II.
A BREAKFAST ON PLACE VENDOME.
There were hardly more than a score of persons that morning in theNabob's dining-room, a dining-room finished in carved oak, suppliedonly the day before from the establishment of some greathouse-furnisher, who furnished at the same time the four salons whichcould be seen, one beyond the other, through an open door: thehangings, the objects of art, the chandeliers, even the plate displayedon the sideboards, even the servants who served the breakfast. It wasthe perfect type of the establishment improvised, immediately uponalighting from the railway train, by a parvenu of colossal wealth, ingreat haste to enjoy himself. Although there was no sign of a woman'sdress about the table, no bit of light and airy material to enliven thescene, it was by no means monotonous, thanks to the incongruity, thenondescript character of the guests, gathered together from all ranksof society, specimens of mankind culled from every race in France, inEurope, in the whole world, from top to bottom of the social scale.First of all, the master of the house, a sort of giant--sunburned,swarthy, with his head between his shoulders--to whom his short nose,lost in the puffiness of the face, his woolly hair massed like anAstrakhan cap over a low, headstrong forehead, his bristling eyebrowswith eyes like a wild cat's in ambush, gave the ferocious aspect of aKalmuk, of a savage on the frontiers of civilization, who lived by warand marauding. Luckily the lower part of the face, the thick, doublelips which parted readily in a fascinating, good-humored smile,tempered with a sort of Saint Vincent de Paul expression that uncouthugliness, that original countenance, so original that it forgot to becommonplace. But his inferior extraction betrayed itself in anotherdirection by his voice, the voice of a Rhone boatman, hoarse andindistinct, in which the southern accent became rather coarse thanharsh, and by two broad, short hands, with hairy fingers, square at theends and with almost no nails, which, as they rested on the white tablecloth, spoke of their past with embarrassing eloquence. Opposite thehost, on the other side of the table, at which he was a regular guest,was the Marquis de Monpavon, but a Monpavon who in no wise resembledthe mottled spectre whom we saw in the last chapter; a man of superbphysique, in the prime of life, with a long, majestic nose, the haughtybearing of a great nobleman, displaying a vast breastplate of spotlesslinen, which cracked under the continuous efforts of the chest to bendforward, and swelled out every time with a noise like that made by aturkey gobbling, or a peacock spreading his tail. His name Monpavon waswell suited to him.[1]
[1] Paon_, peacock--from Latin pavo, pavonis_.
Belonging to a great family, with wealthy kindred, the Duc de Mora'sfriendship had procured for him a receiver-generalship of the firstclass. Unfortunately his health had not permitted him to retain thatfine berth--well-informed persons said that his health had nothing todo with it--and he had been living in Paris for a year past, waitinguntil he should be cured, he said, to return to his post. The samepersons asserted that he would never find it again, and that, were itnot for the patronage of certain exalted personages--Be that as it may,he was the important guest at the breakfast; one could see that by theway in which the servants waited upon him, by the way in which theNabob consulted him, calling him "Monsieur le Marquis," as they do atthe Comedie Francaise, less from humility than from pride because ofthe honor that was reflected on himself. Filled with disdain for hisfellow-guests, Monsieur le Marquis talked little, but with a very loftymanner, as if he were obliged to stoop to those persons whom he honoredwith his conversation. From time to time he tossed at the Nabob, acrossthe table, sentences that were enigmatical to everybody.
"I saw the duke yesterday. He talked a good deal about you inconnection with that matter of--you know, What's-his-name,Thingumbob--Who is the man?"
"Really! He talked about me?" And the honest Nabob, swelling withpride, would look about him, nodding his head in a most laughable way,or would assume the meditative air of a pious woman when she hears thename of Our Lord.
"His Excellency would be pleased to have you go intothe--ps--ps--ps--the thing."
"Did he tell you so?"
"Ask the governor--he heard it as well as I."
