“Do you want to set up a paper?” asked Thuillier, in dread.
“I?” asked la Peyrade, “I want nothing at all; you are the one to be asked if you want to be a deputy.”
“Undoubtedly I do; because, when you urged me to become a municipal councillor, you put the idea into my head. But reflect, my dear Theodose, one hundred and eighty one thousand three hundred and twenty francs to put out! Have I a fortune large enough to meet such a demand?”
“Yes,” said la Peyrade, “you could very well support that expense, for considering the end you want to obtain there is nothing exorbitant in it. In England they make much greater sacrifices to get a seat in Parliament; but in any case, I beg you to observe that the costs are very high on that estimate, and some could be cut off altogether. For instance, you would not want an administrator. You, yourself, an old accountant, and I, an old journalist, can very well manage the affair between us. Also rent, we needn’t count that; you have your old apartment in the rue Saint-Dominique which is not yet leased; that will make a fine newspaper office.”
“All that costs off two thousand four hundred francs a year,” said Thuillier.
“Well, that’s something; but your error consists in calculating on the yearly cost. When do the elections take place?”
“In two months,” said Thuillier.
“Very good; two months will cost you thirty thousand francs, even supposing the paper had no subscribers.”
“True,” said Thuillier, “the expense is certainly less than I thought at first. But does a newspaper really seem to you essential?”
“So essential that without that power in our hands, I won’t have anything to do with the election. You don’t seem to see, my poor fellow, that in going to live in the other quarter you have lost, electorally speaking, an immense amount of ground. You are no longer the man of the place, and your election could be balked by the cry of what the English call ‘absenteeism.’ This makes your game very hard to play.”
“I admit that,” said Thuillier; “but there are so many things wanted besides money,—a name for one thing, a manager, editorial staff, and so forth.”
“A name, we have one made to hand; editors, they are you and I and a few young fellows who grow on every bush in Paris. As for the manager, I have a man in view.”
“What name is it?” asked Thuillier.
“L’Echo de la Bievre.”
“But there is already a paper of that name.”
“Precisely, and that’s why I give my approval to the affair. Do you think I should be fool enough to advise you to start an entirely new paper? ‘Echo de la Bievre!’ that title is a treasure to a man who wants support for his candidacy in the 12th arrondissement. Say the word only, and I put that treasure into your hands.”
“How?” asked Thuillier, with curiosity.
“Parbleu! by buying it; it can be had for a song.”
“There now, you see,” said Thuillier in a discouraged tone; “you never counted in the cost of purchase.”
“How you dwell on nothings!” said la Peyrade, hunching his shoulders; “we have other and more important difficulties to solve.”
“Other difficulties?” echoed Thuillier.
“Parbleu!” exclaimed la Peyrade; “do you suppose that after all that has taken place between us I should boldly harness myself to your election without knowing exactly what benefit I am to get for it?”
“But,” said Thuillier, rather astonished, “I thought that friendship was a good exchange for such services.”
“Yes; but when the exchange consists in one side giving all and the other side nothing, friendship gets tired of that sort of sharing, and asks for something a little better balanced.”
“But, my dear Theodose, what have I to offer you that you have not already rejected?”
“I rejected it, because it was offered without heartiness, and seasoned with Mademoiselle Brigitte’s vinegar; every self-respecting man would have acted as I did. Give and keep don’t pass, as the old legal saying is; but that is precisely what you persist in doing.”
“I!—I think you took offence very unreasonably; but the engagement might be renewed.”
“So be it,” replied la Peyrade; “but I will not put myself at the mercy of either the success of the election or Mademoiselle Celeste’s caprices. I claim the right to something positive and certain. Give and take; short accounts make good friends.”
“I perfectly agree with you,” said Thuillier, “and I have always treated you with too much good faith to fear any of these precautions you now want to take. But what guarantees do you want?”
“I want that the husband of Celeste should manage your election, and not Theodose de la Peyrade.”
“By hurrying things as much as possible, so Brigitte said, it would still take fifteen days; and just think, with the elections only eight weeks off, to lose two of them doing nothing!”
“Day after to-morrow,” replied la Peyrade, “the banns can be published for the first time at the mayor’s office, in the intervals of publication some things could be done, for though the publishing of the banns is not a step from which there is no retreat, it is at least a public pledge and a long step taken; after that we can get your notary to draw the contract at once. Moreover, if you decide on buying this newspaper, I shouldn’t be afraid that you would go back on me, for you don’t want a useless horse in your stable, and without me I am certain you can’t manage him.”
“But, my dear fellow,” said Thuillier, going back to his objections, “suppose that affair proves too onerous?”
“There’s no need to say that you are the sole judge of the conditions of the purchase. I don’t wish any more than you do to buy a pig in a poke. If to-morrow you authorize me, I won’t say to buy, but to let these people know that you may possibly make the purchase, I’ll confer with one of them on your behalf, and you may be certain that I’ll stand up for your interests as if they were my own.”
“Very good, my dear fellow,” said Thuillier, “go ahead!”
“And as soon as the paper is purchased we are to fix the day for signing the contract?”
“Yes,” replied Thuillier; “but will you bind yourself to use your utmost influence on the election?”
“As if it were my own,” replied la Peyrade, “which, by the bye, is not altogether an hypothesis. I have already received suggestions about my own candidacy, and if I were vindictive—”
“Certainly,” said Thuillier, with humility, “you would make a better deputy than I; but you are not of the required age, I think.”
