Money (Oxford World’s Classics)

  Saccard, powerful now and once again the master, expected to be obeyed, knowing he had a grip on all of them through their hope of gain and terror of loss in the colossal game of fortune he was playing with them.

  ‘Ah, so there you are!’ he cried on seeing Huret. ‘Was it to present the great man with a framed copy of your article that you stayed so late in the Chamber?… I’ve had enough, you know, of these puffs of incense you’re blowing in his face, and I’ve been waiting for you to tell you that that’s all over, in future you’ll have to give us something else.’

  Stunned, Huret looked at Jantrou. But the latter, determined not to cause any trouble for himself by coming to his aid, was now running his fingers through his beautiful beard, his eyes far away.

  ‘What do you mean, something else?’ Huret finally asked. ‘I’ve been giving you what you asked for! When you took over L’Espérance, that established paper of Catholicism and royalty which was running such a brutal campaign against Rougon, it was you who asked me to write a series of laudatory articles to show your brother that you had no hostile intent against him, and also to indicate in this way the new policy of the paper.’

  ‘The policy of the paper, yes indeed,’ Saccard went on more vehemently, ‘it’s of compromising the policy of the paper that I’m accusing you… Do you think I want to become my brother’s vassal? Certainly I’ve never stinted my admiration and grateful affection for the Emperor, I never forget the debt we all owe him and what I, in particular, owe him. But it’s not attacking the Empire—on the contrary, it’s doing one’s duty as a loyal citizen—to point out the mistakes that are made… And that’s what the policy of the paper is, devotion to the dynasty but total independence with regard to the ministers, and the ambitious personages who bustle about and fight for the favours of the Tuileries.’

  And he launched into a review of the political situation to prove that the Emperor was being ill-advised. He accused Rougon of having lost his authoritative energy, his former faith in absolute power, even of flirting with liberal ideas, with the sole aim of keeping his portfolio. For himself, beating his fist against his chest, he declared himself unchangeable, a Bonapartist from the very start,* believing in the coup d’état and convinced that the salvation of France lay now, as always, in the genius and strength of one man. Yes, rather than helping along his brother’s career, rather than letting the Emperor commit suicide by making new concessions, he would make common cause with the Catholics to halt the rapid fall he saw coming. And Rougon should take care, for L’Espérance could take up again its campaign in favour of Rome.

  Huret and Jantrou listened, amazed at his anger, never having suspected him of such ardent political beliefs. Huret decided to try to defend the government’s most recent acts.

  ‘But look, my dear fellow, if the Empire is moving towards liberty it’s because all of France is pushing firmly in that direction… the Emperor is being carried along, and Rougon has no option but to follow.’

  But Saccard had already moved on to other grievances, without bothering to bring any logic into his attacks.

  ‘And anyway, it’s the same with our external situation, it’s simply deplorable… Since the Treaty of Villafranca, after Solferino, Italy has borne us a grudge for not following through to the end of the campaign and not giving her the Veneto; so now she is allied with Prussia, in the conviction that the latter will help her to beat Austria… When war breaks out you’ll see what ructions there’ll be and what trouble we’ll have; all the more so in that we made the great mistake of allowing Bismarck* and Kaiser Wilhelm* to seize the Duchies in the Denmark affair in contempt of a treaty signed by France: that was a slap in the face, there’s no denying it, and all we can do is turn the other cheek… Ah! War is certain, you remember the big drop in French and Italian securities last month, when it was thought we might possibly intervene in the affairs of Germany. Within a fortnight, perhaps, Europe will be ablaze.’

  Huret, more and more surprised, grew quite passionate, which was rare for him.

