A LUNCHEON IN THE PLACE VENDOME
There were scarcely more than a score of persons that morning in theNabob's dining-room, a dining-room in carved oak, supplied the previousevening as it were by some great upholsterer, who at the same stroke hadfurnished these suites of four drawing-rooms of which you caught sightthrough an open doorway, the hangings on the ceiling, the objects ofart, the chandeliers, even the very plate on the sideboards and theservants who were in attendance. It was obviously the kind of interiorimprovised the moment he was out of the railway-train by a gigantic_parvenu_ in haste to enjoy. Although around the table there was notrace of any feminine presence, no bright frock to enliven it, itsaspect was yet not monotonous, thanks to the dissimilarity, the oddnessof the guests, people belonging to every section of society, specimensof humanity detached from all races, in France, in Europe, in the entireglobe, from the top to the bottom of the social ladder. To begin with,the master of the house--a kind of giant, tanned, burned by the sun,saffron-coloured, with head in his shoulders. His nose, which was shortand lost in the puffiness of his face, his woolly hair massed like acap of astrakhan above a low and obstinate forehead, and his bristlyeyebrows with eyes like those of an ambushed chapard gave him theferocious aspect of a Kalmuck, of some frontier savage living by war andrapine. Fortunately the lower part of the face, the fleshy and stronglip which was lightened now and then by a smile adorable in itskindness, quite redeemed, by an expression like that of a St. Vincent dePaul, this fierce ugliness, this physiognomy so original that it wasno longer vulgar. An inferior extraction, however, betrayed itself yetagain by the voice, the voice of a Rhone waterman, raucous and thick,in which the southern accent became rather uncouth than hard, and by twobroad and short hands, hairy at the back, square and nailless fingerswhich, laid on the whiteness of the table-cloth, spoke of their pastwith an embarrassing eloquence. Opposite him, on the other side of thetable at which he was one of the habitual guests, was seated the Marquisde Monpavon, but a Monpavon presenting no resemblance to the paintedspectre of whom we had a glimpse in the last chapter. He was now ahaughty man of no particular age, fine majestic nose, a lordly bearing,displaying a large shirt-front of immaculate linen crackling beneaththe continual effort of the chest to throw itself forward, and bulgingitself out each time with a noise like that made by a white turkey whenit struts in anger, or by a peacock when he spreads his tail. His nameof Monpavon suited him well.
Of great family and of a wealthy stock, but ruined by gambling andspeculation, the friendship of the Duc de Mora had secured him anappointment as receiver-general in the first class. Unfortunatelyhis health had not permitted him to retain this handsomeposition--well-informed people said his health had nothing to do withit--and for the last year he had been living in Paris, awaiting hisrestoration to health, according to his own account of the matter,before resuming his post. The same people were confident that hewould never regain it, and that even were it not for certain exaltedinfluences--However, he was the important personage of the luncheon;that was clear from the manner in which the servants waited upon him,and the Nabob consulted him, calling him "Monsieur le Marquis," as atthe Comedie-Francaise, less almost out of deference than from pride, byreason of the honour which it reflected upon himself. Full of disdainfor the people around him, M. le Marquis spoke little, in a veryhigh voice, and as though he were stooping towards those whom he washonouring with his conversation. From time to time he would throw to theNabob across the table a few words enigmatical for all.
"I saw the duke yesterday. He was talking a great deal about you inconnection with that matter. You know, that thing--that business. Whatwas the name of it?"
"You really mean it? He spoke of me to you?" And the good Nabob, quiteproud, would look around him with movements of the head that weresupremely laughable, or perhaps assume the contemplative air of adevotee who should hear the name of Our Lord pronounced.
"His excellency would have pleasure in seeing you take up the--ps, ps,ps--the thing."
"He told you so?"
"Ask the governor if he did not--heard it like myself."
