CHAPTER I

MONEY

(L’ARGENT)

BY

ÉMILE ZOLA

AUTHOR OF 'THE DOWNFALL' 'THE DREAM' 'DR. PASCAL' ETC.

TRANSLATED BY ERNEST A. VIZETELLY

_WITH A FRONTISPIECE IN PHOTOGRAVURE BY H. ROUNTREE_

LONDON

THE CAXTON PUBLISHING COMPANY, LIMITED

CLUN HOUSE, SURREY STREET, W.C.

1900

[Illustration: _Mazaud lay, his head pierced by a bullet._]

PREFACE

The present version of M. Zola's novel 'L'Argent' supplies one of the

missing links in the English translations of the Rougon-Macquart series

which the author initiated some five and twenty years ago, and brought

to a close last summer by the publication of 'Doctor Pascal.' Judged

by the standard of popularity, 'L'Argent' may be said to rank among M.

Zola's notable achievements, for not only has it had an extremely large

sale in the original French, but the translations of it into various

Continental languages have proved remarkably successful. This is not

surprising, as the book deals with a subject of great interest to every

civilized community. And with regard to this English version, it may,

I think, be safely said that its publication is well timed, for the

rottenness of our financial world has become such a crying scandal, and

the inefficiency of our company laws has been so fully demonstrated,

that the absolute urgency of reform can no longer be denied.

A work, therefore, which exposes the evils of 'speculation,' which

shows the company promoter on the war-path, and the 'guinea-pig'

basking at his ease, which demonstrates how the public is fooled and

ruined by the brigands of Finance, is evidently a work for the times,

even though it deal with the Paris Bourse instead of with the London

market. For the ways of the speculator, the promoter, the wrecker,

the defaulter, the reptile journalist, and the victim, are much the

same all the world over; and it matters little whence the example may

be drawn, the warning will apply with as much force in England as in

France.

The time for prating of the purity of our public life, and for thanking

the Divinity that in financial as in other matters we are not as other

men, has gone by. When disasters like that of the Liberator group

are possible, when examples of financial unsoundness are matters of

everyday occurrence, when the very name of 'trust company' opens up

visions of incapacity, deceit, and fraud, it is quite certain that

things are ripe for stringent inquiry and reform.

Of course the cleansing of the Augean stable of finance in this country

will prove a Herculean labour; but although callous Governments and

legislators may postpone and shirk it, the task remains before them,

ever threatening, ever calling for attention, and each day's delay

in dealing with it only adds to the evil. We are overrun with rotten

limited liability companies, flooded with swindling 'bucket-shops,'

crashes and collapses rain upon us, and the 'promoter' and the

'guinea-pig' still and ever enjoy impunity. It is becoming more and

more impossible to burke the issue. It stares us in the face. Even

if the various measures of political and social reform, about which

we have heard so much of recent years, should yield all that their

partisans declare they will, it is doubtful whether there would be much

national improvement. For the rottenness of our social system must

still remain the same; the fabric must still repose upon as unsound a

basis as it does now if the brigands of Finance remain free to plunder

the community and to pave their way to ephemeral wealth and splendour

with the bodies of the thrifty and the credulous.

One may well ask why this freedom should be allowed them. The man

in the street who wishes to lay odds against the favourite for the

Derby is promptly mulcted in pocket or consigned to limbo, but the

promoter of the swindling company, and the keeper of the swindling

'bucket-shop,' who deliberately defraud other people of their money,

are at liberty to ply their nefarious callings with no worse fate

before them than a short suspension of their discharge should they

choose to close their books with the aid of the Bankruptcy Court.

There cannot be two moralities, although a distinguished Frenchman,

the late M. Nisard, once tried to demonstrate that there were, and

was laughed to scorn for his pains. We know that there is but one true

morality--the same for the rich as for the poor, the same for the

legislator as for the elector, the same for the defaulter who dabbles

in millions as for the welsher who sneaks half-crowns. And it should

be borne in mind that the harm done to the community at large by the

thousands of bookmakers disseminated throughout the United Kingdom is

as nothing beside that which is done by the half thousand financial

brigands who infest the one city of London. It may, I think, be safely

said that more people were absolutely ruined by the crash of the

Liberator group than by all the betting on English racecourses over a

period of many years.

There have been, I believe, over 2,200 applicants for relief to

the fund which has been raised for the benefit of the sufferers of

so-called Philanthropic Finance, and among the number it appears

there are nearly 1,400 single women and widows. Some of the victims

have committed suicide, others have gone mad. Thousands, moreover,

who are too proud to beg, find themselves either starving or in sadly

straitened circumstances, with nothing but a pittance left them of

their former little comforts. This is a specimen of the work done by

the brigand of Finance.

Of course there are reforms urgently needed in the very organisation of

the Stock Exchange; and reforms needed with regard to the conditions

under which public companies may be launched. Why should men be allowed

to ask the public to subscribe millions of money for the purchase

of properties which are literally valueless? Why, moreover, should

directors be allowed to proceed to 'allotment,' when but a tithe of

the shares placed on the market have been taken up? And surely the

time has come for the proper auditing of accounts under Government

supervision. The neglectful auditor and the fraudulent promoter are

as much in need of abolition as the ornamental 'guinea-pig.' And such

abolition, and the enforcement of many reforms, might be secured by a

self-supporting Ministry of Commercial Finance. Some institution of

the kind will doubtless be founded in time to come; and, meanwhile, if

all that is told us of the purity of our public life be true, I fail to

see why a series of measures directed against the brigands of Finance

should not promptly receive the assent of both Houses of Parliament and

become law. Surely no member of the Lords or the Commons would dare to

stand up and plead the cause of the negligent director who imperils the

safety of other people's money? Surely not one of our legislators would

dare to take the fraudulent promoter and the rogue of the 'bucket-shop'

under his protecting wing? And, as such measures must of necessity be

non-contentious, why do not some of our social reformers initiate them,

instead of for ever and ever harping upon 'Bills' which are not likely

to be included in the Statute-book for another score of years?

I am not against public companies. Let us have them; let us have

as many good ones as we can get, but let them be honestly founded

and honestly administered. It is through the multiplicity of public

companies that we may eventually attain to Collectivism, which so many

great thinkers of the age deem to be the future towards which the

world is slowly but surely marching. And when that comes, perhaps,

as Sigismond Busch, one of M. Zola's characters, foreshadows in the

following pages, we shall have some other means of exchange than

money--the metallic money of the present day. Sigismond Busch is a

Karl Marxite, a believer in the universal fraternity of humanity, a

fraternity which he regretfully admits is still far away from us.

Of a very different stamp to him is M. Zola's hero--if hero he can

be called--Saccard, the scheming financier, the sanguine promoter

and manager of the Universal Bank, the poet of money, the apostle of

gambling, ever intent on gigantic enterprises, believing that the

passion for gain should be fostered rather than discouraged, and that

in order to set society on a proper basis it is necessary to destroy

the financial power of the Jews.

Saccard is one of M. Zola's favourite creations. After figuring in the

'Fortune des Rougon,' he played a prominent part in 'La Curée;' and he

is further alluded to in 'Doctor Pascal,' Clotilde, the heroine of that

work, being his daughter. Certainly Saccard, the worshipper of Mammon,

the man to whom money is everything in life, is a true type of our

_fin-de-siècle_ society. It has often occurred to me that in sketching

this daring and unscrupulous financier M. Zola must have bethought

himself of Mirès, whose name is so closely linked to the history of

Second Empire finance. Mirès, however, was a Jew, whereas Saccard is a

Jew-hater, and outwardly, at all events, a zealous Roman Catholic. In

this respect he reminds one of Bontoux, of Union Générale notoriety,

just as Hamelin the engineer reminds one of Feder, Bontoux's associate.

Indeed, the history of M. Zola's Universal Bank is much the history

of the Union Générale. The latter was solemnly blessed by the Pope,

and in a like way M. Zola shows us the Universal receiving the Papal

benediction. Moreover, the secret object of the Union Générale was to

undermine the financial power of the Jews, and in the novel we find a

similar purpose ascribed to Saccard's Bank. The Union, we know, was

eventually crushed by the great Israelite financiers, and this again is

the fate which overtakes the institution whose meteor-like career is

traced in the pages of 'L'Argent.'

There is a strong Jewish element in this story, and here and there some

very unpleasant things are said of the chosen people. It should be

remembered, however, that these remarks are the remarks of M. Zola's

characters and not of M. Zola himself. He had to portray certain

Jew-haters, and has simply put into their mouths the words which they

are constantly using. This statement is not unnecessary, for M. Zola

counts many friends and admirers among writers and readers of the

Jewish persuasion, and some of them might conceive the language in

which their race is spoken of to be expressive of the author's personal

opinions. But such is not the case. M. Zola is remarkably free from

racial and religious prejudices. And, after all, I do not think that

any Hebrew reader can take exception to the portrait of Gundermann,

the great Jew financier, the King of the Money Market, who in a

calm methodical way brings about the ruin of Saccard and Hamelin.

Gundermann, moreover, really existed and may be readily identified.

In Daigremont, another financier, but a Catholic, we have a combination

of Achille Fould and Isaac Pereire. Daigremont's house is undoubtedly

Fould's, and so is his gallery of paintings. And there are other

characters in the story who might in a measure be identified. For

instance, readers acquainted with the social history of France during

the last half century will doubtless trace a resemblance between the

Princess d'Orviedo and a certain foreign Duchess. Then the Viscount de

Robin-Chagot is strangely suggestive of a Rohan-Chabot, whose financial

transactions brought him before a court of law during the latter period

of the Second Empire. Various personalities are merged in the character

of the courtly Marquis de Bohain, that perfect type of the aristocratic

rogue; but Rougon is undoubtedly Eugène Rouher _tout craché_, whatever

M. Zola may pretend to the contrary. M. Zola himself will be found in

the book, for surely Paul Jordan, the impecunious journalist with 'an

idea for a novel,' is the author of the Rougon-Macquart series in the

far-away days when he lived on the topmost floor of a modest house on

the Boulevard de Clichy.

In Huret we are presented with a specimen of the corrupt Deputy,

and in this connection it may be pointed out that the venal French

legislator by no means dates from the Panama scandals. In fact, there

were undoubtedly more corrupt members in the Corps Législatif of the

Second Empire than there have ever been in the Parliament of the Third

Republic. Only, in those glorious Imperial times, anything approaching

a scandal was promptly hushed up, and more than once the Emperor

himself personally intervened to shield his peccant supporters. M.

Schneider, who presided over the Corps Législatif in its later days,

was undoubtedly a very honest man; but it would be impossible to say

the same of his predecessors--Walewski, who claimed descent from the

great Napoleon, and Morny, who was the little Napoleon's illegitimate

half-brother. It is notorious that Morny made millions of money by

trickery and fraud; and that the Emperor himself was well aware of

it was proved conclusively by the papers found in his _cabinet_ at

the Tuileries after the Revolution of 1870. Roguery being thus freely

practised in high places, a considerable number of Deputies undoubtedly

opined that there was no occasion for them to remain honest.

'L'Argent,' however, is no mere story of swindling and corruption.