  ‘You’re talking just like the Opposition newspapers, but you surely don’t want L’Espérance to fall in behind Le Siècle* and the rest… All you need do now is insinuate, as those papers do, that if the Emperor allowed himself to be humiliated in the matter of the Duchies, and if he allows Prussia with impunity to grow ever larger it’s just because he had immobilized an entire army corps for many months in Mexico. Look here now, let’s be fair, Mexico is over and our troops are coming back… And really, I don’t understand you my dear fellow, if you want to keep Rome for the Pope why do you seem to find fault with the hasty peace of Villafranca? Giving the Veneto to Italy means having the Italians in Rome* within two years, you know it as well as I do, and Rougon knows it too, even if he swears to the contrary from the platform…’

  ‘Ah, you see how wily he is!’ cried Saccard triumphantly. ‘The Pope will never be touched, do you hear, without the whole of Catholic France rising up in his defence… We would take our money to him—yes, all the money of the Universal! I have my plans, this is very much our concern, and really, exasperating me like this you’d make me say things I’m not yet ready to say!’

  Jantrou, very interested in all this, had quickly pricked up his ears, beginning to understand and trying to take full advantage of a word caught on the wing.

  ‘In the end,’ Huret resumed, ‘I want to know where I stand, personally, with regard to my articles, and we need to come to an agreement… Do you want an intervention or not? If we are in favour of the principle of nationhood, what right would we have to go meddling in the affairs of Italy and Germany?… Do you want us to run a campaign against Bismarck? Yes! In the name of the threat to our frontiers…’

  But Saccard, beside himself and on his feet now, burst out:

  ‘What I want is for Rougon to stop treating me like a fool!… What? After all I’ve done! I buy a newspaper which was his worst enemy and make of it an organ devoted to his policies, allowing you to sing his praises month after month. And never once does the beggar give us a hand, I’m still waiting for the slightest favour from him!’

  Timidly, Huret remarked that over there in the East the minister’s support had greatly helped the engineer Hamelin, opening doors for him and putting pressure on certain people.

  ‘Oh, don’t bother me with stuff like that! He couldn’t do otherwise… But has he ever warned me when there’s going to be a rise or fall in the market, he who is so well placed to know such things? Remember, I have asked you so many times to sound him out, you who see him every day, and you have yet to bring me one real bit of useful information. It wouldn’t be very hard, just one little word that you’d repeat to me.’

  ‘No doubt! But he doesn’t like doing that, he says it’s skulduggery and one always ends up regretting it.’

  ‘Come now! Does he have such scruples with Gundermann? He goes on about honesty with me and gives information to Gundermann.’

  ‘Oh, Gundermann, no doubt! They all need Gundermann, they would never be able to get a loan without him.’

  Saccard at once clapped his hands in a violent gesture of triumph.

  ‘Now we get to it. You admit it! The Empire has sold out to the Jews, the dirty Jews. All our money is condemned to fall into their grasping claws. All the Universal can do is crumble before their omnipotence.’

  And he gave vent to his hereditary hatred, repeating his accusations against that race of traffickers and usurers, marching for centuries through whole peoples, sucking their blood like the parasites of scabies and ringworm, going on even when spat upon and beaten, on to their certain conquest of the world which they will one day possess through the invincible power of gold. And he was especially furious against Gundermann, yielding to his long resentment and his unrealizable and mad desire to bring him down, and this in spite of a foreboding that Gundermann was the stumbling-block over which he would crash if it ever came to a struggle with him. Ah, that Gundermann! Inwardly a Prussian, although born in Fra
nce! For of course he was on the side of the Prussians, he would gladly have supported them with his money, perhaps he even already did so in secret. Had he not dared to say, one evening in a salon, that if ever a war broke out between Prussia and France, France would be defeated!’

  ‘I’ve had enough, do you understand, Huret! And get this firmly into your head, that if my brother does nothing for me I intend to do nothing for him either… When you bring me a helpful word from him—by which I mean a bit of information we can make use of—I shall let you resume your dithyrambs in his favour. Is that clear?’

  It was all too clear. Jantrou, on finding once more under the political theorist the Saccard he knew, had again started to comb his beard with his fingers. But Huret, upset in his prudent Normandy-peasant scheming, looked very troubled, for he had banked his fortune on the two brothers and was anxious not to quarrel with either of them.