The person who was called the governor--Paganetti, to give him hisreal name--was a little, expressive man, constantly gesticulating andfatiguing to behold, so many were the different expressions which hisface would assume in the course of a single minute. He was managingdirector of the Territorial Bank of Corsica, a vast financialenterprise, and had now come to the house for the first time, introducedby Monpavon; he occupied accordingly a place of honour. On the otherside of the Nabob was an old gentleman, buttoned up to the chin in afrock-coat having a straight collar without lapels, like an Orientaltunic, his face slashed by a thousand little bloodshot veins and wearinga white moustache of military cut. It was Brahim Bey, the most valiantcolonel of the Regency of Tunis, aide-de-camp of the former Bey who hadmade the fortune of Jansoulet. The glorious exploits of this warriorshowed themselves written in wrinkles, in blemishes wrought bydebauchery upon the nerveless under-lip that hung as it were relaxed,and upon his eyes without lashes, inflamed and red. It was a head suchas one may see in the dock at certain criminal trials that are held withclosed doors. The other guests were seated pell-mell, just as they hadhappened to arrive or to find themselves, for the house was open toeverybody, and the table was laid every morning for thirty persons.
There were present the manager of the theatre financed by the Nabob,Cardailhac, renowned for his wit almost as much as for his insolvencies,a marvellous carver who, while he was engaged in severing the limbs ofa partridge, would prepare one of his witticisms and deposit it witha wing upon the plate which was presented to him. He worked up hiswitticisms instead of improvising them, and the new fashion of servingmeats, _a la Russe_ and carved beforehand, had been fatal to him by itsremoval of all excuse for a preparatory silence. Consequently it was thegeneral remark that his vogue was on the decline. Parisian, moreover,a dandy to the finger tips, and, as he himself was wont to boast, "withnot one particle of superstition in his whole body," a characteristicwhich permitted him to give very piquant details concerning the ladiesof his theatre to Brahim Bey--who listened to him as one turns over thepages of a naughty book--and to talk theology to the young priest whowas his nearest neighbour, a curate of some little southern village,lean and with a complexion sunburnt till it matched the cloth of hiscassock in colour, with fiery patches above the cheek-bones, and thepointed, forward-pushing nose of the ambitious man, who would remarkto Cardailhac very loudly, in a tone of protection and sacerdotalauthority:
"We are quite pleased with M. Guizot. He is doing very well--very well.It is a conquest for the Church."
Seated next this pontiff, with a black neck-band, old Schwalbach, thefamous picture-dealer, displayed his prophet's beard, tawny in placeslike a dirty fleece, his three overcoats tinged by mildew, all thatloose and negligent attire for which he was excused in the name of art,and because, in a time when the mania for picture galleries had alreadybegun to cause millions to change hands, it was the proper thing toentertain the man who was the best placed for the conduct of theseabsurdly vain transactions. Schwalbach did not speak, contenting himselfwith gazing around him through his enormous monocle, shaped like ahand magnifying-glass, and with smiling in his beard over the singularneighbours made by this unique assembly. Thus it happened that M. deMonpavon had quite close to him--and it was a sight to watch how thedisdainful curve of his nose was accentuated at each glance in thatdirection--the singer Garrigou, a fellow-countryman of Jansoulet, adistinguished ventriloquist who sang Figaro in the dialect of the south,and had no equal in his imitations of animals. Just beyond, Cabassu,another compatriot, a little short and dumpy man, with the neck of abull and the biceps of a statue by Michel Angelo, who suggested atonce a Marseilles hairdresser and the strong man at a fair, a masseur,pedicure, manicure, and something of a dentist, sat with elbows on thetable with the coolness of a charlatan whom one receives in the morningand knows the little infirmities, the intimate distresses of the abodein whic
h he chances to find himself. M. Bompain completed this arrayof subordinates, all alike in one respect at any rate, Bompain, thesecretary, the steward, the confidential agent, through whose hands theentire business of the house passed; and it sufficed to observe thatsolemnly stupid attitude, that indefinite manner, the Turkish fez placedawkwardly on a head suggestive of a village school-master, in order tounderstand to what manner of people interests like those of the Nabobhad been abandoned.
