“We are even intimate friends,” he replied. “And it is very lucky
that we should have met. I am brought here by the same matter as
our dear Costeclar; and I was just explaining to him that he has
been too hasty, and that it would be best to wait three or four days
longer.”
“That’s just what I told him,” echoed the honorable financier.
Maxence understood only one thing,--that M. de Tregars had
penetrated M. Costeclar’s designs; and he could not sufficiently
admire his presence of mind, and his skill in grasping an unexpected
opportunity.
“Fortunately there is nothing done yet,” added M. Latterman.
“And it is yet time to alter what has been agreed on,” said M. de
Tregars. And, addressing himself to Costeclar,
“Come,” he added, “we’ll fix things with M. Latterman.”
But the other, who remembered the scene in the Rue St. Gilles, and
who had his own reasons to be alarmed, would sooner have jumped out
of the window.
“I am expected,” he stammered. “Arrange matters without me.”
“Then you give me carte blanche?”
Ah, if the brilliant financier had dared! But he felt upon him such
threatening eyes, that he dared not even make a gesture of denial.
“Whatever you do will be satisfactory,” he said in the tone of a
man who sees himself lost.
And, as he was going out of the door, M. de Tregars stepped into
M. Latterman’s private office. He remained only five minutes; and
when he joined Maxence, whom he had begged to wait for him,
“I think that we have got them,” he said as they walked off.
Their next visit was to M. Saint Pavin, at the office of “The
Financial Pilot.” Every one must have seen at least one copy of
that paper with its ingenious vignette, representing a bold mariner
steering a boat, filled with timid passengers, towards the harbor
of Million, over a stormy sea, bristling with the rocks of failure
and the shoals of ruin. The office of “The Pilot” is, in fact,
less a newspaper office than a sort of general business agency.
As at M. Latterman’s, there are clerks scribbling behind wire
screens, small windows, a cashier, and an immense blackboard, on
which the latest quotations of the Rente, and other French and
foreign securities, are written in chalk.
As “The Pilot” spends some hundred thousand francs a year in
advertising, in order to obtain subscribers; as, on the other hand,
it only costs three francs a year,--it is clear that it is not on
its subscriptions that it realizes any profits. It has other
sources of income: its brokerages first; for it buys, sells, and
executes, as the prospectus says, all orders for stocks, bonds, or
other securities, for the best interests of the client. And it has
plenty of business.
To the opulent brokerages, must be added advertising and puffing,
--another mine. Six times out of ten, when a new enterprise is set
on foot, the organizers send for Saint Pavin. Honest men, or
knaves, they must all pass through his hands. They know it, and
are resigned in advance.
“We rely upon you,” they say to him.
“What advantages have you to offer?” he replies.
Then they discuss the operation, the expected profits of the new
company, and M. Saint Pavin’s demands. For a hundred thousand
francs he promises bursts of lyrism; for fifty thousand he will be
enthusiastic only. Twenty thousand francs will secure a moderate
praise of the affair; ten thousand, a friendly neutrality. And,
if the said company refuses any advantages to “The Pilot”--
“Ah, you must beware!” says Saint Pavin.
And from the very next number he commences his campaign. He is
moderate at first, and leaves a door open for his retreat. He
puts forth doubts only. He does not know much about it. “It may
be an excellent thing; it may be a wretched one: the safest is to
wait and see.”
That’s the first hint. If it remains without result, he takes up
his pen again, and makes his doubts more pointed.
He knows how to steer clear of libel suits, how to handle figures
so as to demonstrate, according to the requirements of the case,
that two and two make three, or make five. It is seldom, that,
before the third article, the company does not surrender at
discretion.
All Paris knows him; and he has many friends. When M. de Tregars
and Maxence arrived, they found the office full of people
--speculators, brokers, go-betweens--come there to discuss
the fluctuations of the day and the probabilities of the evening
market.
“M. Saint Pavin is engaged,” one of the clerks told them.
Indeed, his coarse voice could be distinctly heard behind the screen.
