and there is no law against that. As to this unfortunate girl, after all, it is her own fault! Why did she not repulse him? Then she would not have committed a crime,—a monstrous crime! which really puts all society to the blush.' And the hatter or the furrier would be right,—perfectly right. What is there to criminate this gentleman? Of what complicity, direct or indirect, moral or material, can he be charged? This lucky rogue has seduced a pretty girl, and he it is who has brought her there; he does not deny it; where is the law that prevents or punishes him? Society merely says: There are gay young fellows abroad,—let the pretty girls beware! But if a poor wretch, through want or stupidity, constraint, or ignorance of the laws which he cannot read, buys knowingly a rag which has been stolen, he will be sent to the galleys for twenty years as a receiver, if such be the punishment for the theft itself. This is logical, powerful reasoning,—'Without receivers there would be no thieves, without thieves there would be no receivers.' No, no more pity, then—even less pity—for him who excites to the evil than he who perpetrates it. Let the smallest degree of complicity be visited with terrible punishment! Good; there is in that a serious and fertile thought, high and moral. We should bow before Society which had dictated such a law; but we remember that this Society, so inexorable towards the smallest complicity of crime against things, is so framed that a simple and ingenuous man, who should try to prove that there is at least moral similarity, material complicity, between the fickle seducer and the seduced and forsaken girl, would be laughed at as a visionary. And if this simple man were to assert that without a father there would, in all probability, not be offspring, Society would exclaim against the atrocity,—the folly! And it would be right,—quite right; for, after all, this gay youth who might say these fine things to the jury, however little he might like tragic emotions, might yet go tranquilly to see his mistress executed,—executed for child-murder, a crime to which he was an accessory; nay more, the author, in consequence of his shameless abandonment! Does not this charming protection, granted to the male portion of society for certain gay doings suggested by the god of Love, show plainly that France still sacrifices to the Graces, and is still the most gallant nation in the world?"
At the period when the events were passing which we are now relating, at one end of the Rue du Sentier a long old wall extended, covered with a coat of whitewash, and the top garnished with a row of broken flint-glass bottles; this wall, bounding on one side the garden of Jacques Ferrand, the notary, terminated with a corps de logis facing the street, only one story high, with garrets. Two large escutcheons of gilt copper, emblems of the notarial residence, flanked the worm-eaten porte cochère, of which the primitive colour was no longer to be distinguished under the mud which covered it. This entrance led to an open passage; on the right was the lodge of an old porter, almost deaf, who was to the body of tailors what M. Pipelet was to the body of boot-makers; on the left a stable, used as a cellar, washhouse, woodhouse, and the establishment of a rising colony of rabbits belonging to the porter, who was dissipating the sorrows of a recent widowhood by bringing up these domestic animals. Beside the lodge was the opening of a twisting staircase, narrow and dark, leading to the office, as was announced to the clients by a hand painted black, whose forefinger was directed towards these words, also painted in black upon the wall, "The Office on the first floor."
On one side of a large paved court, overgrown with grass, were empty stables; on the other side, a rusty iron gate, which shut in the garden; at the bottom the pavilion, inhabited only by the notary. A flight of eight or ten steps of disjointed stones, which were moss-grown and time-worn, led to this square pavilion, consisting of a kitchen and other underground offices, a ground floor, a first floor, and the top rooms, in one of which Louise had slept. The pavilion also appeared in a state of great dilapidation. There were deep chinks in the walls; the window-frames and outside blinds, once painted gray, had become almost black by time; the six windows on the first floor, looking out into the courtyard, had no curtains; a sort of greasy and opaque deposit covered the glass; on the ground floor there were visible through the window-panes more transparent, faded yellow cotton curtains, with red bindings.
On the garden side the pavilion had only four windows. The garden, overgrown with parasitical plants, seemed wholly neglected. There was no flower border, not a bush; a clump of elms; five or six large green trees; some acacias and elder-trees; a yellowish grass-plat, half destroyed by moss and the scorch of the sun; muddy paths, choked up with weeds; at the bottom, a sort of half cellar; for horizon, the high, naked, gray walls of the adjacent houses, having here and there skylights barred like prison windows,—such was the miserable appearance of the garden and dwelling of the notary.
To this appearance, or rather reality, M. Ferrand attached great importance. In the eyes of the vulgar, carelessness about comfort almost always passes for disinterestedness; dirt, for austerity. Comparing the vast financial luxury of some notaries, or the costly toilets of their wives, to the dull abode of M. Ferrand, so opposed to elegance, expense, or splendour, clients felt a sort of respect for, or rather blind confidence in, a man who, according to his large practice and the fortune attributed to him, could say, like many of his professional brethren, my carriage, my evening party, my country-house, my box at the opera, etc. But, far from this, Jacques Ferrand lived with rigid economy; and thus deposits, investments, powers of attorney, in fact, all matters of trust and business requiring the most scrupulous and recognised integrity, accumulated in his hands.
