Cousin Pons

by Honoré de Balzac

  Madame Cibot’s terror was at its height. Deadly pale, she gazed at the wizened little green-eyed man as a poor Moresco girl, denounced for her loyalty to her religion, might have gazed at the Inquisitor as she heard herself being condemned to the stake.

  ‘Do you mean then, my kind Monsieur Fraisier, that if I left things to you and trusted in you to watch over my interests, I should get something out of it and have nothing to fear?’

  ‘I guarantee you thirty thousand francs,’ said Fraisier, with the air of a man who knows what he is talking about.

  ‘After all, you know how fond I am of dear Dr Poulain,’ she went on in her most fawning tones. ‘It was he that told me to come and see you, and such a nice man wouldn’t send me here to be told I was going to be guillotined for poisoning people.’

  She melted into tears; the idea of being guillotined had put her in such a tremble that her nerves were twitching and her heart was in the grip of terror. She lost her head. Fraisier was enjoying his triumph. When he had noticed his client’s hesitation, he had seen the affair being taken out of his hands, and he had set out to tame La Cibot, terrify her, stupefy her, get her in his power, bound hand and foot. The concierge had entered his office like a fly blundering into a spider’s web and she was to remain there, immeshed and entangled – a meal served up for this little lawyer’s ambition. From this affair, in fact, Fraisier hoped to draw sustenance for his old age, easy circumstances, happiness and consideration. During the whole of the previous evening he and Poulain had been weighing the whole matter up and carefully studying its ins and outs. The doctor had given his friend a sketch of Schmucke’s character and their nimble wits had weighed every hypothesis and examined all possible expedients and dangers. In a burst of enthusiasm Fraisier had exclaimed: ‘There’s a fortune in it for both of us!’ He had promised Poulain a post as Medical Officer in a Paris hospital, and he had promised himself that he would become the justice of the peace in his arrondissement.

  To be a justice of the peace! For Fraisier, an eminently capable man and a Doctor of Law, though a penniless one, this ambition was so rough a chimaera to ride that his thoughts lingered over it like a junior counsel dreaming of a judge’s robes or an Italian priest dreaming of the triple tiara. It amounted to an obsession. The then justice of the peace, Monsieur Vitel, in whose court Fraisier conducted his pleas, was an old man of seventy-nine, failing in health, and thinking of retirement. Fraisier talked to Poulain about the prospect of succeeding him, and Poulain talked to Fraisier about the wealthy heiress whose life he was going to save as a prelude to marrying her.

  Few people are aware of the covetousness which any public office involving residence in Paris arouses. Everyone yearns to live in Paris. If the Excise authorities have a licence to confer for the retail of tobacco and postage-stamps in Paris, a hundred woman rise up as one person and work upon all their friends to obtain it for them. A probable vacancy in one of the twenty-four Inland Revenue posts sets a host of ambitions seething in the Chamber of Deputies! All such posts are conferred in the King’s Council and are State appointments. Now the salary of a justice of the peace in Paris amounts to six thousand francs a year; keeping the court records is a responsibility which brings in a hundred thousand francs. It is one of the most sought-after posts within the magisterial orbit. Fraisier as justice of the peace and friend of a chief medical officer could see himself making a rich marriage and also finding a bride for Poulain. They were going to work hand in hand.

  *

  Night had rolled down its leaden shutters over all the calculations of the sometime attorney of Mantes, and a formidable plan had germinated in his mind: an intricate plan, fraught with intrigue and profitable results. La Cibot was the pivot on which this dream was to turn. And so any rebelliousness in this woman, a mere tool, had to be crushed. No such possibility had been foreseen, but the former attorney had just brought the recalcitrant concierge to his feet by marshalling all the forces his venomous nature could assemble.

  ‘My dear Madame Cibot, conquer your fears,’ he said, taking her hand.

  The feel of his hand, cold as a serpent’s skin, produced a terrible impression on the concierge. It set up a physical reaction which calmed her down. She felt that Madame Fontaine’s toad, Ashtaroth, was less dangerous to handle than this man with his red wig and his corncrake voice, this alchemist’s vial of poison.

