The Nabob, Volume 1 (of 2)

A >> Alphonse Daudet >> The Nabob, Volume 1 (of 2)

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The others, with their noses in their cups and rage in their hearts,
watch this little scene from afar. And when Jenkins takes his leave,
bright and smiling, and waving his hand to the different groups,
Monpavon seizes the Governor: "Now, it's our turn." And they pounce
together upon the Nabob, lead him to a divan, force him to sit down,
and squeeze him between them with a savage little laugh that seems to
mean: "What are we going to do to him?" Extract money from him, as much
of it as possible. It must be had in order to float the _Caisse
Territorial_, which has been aground for years, buried in sand to her
masthead. A magnificent operation, this of floating her again, if we
are to believe these two gentlemen; for the buried craft is full of
ingots, of valuable merchandise, of the thousand varied treasures of a
new country of which every one is talking and of which no one knows
anything. The aim of Paganetti of Porto-Vecchio in founding that
unrivalled establishment was to monopolize the exploitation of Corsica:
iron mines, sulphur mines, copper mines, marble quarries, chalybeate
and sulphur springs, vast forests of lignum vitae and oak; and to
facilitate that exploitation by building a network of railroads
throughout the island, and establishing a line of steamboats. Such was
the gigantic enterprise to which he has harnessed himself. He has sunk
a large amount of money in it, and the new-comer, the laborer of the
eleventh hour, will reap the whole profit.

While the Corsican with his Italian accent, his frantic gestures,
enumerates the _splendores_ of the affair, Monpavon, dignified and
haughty, nods his head with an air of conviction, and from time to
time, when he deems the moment propitious, tosses into the conversation
the name of the Duc de Mora, which always produces its effect on the
Nabob.

"Well, what is it that you need?"

"Millions," says Monpavon superbly, in the tone of a man who is not
embarrassed by any lack of persons to whom to apply. "Yes, millions.
But it's a magnificent opening. And, as His Excellency said, it would
afford a capitalist an opportunity to attain a lofty position, even a
political position. Just consider a moment! in that penniless country.
One might become a member of the General Council, a Deputy--" The Nabob
starts. And little Paganetti, feeling the bait tremble on his hook,
continues: "Yes, a Deputy; you shall be one when I choose. At a word
from me all Corsica is at your service." Thereupon he launches out on a
bewildering extemporization, counting up the votes at his disposal, the
cantons which will rise at his summons. "You bring me your funds--I
give you a whole people." The affair is carried by storm.

"Bompain! Bompain!" calls the Nabob in his enthusiasm. He has but one
fear, that the thing will escape him; and to bind Paganetti, who does
not conceal his need of money, he hastens to pour a first instalment
into the _Caisse Territoriale_. Second appearance of the man in the red
cap with the check-book, which he holds solemnly against his breast,
like a choir-boy carrying the Gospel. Second affixture of Jansoulet's
signature to a check, which the Governor stows away with a negligent
air, and which effects a sudden transformation of his whole person.
Paganetti, but now so humble and unobtrusive, walks away with the
self-assurance of a man held in equilibrium by four hundred thousand
francs, while Monpavon, carrying his head even higher than usual,
follows close upon his heels and watches over him with a more than
paternal solicitude.

"There's a good stroke of business well done," says the Nabob to
himself, "and I'll go and drink my coffee." But ten borrowers are lying
in wait for him. The quickest, the most adroit, is Cardailhac, the
manager, who hooks him and carries him off into an empty salon. "Let us
talk a bit, my good friend. I must set before you the condition of our
theatre." A very complicated condition, no doubt; for here comes
Monsieur Bompain again, and more sky-blue leaves fly away from the
check-book. Now, whose turn is it? The journalist Moessard comes to get
his pay for the article in the _Messager_; the Nabob will learn what it
costs to be called "the benefactor of infancy" in the morning papers.
The provincial cure asks for funds to rebuild his church, and takes
his check by assault with the brutality of a Peter the Hermit. And now
old Schwalbach approaches, with his nose in his beard, winking
mysteriously. "Sh! he has vound ein bearl," for monsieur's gallery, an
Hobbema from the Duc de Mora's collection. But several people have
their eye on it. It will be difficult to obtain. "I must have it at any
price," says the Nabob, allured by the name of Mora. "You understand,
Schwalbach, I must have that _Nobbema_. Twenty thousand francs for you
if you hit it off."

"I vill do mein best, Monsieur Jansoulet."