The person referred to as the governor, Paganetti by name, was anenergetic, gesticulatory little man, tiresome to watch, his faceassumed so many different expressions in a minute. He was manager ofthe _Caisse Territoriale_ of Corsica, a vast financial enterprise, andwas present in that house for the first time, brought by Monpavon; healso occupied a place of honor. On the Nabob's other side was an oldman, buttoned to the chin in a frock-coat without lapels and with astanding collar, like an oriental tunic, with a face marred byinnumerable little gashes, and a white moustache trimmed in militaryfashion. It was Brahim Bey, the most gallant officer of the regency ofTunis, _aide-de-camp_ to the former bey, who made Jansoulet's fortune.This warrior's glorious exploits were written in wrinkles, in the scarsof debauchery, on his lower lip which hung down helplessly as if thespring were broken, and in his inflamed, red eyes, devoid of lashes.His was one of the faces we see in the felon's dock in cases that aretried behind closed doors. The other guests had seated themselvespell-mell, as they arrived, or beside such acquaintances as theychanced to meet, for the house was open to everybody, and covers werelaid for thirty every morning.
There was the manager of the theatre in which the Nabob was a sleepingpartner,--Cardailhac, almost as renowned for his wit as for hisfailures, that wonderful carver, who would prepare one of his _bonsmots_ as he detached the limbs of a partridge, and deposit it with awing in the plate that was handed him. He was a sculptor rather than an_improvisateur_, and the new way of serving meats, having them carvedbeforehand in the Russian fashion, had been fatal to him by deprivinghim of all excuse for a preparatory silence. So it was generally saidthat he was failing. He was a thorough Parisian, a dandy to hisfingers' ends, and as he himself boasted, "not full to bursting withsuperstition," which fact enabled him to give some very piquant detailsconcerning the women in his theatrical company to Brahim Bey, wholistened to him as one turns the pages of an obscene book, and to talktheology to his nearest neighbor, a young priest, cure of some littleSouthern village, a thin, gaunt fellow, with a complexion as darkas his cassock, with glowing cheek-bones, pointed nose, all thecharacteristics of an ambitious man, who said to Cardailhac, in a veryloud voice, in a tone of condescension, of priestly authority:
"We are very well satisfied with Monsieur Guizot. He is doing well,very well--it's a victory for the Church."
Beside that pontiff with the starched band, old Schwalbach, the famousdealer in pictures, displayed his prophet's beard, yellow in spots likea dirty fleece, his three mouldy-looking waistcoats and all theslovenly, careless attire which people forgave him in the name of art,and because he had the good taste to have in his employ, at a time whenthe mania for galleries kept millions of money in circulation, the oneman who was most expert in negotiating those vainglorious transactions.Schwalbach did not talk, contenting himself with staring about throughhis enormous lens-shaped monocle, and smiling in his beard at theextraordinary juxtapositions to be observed at that table, which stoodalone in all the world. For instance Monpavon had very near him--andyou should have seen how the disdainful curve of his nose wasaccentuated at every glance in his direction--Garrigou the singer, acountryman of Jansoulet, distinguished as a ventriloquist, who sang_Figaro_ in the patois of the South and had not his like for imitatinganimals. A little farther on, Cabassu, another fellow-countryman, ashort, thick-set man, with a bull-neck, a biceps worthy of MichelAngelo, who resembled equally a Marseillais hair-dresser and theHercules at a country fair, a _masseur_, pedicurist, manicurist andsomething of a dentist, rested both elbows on the table with theassurance of a quack whom one receives in the morning and who knows thepetty weaknesses, the private miseries of the house in which he happensto be. M. Bompain completed that procession of subalterns, allclassified with reference to some one specialty. Bompain, thesecretary, the steward, the man of confidence, through whose hands allthe business of the establishment passed;
and a single glance at thatstupidly solemn face, that vague expression, that Turkish fez poisedawkwardly on that village schoolmaster's head, sufficed to convince onewhat manner of man he was to whom interests like the Nabob's had beenentrusted.
