or a hundred thousand francs of stocks, the whole of which is not
worth five francs to-day; but it isn’t my fault. I thought it a
good investment; and I didn’t sell, because I always thought the
price would come up again.”
And he gets his discharge, because it would really be too cruel to
punish a man because he has made unfortunate investments.
Better than any one, M. Latterman knows for what purpose are
purchased the valueless securities which he sells; and he actually
advises his customers which to take in preference, in order that
their purchase at the time of their issue may appear more natural,
and more likely. Nevertheless, he claims to be a perfectly honest
man, and declares that he is no more responsible for the swindles
that are committed by means of his stocks than a gunsmith for a
murder committed with a gun that he has sold.
“But he will surely be able to tell us all about the Mutual Credit,”
repeated Maxence to M. de Tregars.
Four o’clock struck when the carriage stopped in the Rue Joquelet.
The bourse had just closed; and a few groups were still standing in
the square, or along the railings.
“I hope we shall find this Latterman at home,” said Maxence.
They started up the stairs (for it is up on the second floor that
this worthy operator has his offices); and, having inquired,
“M. Latterman is engaged with a customer,” answered a clerk.
“Please sit down and wait.”
M. Latterman’s office was like all other caverns of the same kind.
A very narrow space was reserved to the public; and all around,
behind a heavy wire screen, the clerks could be seen busy with
figures, or handling coupons. On the right, over a small window,
appeared the word, “CASHIER.” A small door on the left led to
the private office.
M. de Tregars and Maxence had patiently taken a seat on a hard
leather bench, once red; and they were listening and looking on.
There was considerable animation about the place. Every few
minutes, well-dressed young men came in with a hurried and
important look, and, taking out of their pocket a memorandum-book,
they would speak a few sentences of that peculiar dialect,
bristling with figures, which is the language of the bourse. At
the end of fifteen or twenty minutes,
“Will M. Latterman be engaged much longer?” inquired M. de Tregars.
“I do not know,” replied a clerk.
At that very moment, the little door on the left opened, and the
customer came out who had detained M. Latterman so long. This
customer was no other than M. Costeclar. Noticing M. de Tregars
and Maxence, who had risen at the noise of the door, he appeared
most disagreeably surprised. He even turned slightly pale, and
took a step backwards, as if intending to return precipitately
into the room that he was leaving; for M. Latterman’s office,
like that of all other large operators, had several doors, without
counting the one that leads to the police-court. But M. de
Tregars gave him no time to effect this retreat. Stepping suddenly
forward,
“Well?” he asked him in a tone that was almost threatening.
The brilliant financier had condescended to take off his hat,
usually riveted upon his head, and, with the smile of a knave caught
in the act,
“I did not expect to meet you here, my lord-marquis,” he said.
At the title of “marquis,” everybody looked up. “I believe you,
indeed,” said M. de Tregars. “But what I want to know is, how
is the matter progressing?”
“The plot is thickening. Justice is acting.”
“Indeed!”
“It is a fact. Jules Jottras, of the house of Jottras and Brother,
was arrested this morning, just as he arrived at the bourse.”
“Why?”
“Because, it seems, he was an accomplice of Favoral; and it was
he who sold the bonds stolen from the Mutual Credit.”
Maxence had started at the mention of his father’s name but, with
a significant glance, M. de Tregars bid him remain silent, and,
in a sarcastic tone,
“Famous capture!” he murmured. “And which proves the
clear-sightedness of justice.”
“But this is not all,” resumed M. Costeclar. “Saint Pavin, the
editor of ‘The Financial Pilot,’ you know, is thought to be seriously
compromised. There was a rumor, at the close of the market, that a
warrant either had been, or was about to be, issued against him.”
“And the Baron de Thaller?”
The employes of the office could not help admiring M. Costeclar’s
extraordinary amount of patience.
“The baron,” he replied, “made his appearance at the bourse this
afternoon, and was the object of a veritable ovation.”
“That is admirable! And what did he say?”
“That the damage was already repaired.”
“Then the shares of the Mutual Credit must have advanced.”
“Unfortunately, not. They did not go above one hundred and ten
francs.”
“Were you not astonished at that?”
“Not much, because, you see, I am a business-man, I am; and I know
pretty well how things work. When they left M. de Thaller this
morning, the stockholders of the Mutual Credit had a meeting; and
they pledged themselves, upon honor, not to sell, so as not to break
the market. As soon as they had separated, each one said to himself,
‘Since the others are going to keep their stock, like fools, I am
going to sell mine.’ Now, as there were three or four hundred of
them who argued the same way, the market was flooded with shares.”
Looking the brilliant financier straight in the eyes,
“And yourself?” interrupted M. de Tregars.
“I!” stammered M. Costeclar, so visibly agitated, that the clerks
could not help laughing.
“Yes. I wish to know if you have been more faithful to your word
than the stockholders of whom you are speaking, and whether you
have done as we had agreed.”
“Certainly; and, if you find me here--”
But M. de Tregars, placing his own hand over his shoulder, stopped
him short.
“I think I know what brought you here,” he uttered; “and in a few
moments I shall have ascertained.”
“I swear to you.”
“Don’t swear. If I am mistaken, so much the better for you. If I
am not mistaken, I’ll prove to you that it is dangerous to try any
sharp game on me, though I am not a business-man.”
Meantime M. Latterman, seeing no customer coming to take the place
of the one who had left, became impatient at last, and appeared
upon the threshold of his private office.
He was a man still young, small, thick-set, and vulgar. At the
first glance, nothing of him could be seen but his abdomen,--a big,
great, and ponderous abdomen, seat of his thoughts, and tabernacle
of his aspirations, over which dangled a double gold chain, loaded
with trinkets. Above an apoplectic neck, red as that of a
turkey-cock, stood his little head, covered with coarse red hair,
cut very short. He wore a heavy beard, trimmed in the form of a fan.
His large, full-moon face was divided in two by a nose as flat as a
Kalmuck’s, and illuminated by two small eyes, in which could be read
the most thorough duplicity.
Seeing M. de Tregars and M. Costeclar engaged in conversation,
“Why! you know each other?” he said.