TO COME TO THE POINT
It was equally a part of Honoré Grandissime's nature and of his art as a
merchant to wear a look of serene leisure. With this look on his face he
reëntered his counting-room after his morning visit to Frowenfeld's
shop. He paused a moment outside the rail, gave the weak-eyed gentleman
who presided there a quiet glance equivalent to a beckon, and, as that
person came near, communicated two or three items of intelligence or
instruction concerning office details, by which that invaluable diviner
of business meanings understood that he wished to be let alone for an
hour. Then M. Grandissime passed on into his private office, and,
shutting the door behind him, walked briskly to his desk and sat down.
He dropped his elbows upon a broad paper containing some recently
written, unfinished memoranda that included figures in column, cast his
eyes quite around the apartment, and then covered his face with his
palms--a gesture common enough for a tired man of business in a moment
of seclusion; but just as the face disappeared in the hands, the look
of serene leisure gave place to one of great mental distress. The paper
under his elbows, to the consideration of which he seemed about to
return, was in the handwriting of his manager, with additions by his own
pen. Earlier in the day he had come to a pause in the making of these
additions, and, after one or two vain efforts to proceed, had laid down
his pen, taken his hat, and gone to see the unlucky apothecary. Now he
took up the broken thread. To come to a decision; that was the task
which forced from him his look of distress. He drew his face slowly
through his palms, set his lips, cast up his eyes, knit his knuckles,
and then opened and struck his palms together, as if to say: "Now, come;
let me make up my mind."
There may be men who take every moral height at a dash; but to the most
of us there must come moments when our wills can but just rise and walk
in their sleep. Those who in such moments wait for clear views find,
when the issue is past, that they were only yielding to the devil's
chloroform.
Honoré Grandissme bent his eyes upon the paper. But he saw neither its
figures nor its words. The interrogation, "Surrender Fausse Rivière?"
appeared to hang between his eyes and the paper, and when his resolution
tried to answer "Yes," he saw red flags; he heard the auctioneer's drum;
he saw his kinsmen handing house-keys to strangers; he saw the old
servants of the great family standing in the marketplace; he saw
kinswomen pawning their plate; he saw his clerks (Brahmins, Mandarins,
Grandissimes) standing idle and shabby in the arcade of the Cabildo and
on the banquettes of Maspero's and the Veau-qui-tête; he saw red-eyed
young men in the Exchange denouncing a man who, they said, had,
ostensibly for conscience's sake, but really for love, forced upon the
woman he had hoped to marry a fortune filched from his own kindred. He
saw the junto of doctors in Frowenfeld's door charitably deciding him
insane; he saw the more vengeful of his family seeking him with
half-concealed weapons; he saw himself shot at in the rue Royale, in the
rue Toulouse, and in the Place d'Armes: and, worst of all, missed.
But he wiped his forehead, and the writing on the paper became, in a
measure, visible. He read:
Total mortgages on the lands of all the Grandissimes $--
Total present value of same, titles at buyers' risk --
Cash, goods, and accounts --
Fausse Rivière Plantation account --
There were other items, but he took up the edge of the paper
mechanically, pushed it slowly away from him, leaned back in his chair
and again laid his hands upon his face.
"Suppose I retain Fausse Rivière," he said to himself, as if he had not
said it many times before.
Then he saw memoranda that were not on any paper before him--such a
mortgage to be met on such a date; so much from Fausse Rivière
Plantation account retained to protect that mortgage from foreclosure;
such another to be met on such a date--so much more of same account to
protect it. He saw Aurora and Clotilde Nancanou, with anguished faces,
offering woman's pleadings to deaf constables. He saw the remainder of
Aurora's plantation account thrown to the lawyers to keep the question
of the Grandissime titles languishing in the courts. He saw the fortunes
of his clan rallied meanwhile and coming to the rescue, himself and
kindred growing independent of questionable titles, and even Fausse
Rivière Plantation account restored, but Aurora and Clotilde nowhere to
be found. And then he saw the grave, pale face of Joseph Frowenfeld.
He threw himself forward, drew the paper nervously toward him, and
stared at the figures. He began at the first item and went over the
whole paper, line by line, testing every extension, proving every
addition, noting if possibly any transposition of figures had been made
and overlooked, if something was added that should have been subtracted,
or subtracted that should have been added. It was like a prisoner trying
the bars of his cell.
Was there no way to make things happen differently? Had he not
overlooked some expedient? Was not some financial manoeuvre possible
which might compass both desired ends? He left his chair and walked up
and down, as Joseph at that very moment was doing in the room where he
had left him, came back, looked at the paper, and again walked up and
down. He murmured now and then to himself: "_Self_-denial--that is not
the hard work. Penniless myself--_that_ is play," and so on. He turned
by and by and stood looking up at that picture of the man in the cuirass
which Aurora had once noticed. He looked at it, but he did not see it.
He was thinking--"Her rent is due to-morrow. She will never believe I am
not her landlord. She will never go to my half-brother." He turned once
more and mentally beat his breast as he muttered: "Why do I not decide?"
Somebody touched the doorknob. Honoré stepped forward and opened it. It
was a mortgager.
"_Ah! entrez, Monsieur_."
He retained the visitor's hand, leading him in and talking pleasantly in
French until both had found chairs. The conversation continued in that
tongue through such pointless commercial gossip as this:
"So the brig _Equinox_ is aground at the head of the Passes," said M.
Grandissime.
"I have just heard she is off again."
"Aha?"