Finally, to fill the gaps among these figures I have sketched, theTurkish crowd--Tunisians, Moors, Egyptians, Levantines; and, mingledwith this exotic element, a whole variegated Parisian Bohemia of ruinednobleman, doubtful traders, penniless journalists, inventors of strangeproducts, people arrived from the south without a farthing, all the lostships needing revictualling, or flocks of birds wandering aimlessly inthe night, which were drawn by this great fortune as by the light of abeacon. The Nabob admitted this miscellaneous collection of individualsto his table out of kindness, out of generosity, out of weakness, byreason of his easy-going manners, joined to an absolute ignorance anda survival of that loneliness of the exile, of that need for expansionwhich, down yonder in Tunis, in his splendid palace of the Bardo, hadcaused him to welcome everybody who hailed from France, from the smalltradesman exporting Parisian wares to the famous pianist on tour and theconsul-general himself.
As one listened to those various accents, those foreign intonations,gruff or faltering, as one gazed upon those widely differentphysiognomies, some violent, barbarous, vulgar, others hyper-civilized,worn, suggestive only of the Boulevard and as it were flaccid, one notedthat the same diversity was evident also among the servants who, someapparently lads just out of an office, insolent in manner, with headsof hair like a dentist's or a bath-attendant's, busied themselves amongEthiopians standing motionless and shining like candelabra of blackmarble, and it was impossible to say exactly where one was; in any case,you would never have imagined yourself to be in the Place Vendome, rightin the beating heart and very centre of the life of our modern Paris.Upon the table there was a like importation of exotic dishes, saffron oranchovy sauces, spices mixed up with Turkish delicacies, chickens withfried almonds, and all this taken together with the banality of theinterior, the gilding of the panels, the shrill ringing of the newbells, gave the impression of a _table d'hote_ in some big hotelin Smyrna or Calcutta, or of a luxurious dining-saloon on board atransatlantic liner, the "Pereire" or the "Sinai."
It might seem that this diversity among the guests--I was about to sayamong the passengers--ought to have caused the meal to be animated andnoisy. Far otherwise. They all ate nervously, watching each other outof eye-corners, and even those most accustomed to society, those whoappeared the most at their ease, had in their glance the wandering lookand the distraction of a fixed idea, a feverish anxiety which causedthem to speak without relevance and to listen without understanding aword of what was being said to them.
Suddenly the door of the dining-room opened.
"Ah, here comes Jenkins!" exclaimed the Nabob delightedly. "Welcome,welcome, doctor. How are you, my friend?"
A smile to those around, a hearty shake of his host's hand, and Jenkinssat down opposite him, next to Monpavon, before a place at the tablewhich a servant had just prepared in all haste and without havingreceived any order, exactly as at a _table d'hote_. Among thosepreoccupied and feverish faces, this one at any rate stood out incontrast by its good humour, its cheerfulness, and that loquacious andflattering benevolence which makes the Irish in a way the Gascons ofEngland. And what a splendid appetite! With what heartiness, what easeof conscience he used his white teeth as he talked!
"Well, Jansoulet, you have read it?"
"What?"
"How, then! you do not know? You have not read what the _Messenger_ saysabout you this morning?"
Beneath the dark tan of his cheeks the Nabob blushed like a child, and,his eyes shining with pleasure:
"Is it possible--the _Messenger_ has spoken of me?"
"Through two columns. How is it that Moessard has not shown it to you?"
"Oh," put in Moessard modestly, "it was not worth the trouble."
He was a little journalist, with a fair complexion and smart in hisdress, sufficiently good-looking, but with a face which presentedthat worn appearance noticeable as the special mark of waiters innight-restaurants, actors, and light women, and produced by conventionalgrimacing and the wan reflection of gaslight. He was reputed to be thepaid lover of an exiled and profligate queen. The rumour was whisperedaround him, and, in his own world, secured him an envied and despicableposition.
Jansoulet insisted on reading the article, impatient to know what hadbeen said of him. Unfortunately Jenkins had left his copy at the duke's.
"Let some one go fetch me a _Messenger_ quickly," said the Nabob to theservant behind him.
Moessard intervened.
"It is needless. I must have the thing on me somewhere."
And with the absence of ceremony of the tavern _habitue_, of thereporter who scribbles his paragraph with his glass beside him, thejournalist drew out a pocket-book, crammed full of notes, stampedpapers, newspaper cuttings, notes written on glazed paper with crests,which he proceeded to litter over the table, pushing away his plate inorder to search for the proof of his article.
"There you are." He passed it over to Jansoulet; but Jenkins besoughthim:
"No, no; read it aloud."