“There’s a better reason than that,” said la Peyrade; “you are my friend; I find you again what you once were, and I shall keep the pledges I have given you. As for the election, I prefer that people say of me, ‘He makes deputies, but will be none himself.’ Now I must leave you and keep my appointment. To-morrow in my own rooms, come and see me; I shall have something to announce.”
Whoso has ever been a newspaper man will ever be one; that horoscope is as sure and certain as that of drunkards. Whoever has tasted that feverishly busy and relatively lazy and independent life; whoever has exercised that sovereignty which criticises intellect, art, talent, fame, virtue, absurdity, and even truth; whoever has occupied that tribune erected by his own hands, fulfilled the functions of that magistracy to which he is self-appointed,—in short, whosoever has been, for however brief a span, that proxy of public opinion, looks upon himself when remanded to private life as an exile, and the moment a chance is offered to him puts out an eager hand to snatch back his crown.
For this reason when Etienne Lousteau went to la Peyrade, a former journalist, with an offer of the weapon entitled the “Echo de la Bievre,” all the latter’s instincts as a newspaper man were aroused, in spite of the very inferior quality of the blade. The paper had failed; la Peyrade believed he could revive it. The subscribers, on the vendor’s own showing, were few and far between, but he would exercise upon them a “compelle intrare” both powerful and irresistible. In the circumstances under which the affair was presented to him it might surely be considered provincial. Threatened with the loss of his position at the bar, he was thus acquiring, as we said before, a new position and that of a “detached fort”; compelled, as he might be, to defend himself, he could from that vantage-ground take the offensive and oblige his enemies to reckon with him.
On the Thuillier side, the newspaper would undoubtedly make him a personage of considerable importance; he would have more power on the election; and by involving their capital in an enterprise which, without him, they would feel a gulf and a snare, he bound them to him by self-interests so firmly that there was nothing to fear from their caprice or ingratitude.
This horizon, rapidly taken in during Etienne Lousteau’s visit, had fairly dazzled the Provencal, and we have seen the peremptory manner in which Thuillier was forced into accepting with some enthusiasm the discovery of this philosopher’s-stone.
The cost of the purchase was ridiculously insignificant. A bank-note for five hundred francs, for which Etienne Lousteau never clearly accounted to the share-holders, put Thuillier in possession of the name, property, furniture, and good-will of the newspaper, which he and la Peyrade at once busied themselves in reorganizing.
While this regeneration was going on, Cerizet went one morning to see du Portail, with whom la Peyrade was now more than ever determined to hold no communication.
“Well,” said the little old man to the poor man’s banker, “what effect did the news we gave to the president of the bar produce on our man? Did the affair get wind at the Palais?”
“Phew!” said Cerizet, whose intercourse, no doubt pretty frequent, with du Portail had put him on a footing of some familiarity with the old man, “there’s no question of that now. The eel has wriggled out of our hands; neither softness nor violence has any effect upon that devil of a man. He has quarrelled with the bar, and is in better odor than ever with Thuillier. ‘Necessity,’ says Figaro, ‘obliterates distance.’ Thuillier needs him to push his candidacy in the quartier Saint-Jacques, so they kissed and made up.”
“And no doubt,” said du Portail, without much appearance of feeling, “the marriage is fixed for an early day?”
“Yes,” replied Cerizet, “but there’s another piece of work on hand. That crazy fellow has persuaded Thuillier to buy a newspaper, and he’ll make him sink forty thousand francs in it. Thuillier, once involved, will want to get his money back, and in my opinion they are bound together for the rest of their days.”
“What paper is it?”
“Oh, a cabbage-leaf that calls itself the ‘Echo de la Bievre’!” replied Cerizet with great scorn; “a paper which an old hack of a journalist on his last legs managed to set up in the Mouffetard quarter by the help of a lot of tanners—that, you know, is the industry of the quarter. From a political and literary point of view the affair is nothing at all, but Thuillier has been made to think it a masterly stroke.”
“Well, for local service to the election the instrument isn’t so bad,” remarked du Portail. “La Peyrade has talent, activity, and much resource of mind; he may make something out of that ‘Echo.’ Under what political banner will Thuillier present himself?”
“Thuillier,” replied the beggars’ banker, “is an oyster; he hasn’t any opinions. Until the publication of his pamphlet he was, like all those bourgeois, a rabid conservative; but since the seizure he has gone over to the Opposition. His first stage will probably be the Left-centre; but if the election wind should blow from another quarter, he’ll go straight before it to the extreme left. Self-interest, for those bourgeois, that’s the measure of their convictions.”
“Dear, dear!” said du Portail, “this new combination of la Peyrade’s may assume the importance of a political danger from the point of view of my opinions, which are extremely conservative and governmental.” Then, after a moment’s reflection, he added, “I think you did newspaper work once upon a time; I remember ‘the courageous Cerizet.’”
“Yes,” replied the usurer, “I even managed one with la Peyrade,—an evening paper; and a pretty piece of work we did, for which we were finely recompensed.”
“Well,” said du Portail, “why don’t you do it again,—journalism, I mean,—with la Peyrade.”
Cerizet looked at du Portail in amazement.
“Ah ca!” he cried, “are you the devil, monsieur? Can nothing ever be hidden from you?”
“Yes,” said du Portail, “I know a good many things. But what has been settled between you and la Peyrade?”
“Well, remembering my experience in the business, and not knowing whom else to get, he offered to make me manager of the paper.”
“I did not know that,” said du Portail, “but it was quite probable. Did you accept?”
“Conditionally; I asked time for reflection. I wanted to know what you thought of the offer.”