Lastly, to fill the gaps between the figures we have sketched, Turks ofevery variety! Tunisians, Moors, Egyptians, Levantines; and, mingledwith that exotic element, a whole multicolored Parisian Bohemia ofdecayed gentlemen, squinting tradesmen, penniless journalists,inventors of strange objects, men from the South landed in Pariswithout a sou--all the tempest-tossed vessels to be revictualled, allthe flocks of birds whirling about in the darkness, that were attractedby that great fortune as by the light of a lighthouse. The Nabobreceived that motley crew at his table through kindness of heart,generosity, weakness, and entire lack of dignity, combined withabsolute ignorance, and partly as a result of the same exile'smelancholy, the same need of expansion that led him to receive, in hismagnificent palace on the Bardo in Tunis, everybody who landed fromFrance, from the petty tradesman and exporter of small wares, to thefamous pianist on a tour and the consul-general.
Listening to those different voices, those foreign accents, incisive orstammering, glancing at those varying types of countenance, someuncivilized, passionate, unrefined, others over-civilized, faded, ofthe type that haunts the boulevards, over-ripe as it were, andobserving the same varieties in the corps of servants, where"flunkeys," taken the day before from some office, insolent fellows,with the heads of dentists or bath-attendants, bustled about among themotionless Ethiopians, who shone like black marble torch-holders,--itwas impossible to say exactly where you were; at all events, you wouldnever have believed that you were on Place Vendome, at the very heartand centre of the life of our modern Paris. On the table there was asimilar outlandish collection of foreign dishes, sauces with saffron oranchovies, elaborately spiced Turkish delicacies, chickens with friedalmonds; all this, taken in conjunction with the commonplacedecorations of the room, the gilded wainscotings and the shrill jangleof the new bells, gave one the impression of a table-d'hote in somegreat hotel in Smyrna or Calcutta, or of the gorgeous saloon of atrans-Atlantic liner, the _Pereire_ or the _Sinai_.
It would seem that such a variety of guests--I had almost said ofpassengers--would make the repast animated and noisy. Far from it. Theyall ate nervously, in silence, watching one another out of the cornerof the eye; and even the most worldly, those who seemed most at ease,had in their eyes the wandering, distressed expression indicating apersistent thought, a feverish anxiety which caused them to speakwithout answering, to listen without understanding a word of what wassaid.
Suddenly the door of the dining-room was thrown open.
"Ah! there's Jenkins," exclaimed the Nabob, joyfully. "Hail, doctor,hail! How are you, my boy?"
A circular smile, a vigorous handshake for the host, and Jenkins tookhis seat opposite him, beside Monpavon and in front of a plate which aservant brought in hot haste, exactly as at a table-d'hote. Amid thosepreoccupied, feverish faces, that one presented a striking contrastwith its good-humor, its expansive smile, and the loquacious,flattering affability which makes the Irish to a certain extent theGascons of Great Britain. And what a robust appetite! with what energy,what liberty of conscience, he managed his double row of white teeth,talking all the while.
"Well, Jansoulet, did you read it?"
"Read what, pray?"
"What! don't you know? Haven't you read what the _Messager_ saidabout you this morning?"
Beneath the thick tan on his cheeks the Nabob blushed like a child, andhis eyes sparkled with delight as he replied:
"Do you mean it? The _Messager_ said something about me?"
"Two whole columns. How is it that Moessard didn't show it to you?"
"Oh!" said Moessard modestly, "it wasn't worth the trouble."
He was a journalist in a small way, fair-haired and spruce, a prettyfellow enough, but with a face marked by the faded look peculiar towaiters at all-night restaurants, actors and prostitutes, made up ofconventional grimaces and the sallow reflection of the gas. He wasreputed to be the plighted lover of an exiled queen of very easyvirtue. That rumor was whispered about wherever he went, and gave himan envied and most contemptible prominence in his circle.
Jansoulet insisted upon reading the article, being impatient to hearwhat was said of him. Unfortunately Jenkins had left his copy at theduke's.
"Let some one go at once and get me a _Messager_," said the Nabobto the servant behind his chair.
Moessard interposed:
"That isn't necessary; I must have the thing about me."
And with the free and easy manner of the tap-room habitue, of thereporter who scrawls his notes as he sits in front of his mug of beer,the journalist produced a pocketbook stuffed with memoranda, stampedpapers, newspaper clippings, notes on glossy paper with crests--whichhe scattered over the table, pushing his plate away, to look for theproof of his article.