The company having echoed the request in chorus, Moessard took back hisproof and commenced to read in a loud voice, "The Bethlehem Societyand Mr. Bernard Jansoulet," a long dithyramb in favour of artificiallactation, written from notes made by Jenkins, which were recognisablethrough certain fine phrases much affected by the Irishman, such as "thelong martyrology of childhood," "the sordid traffic in the breast," "thebeneficent nanny-goat as foster-mother," and finishing, after a pompousdescription of the splendid establishment at Nanterre, with a eulogyof Jenkins and a glorification of Jansoulet: "O Bernard Jansoulet,benefactor of childhood!" It was a sight to see the vexed, scandalizedfaces of the guests. What an intriguer was this Moessard! What animpudent piece of sycophantry! And the same envious, disdainful smilequivered on every mouth. And the deuce of it was that a man had toapplaud, to appear charmed, the master of the house not being weary asyet of incense, and taking everything very seriously, both the articleand the applause it provoked. His big face shone during the reading.Often, down yonder, far away, had he dreamed a dream of having hispraises sung like this in the newspapers of Paris, of being somebodyin that society, the first among all, on which the entire world has itseyes fixed as on the bearer of a torch. Now, that dream was becominga reality. He gazed upon all these people seated at his board, thesumptuous dessert, this panelled dining-room as high, certainly, as thechurch of his native village; he listened to the dull murmur of Parisrolling along in its carriages and treading the pavements beneath hiswindows, with the intimate conviction that he was about to becomean important piece in that active and complicated machine. And then,through the atmosphere of physical well-being produced by the meal,between the lines of that triumphant vindication, by an effect ofcontrast, he beheld unfold itself his own existence, his youth,adventurous as it was sad, the days without bread, the nights withoutshelter. Then suddenly, the reading having come to an end, his joyoverflowing in one of those southern effusions which force thoughtinto speech, he cried, beaming upon his guests with that frank andthick-lipped smile of his:
"Ah, my friends, my dear friends, if you could know how happy I am! Whatpride I feel!"
Scarce six weeks had passed since he had landed in France. Excepting twoor three compatriots, those whom he thus addressed as his friends werebut the acquaintances of a day, and that through his having lentthem money. This sudden expansion, therefore, appeared sufficientlyextraordinary; but Jansoulet, too much under the sway of emotion tonotice anything, continued:
"After what I have just heard, when I behold myself here in thisgreat Paris, surrounded by all its
wealth of illustrious names, ofdistinguished intellects, and then call up the remembrance of myfather's booth! For I was born in a booth. My father used to sell oldnails at the corner of a boundary stone in the Bourg-Saint-Andeol. If wehad bread in the house every day and stew every Sunday it was the mostwe had to expect. Ask Cabassu whether it was not so. He knew me in thosedays. He can tell you whether I am not speaking the truth. Oh, yes, Ihave known what poverty is." He threw back his head with an impulseof pride as he savoured the odour of truffles diffused through thesuffocating atmosphere. "I have known it, and the real thing too, andfor a long time. I have been cold. I have known hunger--genuine hunger,remember--the hunger that intoxicates, that wrings the stomach, setscircles dancing in your head, deprives you of sight as if the inside ofyour eyes was being gouged out with an oyster-knife. I have passed daysin bed for want of an overcoat to go out in; fortunate at that whenI had a bed, which was not always. I have sought my bread from everytrade, and that bread cost me such bitter toil, it was so black, sotough, that in my mouth I keep still the flavour of its acrid and mouldytaste. And thus until I was thirty. Yes, my friends, at thirty yearsof age--and I am not yet fifty--I was still a beggar, without a sou,without a future, with the remorseful thought of the poor old mother,become a widow, who was half-dying of hunger away yonder in her booth,and to whom I had nothing to give."
Around this Amphitryon recounting the story of his evil days the facesof his hearers expressed curiosity. Some appeared shocked, Monpavonespecially. For him, this exposure of rags was in execrable taste, anabsolute breach of good manners. Cardailhac, sceptical and dainty, anenemy to scenes of emotion, with face set as if it were hypnotized,sliced a fruit on the end of his fork into wafers as thin as cigarettepapers.