Living thus meanly as he did, the notary lived in the way he liked. He detested the world, show, dearly purchased pleasures; and, even had it been otherwise, he would unhesitatingly have sacrificed his dearest inclinations to the appearances which he found it so profitable to assume.
A word or two on the character of the man. He was one of the children of the large family of misers. Misers are generally exhibited in a ridiculous and whimsical light; the worst do not go beyond egotism or harshness. The greater portion increase their fortune by continually investing; some (they are but few) lend at thirty per cent.; the most decided hardly venture any risk with their means; but it is almost an unheard-of thing for a miser to proceed to crime, even murder, in the acquisition of fresh wealth.
That is easily accounted for; avarice is especially a negative passion. The miser, in his incessant calculations, thinks more of becoming richer by not disbursing; in tightening around him, more and more, the limits of strict necessity, than he does of enriching himself at the cost of another; he is especially the martyr to preservation. Weak, timid, cunning, distrustful, and, above all, prudent and circumspect, never offensive, indifferent to the ills of his neighbour,—the miser at least never alludes to these ills,—he is, before all and above all, the man of certainty and surety; or, rather, he is only a miser because he believes only in the substantial, the hard gold which he has locked up in his chest. Speculations and loans, on even undoubted security, tempt him but little, for, how improbable soever it may be, they always offer a chance of loss, and he prefers rather to lose the interest of his money than expose his capital. A man so timorous will, therefore, seldom have the savage energy of the wretch who risks the galleys or his neck to lay hands on the wealth of another.
Risk is a word erased from the vocabulary of the miser. It is in this sense that Jacques Ferrand was, let us say, a very singular exception, perhaps a new variety of the genus Miser; for Jacques Ferrand did risk, and a great deal. He relied on his craft, which was excessive; on his hypocrisy, which was unbounded; on his intellect, which was elastic and fertile; on his boldness, which was devilish, in assuring him impunity for his crimes, and they were already numerous.
Jacques Ferrand was a twofold exception. Usually these adventurous, energetic spirits, which do not recoil before any crime that will procure gold, are beset by turbulent passions—gaming, dissipation, gluttony, or other pleasures. Jacques Ferrand knew none of these violent and stormy desires; cunning and patient as a forger, cruel and resolute as an assassin, he was as sober and regular as Harpagon. One passion alone was active within him, and this we have seen too fatally exhibited in his early conduct to Louise. The loan of thirteen hundred francs to Morel at high interest was, in Ferrand's hands, a snare—a means of oppression and a source of profit. Sure of the lapidary's honesty, he was certain of being repaid in full some day or other. Still Louise's beauty must have made a deep impression on him to have made him lay out of a sum of money so advantageously placed.
Except this weakness, Jacques Ferrand loved gold only. He loved gold for gold's sake; not for the enjoyments it procured,—he was a stoic; not for the enjoyments it might procure,—he was not sufficiently poetical to enjoy speculatively, like some misers. With regard to what belonged to himself, he loved possession for possession's sake; with regard to what belonged to others, if it concerned a large deposit, for instance, liberally confided to his probity only, he experienced in returning this deposit the same agony, the same despair, as the goldsmith, Cardillac, did in separating himself from a casket of jewels which his own exquisite taste had fashioned into a chef-d'œuvre of art. With the notary, his character for extreme probity was his chef-d'œuvre of art; a deposit was to him a jewel, which he could not surrender but with poignant regrets. What care, what cunning, what stratagems, what skill, in a word, what art, did he use to attract this sum into his own strong box, still maintaining that extreme character for honour, which was beset with the most precious marks of confidence, like the pearls and diamonds in the golden diadems of Cardillac. The more this celebrated goldsmith approached perfection, they say, the more value did he attach to his ornaments, always considering the last as his chef-d'œuvre, and being utterly distressed at giving it up. The more Jacques Ferrand grew perfect in crime, the more he clung to the open and constant marks of confidence which were showered upon him, always considering his last deceit as his chef-d'œuvre.
We shall see in the sequel of this history that, by the aid of certain means really prodigious in plan and carrying out, he contrived to appropriate to himself, with impunity, several very considerable sums. His secret and mysterious life gave him incessant and terrible emotions, such as gaming gives to the gambler. Against all other men's fortunes Jacques Ferrand staked his hypocrisy, his boldness, his head; and he played on velvet, as it is called, far out of the reach of human justice, which he vulgarly and energetically characterised as a chimney which might fall on one's head; for him to lose was only not to gain; and, moreover, he was so criminally gifted that, in his bitter irony, he saw a continued gain in boundless esteem, the unlimited confidence which he inspired, not only in a multitude of rich clients, but also in the smaller tradespeople and workmen of his district. A great many of these placed their money with him, saying, "He is not charitable, it is true; he is a devotee, and that's a pity; but he is much safer than the government or the savings-banks." In spite of his uncommon ability, this man had committed two of those mistakes from which the most skilful rogues do not always escape; forced by circumstances, it is true, he had associated with himself two accomplices. This immense fault, as he called it, had been in part repaired; neither of his two associates could destroy him without destroying themselves, and neither would have reaped from denunciation any other profit but of drawing down justice on themselves as well as on the notary; on this score he was quite easy. Besides, he was not at the end of his crimes, and the disadvantages of accompliceship were balanced by the criminal aid which at times he still obtained.