"Here it is." He passed it to Jansoulet; but Jenkins cried out:
"No, no, read it aloud."
As the whole party echoed the demand, Moessard took back his proof andbegan to read aloud the WORK OF BETHLEHEM AND M. BERNARD JANSOULET, along deliverance in favor of artificial nursing, written from Jenkins'notes, which were recognizable by certain grandiloquent phrases of thesort that the Irishman affected: "the long martyrology of infancy--thevenality of the breast--the goat, the beneficent nurse,"--andconcluding, after a turgid description of the magnificent establishmentat Nanterre, with a eulogy of Jenkins and the glorification ofJansoulet: "O Bernard Jansoulet, benefactor of infancy!"
You should have seen the annoyed, scandalized faces of the guests. Whata schemer that Moessard was! What impudent sycophancy! And the sameenvious, disdainful smile distorted every mouth. The devil of it wasthat they were forced to applaud, to appear enchanted, as their host'ssense of smell was not surfeited by the odor of incense, and as he tookeverything very seriously, both the article and the applause that itcalled forth. His broad face beamed during the reading. Many and many atime, far away in Africa, he had dreamed of being thus belauded in theParisian papers, of becoming a person of some consequence in thatsociety, the first of all societies, upon which the whole world has itseyes fixed as upon a beacon-light. Now that dream was fulfilled. Hegazed at all those men around his table, at that sumptuous dessert, atthat wainscoted dining-room, certainly as high as the church in hisnative village; he listened to the dull roar of Paris, rumbling andtramping beneath his windows, with the unspoken thought that he wasabout to become a great wheel in that ever-active, complicatedmechanism. And thereupon, while he sat, enjoying the sense ofwell-being that follows a substantial meal, between the lines of thattriumphant apology he evoked, by way of contrast, the panorama of hisown life, his wretched childhood, his haphazard youth, no lessdistressing to recall, the days without food, the nights without aplace to lay his head. And suddenly, when the reading was at an end, inthe midst of a veritable overflow of joy, of one of those outbursts ofSouthern effusiveness which compel one to think aloud, he cried,protruding his thick lips toward the guests in his genial smile:
"Ah! my friends, my dear friends, if you knew how happy I am, how proudI feel!"
It was barely six weeks since he landed in France. With the exceptionof two or three compatriots, he had known these men whom he called hisfriends hardly more than a day, and only from having loaned them money.Wherefore that sudden expansiveness seemed decidedly strange; butJansoulet, too deeply moved to notice anything, continued:
"After what I have just heard, when I see myself here in this greatcity of Paris, surrounded by all the illustrious names anddistinguished minds within its limits, and then recall my father'speddler's stall! For I was born in a peddler's stall. My father soldold iron at a street corner in Bourg-Saint-Andeol! It was as much asever if we had bread to eat every day, and stew every Sunday. AskCabassu. He knew me in those days. He can tell you if I am lying. Oh!yes, I have known what poverty is." He raised hi
s head in an outburstof pride, breathing in the odor of truffles with which the heavyatmosphere was impregnated. "I have known poverty, genuine poverty too,and for a long time. I have been cold, I have been hungry, and horriblyhungry, you know, the kind of hunger that makes you stupid, that twistsyour stomach, makes your head go round, and prevents you from seeing,just as if some one had dug out the inside of your eyes with anoyster-knife. I have passed whole days in bed for lack of a coat towear; lucky when I had a bed, which I sometimes hadn't. I have tried toearn my bread at every trade; and the bread cost me so much suffering,it was so hard and tough that I still have the bitter, mouldy taste ofit in my mouth. And that's the way it was till I was thirty years old.Yes, my friends, at thirty--and I'm not fifty yet--I was still abeggar, without a sou, with no future, with my heart full of remorsefor my poor mother who was dying of hunger in her hovel down in theprovinces, and to whom I could give nothing."