“Parbleu! I think that out of an evil that can’t be remedied we should get, as the proverb says, wing or foot. I had rather see you inside than outside of that enterprise.”
“Very good; but in order to get into it there’s a difficulty. La Peyrade knows I have debts, and he won’t help me with the thirty-three-thousand francs’ security which must be paid down in my name. I haven’t got them, and if I had, I wouldn’t show them and expose myself to the insults of creditors.”
“You must have a good deal left of that twenty-five thousand francs la Peyrade paid you not more than two months ago,” remarked du Portail.
“Only two thousand two hundred francs and fifty centimes,” replied Cerizet. “I was adding it up last night; the rest has all gone to pay off pressing debts.”
“But if you have paid your debts you haven’t any creditors.”
“Yes, those I’ve paid, but those I haven’t paid I still owe.”
“Do you mean to tell me that your liabilities were more than twenty-five thousand francs?” said du Portail, in a tone of incredulity.
“Does a man go into bankruptcy for less?” replied Cerizet, as though he were enunciating a maxim.
“Well, I see I am expected to pay that sum myself,” said du Portail, crossly; “but the question is whether the utility of your presence in this enterprise is worth to me the interest on one hundred and thirty-three thousand, three hundred and thirty-three francs, thirty-three centimes.”
“Hang it!” said Cerizet, “if I were once installed near Thuillier, I shouldn’t despair of soon putting him and la Peyrade at loggerheads. In the management of a newspaper there are lots of inevitable disagreements, and by always taking the side of the fool against the clever man, I can increase the conceit of one and wound the conceit of the other until life together becomes impossible. Besides, you spoke just now of political danger; now the manager of a newspaper, as you ought to know, when he has the intellect to be something better than a man of straw, can quietly give his sheet a push in the direction wanted.
“There’s a good deal of truth in that,” said du Portail, “but defeat to la Peyrade, that’s what I am thinking about.”
“Well,” said Cerizet, “I think I have another nice little insidious means of demolishing him with Thuillier.”
“Say what it is, then!” exclaimed du Portail, impatiently; “you go round and round the pot as if I were a man it would do you some good to finesse with.”
“You remember,” said Cerizet, coming out with it, “that some time ago Dutocq and I were much puzzled to know how la Peyrade was, all of a sudden, able to make that payment of twenty-five thousand francs?”
“Ha!” said the old man quickly, “have you discovered the origin of that very improbable sum in our friend’s hands; and is that origin shady?”
“You shall judge,” said Cerizet.
And he related in all its details the affair of Madame Lambert,—adding, however, that on questioning the woman closely at the office of the justice-of-peace, after the meeting with la Peyrade, he had been unable to extract from her any confession, although by her whole bearing she had amply confirmed the suspicions of Dutocq and himself.
“Madame Lambert, rue du Val-de-Grace, No. 9; at the house of Monsieur Picot, professor of mathematics,” said du Portail, as he made a note of the information. “Very good,” he added; “come back and see me to-morrow, my dear Monsieur Cerizet.”
“But please remark,” said the usurer, “that I must give an answer to la Peyrade in the course of to-day. He is in a great hurry to start the business.”
“Very well; you must accept, asking a delay of twenty-four hours to obtain your security. If, after making certain inquiries I see it is more to my interests not to meddle in the affair, you can get out of it by merely breaking your word; you can’t be sent to the court of assizes for that.”
Independently of a sort of inexplicable fascination which du Portail exercised over his agent, he never lost an opportunity to remind him of the very questionable point of departure of their intercourse.
The next day Cerizet returned.
“You guessed right,” said du Portail. “That woman Lambert, being obliged to conceal the existence of her booty, and wanting to draw interest on her stolen property, must have taken it into her head to consult la Peyrade; his devout exterior may have recommended him to her. She probably gave him that money without taking a receipt. In what kind of money was Dutocq paid?”
“In nineteen thousand-franc notes, and twelve of five-hundred francs.”
“That’s precisely it,” said du Portail. “There can’t be the slightest doubt left. Now, what use do you expect to make of this information bearing upon Thuillier.”
“I expect to put it into his head that la Peyrade, to whom he is going to give his goddaughter and heiress, is over head and ears in debt; that he makes enormous secret loans; and that in order to get out of his difficulties he means to gnaw the newspaper to the bone; and I shall insinuate that the position of a man so much in debt must be known to the public before long, and become a fatal blow to the candidate whose right hand he is.”
“That’s not bad,” said du Portail; “but there’s another and even more conclusive use to be made of the discovery.”
“Tell me, master; I’m listening,” said Cerizet.
“Thuillier has not yet been able, has he, to explain to himself the reason of the seizure of the pamphlet?”
“Yes, he has,” replied Cerizet. “La Peyrade was telling me only yesterday, by way of explaining Thuillier’s idiotic simplicity, that he had believed a most ridiculous bit of humbug. The ‘honest bourgeois’ is persuaded that the seizure was instigated by Monsieur Olivier Vinet, substitute to the procureur-general. The young man aspired for a moment to the hand of Mademoiselle Colleville, and the worthy Thuillier has been made to imagine that the seizure of his pamphlet was a revenge for the refusal.”
“Good!” said du Portail; “to-morrow, as a preparation for the other version of which you are to be the organ, Thuillier shall receive from Monsieur Vinet a very sharp and decided denial of the abuse of power he foolishly gave ear to.”
“Will he?” said Cerizet, with curiosity.
“But another explanation must take its place,” continued du Portail; “you must assure Thuillier that he is the victim of police machinations. That is all the police is good for, you know,—machinations.”