Whilst proving that money is the root of much evil, it also shows

that it is the source of much good. It does not merely depict the

world of finance; it gives us glimpses of the charitable rich, the

decayed _noblesse_ striving to keep up appearances, the thrifty and the

struggling poor. Further, it appears to me to be a less contemplative

work than many of M. Zola's novels. It possesses in no small degree

that quality of 'action' in which, according to some critics, the great

_naturaliste's_ writings are generally deficient. The plot, too, is a

sound one, and from beginning to end the interest never flags.

In preparing the present version for the press I have followed the

same course as I pursued with regard to 'Dr. Pascal.' Certain passages

have been condensed, and others omitted; and in order to reconnect the

narrative brief interpolations have here and there been necessary.

Nobody can regret these changes more than I do myself, but before

reviewers proceed to censure me (as some of them did in the case of

'Dr. Pascal'), I would ask them to consider the responsibility which

rests upon my shoulders. If they desire to have verbatim translations

of M. Zola's works, let them help to establish literary freedom.

And now, by way of conclusion, I have a request to make. After perusing

the story of Saccard's work of ruin, the reader will, perhaps, have a

keener perception of all the misery wrought by that Liberator crash

to which I have previously alluded. I would point out, however, that

whereas Saccard's bank was essentially a speculative enterprise, the

Liberator and its allied companies claimed that they never embarked in

any speculative dealings whatever. Their shareholders had no desire to

gamble; they only expected to obtain a fair return from the investment

of their hard-earned savings. Their position is therefore deserving of

all commiseration. Unfortunately, the fund raised for their benefit

still falls far short of the amount required; and so I would ask all

who read 'Money,' and who have money to spare, to send some little of

their store to the Rev. J. Stockwell Watts, at the office of the Fund,

16 Farringdon Street, E.C. In complying with this suggestion they will

be doing a good action. And I may say that nothing would afford greater

pleasure either to M. Zola or myself than to learn that this book had

in some degree a contributed to alleviate so much undeserved misery and

hardship.

E. A. V.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

PREFACE vii

I. THE TEMPLE OF MAMMON 1

II. DREAMS AND SCHEMES 45

III. SACCARD MAKES A START 81

IV. THE BANK IS FOUNDED 112

V. THE LITTLE MONSTER 144

VI. A GREAT STROKE 182

VII. REVELATIONS 219

VIII. THE BOOM BEGINS 237

IX. EXCELSIOR! 271

X. THE BATTLE OF MILLIONS 311

XI. RUIN 355

XII. FROM HORROR TO HOPE 388

NOTES 428

MONEY

CHAPTER I

THE TEMPLE OF MAMMON

Eleven o'clock had just struck at the Bourse when, making his way into

Champeaux' restaurant, Saccard entered the public room, all white

and gold and with two high windows facing the Place. At a glance he

surveyed the rows of little tables, at which the busy eaters sat

closely together, elbow to elbow; and he seemed surprised not to see

the face he sought.

As a waiter passed, laden with dishes, amid the scramble of the

service, he turned to him and asked: 'I say, hasn't Monsieur Huret

come?'

'No, monsieur, not yet.'

Thereupon, making up his mind, Saccard sat down at a table, which

a customer was leaving, in the embrasure of one of the windows. He

thought that he was late; and whilst a fresh cover was being laid he

directed his looks outside, scrutinising the persons passing on the

footway. Indeed, even when the table had been freshly laid, he did not

at once give his orders, but remained for a moment with his eyes fixed

on the Place, which looked quite gay on that bright morning of an early

day in May. At that hour, when everybody was at lunch, it was almost

empty: the benches under the chestnut trees of a fresh and tender green

remained unoccupied; a line of cabs stretched from one to the other end

of the railing, and the omnibus going to the Bastille stopped at the

office at the corner of the garden, without dropping or taking up a

single passenger. The sun's rays fell vertically, lighting up the whole

monumental pile of the Bourse, with its colonnade, its pair of statues,

and its broad steps, at the top of which there was as yet only an army

of chairs ranged in good order.

Having turned, however, Saccard recognised Mazaud, a stock-broker,

sitting at the table next to his own. He held out his hand. 'Dear me,

you are here? Good morning,' said he.

'Good morning,' answered Mazaud, shaking hands in an absent-minded

fashion.

Short, dark, a very brisk, good-looking man, Mazaud, at the age of two

and thirty, had just inherited the business of one of his uncles. He

seemed to be altogether taken up with the person opposite him, a stout

gentleman with a red and shaven face, the celebrated Amadieu, whom the

Bourse revered since his famous deal in Selsis mining stock. When the

Selsis shares had fallen to fifteen francs, and anyone who bought them

was looked upon as a madman, he had put his whole fortune, two hundred

thousand francs, into the affair at a venture, without calculation or

instinct--indeed, through mere obstinate confidence in his own brutish

luck. Now that the discovery of real and important veins had sent the

price of the shares up above a thousand francs, he had made fifteen

millions; and his imbecile operation, which ought to have led to his

being shut up in an asylum, had raised him to the level of men of great

financial intellect. He was saluted and, above all things, consulted.

Moreover, he placed no more orders, but seemed to be satisfied,

enthroned as it were upon his unique and legendary stroke of genius.

Mazaud must have been dreaming of securing his patronage.

Saccard, having failed to obtain even a smile from Amadieu, bowed

to the table opposite, where three speculators of his acquaintance,

Pillerault, Moser, and Salmon, were gathered together.

'Good day. Quite well?' he asked.

'Yes, thanks--Good morning.'

Among these men also he divined coldness, in fact almost hostility.

Pillerault, however, very tall, very thin, with spasmodic gestures,

and a nose like a sabre-blade set in the bony face of a knight-errant,

habitually displayed the familiarity of a gambler--the gambler who

makes recklessness a principle, for he declared that he plunged head

over heels into catastrophes whenever he paused to reflect. He had the

exuberant nature of a 'bull,' ever turned towards victory; whereas

Moser, on the contrary, short of stature, yellow-skinned, and afflicted

moreover by a liver complaint, was continually lamenting, in incessant

dread of some approaching cataclysm. As for Salmon, a very fine-looking

man struggling against old age, and displaying a superb beard of inky

blackness, he passed for a fellow of extraordinary acumen. Never did

he speak; he answered only by smiles; folks could never tell in what

he was speculating, or whether he was speculating at all; and his way

of listening so impressed Moser, that the latter, after making him his

confidant, was frequently so disconcerted by his silence that he ran

off to countermand an order.

Amid the indifference exhibited towards him, Saccard, with feverish

and provoking glances, went on finishing his survey of the room, and

he exchanged no other nod except with a tall young man sitting three

tables away, the handsome Sabatani, a Levantine with a long dark

face, illumined by magnificent black eyes, but spoiled by an evil,

disquieting mouth. This fellow's amiability put the finishing touch

to his irritation. A defaulter on some foreign Stock Exchange, one of

those mysterious scamps whom women love, Sabatani had tumbled into the

market during the previous autumn. Saccard had already seen him at work

as figure-head in a banking disaster, and now he was little by little

gaining the confidence of both the _corbeille_[1] and the _coulisse_[2]

by scrupulous correctness of behaviour and an unremitting graciousness

even towards the most disreputable.

A waiter, however, was standing before Saccard. 'What are Monsieur's

orders?'

'Oh, anything you like--a cutlet, some asparagus.' Then calling the

waiter back, he added: 'You are sure that Monsieur Huret did not come

in before me and go away again?'

'Oh! absolutely sure.'

So there he was, after the crash which in October had once more forced

him to wind up his affairs, to sell his mansion in the Parc Monceau,

and rent a suite of rooms. The Sabatani set alone saluted him; his

entrance into a restaurant where he had once reigned no longer caused

all heads to turn, all hands to be stretched forth. He was a good

gambler; he harboured no rancour with regard to that last scandalous

and disastrous speculation in land, from which he had scarcely saved

more than his skin. But a fever of revenge was kindling within him;

and the absence of Huret, who had formally promised to be there at

eleven o'clock to acquaint him with the result of an application which

he had undertaken to make to his--Saccard's--brother, Rougon, the then

triumphant minister, exasperated him especially against the latter.

Huret, a docile deputy, and one of the great man's creatures, was after

all merely a messenger. But Rougon, he who could do anything, was

it possible that he had abandoned him in this fashion? Never had he

shown himself a good brother. That he should have been angry after the

catastrophe, and have broken with him in order not to be compromised

himself, was natural enough; but ought he not to have come secretly to

his assistance during the last six months? And now would he have the

heart to refuse him the final lift which he solicited through a third

party, not daring indeed to see him in person, for fear lest he might

be carried away by some fit of passion? Rougon had only to say a word

to put him on his feet again, with all huge, cowardly Paris beneath his

heels.

'What wine will Monsieur drink?' asked the waiter.

'Your ordinary Bordeaux.'

Saccard, who, with his absent-mindedness and lack of appetite, was

letting his cutlet grow cold, raised his eyes as he saw a shadow pass

over the table-cloth. It was the shadow of Massias, a stout, red-faced

_remisier_,[3] whom he had known in want, and who glided between the

tables with his list of quotations in his hand. Saccard was exasperated

at seeing him march past him, without stopping, in order to hand the

list to Pillerault and Moser. With their thoughts elsewhere, engaged

in a discussion together, these two barely gave it a glance; no, they

had no order, they would give one some other time. Massias, not daring

to approach the celebrated Amadieu, who was leaning over a lobster

salad and conversing in a low tone with Mazaud, thereupon came back to

Salmon, who took the list, studied it for some time, and then returned

it without a word. The room was growing animated. The door swung every

moment as other _remisiers_ entered. Loud words were being exchanged at

a distance, and all the passion for business rose as the hour advanced.

Saccard, whose eyes continually turned to the window, saw also that the

Place was now gradually filling, that vehicles and pedestrians were

flocking in; whilst on the steps of the Bourse, of dazzling whiteness

in the sunlight, men were already appearing one by one, like black

spots.

'Again I tell you,' said Moser, in his disconsolate voice, 'that those

complementary elections of March 20[4] are a most disturbing symptom.

In fact, all Paris is nowadays on the side of the Opposition.'

Pillerault shrugged his shoulders, however. What difference could it

make that Carnot[5] and Garnier-Pagès should be added to the ranks of

the Left?

'It is like the question of the Duchies,'[6] resumed Moser; 'it is

fraught with complications. It is indeed; you needn't laugh. I don't

say that we were bound to make war on Prussia to prevent her from

laying hands on Denmark; but there were other means of action. Yes,

yes, when the big begin to eat the little, one never knows where it

will all end, and, as for Mexico----'

Pillerault, who was in one of his fits of satisfaction with everything,

interrupted with a shout of laughter: 'Oh, no, my dear fellow, don't

weary us any more with your terrors about Mexico. Mexico will be the

glorious page of the reign. Where the deuce did you get the idea that

the Empire is ailing? Wasn't the loan of three hundred millions covered

more than fifteen times over last January? An overwhelming success!

Well, I'll give you _rendez-vous_ for '67, yes, in three years from

now, when the Universal Exhibition which the Emperor has just decided

upon will open.'

'I tell you that things are very bad,' declared Moser in despair.

'Oh, leave us in peace; everything is all right.'