A few words as to the personal appearance of M. Ferrand, and we will introduce the reader into the notary's study, where we shall encounter some of the principal personages in this recital.
M. Ferrand was fifty years of age, but did not appear forty; he was of middle height, with broad and stooping shoulders, powerful, thickset, strong-limbed, red-haired, and naturally as hirsute as a bear. His hair was flat on his temples, his forehead bald, his eyebrows scarcely perceptible; his bilious complexion was almost concealed by innumerable red spots, and, when strong emotion agitated him, his yellow and murky countenance was injected with blood, and became a livid red. His face was as flat as a death's head, as is vulgarly said; his nose thick and flat; his lips so thin, so imperceptible, that his mouth seemed incised in his face, and, when he smiled with his villainous and revolting air, his teeth seemed as though supplied by black and rotten fangs. His pallid face had an expression at once austere and devout, impassible and inflexible, cold and reflective; whilst his small, black, animated, peering, and restless eyes were lost behind large green spectacles.
Jacques Ferrand saw admirably well; but, sheltered by his glasses, he had an immense advantage; he could observe without being observed; and well he knew how often a glance is unwittingly full of meaning. In spite of his imperturbable audacity, he had met twice or thrice in his life certain potent and magnetic looks, before which his own had compulsorily been lowered; and in some important circumstances it is fatal to lower the eyes before the man who interrogates, accuses, or judges you. The large spectacles of M. Ferrand were thus a kind of covert retrenchment, whence he could reconnoitre and observe every movement of the enemy; and all the world was the notary's enemy, because all the world was, more or less, his dupe; and accusers are but enlightened or disgusted dupes. He affected a negligence in his dress almost amounting to dirtiness, or rather, he was naturally so; his chin shaven only every two or three days, his grimy and wrinkled head, his broad nails encircled in black, his unpleasant odour, his threadbare coat, his greasy hat, his coarse neckcloth, his black-worsted stockings, his clumsy shoes, all curiously betokened his worthiness with his clients, by giving him an air of disregard of the world, and an air of practical philosophy, which delighted them.
They said: "What tastes, what passions, what feelings, what weaknesses, must the notary sacrifice to obtain the confidence he inspires! He gains, perhaps, sixty thousand francs (2,400l.) a year, and his household consists of a servant and an old housekeeper. His only pleasure is to go on Sundays to mass and vespers, and he knows no opera comparable to the grave chanting of the organ, no worldly society which is worth an evening quietly passed at his fireside corner with the curé of the parish after a frugal dinner; in fine, he places his enjoyment in probity, his pride in honour, his happiness in religion."
Such was the opinion of the contemporaries of M. Jacques Ferrand.
The office of M. Ferrand resembled all other offices, and his clerks all other clerks. It was approached through an antechamber, furnished with four old chairs. In the office, properly so-called, surrounded by rows of shelves, ornamented with pasteboard boxes, containing the papers of the clients of M. Ferrand, five young men, stooping over black wooden desks, were laughing, gossiping, or scribbling perpetually. A waiting-room, also filled with pasteboard boxes, and in which the chief clerk was constantly stationed, and another room, which, for greater secrecy, was kept unoccupied, between the notary's private room and the waiting-room, completed the total of this laboratory of deeds of every description.
An old cuckoo-clock, placed between the two windows of the office, had just struck two o'clock, and a certain bustle prevailed amongst the clerks; a part of their conversation will inform the reader as to the cause of this excitement.
"Well, if any one had told me that François Germain was a thief," said one of the young men, "I should have said, 'That's a lie!'"
"So should I."
"And I."
"And I. It really quite affected me to see him arrested and led away by the police. I could not eat any breakfast; but I have been rewarded by not having to eat the daily mess doled out by Mother Séraphin, for, as the song goes:
"Capital! why, Chalamel, you are beginning your poetry already."
"I demand Chalamel's head!"
"Folly apart, it is very terrible for poor Germain."
"Seventeen thousand francs (680l.) is a lump of money!"
"I believe you!"
"And yet, for the fifteen months that Germain has been cashier, he was never a farthing deficient in making up his books."
"I think the governor was wrong to arrest Germain, for the poor fellow swore that he had only taken thirteen hundred francs (52l.) in gold, and that, moreover, he brought back the thirteen hundred francs this morning, to return them to the money-chest, at the very moment when our master sent for the police."
"Ah, that's the bore of people of such ferocious honesty as our governor, they have no pity!"
"But they ought to think twice before they ruin a poor young fellow, who, up to this time, has behaved with strict honesty."
"M. Ferrand said he did it for an example."