“I know that very well; I’ve made that affirmation scores of times when I was working for the republican newspapers and—”
“When you were ‘the courageous Cerizet,’” interrupted du Portail. “Well, the present machination, here it is. The government was much displeased at seeing Thuillier elected without its influence to the Council-general of the Seine; it was angry with an independent and patriotic citizen who showed by his candidacy that he could do without it; and it learned, moreover, that this excellent citizen was preparing a pamphlet on the subject, always a delicate one, of the finances, as to which this dangerous adversary had great experience. So, what did this essentially corrupt government do? It suborned a man in whom, as it learned, Thuillier placed confidence, and for a sum of twenty-five thousand francs (a mere trifle to the police), this treacherous friend agreed to insert into the pamphlet three or four phrases which exposed it to seizure and caused its author to be summoned before the court of assizes. Now the way to make the explanation clinch the doubt in Thuillier’s mind is to let him know that the next day la Peyrade, who, as Thuillier knew, hadn’t a sou, paid Dutocq precisely that very sum of twenty-five thousand francs.”
“The devil!” cried Cerizet, “it isn’t a bad trick. Fellows of the Thuillier species will believe anything against the police.”
“We shall see, then,” continued du Portail, “whether Thuillier will want to keep such a collaborator beside him, and above all, whether he will be so eager to give him his goddaughter.”
“You are a strong man, monsieur,” said Cerizet, again expressing his approbation; “but I must own that I feel some scruples at the part assigned me. La Peyrade came and offered me the management of the paper, and, you see, I should be working to evict him.”
“And that lease he knocked you out of in spite of his promises, have you forgotten that?” asked the little old man. “Besides, are we not aiming for his happiness, though the obstinate fellow persists in thwarting our benevolent intentions?”
“It is true,” said Cerizet, “that the result will absolve me. Yes, I’ll go resolutely along the ingenious path you’ve traced out for me. But there’s one thing more: I can’t fling my revelation at Thuillier’s head at the very first; I must have time to prepare the way for it, but that security will have to be paid in immediately.”
“Listen to me, Monsieur Cerizet,” said du Portail, in a tone of authority; “if the marriage of la Peyrade to my ward takes place it is my intention to reward your services, and the sum of thirty thousand francs will be your perquisite. Now, thirty thousand from one side and twenty-five thousand from the other makes precisely fifty-five thousand francs that the matrimonial vicissitudes of your friend la Peyrade will have put into your pocket. But, as country people do at the shows of a fair, I shall not pay till I come out. If you take that money out of your own hoard I shall feel no anxiety; you will know how to keep it from the clutches of your creditors. If, on the contrary, my money is at stake, you will have neither the same eagerness nor the same intelligence in keeping it out of danger. Therefore arrange your affairs so that you can pay down your own thirty-three thousand; in case of success, that sum will bring you in pretty nearly a hundred per cent. That’s my last word, and I shall not listen to any objections.”
Cerizet had no time to make any, for at that moment the door of du Portail’s study opened abruptly, and a fair, slender woman, whose face expressed angelic sweetness, entered the room eagerly. On her arm, wrapped in handsome long clothes, lay what seemed to be the form of an infant.
“There!” she said, “that naughty Katte insisted that the doctor was not here. I knew perfectly well that I had seen him enter. Well, doctor,” she continued, addressing Cerizet, “I am not satisfied with the condition of my little one, not satisfied at all; she is very pallid, and has grown so thin. I think she must be teething.”
Du Portail made Cerizet a sign to accept the role so abruptly thrust upon him.
“Yes, evidently,” he said, “it is the teeth; children always turn pale at that crisis; but there’s nothing in that, my dear lady, that need make you anxious.”
“Do you really think so, doctor,” said the poor crazed girl, whom our readers have recognized as du Portail’s ward, Lydie de la Peyrade; “but see her dear little arms, how thin they are getting.”
Then taking out the pins that fastened the swathings, she exhibited to Cerizet a bundle of linen which to her poor distracted mind represented a baby.
“Why, no, no,” said Cerizet, “she is a trifle thin, it is true, but the flesh is firm and her color excellent.”
“Poor darling!” said Lydie, kissing her dream lovingly. “I do think she is better since morning. What had I better give her, doctor? Broth disgusts her, and she won’t take soup.”
“Well,” said Cerizet, “try panada. Does she like sweet things?”
“Oh, yes!” cried the poor girl, her face brightening, “she adores them. Would chocolate be good for her?”
“Certainly,” replied Cerizet, “but without vanilla; vanilla is very heating.”
“Then I’ll get what they call health-chocolate,” said Lydie, with all the intonations of a mother, listening to the doctor as to a god who reassured her. “Uncle,” she added, “please ring for Bruneau, and tell him to go to Marquis at once and get some pounds of that chocolate.”
“Bruneau has just gone out,” said her guardian; “but there’s no hurry, he shall go in the course of the day.”
“There, she is going to sleep,” said Cerizet, anxious to put an end to the scene, which, in spite of his hardened nature, he felt to be painful.
“True,” said the girl, replacing the bandages and rising; “I’ll put her to bed. Adieu, doctor; it is very kind of you to come sometimes without being sent for. If you knew how anxious we poor mothers are, and how, with a word or two, you can do us such good. Ah, there she is crying!”
“She is so sleepy,” said Cerizet; “she’ll be much better in her cradle.”
“Yes, and I’ll play her that sonata of Beethoven that dear papa was so fond of; it is wonderful how calming it is. Adieu, doctor,” she said again, pausing on the threshold of the door. “Adieu, kind doctor!” And she sent him a kiss.