Salmon looked at them in turn, smiling in his profound way. And

Saccard, who had been listening, connected the difficulties of his

personal situation with the crisis upon which the Empire seemed to be

entering. He was once more down; and now was this Empire, which had

made him, about to tumble over like himself, suddenly falling from the

highest to the most miserable destiny? Ah! for twelve years past, how

he had loved and defended that _régime_, in which he had felt himself

live, grow, and imbibe sap, like some tree whose roots plunge into

fitting soil. But if his brother were determined to tear him from it,

if he were to be cut off from those who were exhausting that fertile

soil of enjoyment, then might all be swept away in the great final

smash-up!

He now sat waiting for his asparagus, his thoughts wandering away from

the room, where the hubbub kept on increasing, his mind invaded by

memories of the past. He had just caught sight of his face in a large

mirror opposite, and it had surprised him. Age had made no impression

upon his short slight figure; his fifty years seemed to have been

scarcely more than eight and thirty. He still had the slender build

and vivacious manners of a young man. His dark, sunken marionette's

face, with its sharp nose and small glittering eyes, had, with the

march of years, adapted itself to his supple, active youthfulness,

so long abiding that as yet his still bushy hair was without a single

white thread. And irresistibly he recalled his arrival in Paris on the

morrow of the _coup d'état_, that winter evening when he had alighted

on the pavement, penniless, hungry, with a perfect rage of appetite

to satisfy. Ah! that first trip through the streets, when, even

before unpacking his trunk, he had felt the need of rushing through

the city to conquer it in his greasy overcoat and his boots trodden

down at heel! Since that night he had often risen very high; a river

of millions had flowed through his fingers, yet he had never been

able to make a slave of fortune, something of his own that he could

dispose of, and keep under lock and key, alive and real. Falsehood and

fiction had always dwelt in his safes, the gold in which had always

slipped out through unknown holes. And now he again found himself

upon the pavement, as in the far-off days of the beginning, as young

and as hungry as then, still unsatisfied, tortured by the same need

of enjoyment and conquest. He had tasted of everything, but was not

satiated, having lacked both opportunity and time, he thought, to

bite deeply enough into persons and things. At this present hour he

felt less wretched at finding himself on the pavement than a beginner

would have felt, and this although the latter would probably have been

sustained by illusion and hope. He was seized with a feverish desire to

begin all over again, to regain everything, to rise higher than he had

ever risen before, to place his foot at last full upon the conquered

city. No longer the lying finery of the façade, but the solid edifice

of fortune, the true royalty of gold enthroned upon real money bags

full to overflowing--that was what he wanted.

Moser's voice, which again rose sharp and shrill, aroused him for a

moment from his reflections. 'The Mexican expedition costs fourteen

million francs a month; Thiers has proved it, and one must really be

blind not to see that the majority in the Chamber is shaken. The Left

now counts thirty odd members. The Emperor himself clearly sees that

absolute power is becoming impossible, for he himself is coming forward

as a promoter of liberty.'

Pillerault vouchsafed no further answer, but contented himself with a

contemptuous sneer.

'Yes, I know the market seems firm to you,' continued Moser; 'as yet

business prospers. But wait till the end. There has been far too much

pulling down and rebuilding in Paris, you see. The great public works

have exhausted everybody's savings. As for the powerful financial

houses, which seem to you so prosperous, wait till one of them goes

down, and then you will see all the others tumble in a row--to say

nothing of the fact that the lower orders are getting restless. That

International Association of the working classes, which has just been

founded to improve the position of those who labour, inspires me with

great fear. There is a revolutionary movement in France, which is

becoming more pronounced every day--yes, I tell you that the worm is in

the fruit. There will be a general burst up at last!'

Thereupon came a noisy protest. That confounded Moser had one of his

liver attacks decidedly. He himself, however, while talking on, did not

take his eyes off the neighbouring table, where, amid all the noise,

Mazaud and Amadieu continued conversing in low tones. Little by little

the entire room began to feel uneasy over that prolonged confidential

chat. What could they have to say to each other that they should be

whispering in that way? Undoubtedly Amadieu was placing some orders,

preparing some deal or other. For three days past, unfavourable rumours

had been circulating respecting the works at Suez. Moser winked, and

lowered his voice: 'You know,' said he, 'that the English wish to

prevent them from working there. We may very likely have war.'

This time Pillerault was shaken by the very enormity of the news.

It was incredible, yet the report at once flew from table to table,

acquiring the force of certainty. England had sent an ultimatum,

demanding an immediate cessation of work. Clearly enough, Amadieu was

talking of it with Mazaud, and giving him orders to sell all his Suez

shares. A buzz of panic arose in the odour-laden atmosphere, amid the

increasing clatter of the crockery. And at that moment the general

emotion was brought to a climax by the sudden entry of Mazaud's clerk,

little Flory, a fellow with a flabby face, overgrown with a thick

chestnut beard. He rushed in with a number of _fiches_[7] in his hand,

and gave them to his employer, saying something in his ear.

'All right,' answered Mazaud quietly, as he classified the _fiches_ in

his pocket-book; then taking out his watch, he added: 'Already noon!

Tell Berthier to wait for me. And be there yourself; go up after the

telegrams.'

When Flory had gone, he resumed his talk with Amadieu, taking some

other _fiches_ from his pocket, and placing them on the table-cloth

beside his plate. Every minute or so some customer passing him on his

way out leaned over him and said a word or two, which he rapidly noted

down on one of the bits of paper between a couple of mouthfuls. The

false news which had originated no one knew where, which had been born

of nothing, was growing and swelling like a storm-cloud.

'You mean to sell, don't you?' asked Moser of Salmon.

However, the latter's silent smile had something so sharp and knowing

about it, that he was left in anxiety, suddenly doubting the existence

of this ultimatum from England, which he did not even remember had been

invented by himself.

'For my part, I shall buy as long as anyone will sell,' concluded

Pillerault, with the boastful temerity of a gambler without a system.

Meantime Saccard--his temples heated by the fever of speculation,

which was stimulated by all the noise attending the close of the

luncheon hour in that narrow room--had at last made up his mind to

eat his asparagus, again full of irritation against Huret, whom he

had now given up. He, as a rule so prompt in coming to a decision,

had for weeks past been hesitating, a prey to conflicting doubts. He

realised the imperative necessity of slipping into a new skin, and had

at first dreamed of an entirely new life, in the upper circles of the

Civil Service, or else in political spheres. Why should not a seat

in the Legislature land him in the Cabinet, like his brother? He was

discontented with speculation on account of its continual instability,

huge sums being as quickly lost as won. Never had he slept on a real

million, owing nothing to anyone. And now that he was subjecting his

conscience to examination, he said to himself that perhaps he was of

too passionate a nature for financial warfare, which required so much

coolness. That must be the reason why, after such an extraordinary life

of mingled luxury and need, he had come out of the fray empty-handed,

badly scorched by ten years' formidable trafficking in the soil of

new Paris--trafficking in which many others, not nearly as sharp as

himself, had amassed colossal fortunes. Yes, perhaps he had mistaken

his real vocation. With his activity and ardent faith perhaps he would

triumph at one bound in the hubbub of politics. Everything depended,

however, on his brother's answer. If Rougon should repulse him, throw

him back into the gulf of speculation, well, it would undoubtedly be so

much the worse for him and everyone else; he would then risk the grand

stroke which he had not as yet spoken of to anyone, the huge affair

which he had been dreaming of for weeks past, and which frightened even

himself, so vast it was, so calculated to shake the world whether it

succeeded or collapsed.

Pillerault had raised his voice again. 'I say, Mazaud,' he asked, 'is

everything settled about Schlosser?'

'Yes,' answered the broker, 'he will be posted to-day. What would you

have? It is annoying, of course, but I had received the most alarming

reports, and was the first to move in the matter. It is necessary to

make a sweep from time to time, you know.'

'I have been told,' said Moser, 'that your colleagues, Jacoby and

Delarocque, lost large sums by him.'

The broker made a vague gesture. 'Bah! we always have to make an

allowance for losses. That fellow Schlosser must belong to a gang; he

will now be free to go and play the wrecker on the Bourse of Berlin or

Vienna.'

Saccard's eyes had fallen upon Sabatani, whose secret association with

Schlosser had been revealed to him by chance some time previously.

Both had been playing a well-known game, the one 'bulling' and the

other 'bearing' the same stock, he who lost being free to share the

other's profit and then disappear. However, the young Levantine was

quietly settling his score for the dainty repast which he had just

made; after which, with the caressing grace of a semi-Oriental,

semi-Italian, he came forward to shake hands with Mazaud, whose

customer he was. Leaning over, he gave an order to the broker, which

the latter inscribed upon a _fiche_.

'He is selling his Suez,' murmured Moser, and thereupon, distracted

with doubt, he added aloud: 'I say, what do you think of Suez?'

Silence fell amid all the hubbub of voices; every head at the

neighbouring tables turned. The question summed up the growing anxiety.

However, Amadieu, who had simply asked Mazaud to lunch, in order to

recommend one of his nephews to him, remained impenetrable, having

indeed nothing to say; while the broker, who was becoming astonished at

the number of orders to sell which he was receiving, contented himself

with shaking his head, in accordance with his professional habit of

discretion.

'Suez, why, it's capital,' declared Sabatani in his sing-song voice, as

before going out he stepped aside to shake hands gallantly with Saccard.

For a moment afterwards it seemed to Saccard that he could still feel

the pressure of the Levantine's soft, supple, almost feminine hand.

In his uncertainty as to the course he should take to begin his life

anew, he looked upon all who were there as sharpers. Ah! if they forced

him to it, how he would hunt them down, how he would shear them, those

trembling Mosers, those boastful Pilleraults, those Salmons, hollower

than gourds, and those Amadieus whose chance success had transformed

them into geniuses! The clatter of plates and glasses had begun again;

voices were growing hoarse; and the doors swung faster than ever in

the hasty eagerness that consumed them all to be across the way, at

the game, if there was to be a crash in Suez. And in the middle of

the Place, now crowded with pedestrians and crossed by cabs in all

directions, Saccard, looking out of the window, saw that the shining

steps of the Bourse were sprinkled with human insects--insects ever

climbing--men correctly dressed in black, who gradually filled the

colonnade, while behind the railings there vaguely appeared a few

women, prowling about under the chestnut trees.

Suddenly, while he was cutting some cheese which he had just ordered, a

gruff voice made him raise his head.

'I beg your pardon, my dear fellow, but it was impossible for me to

come sooner.'

So here at last was Huret, a Norman of Calvados, with the thick broad

face of a shrewd peasant who affected the air of a simple man. He

straightway told the waiter to bring him whatever he pleased, the dish

of the day, with some vegetables.

'Well?' drily asked Saccard, containing himself.

The other, however, evinced no hurry, but watched him like a sly,

prudent man. Then, beginning to eat, bringing his face forward and

lowering his voice, he said: 'Well, I saw the great man. Yes, at his

house this morning. Oh, he spoke very kindly of you, yes, very kindly.'

He paused, drank a large glass of wine, and put a potato in his mouth.

'And what else?' asked Saccard.

'What else, my dear fellow, why this: He is very willing to do what

he can for you; he will find you a very comfortable berth, but not in

France. Say, for instance, the governorship of one of our colonies, one

of the good ones. You would be the master there, a real little prince.'

Saccard had turned very pale. 'I say,' he exclaimed, 'you must be

having a joke with me, mocking at me, surely. Why not penal servitude

at once? Ah! so he wants to get rid of me. Let him look out, or I shall

end by embarrassing him in earnest.'