"Example? What? It is none to the honest, and the dishonest know well enough what they expose themselves to if they are found out in any delinquencies."
"Our house seems to produce lots of jobs for the police officers."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, this morning there was poor little Louise, and now poor Germain."
"I confess that Germain's affair was not quite clear to me."
"But he confessed?"
"He confessed that he had taken thirteen hundred francs, certainly; but he declared most vehemently that he had not taken the other fifteen thousand francs in bank-notes, and the other seven hundred francs which are short in the strong box."
"True; and, if he confessed one thing, why shouldn't he confess another?"
"Exactly so; for a man is as much punished for five hundred francs as he is for fifteen thousand francs."
"Yes; only they retain the fifteen thousand francs, and, when they leave prison, this forms a little fund to start upon; and, as the swan of Cambrai sings:
"I demand Chalamel's head!"
"Can't you talk sense for five minutes?"
"Ah, here's Jabulot! won't he be astonished?"
"What at, my boys? what at? Anything fresh about poor Louise?"
"You would have known, roving blade, if you had not been so long in your rounds."
"What, you think it is but a step from here to the Rue de Chaillot?"
"I never said so."
"Well, what about that gallant don, the famous Viscount de Saint-Rémy?"
"Has he not been here yet?"
"No."
"Well, his horses were harnessed, and he sent me word by his valet de chambre, that he would come here directly. But he didn't seem best pleased, the servant said. Oh, my boys! such a lovely little house, furnished most magnificently, like one of the dwellings of the olden time that Faublas writes about. Oh, Faublas! he is my hero—my model!" said the clerk, putting down his umbrella and taking off his clogs.
"You are right, Jabulot; for, as that sublime old blind man, Homer, said:
"Yes; but then, she was a theatrical 'waiting-maid,' my lads."
"I demand Chalamel's head!"
"But about this Viscount de Saint-Rémy? Jabulot says his mansion is superb."
"Pyramidic!"
"Then, I'll be bound, he has debts not a few, and arrests to match, this viscount."
"A bill of thirty-four thousand francs (1,360l.) has been sent here by the officer. It is made payable at the office. This is his creditors' doing; I don't know why or wherefore."
"Well, I should say that this dandy viscount would pay now, because he came from the country last night, where he has been concealed these three days, in order to escape from the bailiffs."
"How is it, then, that they have not seized the furniture already?"
"Why? oh, he's too cunning! The house is not his own; all the furniture is in the name of his valet de chambre, who is said to let it to him furnished; and, in the same way, his horses and carriages are in his coachman's name, who declares that he lets to the viscount his splendid turn-out at so much a month. Ah, he's a 'downy' one, is M. de Saint-Rémy! But what were you going to tell me? what has happened here fresh?"
"Why, imagine the governor coming in here two hours ago in a most awful passion. 'Germain is not here?' he exclaimed. 'No, sir.' 'Well, the rascal has robbed me last night of seventeen thousand francs!' says the governor."
"Germain—rob—ah, come, that's 'no go!'"
"You will hear. 'What, sir, are you sure? but it cannot be,' we all cried out. 'I tell you, gentlemen,' said the governor, 'that yesterday I put in the drawer of the bureau at which he writes, fifteen notes of one thousand francs each, and two thousand francs in gold, in a little box, and it is all gone.' At this moment old Marriton, the porter, came in, and he said, 'Sir, the police are coming; where is Germain?' 'Wait a bit,' said the governor to the porter; 'as soon as M. Germain returns, send him into the office, without saying a word. I will confront him before you all, gentlemen,' said the governor. At the end of a quarter of an hour in comes poor Germain, as if nothing had happened. Old Mother Séraphin had brought in our morning mess. Germain made his bow to the governor, and wished us all 'good morning,' as usual. 'Germain, don't you take your breakfast?' inquired M. Ferrand. 'No, thank you, sir, I am not hungry.' 'You're very late this morning.' 'Yes, sir; I was obliged to go to Belleville this morning.' 'No doubt to hide the money you have stolen from me!' M. Ferrand said, in a terrible voice."
"And Germain?"
"The poor fellow turned as pale as death, and stammered out, 'Pray—pray, sir, do not ruin me—'"
"What! he had stolen—"
"Listen, Jabulot: 'Do not ruin me,' says he to the governor. 'What! you confess it, then, you villain?' 'Yes, sir; but here is the money; I thought I could replace it before you came into the office this morning; but, unfortunately, a person who had a small sum of mine, and whom I expected to find at home last night, had been at Belleville these two days, and I was compelled to go there this morning; that made me late. Pray, sir, forgive me,—do not destroy me! When I took the money I knew I could return it this morning; and here are the thirteen hundred francs in gold.' 'What do you mean by thirteen hundred francs?' exclaimed M. Ferrand; 'what's the use of talking of thirteen hundred francs? You have stolen, from the bureau in my room, fifteen thousand francs that were in a green pocket-book, and two thousand francs in gold.' 'I? Never!' cried poor Germain, quite aghast. 'I took thirteen hundred francs in gold, but not a farthing more. I did not even see the pocket-book in the drawer; there were only two thousand francs, in gold, in a box.' 'Oh, shameless liar!' cried the governor; 'you confess to having plundered thirteen hundred francs, and may just as well have stolen more; that will be for the law to decide. I shall be without mercy for such an infamous breach of trust; you shall be an example.' In fact, my dear Jabulot, the police came in at that moment, with the commissary's chief clerk, to draw up the depositions, and they laid hands on poor Germain; and that's all about it."