Cerizet was quite overcome.
“You see,” said du Portail, “that she is an angel,—never the least ill-humor, never a sharp word; sad sometimes, but always caused by a feeling of motherly solicitude. That is what first gave the doctors the idea that if reality could take the place of her constant hallucination she might recover her reason. Well, this is the girl that fool of a Peyrade refuses, with the accompaniment of a magnificent ‘dot.’ But he must come to it, or I’ll forswear my name. Listen,” he added as the sound of a piano came to them; “hear! what talent! Thousands of sane women can’t compare with her; they are not as reasonable as she is, except on the surface.”
When Beethoven’s sonata, played from the soul with a perfection of shades and tones that filled her hardened hearer with admiration, had ceased to sound, Cerizet said:—
“I agree with you, monsieur; la Peyrade refuses an angel, a treasure, a pearl, and if I were in his place—But we shall bring him round to your purpose. Now I shall serve you not only with zeal, but with enthusiasm, I may say fanaticism.”
As Cerizet was concluding this oath of fidelity at the door of the study, he heard a woman’s voice which was not that of Lydie.
“Is he in his study, the dear commander?” said that voice, with a slightly foreign accent.
“Yes, madame, but please come into the salon. Monsieur is not alone; I will tell him you are here.”
This was the voice of Katte, the old Dutch maid.
“Stop, go this way,” said du Portail quickly to Cerizet.
And he opened a hidden door which led through a dark corridor directly to the staircase, whence Cerizet betook himself to the office of the “Echo de la Bievre,” where a heated discussion was going on.
The article by which the new editors of every newspaper lay before the public their “profession of faith,” as the technical saying is, always produces a laborious and difficult parturition. In this particular case it was necessary, if not openly to declare Thuillier’s candidacy, to at least make it felt and foreseen. The terms of the manifesto, after la Peyrade had made a rough draft of it, were discussed at great length. This discussion took place in Cerizet’s presence, who, acting on du Portail’s advice, accepted the management, but postponed the payment of the security till the next day, through the latitude allowed in all administrations for the accomplishment of that formality.
Cleverly egged on by this master-knave, who, from the start, made himself Thuillier’s flatterer, the discussion became stormy, and presently bitter; but as, by the deed of partnership the deciding word was left to la Peyrade in all matters concerning the editorship, he finally closed it by sending the manifesto, precisely as he had written it, to the printing office.
Thuillier was incensed at what he called an abuse of power, and finding himself alone with Cerizet later in the day, he hastened to pour his griefs and resentments into the bosom of his faithful manager, thus affording the latter a ready-made and natural opportunity to insinuate the calumnious revelation agreed upon with du Portail. Leaving the knife in the wound, Cerizet went out to make certain arrangements to obtain the money necessary for his bond.
Tortured by the terrible revelation, Thuillier could not keep it to himself; he felt the need of confiding it, and of talking over the course he would be compelled to take by this infernal discovery. Sending for a carriage he drove home, and half an hour later he had told the whole story to his Egeria.
Brigitte had from the first very vehemently declared against all the determinations made by Thuillier during the last few days. For no purpose whatever, not even for the sake of her brother’s election, would she agree to a renewal of the relation to la Peyrade. In the first place, she had treated him badly, and that was a strong reason for disliking him; then, in case that adventurer, as she now called him, married Celeste, the fear of her authority being lessened gave her a species of second-sight; she had ended by having an intuitive sense of the dark profundities of the man’s nature, and now declared that under no circumstances and for no possible price would she make one household with him.
“Ruin yourself if you choose,” she said, “you are the master of that, and you can do as you like; a fool and his money are soon parted.”
When, therefore, she listened to her brother’s confidences it was not with reproaches, but, on the contrary, with a crow of triumph, celebrating the probable return of her power, that she welcomed them.
“So much the better!” she cried; “it is well to know at last that the man is a spy. I always thought so, the canting bigot! Turn him out of doors without an explanation. WE don’t want him to work that newspaper. This Monsieur Cerizet seems, from what you tell me, the right sort of man, and we can get another manager. Besides, when Madame de Godollo went away she promised to write to me; and she can easily put us in the way of finding some one. Poor, dear Celeste! what a fate we were going to give her!”
“How you run on!” said Thuillier. “La Peyrade, my dear, is so far only accused. He must be heard in his defence. And besides, there’s a deed that binds us.”
“Ah, very good!” said Brigitte; “I see how it will be; you’ll let that man twist you round his finger again. A deed with a spy! As if there could be deeds with such fellows.”
“Come, come, be calm, my good Brigitte,” returned Thuillier. “We mustn’t do anything hastily. Certainly, if la Peyrade cannot furnish a justification, clear, categorical, and convincing, I shall decide to break with him, and I’ll prove to you that I am no milksop. But Cerizet himself is not certain; these are mere inductions, and I only came to consult you as to whether I ought, or ought not, to demand an explanation outright.”
“Not a doubt about it,” replied Brigitte. “You ought to demand an explanation and go to the bottom of this thing; if you don’t, I cast you off as my brother.”
“That suffices,” said Thuillier, leaving the room with solemnity; “you shall see that we will come to an understanding.”
On his return to the office after his conference with Brigitte, Thuillier found la Peyrade at his post as editor-in-chief, and in a position of much embarrassment, caused by the high hand he had reserved for himself as the sole selector of articles and contributors. At this moment, Phellion, instigated by his family, and deeply conscious of his position on the reading-committee of the Odeon, had come to offer his services as dramatic critic.