Huret, with his mouth full, remained conciliatory. 'Come, come,' said

he, 'we only wish your own welfare; leave us to act.'

'Leave myself to be suppressed, eh? Why, only just now they were

saying here that there soon won't be a single mistake left for the

Empire to make. Yes, the Italian war, Mexico, the attitude of the

Government towards Prussia! Upon my word, it is the truth! You will be

up to such stupidity and folly, that all France will rise up to pitch

you out.'

On hearing this, Huret, deputy, faithful creature of the minister as

he was, at once became anxious, turned pale, and looked about him.

'Ah, come, come, I cannot follow you. Rougon is an honest man; there

is no danger as long as he is at the helm. No, not another word--you

misunderstand him, I must really say so----'

Clenching his teeth so as to deaden his voice, Saccard furiously

interrupted him. 'Very well, love him--keep house together. Yes or no,

will he give me his patronage here, in Paris?'

'In Paris, never!'

Without adding a word, Saccard rose and called the waiter in order to

pay his score, whilst Huret, who knew his temper, calmly continued

swallowing huge mouthfuls of bread, and let him go, through fear of a

scene. Just then, however, quite a sensation was caused in the room.

Gundermann[8] had just entered it--Gundermann the banker-king, the

master of the Bourse and of the world, a man of sixty, whose huge bald

head, thick nose and round goggle-eyes betokened immense obstinacy and

weariness. Never did he go to the Bourse; in fact he even pretended

that he sent no official representative thither; neither did he ever

breakfast in a public place. Only from time to time he happened, as on

this occasion, to show himself at Champeaux' restaurant, where he would

seat himself at one of the tables that he might simply drink a glassful

of Vichy water. For twenty years he had suffered from a gastric

affection, and nourished himself exclusively with milk.

All the waiters were at once on the move to bring him his glass of

water, and all who were lunching suddenly became very humble. Moser

sat like one overwhelmed, contemplating this man who knew all secrets

and who made stock rise or fall at will, just as the Divinity makes

the thunder growl. Even Pillerault saluted him, like one whose only

faith is in the irresistible force of the milliard. It was half-past

twelve, and Mazaud, who was hurriedly leaving Amadieu, stepped back

and bent low before the banker, from whom he sometimes had the honour

to receive an order. Many _boursiers_, similarly on the point of

departing, remained standing around the demigod, forming about him a

very deferential court, amid the disarray of the soiled tablecloths;

and it was with veneration that they watched him take the glass of

water in his trembling hand and carry it to his pale lips.

Formerly, during his speculations in the lands of the Monceau Plain,

Saccard had had sundry discussions and even a quarrel with Gundermann.

They could not get on together--the one passionate and fond of the

pleasures of life, the other sober and coldly logical. Accordingly the

former, his fit of passion increased by this triumphal entrance, was

going away, when the other called him.

'I say, my good friend, is it true that you are giving up business?

Really, you act wisely; it is the best course.'

This, to Saccard, was like a lash across his face. He straightened his

little figure, and in a clear voice, as sharp as a sword, replied: 'I

am about to establish a banking house with a capital of twenty-five

millions, and I expect to call upon you soon.'

And thereupon he went out, leaving behind him the fiery hubbub of

the room, where all were now jostling one another, eager not to miss

the opening of the Bourse. Ah! to succeed at last, to set his heel

once more upon these people, who turned their backs upon him, and to

struggle for power with that king of wealth, and some day perhaps beat

him! He had not really decided to launch his great enterprise, and was

surprised at the phrase which the necessity of answering had wrung

from him. But could he tempt fortune elsewhere, now that his brother

abandoned him, and that men and things were galling him back into the

struggle, even as the bleeding bull is galled back into the arena?

For a moment he stood quivering on the edge of the footway. It was

that active hour when all the life of Paris seems to flow into that

central square between the Rue Montmartre and the Rue Richelieu,

those two teeming arteries that carry the crowd along. From the four

crossways at the four corners of the Place, streams of vehicles poured

in uninterruptedly, whisking across the pavement amid an eddying

mob of foot passengers. The two rows of cabs at the stand, beside

the railings, were continually breaking and reforming; while along

the Rue Vivienne the victorias of the _remisiers_ stretched away

in a compact line, above which towered the drivers, reins in hand

and ready to whip up at the first signal. The steps and peristyle

of the Bourse were quite black with swarming frock-coats; and from

among the _coulissiers_, already installed under the clock and hard

at work, there arose the clamour of bull and bear, the flood-tide

roar of speculation dominating all the rumbling hubbub of the city.

Passers-by turned their heads, curious and fearful as to what might be

going on there--all those mysterious financial operations which few

French brains can penetrate, all that sudden ruin and fortune brought

about--how, none could understand--amid gesticulation and savage cries.

And Saccard, standing on the kerb of the footway, deafened by the

distant voices, elbowed by the jostling, hurrying crowd, dreamed once

more of becoming the Gold King, the sovereign of that fever-infested

district, in the centre of which the Bourse, from one till three

o'clock, beats as it were like some enormous heart.

Since his fall, however, he had not dared to re-enter the edifice; and

on this day also a feeling of suffering vanity, a conviction that he

would be received as a beaten man, prevented him from ascending the

steps. Yet, like the lovers driven from the presence of a mistress

whom they still desire, even while thinking that they hate her, he

ever and ever returned to the spot, making the tour of the colonnade

under various pretexts, entering the garden and strolling along in the

shade of the chestnut-trees. Perambulating this dusty square, grassless

and flowerless, where shady speculators and bareheaded women of the

neighbourhood nursing their babies mingled together on the benches

near the newspaper stalls, he affected a disinterested saunter, raised

his eyes, and watched, absorbed by the exciting thought that he was

besieging the monumental pile, drawing his lines more and more closely

around it, in order that he might some day re-enter it in triumph.

Having made his way into the garden at the right-hand corner, under

the trees facing the Rue de la Banque, he at once fell upon the

Little Bourse, where discredited stock is negotiated, a Bourse of

hawker-brokers--the 'Wet Feet' as others have nicknamed them with

ironical contempt--men who quote in the open air, and in the mud on

rainy days, the shares and debentures of defunct companies. There, an

unclean Jewry was gathered in a tumultuous group--fat, shining faces,

withered profiles like those of voracious birds, an extraordinary

assemblage of typical noses, all drawn together as by a prey, all

eagerly, angrily disputing, with guttural shouts, and seemingly ready

to devour one another. He was passing on, when, a little apart, he

noticed a stout man looking in the sunlight at a ruby, which he held up

delicately between his huge dirty fingers.

'What! is it you, Busch? You remind me that I intended to call at your

place,' said Saccard.

Busch, who kept an agency in the Rue Feydeau at the corner of the Rue

Vivienne, had on several occasions been very useful to him in moments

of difficulty. He was standing there in a state of ecstasy, examining

the water of the jewel, with his broad flat face upturned and the glow

of his heavy grey eyes extinguished, as it were, by the bright light.

The white tie which he always wore was twisted round his neck like a

bit of rope; while his second-hand frock coat, a superb garment once

upon a time, but now wonderfully threadbare and covered with grease

spots, reached up to the light hair falling in scanty rebellious locks

from his head, which on the top was quite bald. Nobody could tell the

age of his hat, browned by the sun and washed by countless showers. At

last he decided to descend to earth again. 'Ah! Monsieur Saccard, so

you are taking a little walk this way?' said he.

'Yes, I have a letter in the Russian language--a letter from a Russian

banker in business at Constantinople. It occurred to me that your

brother could translate it for me.'

Busch, who with a gentle movement was still unconsciously rolling the

ruby between the fingers of his right hand, held out the left, saying

that the translation would be forwarded that very evening. But Saccard

explained that it was only a matter of ten lines. 'I will go up,' said

he; 'your brother will read it to me at once.'

He was, however, at that moment interrupted by the arrival of a woman

of colossal proportions, a certain Madame Méchain, well known to the

frequenters of the Bourse as one of those fierce, wretched female

speculators whose fat hands dabble in all sorts of suspicious jobs.

Her red, puffy, full-moon face, with little blue eyes, a little hidden

nose, and a little mouth whence came a child-like piping voice,

protruded from an old mauve bonnet, tied askew with garnet ribbons;

and her gigantic bosom and dropsical body strained almost to bursting

point her mud-stained poplin gown, once green but now turning yellow.

She carried on her arm an immense old black leather bag, as deep as a

valise, which never left her. That afternoon the bag, so full that it

seemed likely to burst, drew her down on the right side, like a tree

that has grown slantwise.

'Here you are, then?' said Busch, who had evidently been waiting for

her.

'Yes, and I have received the Vendôme papers; I have brought them,' she

replied.

'Good! Let us be off to my place, then. There's nothing to be done here

to-day.'

Saccard had darted a wavering glance at the vast leather bag. He knew

that into it inevitably fell all sorts of discredited stock, the shares

of bankrupt companies, in which the 'Wet Feet' still speculate--shares

issued at five hundred francs, but which they dispute for at twenty or

even ten sous apiece, either in the vague hope of an improbable rise

or, more practically, as merchandise which they can sell at a profit

to fraudulent bankrupts who are desirous of having something to show

by way of explaining their pretended losses. In the deadly battles of

speculation, La Méchain was the raven that followed the armies on the

march; not a company, not a large financial establishment was founded,

but she appeared with her bag, sniffing the air, awaiting the corpses,

even in the prosperous hours of triumphant issues. For she well knew

that ruin was inevitable, that the day of massacre would come, when

there would be dead to eat, shares to pick up for nothing, from amid

the mire and the blood. And Saccard, who even then was revolving a

grand banking project in his mind, gave a slight shudder, and felt a

presentiment at sight of that bag, that charnel-house, as it were, of

depreciated stock, into which passed all the dirty paper swept away

from the Bourse.

Busch was on the point of taking the old woman off, when Saccard

stopped him, saying: 'Then I can go up? I am certain of finding your

brother, eh?'

The Jew's eyes softened with an expression of anxious surprise. 'My

brother! Why, certainly. Where do you expect him to be?'

'Very well, then; I will go up directly.'

Allowing them to move away, Saccard thereupon resumed his slow walk

under the trees, towards the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Victoires. This is

one of the most frequented sides of the Place, overlooked by houses

occupied by commercial firms and petty manufacturers, whose gilt

signboards were flaming in the sunlight. Blinds, too, were flapping

at the balconies; and a whole family of provincials stood gaping at

the window of a hotel. Saccard mechanically raised his head, and

looked at these people, whose amazement made him smile, comforting

him with the thought that plenty of investors would always be found

in the provinces. Behind him, the clamour of the Bourse, the distant

flood-tide roar, was still resounding, haunting him, following him like

a threat of doom which would presently overtake him.

Another meeting, however, made him pause.

'What, Jordan, you at the Bourse?' he exclaimed, shaking hands with a

tall, dark young man, with a small moustache and a determined, wilful

air.

For ten years past, Jordan, whose father, a Marseilles banker, had

committed suicide in consequence of some disastrous speculations, had

been tramping the pavements of Paris with the fever of literature

within him, in a gallant struggle against black misery. One of his

cousins, residing at Plassans, where he knew the Rougon family, had

formerly recommended him to Saccard, at the time when the latter was

receiving all Paris at his mansion of the Parc Monceau.

'Oh! at the Bourse, never!' answered the young man, with a violent

gesture, as if he were driving away the tragic memory of his father.