"Really, you do surprise me! I feel as if some one had given me a thump on the head. Germain—Germain, who seemed such an honest fellow,—a chap to whom one would have given absolution without confession."
"I should say that he had some presentiment of his misfortune."
"How?"
"For some days past he seemed to have something on his mind."
"Perhaps about Louise."
"Louise?"
"Why, I only repeat what Mother Séraphin said this morning."
"What did she say?"
"What? that he was Louise's lover, and the father of her child."
"Sly dog! Do you think so?"
"Why—why—why—"
"Pooh! pooh!"
"That's not the case."
"How do you know, Master Jabulot?"
"Because it is not a fortnight ago that Germain told me, in confidence, that he was over head and ears in love with a little needle-woman, a very correct lass, whom he had known in the house where he lived; and, when he talked of her, the tears came in his eyes."
"Why, Jabulot, you are getting quite poetical."
"He says Faublas is his hero, and he is not 'wide awake' enough to know that a man may be in love with one woman and a lover of another at the same time; for, as the tender Fénélon says, in his Instructions to the Duke of Burgundy:
"I demand Chalamel's head!"
"I tell you that Germain spoke in earnest."
At this moment the head clerk entered the office.
"Well, M. Jabulot," said he, "have you completed your rounds?"
"Yes, M. Dubois; I have been to M. de Saint-Remy, and he will come and pay immediately."
"And as to the Countess Macgregor?"
"Here is her answer."
"And the Countess d'Orbigny?"
"She returns her compliments to our employer. She only arrived from Normandy yesterday morning, and did not know that her reply was required so soon; here is a note from her. I also called on the Marquis d'Harville's steward, as he desired me to receive the money for drawing up the contract which I witnessed at their house the other day."
"You should have told him there was no hurry."
"I did, but the steward insisted on paying. Here is the money. Oh! I had almost forgotten to say, M. Badinot said that M. Ferrand had better do as they had agreed; it was the best thing to do."
"He did not write an answer?"
"No, sir; he said he had not time."
"Very well."
"M. Charles Robert will come in the course of the morning to speak to our master. It seems that he fought a duel yesterday with the Duke de Lucenay."
"And is he wounded?"
"I think not, or else they would have told me so at the house."
"Hark! there's a carriage stopping at the door."
"Oh, what fine horses! how full of spirits they are!"
"And that fat English coachman, with his white wig, and brown livery striped with silver, and his epaulettes like a colonel!"
"It must be some ambassador's."
"And the chasseur, look how he is bedizened all over with silver!"
"And what moustachios!"
"Oh," said Jabulot, "it is the Viscount de Saint-Remy's carriage!"
"What! is that the way he does it? Oh, my!"
Soon after the Viscount de Saint-Remy entered the office.
We have already described the handsome appearance, elegance of style, and aristocratical demeanour of M. de Saint-Remy, when he was on his way to the farm of Arnouville (the estate of Madame de Lucenay), where he had found a retreat from the pursuit of the bailiffs, Malicorne and Bourdin. The viscount, who entered unceremoniously into the office, with his hat on his head, a haughty and disdainful look, and his eyes half closed, asked, with an air of extreme superciliousness, and without looking at anybody:
"Where is the notary?"
"M. Ferrand is engaged in his private room," said the chief clerk. "If you will please to wait a moment, sir, he will see you."
"What do you mean by wait a moment?"
"Why, sir—"
"There is no why in the case, sir. Go and tell him that M. de Saint-Remy is here; and I am much surprised that this notary should make me dance attendance in his waiting-room. It is really most annoying."
"Will you walk into this side room, sir?" said the chief clerk, "and I will inform M. Ferrand this instant."
M. de Saint-Remy shrugged his shoulders, and followed the head clerk. At the end of a quarter of an hour, which seemed very tedious to him, and which converted his spleen into anger, the viscount was introduced into the notary's private apartment.