“My dear monsieur,” he said, continuing his remarks to la Peyrade, after inquiring of Thuillier about his health, “I was a great student of the theatre in my youth; the stage and its scenic effects continue to have for me peculiar attractions; and the white hairs which crown my brow to-day seem to me no obstacle to my allowing your interesting publication to profit by the fruit of my studies and my experience. As member of the reading-committee of the Odeon theatre, I am conversant with the modern drama, and—if I may be quite sure of your discretion—I will even confide to you that among my papers it would not be impossible for me to find a certain tragedy entitled ‘Sapor,’ which in my young days won me some fame when read in salons.”
“Ah!” said la Peyrade, endeavoring to gild the refusal he should be forced to give, “why not try to have it put upon the stage? We might be able to help you in that direction.”
“Certainly,” said Thuillier, “the director of any theatre to whom we should recommend—”
“No,” replied Phellion. “In the first place, as member of the reading-committee of the Odeon, having to sit in judgment upon others, it would not become me to descend into the arena myself. I am an old athlete, whose business it is to judge of blows he can no longer give. In this sense, criticism is altogether within my sphere, and all the more because I have certain views on the proper method of composing dramatic feuilletons which I think novel. The ‘castigat ridendo mores’ ought to be, according to my humble lights, the great law, I may say the only law of the stage. I should therefore show myself pitiless for those works, bred of imagination, in which morality has no part, and to which mothers of families—”
“Excuse me,” said la Peyrade, “for interrupting you; but before allowing you to take the trouble to develop your poetical ideas, I ought to tell you that we have already made arrangements for our dramatic criticism.”
“Ah! that’s another thing,” said Phellion; “an honest man must keep his word.”
“Yes,” said Thuillier, “we have our dramatic critic, little thinking that you would offer us your valuable assistance.”
“Well,” said Phellion, suddenly becoming crafty,—for there is something in the newspaper atmosphere, impossible to say what, which flies to the head, the bourgeois head especially,—“since you are good enough to consider my pen capable of doing you some service, perhaps a series of detached thoughts on different subjects, to which I should venture to give the name of ‘Diversities,’ might be of a nature to interest your readers.”
“Yes,” said la Peyrade, with a maliciousness that was quite lost upon Phellion, “thoughts, especially in the style of la Rochefoucauld or la Bruyere, might do. What do you think yourself, Thuillier?”
He reserved to himself the right to leave the responsibility of refusals, as far as he could, to the proprietor of the paper.
“But I imagine that thoughts, especially if detached, cannot be very consecutive,” said Thuillier.
“Evidently not,” replied Phellion; “detached thoughts imply the idea of a very great number of subjects on which the author lets his pen stray without the pretension of presenting a whole.”
“You will of course sign them?” said la Peyrade.
“Oh, no!” replied Phellion, alarmed. “I could not put myself on exhibition in that way.”
“Your modesty, which by the bye I understand and approve, settles the matter,” said la Peyrade. “Thoughts are a subject altogether individual, which imperatively require to be personified by a name. You must be conscious of this yourself. ‘Divers Thoughts by Monsieur Three-Stars’ says nothing to the public.”
Seeing that Phellion was about to make objections, Thuillier, who was in a hurry to begin his fight with la Peyrade, cut the matter short rather sharply.
“My dear Phellion,” he said, “I beg your pardon for not being able to enjoy the pleasure of your conversation any longer, but we have to talk, la Peyrade and I, over a matter of much importance, and in newspaper offices this devilish time runs away so fast. If you are willing, we will postpone the question to another day. Madame Phellion is well, I trust?”
“Perfectly well,” said the great citizen, rising, and not appearing to resent his dismissal. “When does your first number appear?” he added; “it is eagerly awaited in the arrondissement.”
“To-morrow I think our confession of faith will make its appearance,” replied Thuillier, accompanying him to the door. “You will receive a copy, my dear friend. We shall meet again soon, I hope. Come and see us, and bring that manuscript; la Peyrade’s point of view may be a little arbitrary.”
With this balm shed upon his wound, Phellion departed, and Thuillier rang the bell for the porter.
“Could you recognize the gentlemen who has just gone out the next time you see him?” asked Thuillier.
“Oh, yes, m’sieu, his round ball of a head is too funny to forget; besides, it is Monsieur Phellion; haven’t I opened the door to him hundreds of times?”
“Well, whenever he comes again neither I nor Monsieur de la Peyrade will be here. Remember that’s a positive rule. Now leave us.”
“The devil!” cried la Peyrade, when the two partners were alone, “how you manage bores. But take care; among the number there may be electors. You did right to tell Phellion you would send him a copy of the paper; he has a certain importance in the quarter.”
“Well,” said Thuillier, “we can’t allow our time to be taken up by all the dull-heads who come and offer their services. But now you and I have to talk, and talk very seriously. Be seated and listen.”
“Do you know, my dear fellow,” said la Peyrade, laughing, “that journalism is making you into something very solemn? ‘Be seated, Cinna,’—Caesar Augustus couldn’t have said it otherwise.”
“Cinnas, unfortunately, are more plentiful than people think,” replied Thuillier.
He was still under the goad of the promise he had made to Brigitte, and he meant to fulfil it with cutting sarcasm. The top continued the whirling motion imparted to it by the old maid’s lash.
La Peyrade took a seat at the round table. As he was puzzled to know what was coming, he endeavored to seem unconcerned, and picking up the large scissors used for the loans which all papers make from the columns of their brethren of the press, he began to snip up a sheet of paper, on which, in Thuillier’s handwriting, was an attempt at a leading article, never completed.