Then, beginning to smile, he added: 'You know that I have got

married--yes, to a little friend of my childhood's days. We were

betrothed at the time when I was rich, and she has persisted in taking

me--poor devil though I now am.'

'Quite so; I received the notification,' said Saccard. 'And do you

know that I used to be in business relations with your father-in-law,

Monsieur Maugendre, when he had his awning factory at La Villette? He

must have made a pretty fortune there.'

The conversation was taking place near a bench; and at this point

Jordan interrupted it to introduce a short, stout gentleman, of

military bearing, who was sitting there, and with whom he had

been talking when Saccard came up. 'Captain Chave, an uncle of my

wife's,' said he. 'Madame Maugendre, my mother-in-law, is a Chave, of

Marseilles.'

The captain had risen, and Saccard bowed. He was by sight acquainted

with the owner of that apoplectic face, set on a neck stiffened by long

wearing a military choker--that type of the petty cash gambler, whom

one is certain to find somewhere about the Bourse every day from one

to three o'clock. The game that men of this class play is one of small

winnings, an almost certain profit of from fifteen to twenty francs,

which must be realised before the day's operations are over.

Jordan, with his good-natured laugh, now added, by way of explaining

his presence: 'My uncle is a ferocious speculator, with whom I

sometimes stop to shake hands as I pass by.'

'Why,' said the captain, simply. 'I'm obliged to speculate, since the

Government, with its beggarly pension, leaves me to die of hunger.'

Saccard, whom the young man interested by reason of his courageous

battle for existence, next asked him how things were going in the

domain of literature, and Jordan, again becoming merry, thereupon

described in what a sorry fashion he had started housekeeping on the

fifth storey of a house in the Avenue de Clichy; for the Maugendres,

who distrusted a poet, and thought they had gone very far indeed in

consenting to the marriage, had given their daughter nothing by way of

portion, under the pretext that she would have their fortune intact,

increased by their savings, when they were dead and gone. No, said

Jordan, literature did not feed its man; he had an idea of a novel,

but could not find time to write it, and had been obliged to embrace

journalism, knocking off anything that his position called for, from

leading articles to law reports and even news 'pars.'

'Well,' said Saccard, 'if I start my great enterprise, I shall perhaps

need you. So come and see me.'

After bowing he turned away, and found himself behind the Bourse.

There the distant clamour, the howling of the gamesters at last

ceased, subsided into a vague hum, lost amid the rumbling of the

street traffic. The steps on this side, like those in front,

were, it is true, invaded by people; but the brokers' room, whose

red hangings could be seen at the high windows, here intervened

between the hubbub of the main hall and the colonnade, where sundry

fastidious and richer speculators, some alone and others in little

groups, were sitting comfortably in the shade, transforming the vast

open peristyle into a sort of club. The rear of the building was,

moreover, something like the rear of a theatre--the stage entrance,

as it were, reached by that equivocal and comparatively quiet street,

the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Victoires, which was lined with wine-shops,

cafés, beer-houses, and taverns, all swarming with a special class of

customers strangely mingled. The sign-boards also betokened an evil

growth that had sprung up at the very brink of the great cloaca: a

growth of disreputable insurance companies, blackmailing financial

journals, syndicates, banks, agencies, counting-houses, an entire

series of cut-throat places on a petty scale, installed in dingy shops

or on first floors no bigger than one's pocket-handkerchief. On the

footways and in the middle of the street, everywhere in fact, men were

prowling, waiting, as on the outskirts of a wood.

Saccard had stopped inside the Bourse railings, raising his eyes to

the door leading to the brokers' room, with the piercing glance of the

commander of an army who is examining from every side the fortress

which he proposes to storm--when a tall fellow, coming out of a tavern,

crossed the street and approached him with a very low bow.

'Ah! Monsieur Saccard, have you nothing for me? I have altogether left

the Crédit Mobilier, and am looking for a situation.'

Jantrou was an ex-professor, who had left Bordeaux for Paris in

consequence of some shady affair. Obliged to quit the University,

without caste or position, but a handsome fellow with his black

fan-shaped beard, and his tendency to early baldness, and lettered,

intelligent, and amiable withal, he had, at the age of twenty-eight,

landed at the Bourse, where for ten years he had dragged out an

unclean life as a _remisier_, earning scarcely more money than was

necessary for the gratification of his vices. And now, quite bald and

as disconsolate as a hussy whose wrinkles threaten her with a loss of

livelihood, he was still awaiting the opportunity which should start

him on the road to success and fortune.

Saccard, on seeing him so humble, bitterly recalled the salutations

of Sabatani at Champeaux' restaurant. The disreputable and the

unsuccessful alone remained friendly to him. However, he was not

without esteem for this man's keen intelligence, and he well knew that

the desperate make the bravest troops, those ready to dare everything,

having nothing to lose and everything to gain. So he received him

fairly cordially. 'A situation?' he repeated. 'Well, perhaps that can

be found. Come and see me.'

'It's Rue Saint-Lazare now, isn't it?'

'Yes, Rue Saint-Lazare; in the morning.'

They chatted. Jantrou spoke very excitedly about the Bourse, repeating,

with the rancour of a man who has not been lucky in his knavery, that

none but a knave could be successful there. For his part, said he, it

was all over; he wanted to try something else; it seemed to him that,

thanks to his University culture, and his knowledge of the world, he

might conquer a fine position in discharging administrative duties.

Saccard nodded approval. And, as they were now outside the railings,

walking along the footway in the direction of the Rue Brongniart, they

both became interested in a dark brougham, a very correct equipage,

which had stopped in that street, with the horse turned towards the Rue

Montmartre. The back of the high-perched coachman was as motionless

as a rock, but they had twice noticed a woman's head appear at the

carriage door, and then quickly disappear. All at once this head was

again thrust out, and this time it lingered at the window, giving a

long, backward, impatient look in the direction of the Bourse.

'The Baroness Sandorff,' muttered Saccard.

It was a very strange brown head, with burning black eyes beneath

dark lids; a passionate face, with blood-red lips, and only marred by

rather a long nose. Altogether its possessor seemed very pretty and

precociously mature for her five-and-twenty years, having the look of a

Bacchante garmented by the foremost dressmakers of the reign.

'Yes, the Baroness,' repeated Jantrou. 'I knew her when she was a

young girl, at her father's, Count de Ladricourt. Oh! a mad speculator

he was, and revoltingly brutal. I went to take his orders every

morning; one day he came near giving me a beating. I shed no tears

when he died in an apoplectic fit, ruined after a series of lamentable

"settlements." The little one then had to make up her mind to marry

Baron Sandorff, Counsellor to the Austrian Embassy, who was thirty-five

years older than herself, and whom she had positively driven mad with

her fiery glances.'

'I know,' said Saccard, simply.

The Baroness's head had again dived back into the brougham, but it

almost immediately reappeared, more ardent than ever, and turned so as

to command a better view of the Place.

'She speculates, doesn't she?'

'Oh, like a crazy woman! Whenever there is a crisis, she is to be seen

there in her carriage, following the quotations, feverishly taking

notes in her memorandum book, giving orders--and see! it was Massias

whom she was waiting for: here he comes to join her.'

In fact, Massias, his quotations in his hand, was running up as fast

as his short legs would carry him, and they saw him rest his elbows on

the carriage door, and pop his head through the open window, in order

to confer with the Baroness. Then Saccard and Jantrou stepped away a

little, so that they might not be caught spying on the pair, and as

the _remisier_ came back, still on the run, they called him. He at

first gave a glance back, to make sure that he was hidden by the street

corner, and then he stopped short, out of breath, his florid face quite

purple, but still gay, with big blue eyes as limpid as those of a child.

'But what is the matter with them all?' he cried. 'There's Suez all

going to rack and ruin. There are rumours of a war with England, a

piece of news that revolutionises them all, and that comes no one knows

whence. War, indeed! who can have invented such a cram? Or did it

invent itself all alone? At all events, there's a nice to-do!'

'Does the lady still bite?' asked Jantrou with a wink.

'Oh, madly! I am carrying her orders to Nathansohn.'

Saccard, who was listening, remarked: 'Ah, yes, so it's true, then; I

had heard that Nathansohn had joined the _coulisse_.'

'A very nice fellow is Nathansohn,' repeated Jantrou, 'and one who

deserves to succeed. We were at the Crédit Mobilier together. But he'll

succeed, he will, for he is a Jew. His father, an Austrian, is in

business at Besançon, as a watchmaker, I believe. The fever took him

one day at the Crédit, you know, when he saw how things were managed.

He said to himself that it wasn't such a trick, after all; that it

was only necessary to get a room, put a wire grating across it, and

open a wicket; and he has opened a wicket. And you, Massias, are you

satisfied?'

'Oh, satisfied! You've been in the mill; you are right in saying

that it is necessary to be a Jew; otherwise it is useless to try to

understand. There's no such thing as a look in, nothing but cursed bad

luck. What a filthy trade! But when a man is in it, he stays. And,

besides, I have good legs still, and keep on hoping all the same.'

Thereupon he started off, running and laughing. He was said to be the

son of a Lyons magistrate, removed from his post for unworthiness, and

had stranded at the Bourse, after the disappearance of his father, not

caring to continue his law studies.

With short, slow steps, Saccard and Jantrou retraced their way towards

the Rue Brongniart, and there they again found the Baroness's brougham;

but the windows were now raised, and the mysterious carriage appeared

to be empty, while the coachman seemed more motionless than ever, still

waiting--as he often had to do, until the very last quotations.

'She is devilishly provoking,' resumed Saccard, brutally. 'I understand

the old Baron.'

A singular smile came over Jantrou's face. 'I fancy that he has had

enough long ago. And he is very stingy, they say. And do you know who

now pays her bills, speculation never sufficing?'

'No.'

'Delcambre!'

'Delcambre, the Public Prosecutor! that tall, dry man, so stiff and

yellow! a future minister! Is it possible?'

Thereupon, in great good-humour, altogether enlivened, the pair

separated with a vigorous handshake, after the one had reminded the

other that he should take the liberty of calling on him shortly.

As soon as he found himself alone again, Saccard once more heard the

loud voice of the Bourse, persistently swelling like that of the

rising tide. He had turned the corner, and was making his way towards

the Rue Vivienne, by this side of the Place, which through the complete

absence of cafés has a more solemn aspect than any other. He passed

the Chamber of Commerce, the Post Office, and the great advertising

agencies, becoming more and more deafened, growing more and more

feverish, as he drew nearer to the principal façade. And when by an

oblique glance he could again command a view of the peristyle, he

paused afresh as if reluctant to finish his circuit of the colonnade,

to complete his investment of it. Here, where the footway broadened,

life spread, burst forth upon him; torrents of customers invaded the

cafés, the pastrycook's shop never emptied, and pedestrians were ever

pausing, fascinated by the display in the shop windows, especially in

those of a silversmith's establishment, which were all ablaze with

large pieces of plate. And at the four cross-ways, at the four corners

of the Place, the flood of cabs and wayfarers seemed to be increasing

in inextricable entanglement; whilst the traffic at the omnibus

station added to the block, and the carriages of the _remisiers_,

ranged in a line, prevented access to the footway almost from one

end of the railing to the other. Saccard's eyes, however, were fixed

on the high steps, where frock-coats clustered in the sunlight. Then

they were lifted towards the columns, towards the compact mass of

speculators--the dense swarm, the blackness of which was scarcely

relieved by the pale faces in the crowd. All were standing, no chairs

could be seen; the curve formed by the _coulisse_ under the clock could

only be divined by the prevalent ebullition, the fury of gestures and

words which made the very atmosphere quiver.