The faces of the people who surrounded that strange host as he told thestory of his evil days were a curious spectacle. Some seemed disgusted,especially Monpavon. That display of old rags seemed to him inexecrable taste, and to denote utter lack of breeding. Cardailhac, thatsceptic and man of refined taste, a foe to all emotional scenes, satwith staring eyes and as if hypnotized, cutting a piece of fruit withthe end of his fork into strips as thin as cigarette papers. TheGovernor, on the contrary, went through a pantomime expressive ofperfunctory admiration, with exclamations of horror and compassion;while, in striking contrast to him, and not far away, Brahim Bey, thethunderbolt of war, in whom the reading of the article, followed bydiscussion after a substantial repast, had induced a refreshing nap,was sleeping soundly, with his mouth like a round O in his whitemoustache, and with the blood congested in his face as a result of thecreeping up of his gorget. But the general expression was indifferenceand ennui. What interest had they, I ask you, in Jansoulet's childhoodat Bourg-Saint-Andeol, in what he had suffered, and how he had beendriven from pillar to post? They had not come there for such stuff asthat. So it was that expressions of feigned interest, eyes that countedthe eggs in the ceiling or the crumbs of bread on the table-cloth, lipstightly compressed to restrain a yawn, betrayed the general impatiencecaused by that untimely narrative. But he did not grow weary. He tookpleasure in the recital of his past suffering, as the sailor in a safehaven delights in recalling his voyages in distant seas, and thedangers, and the terrible shipwrecks. Next came the tale of his goodluck, the extraordinary accident that suddenly started him on the roadto fortune. "I was wandering about the harbor of Marseille, with acomrade as out-at-elbows as myself, who also made his fortune in theBey's service, and, after being my chum, my partner, became mybitterest enemy. I can safely tell you his name, _pardi_! He is wellenough known, Hemerlingue. Yes, messieurs, the head of the greatbanking-house of Hemerlingue and Son hadn't at that time the money tobuy two sous' worth of crabs on the quay. Intoxicated by the air oftravel that you breathe in those parts, it occurred to us to go andseek a living in some sunny country, as the foggy countries were socruel to us. But where should we go? We did what sailors sometimes doto decide what den they shall squander their wages in. They stick a bitof paper on the rim of a hat. Then they twirl the hat on a cane, andwhen it stops, they go in the direction in which the paper points. Forus the paper needle pointed to Tunis. A week later I landed at Tuniswith half a louis in my pocket, and I return to-day with twenty-fivemillions."
There was a sort of electric shock around the table, a gleam in everyeye, even in those of the servants. Cardailhac exclaimed: "Mazette!"Monpavon's nose subsided.
"Yes, my children, twenty-five millions in available funds, to saynothing of all that I've left in Tunis, my two palaces on the Bardo, myvessels in the harbor of La Goulette, my diamonds and my jewels, whichare certainly worth more than twice that. And you know," he added, withhis genial smile, in his hoarse, unmusical voice, "when it's all gone,there will still be some left."
The whole table rose, electrified.
"Bravo! Ah! bravo!"
"Superb."
"Very _chic_--very _chic_."
"Well said."
"A man like that ought to be in the Chamber."
"He shall be, _per Bacco!_ my word for it," exclaimed the Governor, ina voice of thunder; and, carried away by admiration, not knowing how tomanifest his enthusiasm, he seized the Nabob's great hairy hand andimpulsively put it to his lips. Everybody was standing; they did notresume their seats.
Jansoulet, radiant with pleasure, had also risen.
"Let us have our coffee," he said, throwing down his napkin.
Immediately the party circulated noisily through the salons, enormousrooms, in which the light, the decoration, the magnificence consistedof gold alone. It fell from the ceiling in blinding rays, oozed fromthe walls in fillets, window-sashes and frames of all sorts. Oneretained a little of it on one's hands after moving a chair or openinga window; and even the hangings, having been dipped in that Pactolus,preserved upon their stiff folds the rigidity and sheen of metal. Butthere was nothing individual, homelike, dainty. It was the monotonoussplendor of the furnished apartment. And this impression of a flyingcamp, of a temporary establishment, was heightened by the idea oftravelling that hovered about that fortune drawn from distant sources,like a cloud of uncertainty or a threat.