The governor exhibited, on the contrary, a flatly admiring demeanour,uttering exclamations of amazement and compassion; while, not far away,in singular contrast, Brahmin Bey, the thunderbolt of war, upon whomthis reading followed by a lecture after a heavy meal had had the effectof inducing a restorative slumber, slept with his mouth open beneath hiswhite moustache, his face congested by his collar, which had slippedup. But the most general expression was one of indifference and boredom.What could it matter to them, I ask you; what had they to do withJansoulet's childhood in the Bourg-Saint-Andeol, the trials he hadendured, the way in which he had trudged his path? They had not come tolisten to idle nonsense of that kind. Airs of interest falsely affected,glances that counted the ovals of the ceiling or the bread-crumbs on thetable-cloth, mouths compressed to stifle a yawn, betrayed, accordingly,the general impatience provoked by this untimely story. Yet he himselfseemed not to weary of it. He found pleasure in the recital of hissufferings past, even as the mariner safe in port, remembering hisvoyagings over distant seas, and the perils and the great shipwrecks.There followed the story of his good luck, the prodigious chance thathad placed him suddenly upon the road to fortune. "I was wandering aboutthe quays of Marseilles with a comrade as poverty-stricken as myself,who is become rich, he also, in the service of the Bey, and, afterhaving been my chum, my partner, is now my most cruel enemy. I maymention his name, _pardi_! It is sufficiently well known--Hemerlingue.Yes, gentlemen, the head of the great banking house. 'Hemerlingue &Co.' had not in those days even the wherewithal to buy a pennyworth of_clauvisses_ on the quay. Intoxicated by the atmosphere of travel thatone breathes down there, the idea came into our minds of starting out,of going to seek our livelihood in some country where the sun shines,since the lands of mist were so inhospitable to us. But where to go? Wedid what sailors sometimes do in order to decide in what low hole theywill squander their pay. You fix a scrap of paper on the brim of yourhat. You make the hat spin on a walking-stick; when it stops spinningyou follow the pointer. In our case the paper needle pointed towardsTunis. A week later I landed at Tunis with half a louis in my pocket,and I came back to-day with twenty-five millions!"
An electric shock passed round the table; there was a gleam in everyeye, even in those of the servants. Cardailhac said, "Phew!" Monpavon'snose descended to common humanity.
"Yes, my boys, twenty-five millions in liquidated cash, without speakingof all that I have left in Tunis, of my two palaces at the Bardo, of myvessels in the harbour of La Goulette, of my diamonds, of my preciousstones, which are worth certainly more than the double. And you know,"he added, with his kindly smile and in his hoarse, plebeian voice, "whenthat is done there will still be more."
The whole company rose to its feet, galvanized.
"Bravo! Ah, bravo!"
"Splendid!"
"Deuced clever--deuced clever!"
"Now, that is something worth talking about."
"A man like him ought to be in the Chamber."
"He will be, _per Bacco_! I answer for it," said the governor in apiercing voice; and in the transport of admiration, not knowing how toexpress his enthusiasm, he seized the fat, hairy hand of the Nabob andon an unreflective impulse raised it to his lips. They are demonstrativein his country. Everybody was standing up; no one sat down again.
Jansoulet, beaming, had risen in his turn, and, throwing down hisserviette: "Let us go and have some coffee," he said.
A glad tumult immediately spread through the salons, vast apartments inwhich light, decoration, sumptuousness, were represented by gold alone.It seemed to fall from the ceiling in blinding rays, it oozed fromthe walls in mouldings, sashes, framings of every kind. A little of itremained on your hands if you moved a piece of furniture or opened awindow; and the very hangings, dipped in this Pactolus, kept on theirstraight folds the rigidity, the sparkle of a metal. But nothing bearingthe least personal stamp, nothing intimate, nothing thought out. Themonotonous luxury of the furnished flat. And there was a re-enforcementof this impression of a moving camp, of a merely provisory home, in thesuggestion of travel which hovered like an uncertainty or a menace overthis fortune derived from far-off sources.