More calmness prevailed on the left, among a group of bankers, who

were engaged either in arbitrage operations, in fixing the foreign

exchange rates, or in negotiating English cheques, and whose ranks were

continually being traversed by people on their way to the telegraph

office. Speculators overflowed even from the side galleries, crowding

and crushing together; and, leaning on the balustrades between the

columns, there were some who presented belly or back, as if they were

at home, or at a theatre, lolling against the velvet-upholstered

front of a private box. The quivering and rumbling, like that of

a steam-engine at work, was ever increasing, agitating the entire

Bourse--subsiding only for a second to burst forth yet louder, in the

same way as a flame may flicker and then flare high again. And gazing

on it all, Saccard suddenly recognised the _remisier_ Massias, who

descended the steps at full speed and leaped into his carriage, the

driver of which forthwith lashed his horse into a gallop.

Then Saccard felt his fists clench, and, violently tearing himself

away, turned into the Rue Vivienne, which he crossed in order to reach

the corner of the Rue Feydeau, where Busch's office was situated. He

had just remembered the Russian letter which he had to get translated.

As he was entering the house, however, a young man, standing in front

of the stationer's shop on the ground floor, bowed to him, and he

recognised Gustave Sédille, son of a silk manufacturer in the Rue

des Jeûneurs, whom his father had placed with Mazaud, to study the

mechanism of finance. Saccard smiled paternally upon this tall, elegant

young fellow, strongly suspecting why he was mounting guard there.

Conin's stationery shop had been supplying note-books to the entire

Bourse since little Madame Conin had begun to help her husband--fat

Conin, as he was called--who never left his back shop, there attending

to the manufacturing part of his business, whilst she continually came

and went, serving at the counter and doing errands outside. She was

plump, blonde, and pink, a real curly-haired little sheep, with light

silky hair, a pleasing, coaxing manner, and imperturbable gaiety. She

was very fond of her husband, it was said, but this certainly did not

prevent her from flirting with the gentlemen of the Bourse. As he

passed, Saccard saw her smiling at Gustave through the window. What a

pretty little sheep she was! The sight gave him a delightful sensation,

akin to that of a caress. Then he at last went upstairs.

For twenty years Busch had occupied a small _logement_, comprising

two chambers and a kitchen, high up, on the fifth floor. Born at

Nancy, of German parents, he had come here from his native town,

and had gradually extended the circle of his business, which was

wonderfully complicated, without feeling the need of a larger

office. Relinquishing the room overlooking the street to his brother

Sigismond, he contented himself with a little chamber on this side

of the courtyard of the house--a little chamber in which old papers,

batches of documents, packages of all kinds were so piled up, that

there was no room left except for a single chair beside the desk.

One of his principal lines of business was a traffic in depreciated

shares and debentures, thousands of which he collected together,

serving as an intermediary between the Little Bourse of the 'Wet Feet'

and the bankrupts embarrassed to account for their real or imaginary

losses. He accordingly followed the market, at times buying direct,

but more frequently supplied with batches of stock that were brought

to him. In addition also to usury and a secret traffic in jewels and

precious stones, he particularly occupied himself with the purchase

of 'bad debts.' This it was that filled his office with old paper

to overflowing, this it was that sent him forth to the four corners

of Paris, sniffing and watching, with connections in all circles of

society. As soon as he heard of a failure, he hurried off, prowled

around the liquidator, and ended by buying up everything which could

not immediately be realised. He kept a watch on the notaries' offices,

looked out for inheritances difficult of settlement, and attended the

sales of hopeless claims. He himself published advertisements, in this

wise attracting impatient creditors who preferred to get a few coppers

down rather than run the risk of prosecuting their debtors. And from

all these manifold sources this _chiffonnier_ of bad debts derived

supply upon supply of paper, huge basketfuls, an ever-increasing

pile of unpaid notes of hand, unfulfilled agreements, unredeemed

acknowledgments of liability, unkept engagements of every kind. Then a

sorting-out became necessary, a fork had to be thrust into this mess

of broken victuals, a special and very delicate scent being required

in the operation. To avoid waste of effort, it was necessary to make

a choice in this ocean of debtors, who were either insolvent or had

disappeared. In principle, Busch asserted that every claim, even the

most seemingly hopeless, may some day become valuable again; and he had

a series of portfolios, admirably classified, to which corresponded

an index of names, which he read over from time to time to refresh

his memory. However, naturally enough, among the insolvent ones, he

more closely followed those who seemed to him to have near chances of

fortune. Prosecuting his inquiries, he stripped people bare, discovered

what means they possessed, penetrated family secrets, took note of

all rich relatives, and especially of such newly-acquired situations

as allowed of an attachment of salary. He thus often allowed a man to

ripen for years, in order to strangle him at his first success. As

for the debtors who disappeared, these stimulated him to yet greater

energy, threw him into a fever of continual search, with his eyes on

every signboard as he scoured the streets, and on every name printed in

the newspapers. He hunted for addresses as a dog hunts for game, and

as soon as he held the vanished and insolvent ones in his clutches, he

became ferocious, clearing their pockets with bills of costs, sucking

them dry, getting a hundred francs for what had cost him ten sous,

brutally explaining the while what risks he ran as a speculator, forced

to extort from those whom he caught all that he pretended to lose by

those who slipped like smoke through his fingers.

In hunting for debtors, La Méchain was one of the helpers whom Busch

was fondest of employing; for although he was obliged to have a little

band of 'game-beaters' in his service, he lived in distrust of these

disreputable, famishing assistants; whereas La Méchain had property

of her own--an entire _cité_ behind the Butte Montmartre, the Cité de

Naples, as it was called, a vast tract of land covered with tumble-down

shanties, which she let out by the month, a nook of frightful poverty,

where starvelings were heaped together in filth, a crowd of pigsties

which the wretched fought for, and whence she pitilessly swept away her

tenants and their dung-heaps as soon as ever they ceased to pay her.

However, her unfortunate passion for speculation consumed her, ate up

all the profits of her _cité_. And she had also a taste for financial

losses, ruins, and fires, amid which melted jewels can be stolen. When

Busch charged her with obtaining some information, or ferreting out

a debtor, she would sometimes even spend money out of her own pocket

in view of furthering her researches, such was the pleasure she took

in them. She called herself a widow, but no one had ever known her

husband. She came, too, no one knew whence, and seemed always to have

been about fifty years old, and monstrously fat, with the piping voice

of a little girl.

On this occasion, as soon as La Méchain had taken her seat on the

single chair in Busch's office, the room became full, blocked up by

her mass of flesh. Busch stood like a prisoner at his desk, buried, as

it were, with only his square head showing above the ocean of papers.

'Here,' said she, removing from her old bag the huge pile of papers

that distended it, 'here is what Fayeux has sent me from Vendôme. He

bought everything for you at that sale in connection with the Charpier

failure, which you told me to call to his attention--one hundred and

ten francs.'

Fayeux, whom she called her cousin, had just established an office down

there as a collector of dividends. His ostensible business was to cash

the _coupons_ of the petty bondholders of the district; and, as the

depositary of these _coupons_ and the cash they yielded, he speculated

in the most frenzied manner.

'The country isn't worth much,' muttered Busch, 'but there are

discoveries to be made there all the same.'

He sniffed the papers, and began sorting them out with an expert hand,

roughly classifying them in accordance with a first appraisement, in

which he seemed to be guided by their mere smell. As he proceeded,

his flat face grew dark, and he paused at last with an expression of

disappointment.

'Humph! there is no fat here, nothing to bite. Fortunately it did not

cost much. Here are some notes, and here some more. If they are signed

by young people, who have come to Paris, we shall perhaps catch them.'

Then, with a slight exclamation of surprise, he added: 'Hallo, what's

this?'

At the bottom of a sheet of stamped paper he had just found the

signature of the Count de Beauvilliers, and the sheet contained only

three lines of large handwriting, evidently traced by an old man: 'I

promise to pay the sum of ten thousand francs to Mademoiselle Léonie

Cron on the day she attains her majority.

'The Count de Beauvilliers,' he slowly continued, thinking aloud;

'yes, he had several farms, quite a large estate, in the vicinity of

Vendôme. He died of a hunting accident, leaving a wife and two children

in straitened circumstances. I held some of his notes formerly, which

with difficulty I got them to pay--he was a wild droll, not good for

much----'

Suddenly he burst into a loud laugh, reconstructing in his mind the

story attaching to the note.

'Ah! the old sharper, he played the little one a nice trick with this

bit of paper, which is legally valueless. Then he died. Let me see,

this is dated 1854, ten years ago. The girl must be of age now. But

how could this acknowledgment have got into Charpier's hands? He was a

grain merchant, who lent money by the week. No doubt the girl left this

on deposit with him in order to get a few crowns, or perhaps he had

undertaken to collect it.'

'But this is very good,' interrupted La Méchain--'a real stroke of

luck.'

Busch shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. 'Oh no, I tell you that it

is legally worth nothing. If I should present it to the heirs, they may

send me about my business, for it would be necessary to prove that the

money is really due. Only, if we find the girl, I may induce them to be

reasonable, and come to an understanding with us, in order to avoid a

disagreeable scandal. You understand? Look for this Léonie Cron; write

to Fayeux, and tell him to hunt her up down there. That done, we may

perhaps have a laugh.'

He had made two piles of the papers, with the intention of thoroughly

examining them when he should be alone, and now sat motionless, with

his hands open, one resting on each pile.

A spell of silence followed; then La Méchain resumed: 'I have been

attending to the Jordan notes. I really thought that I had found our

man again. He has been employed somewhere, and now he is writing for

the newspapers. But they receive you so badly at the newspaper offices;

they refuse to give you addresses. And besides, I think that he does

not sign his articles with his real name.'

Without a word, Busch had stretched out his arm to take the Jordan

portfolio from its place. It contained six notes of hand of fifty

francs each, dated five years back and maturing monthly--a total sum

of three hundred francs--which the young man had undertaken to pay

to a tailor in days of poverty. Unpaid on presentation, however, the

capital sum had been swollen by enormous costs, and the portfolio

fairly overflowed with formidable legal documents. At the present time

the debt had increased to the sum of seven hundred and thirty francs

and fifteen centimes. 'If he has a future before him,' muttered Busch,

'we shall catch him one of these days.' Then, some sequence of ideas

undoubtedly forming in his mind, he exclaimed: 'And that Sicardot

affair, are we going to abandon it?'

La Méchain lifted her fat arms to heaven with a gesture of anguish. A

ripple of despair seemed to course through her monstrous person. 'Oh,

Lord!' she wailed, with her piping voice, 'it will cost me my very

skin.'

This Sicardot affair was a very romantic story which she delighted to

tell. A cousin of hers, Rosalie Chavaille, a daughter of her father's

sister, living with her mother in a small lodging on the sixth floor of

a house in the Rue de la Harpe, had fallen a victim to a married man,

who occupied with his wife a room sublet to him on the second floor.