"Yes; the Fort Plaquemine canoe is just up from below. I understand John
McDonough has bought the entire cargo of the schooner _Freedom_."
"No, not all; Blanque et Fils bought some twenty boys and women out of
the lot. Where is she lying?"
"Right at the head of the Basin."
And much more like this; but by and by the mortgager came to the point
with the casual remark:
"The excitement concerning land titles seems to increase rather than
subside."
"They must have _something_ to be excited about, I suppose," said M.
Grandissime, crossing his legs and smiling. It was tradesman's talk.
"Yes," replied the other; "there seems to be an idea current to-day that
all holders under Spanish titles are to be immediately dispossessed,
without even process of court. I believe a very slight indiscretion on
the part of the Governor-General would precipitate a riot."
"He will not commit any," said M. Grandissime with a quiet gravity,
changing his manner to that of one who draws upon a reserve of private
information. "There will be no outbreak."
"I suppose not. We do not know, really, that the American Congress will
throw any question upon titles; but still--"
"What are some of the shrewdest Americans among us doing?" asked M.
Grandissime.
"Yes," replied the mortgager, "it is true they are buying these very
titles; but they may be making a mistake?"
Unfortunately for the speaker, he allowed his face an expression of
argumentative shrewdness as he completed this sentence, and M.
Grandissime, the merchant, caught an instantaneous full view of his
motive; he wanted to buy. He was a man whose known speculative policy
was to "go in" in moments of panic.
M. Grandissime was again face to face with the question of the morning.
To commence selling must be to go on selling. This, as a plan, included
restitution to Aurora; but it meant also dissolution to the
Grandissimes, for should their _sold_ titles be pronounced bad, then the
titles of other lands would be bad; many an asset among M. Grandissime's
memoranda would shrink into nothing, and the meagre proceeds of the
Grandissime estates, left to meet the strain without the aid of Aurora's
accumulated fortune, would founder in a sea of liabilities; while should
these titles, after being parted with, turn out good, his incensed
kindred, shutting their eyes to his memoranda and despising his
exhibits, would see in him only the family traitor, and he would go
about the streets of his town the subject of their implacable
denunciation, the community's obloquy, and Aurora's cold evasion. So
much, should he sell. On the other hand, to decline to sell was to enter
upon that disingenuous scheme of delays which would enable him to avail
himself and his people of that favorable wind and tide of fortune which
the Cession had brought. Thus the estates would be lost, if lost at all,
only when the family could afford to lose them, and Honoré Grandissime
would continue to be Honoré the Magnificent, the admiration of the city
and the idol of his clan. But Aurora--and Clotilde--would have to eat
the crust of poverty, while their fortunes, even in his hands, must bear
all the jeopardy of the scheme. That was all. Retain Fausse Rivière and
its wealth, and save the Grandissimes; surrender Fausse Rivière, let
the Grandissime estates go, and save the Nancanous. That was the
whole dilemma.
"Let me see," said M. Grandissime. "You have a mortgage on one of our
Golden Coast plantations. Well, to be frank with you, I was thinking of
that when you came in. You know I am partial to prompt transactions--I
thought of offering you either to take up that mortgage or to sell you
the plantation, as you may prefer. I have ventured to guess that it
would suit you to own it."
And the speaker felt within him a secret exultation in the idea that he
had succeeded in throwing the issue off upon a Providence that could
control this mortgager's choice.
"I would prefer to leave that choice with you," said the coy would-be
purchaser; and then the two went coquetting again for another moment.
"I understand that Nicholas Girod is proposing to erect a four-story
brick building on the corner of Royale and St. Pierre. Do you think it
practicable? Do you think our soil will support such a structure?"
"Pitot thinks it will. Boré says it is perfectly feasible."
So they dallied.
"Well," said the mortgager, presently rising, "you will make up your
mind and let me know, will you?"
The chance repetition of those words "make up your mind" touched Honoré
Grandissime like a hot iron. He rose with the visitor.
"Well, sir, what would you give us for our title in case we should
decide to part with it?"
The two men moved slowly, side by side, toward the door, and in the
half-open doorway, after a little further trifling, the title was sold.
"Well, good-day," said M. Grandissime. "M. de Brahmin will arrange the
papers for us to-morrow."
He turned back toward his private desk.
"And now," thought he, "I am acting without resolving. No merit; no
strength of will; no clearness of purpose; no emphatic decision; nothing
but a yielding to temptation."
And M. Grandissime spoke truly; but it is only whole men who so
yield--yielding to the temptation to do right.
He passed into the counting-room, to M. De Brahmin, and standing there
talked in an inaudible tone, leaning over the upturned spectacles of his
manager, for nearly an hour. Then, saying he would go to dinner, he went
out. He did not dine at home nor at the Veau-qui-tête, nor at any of the
clubs; so much is known; he merely disappeared for two or three hours
and was not seen again until late in the afternoon, when two or three
Brahmins and Grandissimes, wandering about in search of him, met him on
the levee near the head of the rue Bienville, and with an exclamation of
wonder and a look of surprise at his dusty shoes, demanded to know
where he had hid himself while they had been ransacking the town in
search of him.
"We want you to tell us what you will do about our titles."
He smiled pleasantly, the picture of serenity, and replied:
"I have not fully made up my mind yet; as soon as I do so I will let you
know."
There was a word or two more exchanged, and then, after a moment of
silence, with a gentle "Eh, bien," and a gesture to which they were
accustomed, he stepped away backward, they resumed their hurried walk
and talk, and he turned into the rue Bienville.