Nothing could be more striking than the contrast between these two men, both of them profound physiognomists, and habituated to judge at a glance of the persons with whom they had business. M. de Saint-Remy saw Jacques Ferrand for the first time, and was struck with the expression of his pallid, harsh, and impassive features,—the look concealed by the large green spectacles; the skull half hid beneath an old black silk cap. The notary was seated at his writing-desk, in a leathern armchair, beside a low fireplace, almost choked up with ashes, and in which were two black and smoking logs of wood. Curtains of green cotton, almost in rags, hung on small iron rings at the windows, and, concealing the lower window-panes, threw over the room, which was naturally dark, a livid and unpleasant hue. Shelves of black wood were filled with deed-boxes, all duly labelled. Some cherry-wood chairs, covered with threadbare Utrecht velvet; a clock in a mahogany case; a floor yellow, damp, and chilling; a ceiling full of cracks, and festooned with spiders' webs,—such was the sanctum sanctorum of M. Jacques Ferrand. Hardly had the viscount made two steps into his cabinet, or spoken a word, than the notary, who knew him by reputation, conceived an intense antipathy towards him. In the first place, he saw in him, if we may say so, a rival in rogueries; and then he hated elegance, grace, and youth in other persons, and more especially when these advantages were attended with an air of insolent superiority. The notary usually assumed a tone of rude and almost coarse abruptness with his clients, who liked him the better for being in behaviour like a boor of the Danube. He made up his mind to double this brutality towards M. de Saint-Remy, who, only knowing the notary by report also, expected to find an attorney either familiar or a fool; for the viscount always imagined men of such probity as M. Ferrand had the reputation for, as having an exterior almost ridiculous, but, so far from this, the countenance and appearance of the attorney at law struck the viscount with an undefinable feeling,—half fear, half aversion. Consequently, his own resolute character made M. de Saint-Remy increase his usual impertinence and effrontery. The notary kept his cap on his head, and the viscount did not doff his hat, but exclaimed, as he entered the room, with a loud and imperative tone:
"Pardieu, sir! it is very strange that you should give me the trouble to come here, instead of sending to my house for the money for the bills I accepted from the man Badinot, and for which the fellow has issued execution against me. It is true you tell me that you have also another very important communication to make to me; but then, surely, that is no excuse for making me wait for half an hour in your antechamber: it is really most annoying, sir!"
M. Ferrand, quite unmoved, finished a calculation he was engaged in, wiped his pen methodically in a moist sponge which encircled his inkstand of cracked earthenware, and raised towards the viscount his icy, earthy, flat face, shaded by his spectacles. He looked like a death's head in which the eye-holes had been replaced by large, fixed, staring green eyeballs. After having looked at the viscount for a moment or two, the notary said to him, in a harsh and abrupt tone:
"Where's the money?"
This coolness exasperated M. de Saint-Rémy.
He—he, the idol of the women, the envy of the men, the model of the first society in Paris, the dreaded duellist—produced no effect on a wretched attorney-at-law! It was horrid; and, although he was only tête-à-tête with Jacques Ferrand, his pride revolted.
"Where are the bills?" inquired the viscount, abruptly.
With the point of one of his fingers, as hard as iron, and covered with red hair, the notary rapped on a large leathern pocket-book which lay close beside him. Resolved on being as laconic, although trembling with rage, M. de Saint-Remy took from the pocket of his upper coat a Russian leather pocket-book, with gold clasps, from which he drew forth forty notes of a thousand francs each, and showed them to the notary.
"How many are there?" he inquired.
"Forty thousand francs."
"Hand them to me!"
"Take them! and let this have a speedy termination. Ply your trade, pay yourself, and give me the bills," said the viscount, as he threw the notes on the table, with an impatient air.
The notary took up the bank-notes, rose, went close to the window to examine them, turning and re-turning them over and over, one by one, with an attention so scrupulous, and really so insulting for M. de Saint-Rémy, that the viscount actually turned pale with rage. Jacques Ferrand, as if he had guessed the thoughts which were passing in the viscount's mind, shook his head, turned half towards him, and said to him, with an indefinable accent:
"I have seen—"
M. de Saint-Remy, confused for a moment, said, drily:
"What?"
"Forged bank-notes," replied the notary, continuing his scrutiny of a note, which he had not yet examined.
"What do you mean by that remark, sir?"
Jacques Ferrand paused for a moment, looked steadfastly at the viscount through his glasses, then, shrugging his shoulders slightly, he continued to investigate the notes, without uttering a syllable.
"Monsieur Notary! I would wish you to learn that, when I ask a question, I have an answer!" cried M. de Saint-Remy, exasperated at the coolness of Jacques Ferrand.
"These notes are good," said the notary, turning towards his bureau, whence he took a small bundle of stamped papers, to which were annexed two bills of exchange; then, putting down one of the bank-notes for one thousand francs and three rouleaus, of one hundred francs each, on the table, he said to M. de Saint-Remy, pointing to the money and the bills with his finger:
"Here's your change out of the forty thousand francs; my client has desired me to deduct the expenses."
The viscount had contained himself with great difficulty whilst Jacques Ferrand was making out the account, and, instead of taking up the money, he exclaimed, in a voice that literally shook with passion:
"I beg to know, sir, what you meant by saying, whilst you looked at the bank-notes which I handed to you, that you 'had seen forged notes?'"
"What I meant?"
"Yes."
"Because I sent for you to come here on a matter of forgery."
And the notary fixed his green spectacles on the viscount.