  ‘You’re right,’ he murmured, ‘let’s play it down a bit, especially as we need to see how things turn out. And I promise to do all I can to win the great man’s confidence. The first bit of news he gives me, I’ll leap into a cab and bring it to you.’

  Saccard, having played his part, was already joking.

  ‘It’s for all of you that I’m working, my good friends… For myself, I’ve always been ruined and I’ve always got through a million a year.’

  And returning to the matter of publicity:

  ‘Ah, by the way, Jantrou, you could really brighten up your Bourse bulletin a bit… Yes, you know, some jokes and puns. The public likes that sort of thing, nothing like wit to help people to swallow things… Isn’t that so? A few puns!’

  It was the turn of the editor to be put out. He prided himself on literary distinction. But he had to promise. And when he invented a story about some very respectable ladies who had offered to have advertisements tattooed on the most delicate parts of their person, the three men, laughing very loudly, became once more the best of friends.

  Meanwhile, Jordan had at last finished his column and was very impatient to see his wife return. Some contributors arrived, and he chatted to them then returned to the antechamber. There he was slightly shocked to find Dejoie with his ear planted against the director’s door, listening while his daughter Nathalie kept watch.

  ‘Don’t go in,’ stammered the office-boy, ‘Monsieur Saccard is still there: I thought I heard someone calling me…’

  The truth was that, bitten by a fierce desire for gain since he had bought eight fully paid-up shares in the Universal with the four thousand francs of savings left by his wife, he now lived only for the joy of seeing those shares rising; and in total subservience to Saccard, gathering up his lightest remark like the words of an oracle, he couldn’t resist, when he knew he was there, his need to know what Saccard really thought, what the god said in the secrecy of the sanctuary. But it was not selfishness, he was thinking only of his daughter, and he was elated by the calculation that, at the rate of seven hundred and fifty francs, his eight shares had already made him a profit of twelve hundred francs which, added to the capital, made five thousand two hundred francs. With a rise of only a hundred francs he would have the six thousand francs he dreamed of, the dowry required by the cardboard-manufacturer to allow his son to marry Nathalie. At this thought his heart melted, and he looked, with tears in his eyes, at this child he had brought up, whose real mother he had been in the happy little household they had made together since her return from the wet-nurse.

  But in his embarrassment he went on talking, saying anything at all to try and cover up his indiscretion.

  ‘Nathalie dropped in to say hello to me and just bumped into your wife, Monsieur Jordan.’

  ‘Yes,’ the girl went on, ‘she was just turning into the Rue Feydeau. My goodness, she was really running!’

  Her father allowed Nathalie to go out as she pleased, having confidence in her, he said. And he was right to count on her good behaviour, for she was really too cold and too determined to ensure her own happiness to compromise the long-planned marriage by any foolishness. With her slight figure and large eyes in a pale and pretty face, she loved only herself, with a selfish and smiling obstinacy.

  Jordan, surprised and not understanding, cried out:

  ‘What was that? In the Rue Feydeau?’

  And he didn’t have time for any other questions, for Marcelle arrived, breathless. He at once took her into the nearby office but found the law-court reporter there, so he simply sat with her on a bench at the end of the corridor.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well my dear, it’s done, but it wasn’t easy.’

  He saw she had a heavy heart despite her satisfaction: and she told him everything, talking quickly and quietly; she had promised herself she would hold some things back from him, but in vain, for she could not keep secrets.