Coffee having been served, in the Eastern manner, with all its grounds,in little cups filigreed with silver, the guests grouped themselvesround, making haste to drink, scalding themselves, keeping watchful eyeson each other and especially on the Nabob as they looked out for thefavourable moment to spring upon him, draw him into some corner of thoseimmense rooms, and at length negotiate their loan. For this it was thatthey had been awaiting for two hours; this was the object of their visitand the fixed idea which gave them during the meal that absent, falselyattentive manner. But here no more constraint, no more pretence. In thatpeculiar social world of theirs it is of common knowledge that in theNabob's busy life the hour of coffee remains the only time free forprivate audiences, and each desiring to profit by it, all having comethere in order to snatch a handful of wool from the golden fleeceoffered them with so much good nature, people no longer talk, they nolonger listen, every man is absorbed in his own errand of business.
It is the good Jenkins who begins. Having drawn his friend Jansouletaside into a recess, he submits to him the estimates for the house atNanterre. A big purchase, indeed! A cash price of a hundred and fiftythousand francs, then considerable expenses in connection with gettingthe place into proper order, the personal staff, the bedding, thenanny-goats for milking purposes, the manager's carriage, the omnibusesgoing to meet the children coming by every train. A great deal of money.But how well off and comfortable they will be there, those dear littlethings! what a service rendered to Paris, to humanity! The Governmentcannot fail to reward with a bit of red ribbon so disinterested, sophilanthropic a devotion. "The Cross, on the 15th of August." With thesemagic words Jenkins will obtain everything he desires. In his merry,guttural voice, which seems always as though it were hailing a boat in afog, the Nabob calls, "Bompain!"
The man in the fez, quickly leaving the liqueur-stand, walksmajestically across the room, whispers, moves away, and returns withan inkstand and a counterfoil check-book from which the slips detachthemselves and fly away of their own accord. A fine thing, wealth!To sign a check on his knee for two hundred thousand francs troublesJan
soulet no more than to draw a louis from his pocket.
Furious, with noses in their cups, the others watch this little scenefrom a distance. Then, as Jenkins takes his departure, bright, smiling,with a nod to the various groups, Monpavon seizes the governor: "Now isour chance." And both, springing on the Nabob, drag him off towards acouch, oblige him almost forcibly to sit down, press upon each side ofhim with a ferocious little laugh that seems to signify, "What shall wedo with him now?" Get the money out of him, the largest amount possible.It is needed, to set afloat once more the Territorial Bank, for yearslain aground on a sand-bank, buried to the very top of its masts. Asuperb operation, this re-flotation, if these two gentlemen are to bebelieved, for the submerged bank is full of ingots, of precious things,of the thousand various forms of wealth of a new country discussed byeverybody and known by none.
In founding this unique establishment, Paganetti of Porto-Vecchio hadas his aim to monopolize the commercial development of the whole ofCorsica: iron mines, sulphur mines, copper mines, marble quarries,coral fisheries, oyster beds, water ferruginous and sulphurous, immenseforests of thuya, of cork-oak, and to establish for the facilitation ofthis development a network of railways over the island, with a serviceof packet-boats in addition. Such is the gigantic undertaking to whichhe has devoted himself. He has sunk considerable capital in it, and itis the new-comer, the workman of the last hour, who will gain the wholeprofit.
While with his Italian accent and violent gestures the Corsicanenumerates the "splendours" of the affair, Monpavon, haughty, and withan air calculated to command confidence, nods his head approvingly withconviction, and from time to time, when he judges the moment propitious,throws into the conversation the name of the Duc de Mora, which neverfails in its effect on the Nabob.
"Well, in short, how much would be required?"
"Millions," says Monpavon boldly, in the tone of a man who would haveno difficulty in addressing himself elsewhere. "Yes, millions; but theenterprise is magnificent. And, as his excellency was saying, it wouldprovide even a political position. Just think! In that district withouta metallic currency, you might become counsellor-general, deputy." TheNabob gives a start. And the little Paganetti, who feels the bait quiveron his hook: "Yes, deputy. You will be that whenever I choose. At a signfrom me all Corsica is at your disposal." Then he launches out into anastonishing improvisation, counting the votes which he controls, thecantons which will obey his call. "You bring me your capital. I--I giveyou an entire people." The cause is gained.