The coffee was served in the Oriental fashion, with all the grounds, insmall filigreed silver cups, and the guests stood around in groups,drinking hastily, burning their tongues, watching one anotherfurtively, and keeping especially close watch on the Nabob, in order tograsp the favorable moment to jump upon him, drag him into a corner ofone of those huge rooms, and arrange their loan at last. For it wasthat for which they had been waiting for two hours, that was the objectof their visit, and the fixed idea that gave them that distraught,falsely attentive air, during the breakfast. But now there was no moreembarrassment, no more grimacing. Everybody in that strange companyknew that, in the Nabob's crowded existence, the coffee hour alone wasleft free for confidential audiences, and as every one wished to takeadvantage of it, as they had all come for the purpose of tearing ahandful of wool from that golden fleece which offered itself to them sogood-naturedly, they no longer talked or listened, they attendedstrictly to business.
Honest Jenkins is the one who begins. He has led his friend Jansouletinto a window-recess and is submitting to him the drawings for thehouse at Nanterre. A pretty outlay, by heaven! One hundred and fiftythousand francs for the property, and, in addition, the veryconsiderable expense of installation, the staff, the bedding, the goatsfor nurses, the manager's carriage, the omnibuses to meet the childrenat every train. A great deal of money--But how comfortable the dearlittle creatures will be there! what a service to Paris, to mankind!The Government cannot fail to reward with a bit of red ribbon suchunselfish philanthropy. "The Cross, the 15th of August." With thosemagic words Jenkins can obtain whatever he wants. With his hoarse,cheerful voice, which seems to be hailing a vessel in the fog, theNabob calls, "Bompain." The man in the fez, tearing himself away fromthe cellaret, crosses the salon majestically, whispers, goes away andreturns with an inkstand and a check-book, the leaves of which come outand fly away of themselves. What a fine thing is wealth! To sign acheck for two hundred thousand francs on his knee costs Jansoulet nomore than to take a louis from his pocket.
The others, with their noses in their cups and rage in their hearts,watch this little scene from afar. And when Jenkins takes his leave,bright and smiling, and waving his hand to the different groups,Monpavon seizes the Governor: "Now, it's our turn." And they pouncetogether upon the Nabob, lead him to a divan, force him to sit down,and squeeze him between them with a savage little laugh that seems tomean: "What are we going to do to him?" Extract money from him, as muchof it as possible. It must be had in order to float the _CaisseTerritorial_, which has been aground for years, buried in sand to hermasthead. A magnificent operation, this of floating her again, if weare to believe these two gentlemen; for the buried craft is full ofingots,
of valuable merchandise, of the thousand varied treasures of anew country of which every one is talking and of which no one knowsanything. The aim of Paganetti of Porto-Vecchio in founding thatunrivalled establishment was to monopolize the exploitation of Corsica:iron mines, sulphur mines, copper mines, marble quarries, chalybeateand sulphur springs, vast forests of lignum vitae and oak; and tofacilitate that exploitation by building a network of railroadsthroughout the island, and establishing a line of steamboats. Such wasthe gigantic enterprise to which he has harnessed himself. He has sunka large amount of money in it, and the new-comer, the laborer of theeleventh hour, will reap the whole profit.
While the Corsican with his Italian accent, his frantic gestures,enumerates the _splendores_ of the affair, Monpavon, dignified andhaughty, nods his head with an air of conviction, and from time totime, when he deems the moment propitious, tosses into the conversationthe name of the Duc de Mora, which always produces its effect on theNabob.
"Well, what is it that you need?"
"Millions," says Monpavon superbly, in the tone of a man who is notembarrassed by any lack of persons to whom to apply. "Yes, millions.But it's a magnificent opening. And, as His Excellency said, it wouldafford a capitalist an opportunity to attain a lofty position, even apolitical position. Just consider a moment! in that penniless country.One might become a member of the General Council, a Deputy--" The Nabobstarts. And little Paganetti, feeling the bait tremble on his hook,continues: "Yes, a Deputy; you shall be one when I choose. At a wordfrom me all Corsica is at your service." Thereupon he launches out on abewildering extemporization, counting up the votes at his disposal, thecantons which will rise at his summons. "You bring me your funds--Igive you a whole people." The affair is carried by storm.