  For some time the Maugendres had been changing their behaviour towards their daughter. She had been finding them less loving, more preoccupied, slowly taken over by their new passion—speculation. It was the usual story: the father, a stout, bald, and rather placid man with white whiskers, and the mother, lean and energetic, having earned her share in their fortune, both now living altogether too comfortably on their income of fifteen thousand francs and bored with doing nothing. He had had no other distraction than getting his money. In those days he used to thunder against every kind of gambling, and would shrug his shoulders in anger and pity at the poor fools who got themselves robbed in a heap of stupid and dirty swindles. But a little later, having been repaid a substantial sum, he’d had the idea of using it for loans to speculators;* that wasn’t gambling, it was merely investment; but from that day on he had acquired the habit of carefully reading the share-prices on the Bourse after breakfast. And the evil had started there; the fever had gradually taken hold, as he watched the giddy dance of the prices and lived in that poisoned air of speculation, his imagination haunted by the idea of millions to be made in one hour, when he had spent thirty years just to earn a few hundred thousand francs. He couldn’t help talking about this with his wife at every mealtime, telling her what gains he might have made if only he hadn’t sworn never to gamble! And he would explain the whole operation, manipulating his funds with the cunning tactics of an armchair general, always triumphing over his imaginary opponents in the end, for he prided himself on having become a real expert in the matter of premiums and speculative loans. His wife became anxious and said she’d rather go and drown herself right away than see him risking a sou; but he reassured her, what did she take him for? He would never do that! However, an opportunity had arisen; for some time they had both been madly longing to have a little greenhouse built in their garden, for five or six thousand francs, and one evening, his hands trembling with a delightful emotion, he had placed on his wife’s sewing-table the six notes needed, saying he had just won them on the Bourse: it had been a sure thing, an extravagance he promised never to repeat, and he had risked it simply because of the greenhouse. She, torn between anger and astonished delight, had not dared to reprove him. The following month he launched into some transactions in options, explaining that he had nothing to fear so long as he was limiting his loss. And anyway, what the devil! There were after all some good things to be found, it would be really stupid of him just to let others profit from them. And, inevitably, he had begun to gamble seriously, in a small way at first then gradually getting bolder, while his wife, still agitated by her anxieties as a good housewife but with her eyes lighting up at the slightest gain, went on warning him that he would die in the poor-house.

  But it was Captain Chave, Madame Maugendre’s brother, who particularly scolded his brother-in-law. Unable to manage on the eighteen hundred francs of his pension, he did indeed play the market but was extremely clever about it. He went to the Bourse like a clerk going to his office, working solely in cash and delighted when he took home his twenty-franc coin in the evening: his were daily, very safe transactions, so modest that they were beyond the reach of disaster.
His sister had offered him a room in her house, too big now that Marcelle was married, but he had refused, wanting to be free to indulge his vices, and he occupied one room at the bottom of a garden in the Rue Nollet, where the swish of skirts was often heard. His winnings were spent on sweets and cakes for his lady-friends. He had always warned Maugendre, telling him not to speculate but to enjoy life instead; and when the latter cried: ‘What about you?’, he would gesture vigorously and say Oh! for him it was different; he didn’t have an income of fifteen thousand francs—otherwise…! And if he was speculating, the fault lay with the filthy government that grudged old soldiers the enjoyment of their old age. His main argument against speculation was that the gambler is mathematically bound to lose: if he wins he has to deduct brokerage and stamp tax; if he loses he still has to pay these same taxes on top of his loss; so even if he wins as often as he loses he is still out of pocket for brokerage and stamp tax. At the Paris Bourse these taxes annually produce the enormous sum of eighty million francs. And he insisted on this figure, eighty million francs, collected by the state, the brokers, and the bucket-shops.

  On the bench at the end of the corridor Marcelle was relating a part of this story to her husband.

  ‘My dear, I have to say it was a bad time to arrive. Mama was quarrelling with Papa over a loss he’d made at the Bourse… Yes, it seems he’s there all the time now. It seems so strange to me, he who only believed in work… Well, they were arguing, and there was a newspaper, La Cote financière, that Mama was shaking under his nose, shouting at him that he had no idea and that she herself had foreseen the fall. Then he went to get another paper, L’Espérance in fact, and tried to show her the article in which he had got his information… Just imagine, the whole house is full of newspapers, they are buried in them from morning till night, and I think—God forgive me!—that Mama is also beginning to gamble, in spite of looking angry.’

  Jordan could not help laughing, so comically had she mimed the scene in her distress.