Soon he appeared, showing out an old gentleman, who seemed utterly
confused at the scene, and to whom he was screaming,
“No, sir, no! ‘The Financial Pilot’ does not take that sort of
business; and I find you very bold to come and propose to me a
twopenny rascality.” But, noticing Maxence,
“M. Favoral!” he said. “By Jove! it is your good star that has
brought you here. Come into the private office, my dear sir: come,
we’ll have some fun now.”
Many of the people who were in the office had a word to say to M.
Saint Pavin, some advice to ask him, an order to transmit, or some
news to communicate. They had all stepped forward, and were holding
out their hands with a friendly smile. He set them aside with his
usual rudeness.
“By and by. I am busy now: leave me alone.”
And pushing Maxence towards the office-door, which he had just
opened,
“Come in, come in!” he said in a tone of extraordinary impatience.
But M. de Tregars was coming in too; and, as he did not know him,
“What do you want, you?” he asked roughly.
“The gentleman is my best friend,” said Maxence, turning to him;
“and I have no secret from him.”
“Let him walk in, then; but, by Heaven, let us hurry!”
Once very sumptuous, the private office of the editor of “The
Financial Pilot” had fallen into a state of sordid dilapidation.
If the janitor had received orders never to use a broom or a duster
there, he obeyed them strictly. Disorder and dirt reigned supreme.
Papers and manuscripts lay in all directions; and on the broad
sofas the mud from the boots of all those who had lounged upon
them had been drying for months. On the mantel-piece, in the
midst of some half-dozen dirty glasses, stood a bottle of Madeira,
half empty. Finally, before the fireplace, on the carpet, and
along the furniture, cigar and cigarette stumps were heaped in
profusion.
As soon as he had bolted the door, coming straight to Maxence,
“What has become of your father?” inquired M. Saint Pavin rudely.
Maxence started. That was the last question he expected to hear.
“I do not know,” he replied.
The manager of “The Pilot” shrugged his shoulders. “That you
should say so to the commissary of police, to the judges, and to
all Favoral’s enemies, I understand: it is your duty. That they
should believe you, I understand too; for, after all, what do
they care? But to me, a friend, though you may not think so, and
who has reasons not to be credulous----”
“I swear to you that we have no idea where he has taken refuge.”
Maxence said this with such an accent of sincerity, that doubt was
no longer possible. M. Saint Pavin’s features expressed the utmost
surprise.
“What!” he exclaimed, “your father has gone without securing the
means of hearing from his family?”
“Yes.”
“Without saying a word of his intentions to your mother, or your
sister, or yourself?”
“Without one word.”
“Without leaving any money, perhaps?”
“We found only an insignificant sum after he left.” The editor of
“The Pilot” made a gesture of ironical admiration. “Well, the
thing is complete,” he said; “and Vincent is a smarter fellow than
I gave him credit for; or else he must have cared more for those
infernal women of his than any one supposed.”
M. de Tregars, who had remained hitherto silent, now stepped
forward.
“What women?” he asked.
“How do I know?” he replied roughly. “How could any one ever find
out any thing about a man who was more hermetically shut up in his
coat than a Jesuit in his gown?”
“M. Costeclar--”
“That’s another nice bird! Still he may possibly have discovered
something of Vincent’s life; for he led him a pretty dance.
Wasn’t he about to marry Mlle. Favoral once?”
“Yes, in spite of herself even.”
“Then you are right: he had discovered something. But, if you rely
on him to tell you anything whatever, you are reckoning without
your host.”
“Who knows?” murmured M. de Tregars.
But M. Saint Pavin heard him not. Prey to a violent agitation, he
was pacing up and down the room.
“Ah, those men of cold appearance,” he growled, “those men with
discreet countenance, those close-shaving calculators, those
moralists! What fools they do make of themselves when once
started! Who can imagine to what insane extremities this one
may have been driven under the spur of some mad passion!”
And stamping violently his foot upon the carpet, from which arose
clouds of dust,
“And yet,” he swore, “I must find him. And, by thunder! wherever
he may be hid, I shall find him.”