"Bompain, Bompain!" calls the Nabob, roused to enthusiasm. He has nowbut one fear, that is lest the thing escape him; and in order to bindPaganetti, who has not concealed his need of money, he hastens toeffect the payment of a first instalment to the Territorial bank. Newappearance of the man in red breeches with the check-book which hecarries clasped gravely to his chest, like a choir-boy moving the Gospelfrom one side to the other. New inscription of Jansoulet's signatureupon a slip, which the governor pockets with a negligent air and whichoperates on his person a sudden transformation. The Paganetti who wasso humble and spiritless just now, goes away with the assurance of aman worth four hundred thousand francs, while Monpavon, carrying it evenhigher than usual, follows after him in his steps, and watches over himwith a more than paternal solicitude.
"That's a good piece of business done," says the Nabob to himself. "Ican drink my coffee now."
But the borrowers are waiting for him to pass. The most prompt, the mostadroit, is Cardailhac, the manager, who lays hold of him and bears himoff into a side-room.
"Let us have a little talk, old friend. I must explain to you thesituation of affairs in connection with our theatre." Very complicated,doubtless, the situation; for here is M. Bompain who advances once more,and there are the slips of blue paper flying away from the check-book.Whose turn now? There is the journalist Moessard coming to draw hispay for the article in the _Messenger_; the Nabob will find out what itcosts to have one's self called "benefactor of childhood" in the morningpapers. There is the parish priest from the country who demands fundsfor the restoration of his church, and takes checks by assault with thebrutality of a Peter the Hermit. There is old Schwalbach coming up withnose in his beard and winking mysteriously.
"Sh! He had found a pearl for monsieur's gallery, an Hobbema from thecollection of the Duc de Mora. But several people are after it. It willbe difficult--"
"I must have it at any price," says the Nabob, hooked by the name ofMora. "You understand, Schwalbach. I must have this Hobbema. Twentythousand francs for you if you secure it."
"I shall do my utmost, M. Jansoulet."
And the old rascal calculates, as he goes away, that the twenty thousandof the Nabob added to the ten thousand promised him by the duke if hegets rid of his picture for him, will make a nice little profit forhimself.
While these fortunate ones follow each other, others look on around,wild with impatience, biting their nails to the quick, for all are comeon the same errand. From the good Jenkins, who opened the advance, tothe masseur Cabassu, who closes it, all draw the Nabob away to someroom apart. But, however far they lead him down this gallery ofreception-rooms, there is always some indiscreet mirror to reflect theprofile of the host and the gestures of his broad back. That back haseloquence. Now and then it straightens itself up in indignation."Oh, no; that is too much." Or again it sinks forward with a comicalresignation. "Well, since it must be so." And always Bompain's fez insome corner of the view.
When those are finished, others arrive. They are the small fry whofollow in the wake of the big eaters in the ferocious hunts of therivers. There is a continual coming and going through these handsomewhite-and-gold drawing rooms, a noise of doors, an established currentof bare-faced and vulgar exploitation attracted from the four corners ofParis and the suburbs by this gigantic fortune and incredible facility.
For these small sums, these regular distributions, recourse was not hadto the check-book. For such purposes the Nabob kept in one of hisrooms a mahogany chest of drawers, a horrible little piece of furniturerepresenting the savings of a house porter, the first that Jansoulet hadbought when he had been able to give up living in furnished apartments;which he had preserved since, like a gambler's fetish; and the threedrawers of which contained always two hundred thousand francs in cash.It was to this constant supply that he had recourse on the days of hislarge receptions, displaying a certain ostentation in the way in whichhe would handle the gold and silver, by great handfuls, thrusting it tothe bottom of his pockets to draw it out thence with the gesture ofa cattle dealer; a certain vulgar way of raising the skirts of hisfrock-coat and of sending his hand "to the bottom and into the pile."To-day there must be a terrible void in the drawers of the little chest.