"And how can this forgery in any way affect me?"
After a moment's silence, M. Ferrand said to the viscount, with a stern air:
"Are you aware, sir, of the duties which a notary fulfils?"
"Those duties appear to me, sir, very simple indeed; just now I had forty thousand francs, now I have thirteen hundred francs left."
"You are facetious, sir; I will tell you that a notary is, in temporal matters, what a confessor is in spiritual affairs; by virtue of his position, he often becomes possessed of disgraceful secrets."
"Go on, I beg, sir."
"He is often brought into contact with rogues."
"Go on, sir."
"He ought, as well as he can, to prevent an honourable name from being dragged through the mud."
"What is all this to me?"
"Your father's name is deservedly respected; you, sir, dishonour it."
"How dare you, sir, to address such language to me?"
"But for the interest which the gentleman, of whom I speak, inspires in the minds of all honest men, instead of being summoned before me, you would, at this moment, be standing before a police-magistrate."
"I do not understand you."
"Two months since, you discounted, through an agent, a bill for fifty-eight thousand francs (2,320l.), accepted by the house of Meulaert & Company, of Hamburg, in favour of a certain William Smith, payable in three months, at the bank of M. Grimaldi, of Paris."
"Well?"
"That bill was a forgery."
"That bill was a forgery! the firm of Meulaert never gave such a bill to William Smith, and never had such a transaction with such an individual."
"Can this be true?" exclaimed M. de Saint-Rémy, with equal surprise and indignation; "then I have been most infamously deceived, sir, for I took the bill as ready money."
"From whom?"
"From M. William Smith himself; the house of Meulaert is so well known, and I was so firmly convinced myself of the honour of M. William Smith, that I took the bill in payment of a debt he owed me."
"William Smith never existed,—he is an imaginary personage."
"Sir, you insult me!"
"His signature is forged and false, as well as all the rest of the bill."
"I assert that M. William Smith is alive; but I must have been the dupe of a horrible abuse of confidence."
"Poor young man!"
"Explain yourself, sir."
"The actual holder of the bill is convinced you committed the forgery."
"Sir!"
"He declares that he has proof of this; and he came to me the day before yesterday, requesting me to see you, and offer to give up this forged document, under certain conditions. Up to this point all was straightforward, but what follows is not so, and I only speak to you now according to my instructions. He requires one hundred thousand francs (4,000l.) down this very day, or else to-morrow, at twelve o'clock at noon, the forged bill will be handed over to the king's attorney-general."
"This is infamous, sir!"
"It is more,—it is absurd. You are a ruined man; you were all but arrested for the sum which you have just paid me, and which you have scraped up I cannot tell from where; and this I have told to the holder of the bill, who replied, that a certain great and very rich lady would not allow you to remain in this embarrassment."
"Enough, sir! enough!"
"More infamous! more absurd! agreed."
"Well, sir, and what is required of me?"
"Why, to work out infamously an action infamously commenced. I have consented to communicate this proposition to you, although it disgusts me, as an honest man ought to feel disgust on such an occasion; but now it is your affair. If you are guilty, choose between a criminal court and the means of ransom offered to you; my duty is only an official one, and I will not dirty my fingers any further in so foul a transaction. The third party is called M. Petit-Jean, an oil merchant, who lives on the banks of the Seine, Quai de Billy, No. 10. Make your arrangements with him; you are fit to meet if you are a forger, as he declares."
M. de Saint-Remy had entered Jacques Ferrand's study with a lip all scorn, and a head all pride. Although he had in his life committed some shameful actions, he still retained a certain elevation of race, and an instinctive courage, which had never forsaken him. At the beginning of this conversation, considering the notary as an adversary beneath him, he had been content to treat him with disdain; but, when Jacques Ferrand began to talk of forgery, he felt annihilated; in his turn he felt himself rode over by the notary. But for the entire command of self which he possessed, he could not have concealed the terrible impression which this unexpected revelation disclosed to him, for it might have incalculable consequences to him,—consequences unsuspected by the notary himself. After a moment of silence and reflection, he resigned himself,—he, so haughty, so irritable, so vain of his self-possession!—to beg of this coarse man, who had so roughly addressed to him the stern language of probity:
"Sir, you give me a proof of your interest, for which I thank you, and I regret that any hasty expressions should have escaped me," said M. de Saint-Remy, with a tone of cordiality.
"I do not take the slightest interest in or for you," replied the notary, brutally. "Your father is the soul of honour, and I would not wish that in the depth of that solitude in which he lives, as they tell me, at Angers, he should learn that his name has been exposed, tarnished, degraded, in a court of justice, that's all."
"I repeat to you, sir, that I am incapable of the infamy which is attributed to me."
"You may tell that to M. Petit-Jean."
"But I confess that, in the absence of M. Smith, who has so unworthily abused my confidence, that—"
"The scoundrel Smith!"
"The absence of M. Smith places me in a cruel embarrassment. I am innocent,—let them accuse me, I will prove myself guiltless; but such an accusation, even, must always disgrace a gentleman."