And the old knave, as he turns away, calculates that the Nabob's twenty
thousand, added to the ten thousand the duke has promised him if he
gets rid of his picture, will make a very pretty little profit for him.

While these fortunate ones succeed one another, others prowl about
frantic with impatience, biting their nails to the quick; for one and
all have come with the same object. From honest Jenkins, who headed the
procession, down to Cabassu, the _masseur_, who closes it, one and
all lead the Nabob aside. But however far away they take him in that
long file of salons, there is always some indiscreet mirror to reflect
the figure of the master of the house, and the pantomime of his broad
back. That back is so eloquent! At times it straightens up indignantly.
"Oh! no, that is too much!" Or else it collapses with comical
resignation. "Very well, if you will have it so." And Bompain's fez
always lurking in some corner of the landscape.

When these have finished, others arrive; they are the small fish that
follow in the wake of the great sharks in the savage hunting in the
sea. There is constant going and coming through those superb white and
gold salons, a slamming of doors, an unbroken current of insolent
extortion of the most hackneyed type, attracted from the four corners
of Paris and the suburbs by that enormous fortune and that incredible
gullibility.

For these small sums, this incessant doling out of cash, he did not
have recourse to the checkbook. In one of his salons the Nabob kept a
commode, an ugly little piece of furniture representing the savings of
some concierge; it was the first article Jansoulet bought when he was
in a position to renounce furnished apartments, and he had kept it ever
since like a gambler's fetish; its three drawers always contained two
hundred thousand francs in current funds. He resorted to that
never-failing supply on the days of his great audiences, ostentatiously
plunging his hands in the gold and silver, stuffing it into his pockets
to produce it later with the gesture of a cattle-dealer, a certain
vulgar way of raising the skirts of his coat and sending his hand "down
to the bottom of the pile." A tremendous inroad must have been made
upon the little drawers to-day.

* * *

After so many whispered conferences, requests more or less clearly
stated, anxious entrances and triumphant exits, the last client
dismissed, the commode drawers locked, the apartment on Place Vendome
was left in solitude in the fading light of four o'clock, the close of
the November days which are prolonged so far beyond that hour by the
aid of artificial light. The servants removed the coffee cups, the
_raki_ and the open, half-emptied boxes of cigars. The Nabob, thinking
that he was alone, drew a long breath of relief: "Ouf! that's all
over." But no. A figure emerges from a corner already in shadow, and
approaches with a letter in his hand.

"Another!"

Thereupon the poor man instinctively repeated his eloquent
horse-dealer's gesture. At that the visitor, also instinctively,
recoiled so quickly and with such an insulted air that the Nabob
realized that he was in error and took the trouble to observe the young
man who stood before him, simply but correctly dressed, with a sallow
complexion, absolutely no beard, regular features, perhaps a little too
serious and determined for his years, which fact, with his extremely
light hair, curling tightly all over his head like a powdered wig, gave
him the aspect of a young deputy of the Tiers Etat under Louis XVI.,
the face of a Barnave at twenty. That face, although the Nabob then saw
it for the first time, was not altogether unfamiliar to him.

"What do you wish, monsieur?"

Taking the letter the young man handed him, he walked to a window to
read it.

"Ah!--it's from mamma."

He said it with such a joyous inflection, the word "mamma" lighted his
whole face with such a youthful, attractive smile, that the visitor,
repelled at first by the parvenu's vulgar appearance, felt in full
sympathy with him.

The Nabob read in an undertone these few lines written in a coarse,
incorrect, trembling hand, in striking contrast to the fine laid paper
with the words "Chateau de Saint-Romans" at the top.

"MY DEAR SON,--This letter will be handed to you by the oldest of
Monsieur de Gery's children, the former justice of the peace at
Bourg-Saint-Andeol, who was so kind to us--"

The Nabob interrupted himself to say:

"I ought to have known you, Monsieur de Gery. You look like your
father. Take a seat, I beg you."

Then he finished running through the letter. His mother made no precise
request, but, in the name of the services the de Gery family had
formerly rendered them, she commended Monsieur Paul to him. An orphan,
with his two young brothers to support, he had been admitted to
practice as an advocate in the South and was starting for Paris to seek
his fortune. She implored Jansoulet to assist him, "for he sorely
needed it, poor fellow." And she signed: "Your mother, who is dying
for a sight of you, FRANCOISE."