Though la Peyrade was seated and expectant, Thuillier did not begin immediately; he rose and went toward the door which stood ajar, with the intention of closing it. But suddenly it was flung wide open, and Coffinet appeared.
“Will monsieur,” said Coffinet to la Peyrade, “receive two ladies? They are very well-dressed, and the young one ain’t to be despised.”
“Shall I let them in?” said la Peyrade to Thuillier.
“Yes, since they are here,” growled Thuillier; “but get rid of them as soon as possible.”
Coffinet’s judgment on the toilet of the two visitors needs revision. A woman is well-dressed, not when she wears rich clothes, but when her clothes present a certain harmony of shapes and colors which form an appropriate and graceful envelope to her person. Now a bonnet with a flaring brim, surmounted by nodding plumes, an immense French cashmere shawl, worn with the awkward inexperience of a young bride, a plaid silk gown with enormous checks and a triple tier of flounces with far too many chains and trinkets (though to be just, the boots and gloves were irreproachable), constituted the apparel of the younger of these ladies. As for the other, who seemed to be in the tow of her dressy companion, she was short, squat, and high-colored, and wore a bonnet, shawl, and gown which a practised eye would at once have recognized as second hand. Mothers of actresses are always clothed by this very economical process. Their garments, condemned to the service of two generations, reverse the order of things, and go from descendants to ancestors.
Advancing two chairs, la Peyrade inquired, “To whom have I the honor of speaking?”
“Monsieur,” said the younger visitor, “I am a dramatic artist, and as I am about to make my first appearance in this quarter, I allow myself to hope that a journal of this locality will favor me.”
“At what theatre?” asked la Peyrade.
“The Folies, where I am engaged for the Dejazets.”
“The Folies?” echoed la Peyrade, in a tone that demanded an explanation.
“Folies-Dramatiques,” interposed the agreeable Madame Cardinal, whom the reader has doubtless recognized.
“When do you appear?” asked la Peyrade.
“Next week, monsieur,—a fairy piece in which I play five parts.”
“You’ll encourage her, monsieur, won’t you?” said Madame Cardinal, in a coaxing voice; “she’s so young, and I can certify she works day and night.”
“Mother!” said Olympe, with authority, “the public will judge me; all I want is that monsieur will kindly promise to notice my debut.”
“Very good, mademoiselle,” said la Peyrade in a tone of dismissal, beginning to edge the pair to the door.
Olympe Cardinal went first, leaving her mother to hurry after her as best she could.
“At home to no one!” cried Thuillier to the office-boy as he closed the door and slipped the bolt. “Now,” he said, addressing la Peyrade, “we will talk. My dear fellow,” he went on, starting with irony, for he remembered to have heard that nothing was more confusing to an adversary, “I have heard something that will give you pleasure. I know now why MY pamphlet was seized.”
So saying, he looked fixedly at la Peyrade.
“Parbleu!” said the latter in a natural tone of voice, “it was seized because they chose to seize it. They wanted to find, and they found, because they always find the things they want, what the king’s adherents call ‘subversive doctrine.’”
“No, you are wrong,” said Thuillier; “the seizure was planned, concocted, and agreed upon before publication.”
“Between whom?” asked la Peyrade.
“Between those who wanted to kill the pamphlet, and the wretches who were paid to betray it.”
“Well, in any case, those who paid,” said la Peyrade, “got mighty little for their money; for, persecuted though it was, I don’t see that your pamphlet made much of a stir.”
“Those who sold may have done better?” said Thuillier with redoubled irony.
“Those who sold,” returned la Peyrade, “were the cleverer of the two.”
“Ah, I know,” said Thuillier, “that you think a great deal of cleverness; but allow me to tell you that the police, whose hand I see in all this, doesn’t usually throw its money away.”
And again he looked fixedly at la Peyrade.
“So,” said the barrister, without winking, “you have discovered that the police had plotted in advance the smothering of your pamphlet?”
“Yes, my dear fellow; and what is more, I know the actual sum paid to the person who agreed to carry out this honorable plot.”
“The person,” said la Peyrade, thinking a moment,—“perhaps I know the person; but as for the money, I don’t know a word about that.”
“Well, I can tell you the amount. It was twenty-five—thousand—francs,” said Thuillier, dwelling on each word; “that was the sum paid to Judas.”
“Oh! excuse me, my dear fellow, but twenty-five thousand francs is a good deal of money. I don’t deny that you have become an important man; but you are not such a bugbear to the government as to lead it to make such sacrifices. Twenty-five thousand francs is as much as would ever be given for the suppression of one of those annoying pamphlets about the Civil list. But our financial lucubrations didn’t annoy in that way; and such a sum borrowed from the secret-service money for the mere pleasure of plaguing you, seems to me rather fabulous.”
“Apparently,” said Thuillier, acrimoniously, “this honest go-between had some interest in exaggerating my value. One thing is very sure; this monsieur had a debt of twenty-five thousand francs which harassed him much; and a short time before the seizure this same monsieur, who had no means of his own, paid off that debt; and unless you can tell me where else he got the money, the inference I think is not difficult to draw.”
It was la Peyrade’s turn to look fixedly at Thuillier.
“Monsieur Thuillier,” he said, raising his voice, “let us get out of enigmas and generalities; will you do me the favor to name that person?”
“Well, no,” replied Thuillier, striking his hand upon the table, “I shall not name him, because of the sentiments of esteem and affection which formerly united us; but you have understood me, Monsieur la Peyrade.”