"Well?"
"Be so good as to use the sum I have just handed to you in part payment to the person who holds the acceptance."
"That money belongs to a client and is sacred."
"In two or three days I will repay you."
"You will not be able."
"I have resources."
"You have none; not visible at least. Your household furniture, your horses, do not belong to you, as you declare; this has to me the appearance of a disgraceful fraud."
"You are severe, sir; but, admitting what you say, do you not suppose that I shall turn everything into money in such a desperate extremity? Only, as it will be impossible for me to procure, between this and noon to-morrow, the one hundred thousand francs, I entreat you to employ the money I have just handed to you in procuring this unfortunate bill, or, at least, as you are very rich, advance the money. Do not leave me in such a position."
"Me? Why, is the man mad?"
"Sir, I beseech you, in my father's name, which you have mentioned to me, be so kind as to—"
"I am kind to those who deserve it," said the notary, harshly. "An honest man myself, I hate swindlers, and should not be sorry to see one of those high-minded gentlemen, without faith or honour, impious and reprobate, put in the pillory, as an example to others; but I hear your horses, who are impatient to depart, M. le Vicomte," said the notary, with a smile that displayed his black fangs.
At this moment some one knocked at the door of the apartment.
"Who's there?" inquired Jacques Ferrand.
"Madame the Countess d'Orbigny," said the chief clerk.
"Request her to wait a moment."
"The stepmother of the Marchioness d'Harville?" exclaimed M. de Saint-Remy.
"Yes, sir; she has an appointment with me,—so, your servant, sir."
"Not a word of this, sir!" cried M. de Saint-Remy, in a menacing voice.
"I told you, sir, that a notary is as discreet as a confessor."
Jacques Ferrand rang, and the clerk appeared.
"Show Madame d'Orbigny in." Then, addressing the viscount, "Take these thirteen hundred francs, sir; they will be something towards an arrangement with M. Petit-Jean."
Madame d'Orbigny (formerly Madame Roland) entered at the moment when M. de Saint-Remy went out, his features convulsed with rage at having so uselessly humiliated himself before the notary.
"Ah, good day, M. de Saint-Remy," said Madame d'Orbigny; "what a time it is since I saw you!"
"Why, madame, since D'Harville's marriage, at which I was present, I do not think I have had the pleasure of meeting you," said M. de Saint-Remy, bowing, and assuming an affable and smiling demeanour. "You have remained in Normandy ever since, I think?"
"Why, yes! M. d'Orbigny will only live in the country, and what he likes I like; so you see in me a complete country wife. I have not been in Paris since the marriage of my dear stepdaughter with that excellent M. d'Harville. Do you see him frequently?"
"D'Harville has grown very sullen and morose; he is seldom seen in the world," said M. de Saint-Remy, with something like impatience, for the conversation was most irksome to him, both because of its untimeliness and that the notary seemed amused at it; but Madame d'Harville's stepmother, enchanted at thus meeting with a dandy of the first water, was not the woman to allow her prey to escape her so easily.
"And my dear stepdaughter," she continued,—"she, I hope, is not as morose as her husband?"
"Madame d'Harville is all the fashion, and has the world at her feet, as a lovely woman should have. But I take up your time, and—"
"Not at all, I assure you. It is quite agreeable to me to meet the 'observed of all observers,'—the monarch of fashion,—for, in ten minutes, I shall be as au fait of Paris as if I had never left it. And your dear M. de Lucenay, who was also present at M. d'Harville's marriage?"
"A still greater oddity. He has been travelling in the East, and returned in time to receive a sword-wound yesterday,—nothing serious, though."
"Poor dear duke! And his wife, always lovely and fascinating?"
"Madame, I have the honour to be one of her profoundest admirers, and my testimony would, therefore, be received with suspicion. I beg, on your return to Aubiers, you will not forget my regards to M. d'Orbigny."
"He will, I am sure, be most sensible of your kindness; he often talks of you, and says you remind him of the Duke de Lauzun."
"His comparison is a eulogy in itself, but, unfortunately, infinitely more flattering than true. Adieu, madame, for I fear I must not ask to be allowed to pay my respects to you before your departure."
"I should lament to give you the trouble of calling on me, for I have pitched my tent for a few days in a furnished hôtel; but if, in the summer or autumn, you should be passing our way, en route to some of those fashionable châteaus where the leaders of ton dispute the pleasure of receiving you, pray give us a few days of your society, if it be only by way of contrast, and to rest yourself with us poor rustic folk from the whirl of your high life of fashion and distinction; for where you are it is always delightful to be."
"Madame!"
"I need not say how delighted M. d'Orbigny and myself would be to receive you; but adieu, sir, I fear the kind attorney (she pointed to Ferrand) will grow impatient at our gossip."
"Quite the reverse, madame, quite the reverse," said Ferrand, with an emphasis that redoubled the repressed rage of M. de Saint-Remy.