There were some abominable circumstances in connection with the affair,

but the girl's mother, consenting to silence, had merely required that

the evil-doer should pay her the sum of six hundred francs, divided

into twelve notes of fifty francs each, payable monthly. Before

the first month was at an end, however, the man--an individual of

gentlemanly appearance--had disappeared, and all trace of him was lost,

whilst misfortunes continued falling thick as hail. Rosalie gave birth

to a boy, lost her mother, and fell into a life of vice and abject

poverty. Stranded in the Cité de Naples, her cousin's property, she

had dragged about the streets till the age of twenty-six; but at last,

during the previous year, she had been lucky enough to die, leaving

behind her her son Victor, whom La Méchain had to keep; and of the

whole adventure there only remained the twelve unpaid notes of hand.

They had never been able to learn more of the individual who had signed

them than that he called himself Sicardot.

With a fresh gesture, Busch took down the Sicardot papers, contained

in a thin grey paper wrapper. No costs had accumulated, so there were

merely the twelve notes.

'If Victor were only a nice child!' explained the old woman in a

sorrowful voice. 'But he's dreadful! Ah! it is hard to be encumbered

with such inheritances--an urchin who will end on the scaffold, and

those bits of paper which will never bring me anything!'

Busch kept his big pale eyes obstinately fixed upon the notes. How

many times already had he thus studied them, hoping that some hitherto

unnoticed detail, something in the form of the letters, or in the grain

of the stamped paper, would supply him with a clue! He asserted at

times that that fine, pointed handwriting was not altogether unknown to

him. 'It is curious,' he repeated once more, 'I am certain that I have

somewhere already seen such _a_'s and _o_'s as these, so elongated that

they resemble _i_'s.'

Just then there came a knock; and he asked La Méchain to stretch out

her hand to open the door, for the room communicated direct with the

staircase. You had to cross it in order to reach the second chamber,

the one that overlooked the street. As for the kitchen, this was a

stifling hole on the other side of the landing.

'Come in, monsieur,' said La Méchain, and Saccard entered. He was

smiling, inwardly amused by the copper plate screwed upon the door, and

bearing in large letters the words: 'Disputed Claims.'

'Oh yes, Monsieur Saccard, you have come for that translation--my

brother is there in the other room. Come in, pray come in.'

La Méchain, however, absolutely barred the passage, and scrutinised the

new-comer with an air of increasing surprise. No end of manœuvring was

necessary for Saccard to effect an entrance; he had to retreat to the

stairs again whilst she stepped out, and drew back on the landing, so

that he might pass in and finally reach the adjoining room, into which

he disappeared. During these complicated movements, La Méchain had not

once taken her eyes off him.

'Oh!' she faintly gasped, like one sorely oppressed, 'this Monsieur

Saccard, I never had so near a view of him before. Victor is the

perfect image of him.'

Busch looked at her, at first failing to understand; then a sudden

light dawned upon his mind, and in a stifled voice he swore: 'Thunder!

that's it; I knew very well that I had seen that handwriting somewhere.'

And this time he rose, rummaged among his batches of papers, and at

last found a letter that Saccard had written him during the previous

year to ask him for an extension of time in favour of an insolvent

lady. He quickly compared the handwriting of the notes with that of

this letter. The _a_'s and the _o_'s were clearly the same, though they

had grown yet more pointed with the lapse of time; and there was also a

marked similarity between the capital letters.

'It is he, it is he,' he repeated. 'Only, let me see, why Sicardot? Why

not Saccard?'

In his mind, however, there awoke a confused recollection of some

story of Saccard's past--a story which an agent, named Larsonneau,

now a millionaire, had once told him: Saccard tumbling into Paris on

the day after the _coup d'état_, coming there to exploit the rising

power of his brother Rougon; then, first of all, his poverty in the

dingy streets of the old Latin Quarter; next, his rapidly acquired

fortune, under cover of a disreputable marriage, when he had been lucky

enough to lose his first wife. It was at the time of those difficult

beginnings that he had changed his name from Rougon to Saccard, by

simply transforming his first wife's name, which was Sicardot.

'Yes, yes, Sicardot; I remember perfectly,' muttered Busch. 'He had

the effrontery to sign notes with his wife's name. No doubt the family

assumed that name when they came to the Rue de la Harpe. And then the

rascal took all sorts of precautions, ready to move at the slightest

alarm. Ah! so he was not only hunting for money; well, well, one of

these days his doings will cost him dear.'

'Hush! hush!' resumed La Méchain. 'We have him now, and well may one

say that there is indeed a Providence. At last, then, I am to be

rewarded for all that I have done for that poor little Victor, whom I

dearly love all the same, in spite of the fact that there is nothing to

be done with him.'

She was radiant; her little eyes sparkled amid all the melting, puffy

flesh of her face.

Busch, however, after the momentary fever attending this

long-sought-for solution, brought to him by chance, grew cold again

as he reflected, and shook his head. Undoubtedly. Saccard, although

ruined for the moment, was still good to shear. One might have fallen

upon a less desirable father. Only he would not allow himself to be

annoyed; he had terrible teeth. And besides, he was certainly unaware

that he had an illegitimate son; he might deny it, in spite of the

extraordinary resemblance that had so astounded La Méchain. Moreover,

he was now for the second time a widower, free, under no obligation to

account for his past to anyone, so that, even if he should acknowledge

the child, there was no threat that could be utilised against him.

As for merely realising the six hundred francs which the notes

represented, that would be really too paltry a stroke; the miraculous

help which chance had brought must be turned to better account than

that. He must reflect, nurse the affair, find a way of cutting the

crop at harvest time, and not before. 'We mustn't be in a hurry,' he

concluded. 'Besides, he is down; let us give him time to get up again.'

And, before dismissing La Méchain, he finished dealing with the little

matters with which she was charged--a young woman who had pawned her

jewels for her lover; a son-in-law whose debt would be paid by his

mother-in-law, if they could find a way to work it; in short, some of

the most delicate varieties of the complex and difficult business of

collecting bad debts.

Saccard, on entering the adjoining room, had stood for a second dazzled

by the bright light that streamed in through the sunny window panes,

unhindered by any curtain. This room, with its walls covered with paper

bearing a design of blue flowrets on a light background, was almost

bare; there was merely a little iron bedstead in one corner, a deal

table in the middle, and two straw-bottomed chairs. Along the partition

on the left, some planks, scarcely planed, served as a bookcase, loaded

with volumes, pamphlets, journals, and papers of all sorts. But the

broad sunlight at this height imparted to all the bareness a sort of

youthful gaiety, a smile of artless freshness. And Busch's brother,

Sigismond, a beardless fellow of five and thirty, with long, scanty,

chestnut hair, was sitting at the table, his broad, bumpy forehead

buried in his thin hand, so absorbed in his perusal of a manuscript

that he did not turn his head, not having heard the door open.

He was an intelligent man was this Sigismond, educated in the German

universities, and speaking not only French, his mother tongue, but

German, English, and Russian. He had made the acquaintance of Karl

Marx at Cologne in 1849, and had become the most highly prized of

the contributors to the 'New Rhenish Gazette.' From that moment

his religion had been fixed; he professed Socialism with an ardent

faith, giving his entire being to the idea of an approaching social

renovation, which would assure the happiness of the poor and humble.

Since his master, banished from Germany, and forced to leave Paris

after the days of June, had been living in London, writing and trying

to organise the party, Sigismond, on his side, had vegetated in his

dreams, so careless as to his material life that he would surely have

perished of hunger had his brother not taken him to live with him in

the Rue Feydeau, near the Bourse, with the idea that he might utilise

his knowledge of languages as a professional translator. This elder

brother adored his junior with a maternal passion. Ferocious wolf

though he was towards debtors, quite capable of wading through blood

that he might steal half a franc, he was straightway moved to tears and

evinced all the passionate, minute tenderness of a woman whenever this

tall, absent-minded fellow, who had remained a child, was in question.

He had given him the fine room overlooking the street, he served him

as a domestic, and took entire charge of their strange household,

sweeping the floors, making the beds, and ordering the food which a

little restaurant in the neighbourhood sent up twice a day. Moreover,

he so active, with his head full of a thousand business matters, not

merely suffered his brother to remain idle--for, thwarted by private

writing, very few translations were made--but he even forbade him to

work, anxious as he was concerning an ominous little cough. And in

spite of his stern love of money, his murderous greed, which converted

money-making into the sole motive of life, he smiled indulgently at the

theories of this revolutionist, relinquishing capital to him like a toy

to a child, at the risk of seeing him break it.

On his side, Sigismond did not even know what his brother did in the

next room. He was utterly ignorant of all that frightful traffic in

depreciated stock, and of the purchase of bad debts; he lived in a

loftier region, in a sovereign dream of justice. The idea of charity

wounded his feelings, made him angry: charity was alms, inequality

consecrated by kindness, and he admitted nought but justice, the

rights of each individual man regained and adopted as the unchangeable

principles of the new social organisation. And thus, following the

example of Karl Marx, with whom he was in constant correspondence, he

spent his days in studying this organisation, incessantly modifying and

improving upon paper the society of to-morrow, covering immense pages

with figures, building up on the basis of science the whole complicated

scaffolding of universal happiness. He took capital from some, to

distribute it among all the others; he moved billions, displaced the

wealth of the world with a stroke of his pen; and this he did in that

bare room, without any other passion than his dream, without any

desire of enjoyment to satisfy, so frugal that his brother had to get

angry in order to make him drink wine and eat meat. He desired that

the labour of every man, measured according to his strength, should

assure the satisfaction of his appetites; but, for his own part, he

was killing himself with work, and living upon nothing--a real sage,

exalted in his studious occupations, disengaged from material life,

very gentle and very pure. Since the previous autumn, however, he had

been coughing more and more; consumption was seizing hold of him, but

he did not even condescend to notice it and nurse himself.

Saccard having made a movement, Sigismond at last raised his large

vague eyes, and was astonished, although he knew the visitor.

'I have come to get a letter translated.'

The young man's surprise increased, for he had done all he could to

discourage his customers, the bankers, speculators, and brokers,

all that circle of the Bourse who receive, especially from England

and Germany, so many communications on financial matters, company

prospectuses and statutes, circulars, and so forth.

'Yes, a letter in Russian. Oh! only ten lines long.'

Thereupon Sigismond stretched out his hand, Russian having remained

his speciality, he alone translating it rapidly among all the other

translators of the neighbourhood, who mainly lived by German and

English. The rarity of Russian documents in the Paris market explained

his long periods of idleness.

He read the letter aloud in French. It was, in three sentences, a

favourable reply from a Constantinople banker, a simple yes as to a

matter of business.

'Ah! thank you,' exclaimed Saccard, who seemed delighted; and he asked

Sigismond to write the few lines of translation on the back of the

letter. But Sigismond was seized with a terrible fit of coughing, which

he stifled in his handkerchief, in order not to disturb his brother,

who always ran in whenever he heard him cough in that way. Then, the

attack over, he rose and went to open the window wide, for he was

stifling, and wished to breathe the air. Saccard, who had followed

him, gave a glance outside, and raised a slight exclamation: 'Oh! so

you see the Bourse? How queer it looks from here!'

Never in fact had he seen it under such a singular aspect, in

a bird's-eye view, with the four vast zinc slopes of its roof

extraordinarily developed and bristling with a forest of pipes. The

lightning-rods rose erect like gigantic lances threatening the sky.