That letter from his mother, whom he had not seen for six years, the
Southern forms of expression in which he recognized familiar
intonations, the coarse handwriting which drew for him a beloved face,
all wrinkled and sunburned and furrowed, but smiling still beneath a
peasant's cap, made a profound impression upon the Nabob. During the
six weeks he had been in France, immersed in the eddying whirl of
Paris, of his installation, he had not once thought of the dear old
soul; and now he saw her in every line. He stood for a moment gazing at
the letter, which shook in his fat fingers.

Then, his emotion having subsided, "Monsieur de Gery," he said, "I am
happy to have the opportunity to repay a little of the kindness your
family has showered upon mine. This very day, if you agree, I take you
into my service. You are well educated, you seem intelligent, you can
be of very great service to me. I have innumerable plans, innumerable
matters in hand. I have been drawn into a multitude of large industrial
undertakings. I need some one to assist me, to take my place at need.
To be sure, I have a secretary, a steward, that excellent Bompain; but
the poor fellow knows nothing of Paris. You will say that you are fresh
from the provinces. But that's of no consequence. Well educated as you
are, a Southerner, open-eyed and adaptable, you will soon get the hang
of the boulevard. At all events, I'll undertake your education in that
direction myself. In a few weeks you shall have a foot as thoroughly
Parisian as mine, I promise you."

Poor man! It was touching to hear him talk about his _Parisian foot_
and his experience, when he was fated never to be more than a beginner.

"Well, it's a bargain, eh? I take you for my secretary. You shall have
a fixed salary which we will agree upon directly; and I will give you a
chance to make your fortune quickly."

And as de Gery, suddenly relieved of all his anxieties as a new-comer,
a petitioner, a neophyte, did not stir for fear of waking from a dream,
the Nabob added in a softer tone:

"Now come and sit here by me, and let us talk a little about mamma."

III.

MEMOIRS OF A CLERK.--A CASUAL GLANCE AT THE "CAISSE TERRITORIALE."

I had just finished my humble morning meal, and, as my custom is, had
bestowed the balance of my provisions in the safe in the directors'
room, a magnificent safe with a secret lock, which has served as my
pantry during the four years, or nearly that, of my employment in the
_Territoriale_; suddenly the Governor enters the office, red as a
turkey-cock, his eyes inflamed as if he were fresh from a feast,
breathing noisily, and says to me in vulgar phrase, with his Italian
accent:

"There's a horrible smell here, _Moussiou_ Passajon."

There was not a horrible smell, if you please. But--shall I say it?--I
had sent out for a few onions to put around a bit of knuckle of veal,
brought down to me by Mademoiselle Seraphine, the cook on the second
floor, whose accounts I write up every evening. I tried to explain to
the Governor; but he worked himself into a rage, saying that in his
opinion there was no sense in poisoning offices in that way, and that
it wasn't worth while to pay twelve thousand francs a year for a suite
of rooms with eight windows on the front, in the best part of Boulevard
Malesherbes, to cook onions in. I don't know what he didn't say to me
in his effervescent state. For my part, I was naturally vexed to be
spoken to in that insolent tone. The least one can do is to be polite
to people whom one neglects to pay, deuce take it! So I retorted that
it was too bad, really; but, if the _Caisse Territoriale_ would pay
what they owe me, to wit my arrears of salary for four years, plus
seven thousand francs advanced by me to the Governor to pay for
carriages, newspapers, cigars and American drinks on the days the
council met, I would go and eat like a Christian at the nearest cheap
alehouse, and should not be reduced to cooking for myself, in the
directors' room, a wretched stew which I owed to the public compassion
of cooks. And there you are!

In speaking thus I gave way to an indignant impulse very excusable in
the eyes of anybody who is acquainted with my position here. However, I
had said nothing unseemly, but had kept within the limits of language
suited to my age and education. (I must have stated somewhere in these
memoirs that I passed more than thirty of my sixty-five years as
apparitor to the Faculty of Letters at Dijon. Hence my taste for
reports and memoirs, and those notions of academic style of which
traces will be found in many passages of this lucubration.) I had, I
repeat, expressed myself to the Governor with the greatest reserve,
refraining from employing any of those insulting words with which every
one here regales him during the day, from our two censors, M. de
Monpavon, who laughingly calls him _Fleur-de-Mazas_, whenever he comes
here, and M. de Bois-l'Hery of the Trompettes Club, who is as vulgar in
his language as a groom, and always says to him by way of adieu: "To
your wooden bed, flea!" From those two down to our cashier, whom I have
heard say to him a hundred times, tapping his ledger: "There's enough
in here to send you to the galleys whenever I choose." And yet, for all
that, my simple observation produced a most extraordinary effect upon
him. The circles around his eyes turned bright yellow, and he said,
trembling with anger, the wicked anger of his country: "Passajon,
you're a blackguard! One word more and I discharge you." I was struck
dumb with amazement. Discharge me--me! And what about my four years'
arrears, and my seven thousand francs of advances! As if he read my
thoughts as they entered my head, the Governor replied that all the
accounts were to be settled, including mine. "By the way," he added,
"just call all the clerks to my office. I have some great news to tell
them." With that he entered his office and slammed the door behind him.