"Bompain! Bompain!" calls the Nabob in his enthusiasm. He has but onefear, that the thing will escape him; and to bind Paganetti, who doesnot conceal his need of money, he hastens to pour a first instalmentinto the _Caisse Territoriale_. Second appearance of the man in the redcap with the check-book, which he holds solemnly against his breast,like a choir-boy carrying the Gospel. Second affixture of Jansoulet'ssignature to a check, which the Governor stows away with a negligentair, and which effects a sudden transformation of his whole person.Paganetti, but now so humble and unobtrusive, walks away with theself-assurance of a man held in equilibrium by four hundred thousandfrancs, while Monpavon, carrying his head even higher than usual,follows close upon his heels and watches over him with a more thanpaternal solicitude.
"There's a good stroke of business well done," says the Nabob tohimself, "and I'll go and drink my coffee." But ten borrowers are lyingin wait for him. The quickest, the most adroit, is Cardailhac, themanager, who hooks him and carries him off into an empty salon. "Let ustalk a bit, my good friend. I must set before you the condition of ourtheatre." A very complicated condition, no doubt; for here comesMonsieur Bompain again, and more sky-blue leaves fly away from thecheck-book. Now, whose turn is it? The journalist Moessard comes to gethis pay for the article in the _Messager_; the Nabob will learn what itcosts to be called "the benefactor of infancy" in the morning papers.The provincial cure asks for funds to rebuild his church, and takeshis check by assault with the brutality of a Peter the Hermit. And nowold Schwalbach approaches, with his nose in his beard, winkingmysteriously. "Sh! he has vound ein bearl," for monsieur's gallery, anHobbema from the Duc de Mora's collection. But several people havetheir eye on it. It will be difficult to obtain. "I must have it at anyprice," says the Nabob, allured by the name of Mora. "You understand,Schwalbach, I must have that _Nobbema_. Twenty thousand francs for youif you hit it off."
"I vill do mein best, Monsieur Jansoulet."
And the old knave, as he turns away, calculates that the Nabob's twentythousand, added to the ten thousand the duke has promised him if hegets rid of his picture, will make a very pretty little profit for him.
While these fortunate ones succeed one another, others prowl aboutfrantic with impatience, biting their nails to the quick; for one andall have come with the same object. From honest Jenkins, who headed theprocession, down to Cabassu, the _masseur_, who closes it, one andall lead the Nabob aside. But however far away they take him in thatlong file of salons, there is always some indiscreet mirror to reflectthe figure of the master of the house, and the pantomime of his broadback. That back is so eloquent! At times it straightens up indignantly."Oh! no, that is too much!" Or else it collapses with comicalresignation. "Very well, if you will have it so." And Bompain's fezalways lurking in some corner of the landscape.
When these have finished, others arrive; they are the small fish thatfollow in the wake of the great sharks in the savage hunting in thesea. There is constant going and coming through those superb white andgold salons, a slamming of doors, an unbroken current of insolentextortion of the most hackneyed type, attracted from the four cornersof Paris and the suburbs by that enormous fortune and that incrediblegullibility.
For these small sums, this incessant doling out of cash, he did nothave recourse to the checkbook. In one of his salons the Nabob kept acommode, an ugly little piece of furniture representing the savings ofsome concierge; it was the first article Jansoulet bought when he wasin a position to renounce furnished apartments, and he had kept it eversince like a gambler's fetish; its three drawers always contained twohundred thousand francs in current funds. He resorted to thatnever-failing supply on the days of his great audiences, ostentatiouslyplunging his hands in the gold and silver, stuffing it into his pocketsto produce it later with the gesture of a cattle-dealer, a certainvulgar way of raising the skirts of his coat and sending his hand "downto the bottom of the pile." A tremendous inroad must have been madeupon the little drawers to-day.