And the edifice itself was nothing but a cube of stone, streaked with

columns at regular intervals, a bare, ugly cube of a dirty gray hue,

surmounted by a ragged flag. But, above all else, the steps and the

peristyle astonished him, covered with black ants, a swarm of ants in

revolution, all agog, in a state of wonderful commotion, which was not

to be explained from such a height, and prompted a feeling of pity.

'How small they all look!' continued Saccard; 'it seems as if one could

take the whole of them in the hand, with one grip.' Then, knowing his

companion's ideas, he added with a laugh: 'When are you going to sweep

all that away with a kick?'

Sigismond shrugged his shoulders. 'What is the use? You are demolishing

yourselves fast enough.'

Then, little by little, he became animated, overflowing with the

subject he was full of. A proselytising spirit launched him, at the

slightest word, into an exposition of his system. 'Yes, yes, you

are working for us without suspecting it,' said he. 'You are a few

usurpers, who expropriate the mass of the people, and when you have

gorged yourselves we shall only have to expropriate you in our turn.

Every monopoly, every phase of centralisation, leads to collectivism.

You are setting us a practical example, in the same way as the large

estates absorbing the small patches of land, the large producers

devouring the petty home industries, the great financial establishments

and great stores killing all competition, and battening on the ruin of

the little banks and the little shops, are slowly but surely leading

towards the new social state. We are waiting for everything to crack,

for the existing method of production to end in the intolerable

disorder which will be its ultimate consequence. Then the _bourgeois_

and the peasants themselves will aid us.'

Saccard, feeling interested, looked at him with a vague anxiety,

although he took him for a madman. 'But come, explain to me, what is

this collectivism of yours?'

'Collectivism is the transformation of private capital, living by the

struggle of competition, into a unitary social capital, exploited

by the labour of all. Imagine a society in which the instruments of

production will be the property of all, in which everybody will work

according to his intelligence and strength, and in which the products

of this social co-operation will be distributed to each in proportion

to his effort! There can be nothing more simple, eh? Common production

in the factories, yards, and workshops of the nation! Then an exchange,

a payment in kind! If there should be over-production, the surplus will

be lodged in public warehouses, from which it will be taken to fill

up any deficits that may arise. One will have to strike a balance.

And this, like one blow of an axe, will fell the rotten tree. No

more competition, no more private capital, and, therefore, no more

"business" of any kind--neither commerce, nor markets, nor Bourses.

The idea of profit will thenceforth have no meaning. The sources of

speculation, of incomes acquired without work, will be dried up.'

'Oh! oh!' interrupted Saccard, 'that would change many people's habits,

and no mistake! But what would you do with those who have incomes

to-day? Gundermann, for instance, would you take away his milliard?'

'Not at all; we are not robbers. We should redeem his milliard,

all his shares, debentures, and State bonds, with certificates of

enjoyment, divided into annuities. And just imagine this immense

capital thus replaced by an overwhelming wealth of articles of

consumption: in less than a century your Gundermann's descendants

would, like other citizens, be reduced to personal labour; for the

annuities would finally become exhausted, and they would not have

been able to capitalise their forced economies, the overplus of their

overwhelming supply of articles of consumption, even admitting that

the right of inheritance should be left untouched. I tell you that

this would at one stroke sweep away, not only individual enterprises,

companies, syndicates, and so forth, but also all the indirect

sources of income, all systems of credit, loans, rentals, and so on.

Nothing but labour would be left as a measure of value. Wages would

naturally be suppressed, for in the present capitalistic system they

are never equivalent to the exact product of labour; but at the utmost

represent no more than is strictly necessary for the labourer's daily

maintenance.[9] And it must be admitted that the existing system alone

is guilty in the matter, that the most honest employer is clearly

forced to follow the stern law of competition, to exploit his workmen,

if he himself wishes to live. We have to destroy our entire social

system. Ah! just think of it, Gundermann stifling under the burden of

his certificates of enjoyment, his heirs unable to consume everything,

obliged to give to others, and to take up the pick or the chisel, like

other comrades!'

Thereupon Sigismond burst into a good-natured laugh, like a child at

play, still standing by the window, with his eyes fixed on the Bourse,

where swarmed the black ant-hill of speculation. A burning flush was

rising to his cheeks; he had no other amusement than to picture in this

wise the comical ironies of to-morrow's justice.

Saccard's uneasiness had increased. Suppose this wide-awake dreamer

were after all speaking the truth. Suppose he had divined the future.

He explained things that seemed very clear and sensible. 'Bah!'

muttered Saccard, as though to reassure himself, 'all that won't happen

next year.'

'Certainly not,' rejoined the young man, again becoming serious and

weary. 'We are in the transition period, the period of agitation. There

will perhaps be revolutionary violences; they are often inevitable. But

the exaggerations and outbursts are temporary. Oh! I do not conceal

the great immediate difficulties. All this future that I dream of

seems impossible. It is difficult to give people a reasonable idea of

this future society, the society of just labour, whose morals will

be so different to ours. It is like another world in another planet.

And then, it must be confessed, the scheme of reorganisation is not

ready; we are still hunting for it. I, who now scarcely sleep at all,

exhaust my nights in searching. For instance, it is certain that our

adversaries can say to us: "If things are as they are, it is because

the logic of human actions has made them so." Hence, what a task to

take the river back to its source, and direct it into another valley!

The existing social system certainly owes its centuries of prosperity

to the individualist principle, which emulation and personal interest

endow with a fertility of production that is ever being renewed. Will

collectivism ever attain to such fertility, and by what means are we

to stimulate the productive functions of the workman when the idea of

profit shall have been destroyed? There, to my mind, lies the doubt,

the anguish, the weak point over which we must fight, if we wish the

victory of Socialism to be some day won. But we _shall_ conquer,

because we are Justice. There! you see that building in front of you?

You see it?'

'The Bourse?' said Saccard. 'Why, yes, of course I see it.'

'Well, it would be stupid to blow it up, because it would be rebuilt.

Only I predict to you that it will go up of itself when the State

shall have expropriated it, and have become the sole universal bank

of the nation; and, who knows? perhaps it will then serve as a public

warehouse for our surplus wealth, as one of the store-houses where our

grandchildren will find the necessary supply of luxury for their days

of festivity.'

Thus, with a sweeping comprehensive gesture, did Sigismond reveal this

future of universal average happiness. And he had become so excited

that a fresh fit of coughing shook him, and sent him back to his table,

with his elbows among his papers and his head in his hands, striving to

stifle the harsh rattle in his throat. But this time he did not succeed

in stopping it. The door suddenly opened, and Busch, having dismissed

La Méchain, ran in with a bewildered air, suffering himself at the

sound of that abominable cough. He at once leaned over, and took his

brother in his long arms, as one takes hold of a child to soothe its

pain.

'Come, youngster,' said he, 'what is the matter with you, that you are

stifling like this? You know I wish you to send for a doctor. This

isn't reasonable. You surely must have talked too much.'

And thereupon he darted a side glance at Saccard, who had remained in

the middle of the room, quite upset by what he had just heard from the

lips of that tall fellow, so passionate and so ill, who from his window

on high doubtless cast a spell over the Bourse with all his stories of

sweeping everything away, in order to build up everything afresh.

'Thanks; I leave you,' said the visitor, in a hurry to get outside

again. 'Send me my letter, with the ten lines of translation. I expect

some others, and we will settle for them all together.'

The attack being over, however, Busch detained him a moment longer.

'By the way,' said he, 'the lady who was here just now used to know

you--oh! a long time ago.'

'Ah! where was that?'

'In the Rue de la Harpe, in '52.'

Despite his usual perfect mastery over himself, Saccard turned pale.

A nervous twitch distorted his mouth. Not that he, at that minute,

remembered the girl whom he had wronged; he had never even known of her

becoming a mother, he was ignorant of the existence of the child. But

he always greatly disliked being reminded of the wretched years of his

_début_ in life.

'Rue de la Harpe! Oh! I only lived there a week, at the time of my

arrival in Paris, just long enough to look for rooms. _Au revoir!_'

'_Au revoir!_' emphatically answered Busch, who deceived himself with

the idea that Saccard's embarrassment implied confession, and who was

already wondering how largely he might profit by the adventure.

On finding himself in the street, Saccard mechanically turned back

towards the Place de la Bourse. He was trembling, and did not even

look at little Madame Conin, whose pretty blonde face was smiling in

the doorway of the stationery shop. The agitation had increased on

the Place; it was with uncurbed flood-tide violence that the clamour

of the speculators swept across the roadway to the footwalks swarming

with people. It was the last roar, the roar which bursts forth as soon

as the clock points to a quarter to three, the battle of the last

quotations, the rageful longing to know who will come away with his

pockets full. And, standing at the corner of the Rue de la Bourse,

opposite the peristyle, Saccard fancied that, amid all the confused

jostling under the columns he could recognise 'bear' Moser and 'bull'

Pillerault quarrelling, and that he could hear the shrill voice of

broker Mazaud coming from the depths of the great hall, but drowned

occasionally by the shouts of Nathansohn, sitting under the clock in

the _coulisse_. However, a vehicle, fringing the gutter as it drove up,

came near spattering him with mud. Massias leaped out, even before the

driver had stopped, and darted up the steps at a bound, bringing, quite

out of breath, some customer's last order.

And Saccard, still motionless and erect, with his eyes fixed on the

_mêlée_ above him, ruminated over his life, haunted by the memory of

his beginnings, which Busch's question had just awakened. He recalled

the Rue de la Harpe, and then the Rue Saint-Jacques, through which

he had dragged his boots, worn down at heel, on arriving in Paris to

subdue it like a conquering adventurer; and a fury seized him at the

thought that he had not subdued it yet, that he was again upon the

pavement, still watching for fortune, still unsatisfied, tortured by

such an appetite for enjoyment that never had he suffered more. That

mad fellow Sigismond was right: labour cannot give one life; merely

wretches and fools labour, to fatten the others. There was only

gambling that was worth anything--gambling which in one afternoon can

at one stroke bring comfort, luxury, life, broad and entire. Even if

this old social world were fated to crumble some day, could not a man

like himself still find time and room to satisfy his desires before the

Downfall?

But just then a passer-by jostled him without even turning to

apologise. He looked, and recognised Gundermann taking his little walk

for his health, and saw him enter a confectioner's, whence this gold

king sometimes brought a franc box of _bonbons_ to his grand-daughters.

And that elbow-thrust, at that minute, in the fit of fever that had

been rising in him since he had begun the circuit of the Bourse,

was like the whip-stroke, the last shove that determined him. He

had completed his investment of the fortress, now he would make the

assault. He swore to begin a merciless struggle; he would not leave

France, he would defy his brother, he would play the final rubber, a

battle of terrible audacity, which should either put Paris beneath his

heels or throw him into the gutter with a broken back.

Until the moment when the Bourse closed Saccard obstinately lingered

there, erect at his post of menace and observation. He watched the

peristyle clearing, the steps blackening again as the whole fagged,

heated crowd slowly scattered. Both on the foot and roadways around

him the block continued--an endless flow of people, the eternal crowd

of future victims, the investors of to-morrow, who could not pass

that great lottery office of speculation without turning their heads,

curious and fearful as to what might be going on there, as to all those

mysterious financial operations which are the more attractive to French

brains as they are penetrated by so few of them.