“I ought to have known,” said the Provencal, in a voice changed by emotion, “that in bringing a serpent to this place I should soon be soiled by his venom. Poor fool! do you not see that you have made yourself the echo of Cerizet’s calumny?”
“Cerizet has nothing to do with it; on the contrary, he has told me the highest good of you. How was it, not having a penny the night before,—and I had reason to know it,—that you were able to pay Dutocq the round sum of twenty-five thousand francs the next day?”
La Peyrade reflected for a moment.
“No,” he said, “it was not Dutocq who told you that. He is not a man to wrestle with an enemy of my strength without a strong interest in it. It was Cerizet; he’s the infamous calumniator, from whose hands I wrenched the lease of your house near the Madeleine,—Cerizet, whom in kindness, I went to seek on his dunghill that I might give him the chance of honorable employment; that is the wretch, to whom a benefit is only an encouragement to treachery. Tiens! if I were to tell you what that man is I should turn you sick with disgust; in the sphere of infamy he has discovered worlds.”
This time Thuillier made an able reply.
“I don’t know anything about Cerizet except through you,” he said; “you introduced him to me as a manager, offering every guarantee; but, allowing him to be blacker than the devil, and supposing that this communication comes from him, I don’t see, my friend, that all that makes YOU any the whiter.”
“No doubt I was to blame,” said la Peyrade, “for putting such a man into relations with you; but we wanted some one who understood journalism, and that value he really had for us. But who can ever sound the depths of souls like his? I thought him reformed. A manager, I said to myself, is only a machine; he can do no harm. I expected to find him a man of straw; well, I was mistaken, he will never be anything but a man of mud.”
“All that is very fine,” said Thuillier, “but those twenty-five thousand francs found so conveniently in your possession, where did you get them? That is the point you are forgetting to explain.”
“But to reason about it,” said la Peyrade; “a man of my character in the pay of the police and yet so poor that I could not pay the ten thousand francs your harpy of a sister demanded with an insolence which you yourself witnessed—”
“But,” said Thuillier, “if the origin of this money is honest, as I sincerely desire it may be, what hinders you from telling me how you got it?”
“I cannot,” said la Peyrade; “the history of that money is a secret entrusted to me professionally.”
“Come, come, you told me yourself that the statutes of your order forbid all barristers from doing business of any kind.”
“Let us suppose,” said la Peyrade, “that I have done something not absolutely regular; it would be strange indeed after what I risked, as you know, for you, if you should have the face to reproach me with it.”
“My poor friend, you are trying to shake off the hounds; but you can’t make me lose the scent. You wish to keep your secret; then keep it. I am master of my own confidence and my own esteem; by paying you the forfeit stipulated in our deed I take the newspaper into my own hands.”
“Do you mean that you dismiss me?” cried la Peyrade. “The money that you have put into the affair, all your chances of election, sacrificed to the calumnies of such a being as Cerizet!”
“In the first place,” said Thuillier, “another editor-in-chief can be found; it is a true saying that no man is indispensable. As for election to the Chamber I would rather never receive it than owe it to the help of one who—”
“Go on,” said la Peyrade, seeing that Thuillier hesitated, “or rather, no, be silent, for you will presently blush for your suspicions and ask my pardon humbly.”
By this time la Peyrade saw that without a confession to which he must compel himself, the influence and the future he had just recovered would be cut from under his feet. Resuming his speech he said, solemnly:—
“You will remember, my friend, that you were pitiless, and, by subjecting me to a species of moral torture, you have forced me to reveal to you a secret that is not mine.”
“Go on,” said Thuillier, “I take the whole responsibility upon myself. Make me see the truth clearly in this darkness, and if I have done wrong I will be the first to say so.”
“Well,” said la Peyrade, “those twenty-five thousand francs are the savings of a servant-woman who came to me and asked me to take them and to pay her interest.”
“A servant with twenty-five thousand francs of savings! Nonsense; she must serve in monstrously rich households.”
“On the contrary, she is the one servant of an infirm old savant; and it was on account of the discrepancy which strikes your mind that she wanted to put her money in my hands as a sort of trustee.”
“Bless me! my friend,” said Thuillier, flippantly, “you said we were in want of a romance-feuilletonist; but really, after this, I sha’n’t be uneasy. Here’s imagination for you!”
“What?” said la Peyrade, angrily, “you don’t believe me?”
“No, I do not believe you. Twenty-five thousand francs savings in the service of an old savant! that is about as believable as the officer of La Dame Blanche buying a chateau with his pay.”
“But if I prove to you the truth of my words; if I let you put your finger upon it?”
“In that case, like Saint Thomas, I shall lower my flag before the evidence. Meanwhile you must permit me, my noble friend, to wait until you offer me that proof.”
Thuillier felt really superb.
“I’d give a hundred francs,” he said to himself, “if Brigitte could have been here and heard me impeach him.”
“Well,” said la Peyrade, “suppose that without leaving this office, and by means of a note which you shall read, I bring into your presence the person from whom I received the money; if she confirms what I say will you believe me?”
This proposal and the assurance with which it was made rather staggered Thuillier.
“I shall know what to do when the time comes,” he replied, changing his tone. “But this must be done at once, now, here.”
“I said, without leaving this office. I should think that was clear enough.”
“And who will carry the note you write?” asked Thuillier, believing that by thus examining every detail he was giving proofs of amazing perspicacity.
“Carry the note! why, your own porter of course,” replied la Peyrade; “you can send him yourself.”
“Then write it,” said Thuillier, determined to push him to the wall.
La Peyrade took a sheet of paper with the new heading and wrote as follows, reading the note aloud:—