That devil of a man! No matter how well you may know him, know what a
liar he is and what an actor, he always finds a way to put you off with
his palaver. My account! Why, I was so excited that my legs ran away
with me while I was going about to notify the staff.

Theoretically there are twelve of us at the _Caisse Territoriale_,
including the Governor and the dandy Moessard, manager of the _Verite
Financiere_; but really there are less than half that number. In the
first place, since the _Verite_ ceased to appear--that was two years
ago--M. Moessard hasn't once set foot inside our doors. It seems that
he is swimming in honors and wealth, that he has for a dear friend a
queen, a real queen, who gives him all the money he wants. Oh! what a
Babylon this Paris is! The others look in occasionally to see if by
chance there is anything new at the _Caisse_; and, as there never is,
weeks pass without our seeing them. Four or five faithful ones, poor
old fellows all, like myself, persist in appearing regularly every
morning, at the same hour, as a matter of habit, because they have
nothing else to do, and are at a loss to know what to turn their hand
to; but they all busy themselves with matters that have no connection
whatever with the office. One must live, there's no doubt of that! And
then a man cannot pass his day lounging from chair to chair, from
window to window, to look out (eight front windows on the boulevard).
So we try to get such work as we can. For my part, I write for
Mademoiselle Seraphine and another cook in the house. Then I write
up my memoirs, which takes no small amount of time. Our receiving
teller--there's a fellow who hasn't a very laborious task with
us--makes netting for a house that deals in fishermen's supplies. One
of our two copyists, who writes a beautiful hand, copies plays for a
dramatic agency; the other makes little toys worth a sou, which are
sold by hucksters at the street corners toward New Year's Day, and in
that way succeeds in keeping himself from starving to death the rest of
the year. Our cashier is the only one who does no outside work. He
would think that he had forfeited his honor. He is a very proud man,
who never complains, and whose only fear is that he may seem to be
short of linen. Locked into his office, he employs his time from
morning till night, making shirt-fronts, collars and cuffs out of
paper. He has attained very great skill, and his linen, always
dazzlingly white, would deceive any one, were it not that, at the
slightest movement, when he walks, when he sits down, it cracks as if
he had a pasteboard box in his stomach. Unluckily all that paper does
not feed him; and he is so thin, he has such a gaunt look, that one
wonders what he can live on. Between ourselves, I suspect him of
sometimes paying a visit to my pantry. That's an easy matter for him;
for, in his capacity of cashier, he has the "word" that opens the
secret lock, and I fancy that, when my back is turned, he does a little
foraging among my supplies.

Surely this is a most extraordinary, incredible banking-house. And yet
what I am writing is the solemn truth, and Paris is full of financial
establishments of the same sort as ours. Ah! if I ever publish my
memoirs. But let me take up the interrupted thread of my narrative.

When we were all assembled in his office, the manager said to us with
great solemnity:

"Messieurs and dear comrades, the time of our trials is at an end. The
_Caisse Territoriale_ is entering upon a new phase of its existence."

With that he began to tell us about a superb _combinazione_--that is
his favorite word, and he says it in such an insinuating tone!--a
_combinazione_ in which the famous Nabob of whom all the papers are
talking is to have a part. Thus the _Caisse Territoriale_ would be able
to discharge its obligation to its loyal servants, to reward those who
had shown devotion to its service and lop off those who were useless.
This last for me, I imagine. And finally: "Make up your accounts. They
will all be settled to-morrow." Unfortunately he has so often soothed
our feelings with lying words that his discourse produced no effect.
Formerly those fine promises of his always succeeded. On the
announcement of a new _combinazione_, we used to caper about and weep
with joy in the offices, and embrace one another like shipwrecked
sailors at sight of a sail.

Everyone prepared his account for the next day, as he had told us. But
the next day, no Governor. The next day but one, still no Governor. He
had gone on a little journey.