After so many mysterious whispered confabulations, demands more or lessclearly formulated, chance entries and triumphant departures, the lastclient having been dismissed, the chest of drawers closed and locked,the flat in the Place Vendome began to empty in the uncertain light ofthe afternoon towards four o'clock, that close of the November days soexceedingly prolonged afterward by artificial light. The servants wereclearing away the coffee and the raki, and bearing off the open andhalf-emptied cigar-boxes. The Nabob, thinking himself alone, gave a sighof relief. "Ouf! that's over." But no. Opposite him, some one comes outfrom a corner that is already dark, and approaches with a letter in hishand.
Another!
And at once, mechanically, the poor man made that eloquent,horse-dealer's gesture of his. Instinctively, also, the visitor showed amovement of recoil so prompt, so hurt, that the Nabob understood that hewas making a mistake, and took the trouble to examine the young man whostood before him, simply but correctly dressed, of a dull complexion,without the least sign of a beard, with regular features, perhaps alittle too serious and fixed for his age, which, aided by his hair ofpale blond colour, curled in little ringlets like a powdered wig, gavehim the appearance of a young deputy of the Commons under Louis XVI, thehead of a Barnave at twenty!
This face, although the Nabob beheld it forthe first time, was not absolutely unknown to him.
"What do you desire, monsieur?"
Taking the letter which the young man held out to him, he went to awindow in order to see to read it.
"Te! It is from mamma."
He said it with so happy an air; that word "mamma" lit up all his facewith so young, so kind a smile, that the visitor, who had been at firstrepulsed by the vulgar aspect of this _parvenu_, felt himself filledwith sympathy for him.
In an undertone the Nabob read these few lines written in an awkwardhand, incorrect and shaky, which contrasted with the large glazednote-paper, with its heading "Chateau de Saint-Romans."
"My dear son, this letter will be delivered to you by the eldest son ofM. de Gery, the former justice of the peace for Bourg-Saint-Andeol, whohas shown us so much kindness."
The Nabob broke off his reading.
"I ought to have recognised you, M. de Gery. You resemble your father.Sit down, I beg of you."
Then he finished running through the letter. His mother asked himnothing precise, but, in the name of the services which the de Geryfamily had rendered them in former years, she recommended M. Paul tohim. An orphan, burdened with the care of his two young brothers, he hadbeen called to the bar in the south, and was now coming to Paris to seekhis fortune. She implored Jansoulet to aid him, "for he needed it badly,poor fellow," and she signed herself, "Thy mother who pines for thee,Francoise."
This letter from his mother, whom he had not seen for six years, thoseexpressions of the south country of which he could hear the intonationsthat he knew so well, that coarse handwriting which sketched for him anadored face, all wrinkled, scored, and cracked, but smiling beneath itspeasant's head-dress, had affected the Nabob. During the six weeksthat he had been in France, lost in the whirl of Paris, the business ofgetting settled in his new habitation, he had not yet given a thoughtto his dear old lady at home; and now he saw all of her again in theselines. He remained a moment looking at the letter, which trembled in hisheavy fingers.
Then, this emotion having passed:
"M. de Gery," said he, "I am glad of the opportunity which is about topermit me to repay to you a little of the kindness which your family hasshown to mine. From to-day, if you consent, I take you into my house.You are educated, you seem intelligent, you can be of great serviceto me. I have a thousand plans, a thousand affairs in hand. I am beingdrawn into a crowd of large industrial enterprises. I want some one whowill aid me; represent me at need. I have indeed a secretary, a steward,that excellent Bompain, but the unfortunate fellow knows nothing ofParis; he has been, as it were, bewildered ever since his arrival. Youwill tell me that you also come straight from the country, but thatdoes not matter. Well brought up as you are, a southerner, alert andadaptable, you will quickly pick up the routine of the Boulevard. Forthe rest, I myself undertake your education from that point of view. Ina few weeks you will find yourself, I answer for it, as much at home inParis as I am."
Poor man! It was touching to hear him speak of his Parisian habits, andof his experience; he whose destiny it was to be always a beginner.
"Now, that is understood, is it not? I engage you as secretary. You willhave a fixed salary which we will settle directly, and I shall provideyou with the opportunity to make your fortune rapidly."
And while de Gery, raised suddenly above all the anxieties of anewcomer, of one who solicits a favour, of a neophyte, did not move forfear of awaking from a dream:
"Now," said the Nabob to him in a gentle voice, "sit down there, nextme, and let us talk a little about mamma."