* * *
After so many whispered conferences, requests more or less clearlystated, anxious entrances and triumphant exits, the last clientdismissed, the commode drawers locked, the apartment on Place Vendomewas left in solitude in the fading light of four o'clock, the close ofthe November days which are prolonged so far beyond that hour by theaid of artificial light. The servants removed the coffee cups, the_raki_ and the open, half-emptied boxes of cigars. The Nabob, thinkingthat he was alone, drew a long breath of relief: "Ouf! that's allover." But no. A figure emerges from a corner already in shadow, andapproaches with a letter in his hand.
"Another!"
Thereupon the poor man instinctively repeated his eloquenthorse-dealer's gesture. At that the visitor, also instinctively,recoiled so quickly and with such an insulted air that the Nabobrealized that he was in error and took the trouble to observe the youngman who stood before him, simply but correctly dressed, with a sallowcomplexion, absolutely no beard, regular features, perhaps a little tooserious and determined for his years, which fact, with his extremelylight hair, curling tightly all over his head like a powdered wig, gavehim the aspect of a young deputy of the Tiers Etat under Louis XVI.,the face of a Barnave at twenty. That face, although the Nabob then sawit for the first time, was not altogether unfamiliar to him.
"What do you wish, monsieur?"
Taking the letter the young man handed him, he walked to a window toread it.
"Ah!--it's from mamma."
He said it with such a joyous inflection, the word "mamma" lighted hiswhole face with such a youthful, attractive smile, that the visitor,repelled at first by the parvenu's vulgar appearance, felt in fullsympathy with him.
The Nabob read in an undertone these few lines written in a coarse,incorrect, trembling hand, in striking contrast to the fine laid paperwith the words "Chateau de Saint-Romans" at the top.
"MY DEAR SON,--This letter will be handed to you by the oldest of Monsieur de Gery's children, the former justice of the peace at Bourg-Saint-Andeol, who was so kind to us--"
The Nabob interrupted himself to say:
"I ought to have known you, Monsieur de Gery. You look like yourfather. Take a seat, I beg you."
Then he finished runni
ng through the letter. His mother made no preciserequest, but, in the name of the services the de Gery family hadformerly rendered them, she commended Monsieur Paul to him. An orphan,with his two young brothers to support, he had been admitted topractice as an advocate in the South and was starting for Paris to seekhis fortune. She implored Jansoulet to assist him, "for he sorelyneeded it, poor fellow." And she signed: "Your mother, who is dyingfor a sight of you, FRANCOISE."
That letter from his mother, whom he had not seen for six years, theSouthern forms of expression in which he recognized familiarintonations, the coarse handwriting which drew for him a beloved face,all wrinkled and sunburned and furrowed, but smiling still beneath apeasant's cap, made a profound impression upon the Nabob. During thesix weeks he had been in France, immersed in the eddying whirl ofParis, of his installation, he had not once thought of the dear oldsoul; and now he saw her in every line. He stood for a moment gazing atthe letter, which shook in his fat fingers.
Then, his emotion having subsided, "Monsieur de Gery," he said, "I amhappy to have the opportunity to repay a little of the kindness yourfamily has showered upon mine. This very day, if you agree, I take youinto my service. You are well educated, you seem intelligent, you canbe of very great service to me. I have innumerable plans, innumerablematters in hand. I have been drawn into a multitude of large industrialundertakings. I need some one to assist me, to take my place at need.To be sure, I have a secretary, a steward, that excellent Bompain; butthe poor fellow knows nothing of Paris. You will say that you are freshfrom the provinces. But that's of no consequence. Well educated as youare, a Southerner, open-eyed and adaptable, you will soon get the hangof the boulevard. At all events, I'll undertake your education in thatdirection myself. In a few weeks you shall have a foot as thoroughlyParisian as mine, I promise you."
Poor man! It was touching to hear him talk about his _Parisian foot_and his experience, when he was fated never to be more than a beginner.
"Well, it's a bargain, eh? I take you for my secretary. You shall havea fixed salary which we will agree upon directly; and I will give you achance to make your fortune quickly."
And as de Gery, suddenly relieved of all his anxieties as a new-comer,a petitioner, a neophyte, did not stir for fear of waking from a dream,the Nabob added in a softer tone:
"Now come and sit here by me, and let us talk a little about mamma."