At last, when we were all together, exasperated beyond measure, putting
out our tongues, crazy for the water that he had held to our mouths,
the Governor arrived, dropped into a chair, hid his face in his hands,
and, before we had time to speak to him, exclaimed: "Kill me, kill me!
I am a miserable impostor. The _combinazione_ has fallen through.
_Pechero!_ the _combinazione_ has fallen through!" And he cried and
sobbed, threw himself on his knees, tore out his hair by handfuls and
rolled on the carpet; he called us all by our nicknames, begged us to
take his life, spoke of his wife and children, whom he had utterly
ruined. And not one of us had the courage to complain in the face of
such despair. What do I say? We ended by sharing it. No, never since
theatres existed, has there been such an actor. But to-day, it is all
over, our confidence has departed. When he had gone everybody gave a
shrug. I must confess, however, that for a moment I was shaken. The
assurance with which he talked about discharging me, and the name of
the Nabob, who was so wealthy--

"Do you believe that?" said the cashier. "Why, you'll always be an
innocent, my poor Passajon. Never you fear! The Nabob's in it just
about as much as Moessard's queen was."

And he went back to his shirt-fronts.

His last remark referred back to the time when Moessard was paying
court to his queen and had promised the Governor that, in case he was
successful, he would induce Her Majesty to invest some funds in our
enterprise. All of us in the office were informed of that new prospect
and deeply interested, as you may imagine, in its speedy realization,
since our money depended on it. For two months that fable kept us in
breathless suspense. We were consumed with anxiety, we scrutinized
Moessard's face; we thought that the effects of his association with
the lady were very visible there; and our old cashier, with his proud,
serious air, would reply gravely from behind his grating, when we
questioned him on the subject: "There's nothing new," or: "The affair's
in good shape." With that everybody was content and we said to each
other: "It's coming along, it's coming along," as if it were a matter
in the ordinary course of business. No, upon my word, Paris is the
only place in the world where such things can be seen. It positively
makes one's head spin sometimes. The upshot of it was that, one fine
morning, Moessard stopped coming to the office. He had succeeded, it
seems; but the _Caisse Territoriale_ did not seem to him a sufficiently
advantageous investment for his dear friend's funds. That was
honorable, wasn't it?

However, the sentiment of honor is so easily lost that one can scarcely
believe it. When I think that I, Passajon, with my white hair, my
venerable appearance, my spotless past--thirty years of academic
service--have accustomed myself to living amid these infamies and base
intrigues like a fish in water! One may well ask what I am doing here,
why I remain here, how I happened to come here.

How did I happen to come here? Oh! bless your soul, in the simplest way
you can imagine. Nearly four years ago, my wife being dead and my
children married, I had just accepted my retiring pension as apparitor
to the Faculty, when an advertisement in the newspaper happened to
come to my notice. "WANTED, a clerk of mature age at the _Caisse
Territoriale_, 56 Boulevard Malesherbes. Good references." Let me make
a confession at once. The modern Babylon had always tempted me. And
then I felt that I was still vigorous, I could see ten active years
before me, during which I might earn a little money, much perhaps, by
investing my savings in the banking-house I was about to enter. So I
wrote, inclosing my photograph by Crespon, Place De Marche, in which I
am represented with a clean-shaven chin, a bright eye under my heavy
white eyebrows, wearing my steel chain around my neck, my insignia as
an academic official, "with the air of a conscript father on his curule
chair!" as our dean, M. Chalmette, used to say. (Indeed he declared
that I looked very much like the late Louis XVIII., only not so heavy.)

So I furnished the best of references, the most flattering
recommendations from the gentlemen of the Faculty. By return mail the
Governor answered my letter to the effect that my face pleased him--I
should think so, _parbleu!_ a reception room guarded by an imposing
countenance like mine is a tempting bait to the investor,--and that I
might come when I chose. I ought, you will tell me, to have made
inquiries on my own account. Oh! of course I ought. But I had so much
information to furnish about myself that it never occurred to me to ask
them for any about themselves. Moreover, how could one have a feeling
of distrust after seeing these superb quarters, these lofty ceilings,
these strong-boxes, as large as wardrobes, and these mirrors in which
you can see yourself from head to foot? And then the sonorous
prospectuses, the millions that I heard flying through the air, the
colossal enterprises with fabulous profits. I was dazzled, fascinated.
I must say, also, that at that time the establishment had a very
different look from that it has to-day. Certainly affairs were going
badly--they have always gone badly, have our affairs--and the journal
appeared only at irregular intervals. But one of the Governor's little
_combinazioni_ enabled him to save appearances.

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