  ‘Don’t think that I am wrong in rousing your alarm,’ continued Fraisier after taking note of the fresh shudder of repulsion which went through La Cibot’s frame. ‘The incidents responsible for Madame la Présidente’s terrible reputation are so well known in the Law Courts that you may consult anyone you like on that score. The great nobleman who was almost put under judicial interdiction is the Marquis d’Espard. The man she saved from the galleys is the Marquis d’Esgrignon. The rich handsome young man with brilliant prospects who was to have married a young lady belonging to one of the foremost families of France, and who hanged himself in his prison cell, was the celebrated Lucien de Rubempré. His case caused a commotion throughout all Paris. There also an inheritance was in question – that of the notorious Esther, who left several millions. The young man, a poet, was accused of poisoning her because she had bequeathed all her wealth to him. He was away from Paris when the girl died, and he didn’t even know he was her heir. Could there be any greater proof of innocence? Well, after being questioned by Monsieur Camusot, the young man hanged himself in gaol… Justice is like the practice of medicine: it has its victims. With the first, one dies for Society; with the second, for Science.’ He said this with a hideous smile. ‘Well, you see that I know the risk you run. The law has already ruined me, a poor obscure little advocate. My experience has cost me dear: it is wholly at your service.’

  ‘My goodness, no, thank you,’ said La Cibot. ‘I’ll have nothing to do with it. I must put up with ingratitude… I only wanted my due… I’ve thirty years’ honest living behind me, Monsieur. My Monsieur Pons says he will recommend me to Monsieur Schmucke in his will. Well, I’ll end my days in peace with that kind German.’

  Fraisier saw he had gone too far and disheartened La Cibot. So he had to wipe out the unhappy impression he had made on her.

  ‘Let’s not take a gloomy view,’ he said. ‘Go along home in complete peace of mind. Be sure we’ll see that you come safe into port.’

  ‘But what must I do then, my good Monsieur Fraisier, to get an income and…’

  ‘And keep your conscience clear?’ he broke in quickly. ‘Why, that’s just what lawyers are for. One can’t get anything in such cases unless one abides by the terms of the law… You don’t know the law: I do… With me, you can keep on the windy side of it. You’ll have peaceful possession as far as your fellow creatures are concerned. As for your conscience, that’s your affair.’

  ‘Well then, tell me what to do,’ went on La Cibot, now pacified and full of curiosity.

  ‘I can’t yet. I haven’t studied the ways and means, only the obstacles. To begin with, you must push on with the will. But first of all let’s find out to whom Pons is going to leave his possessions… Suppose he left everything to you!…’

  ‘Not a chance! He doesn’t like me. Oh, if only I’d known beforehand what his knick-knacks were worth, and if only I’d known what he’s told me about not having had any love-affairs I’d be without a care today.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Fraisier. ‘Carry on! Dying people are taken with queer whims, my dear Madame Cibot. They disappoint many people’s expectations. Let him make his will; then we shall see what to do. But the first thing is to value the articles comprising the inhertance. So put me in touch with the Jew and the man Rémonencq; they’ll be very helpful to us… Trust me completely, I’m entirely on your side. I’m a friend to my clients through thick and thin, once they treat me as a friend. Either a friend or an enemy: that’s how I am.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll put myself in your hands,’ said La Cibot. ‘And what about your fee?… Monsieur Poulain sa
id…’

  ‘Never mind that now,’ said Fraisier. ‘See that you keep Poulain at the sick man’s bedside. He’s one of the most honest, the most loyal souls I know; and you see we must have a man we can trust. Poulain’s a better man than I am. I have become ill-natured.’

  ‘You do seem to be,’ said La Cibot, ‘but I’d put my trust in you, I would…’

  ‘So you should!… Come and see me whenever anything crops up, and after all, you have your wits about you. All will go well.’

  ‘Good-bye, my dear Monsieur Fraisier. I hope you’ll soon be better… Your servant.’

  Fraisier took his client back to the door, and there, as she herself had done the day before with the doctor, he said his last word:

  ‘If you can get Monsieur Pons to ask for my legal advice, that would be a big step forward.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Old lady,’ he continued, drawing her back into his office, ‘I’m on good terms with Monsieur Trognon, the notary – the one in our quarter. If Monsieur Pons hasn’t a notary, tell him about this one. Get him to engage him.’

  ‘I understand,’ answered La Cibot.

  As she went out the concierge could hear the swish of a dressing-gown and the thud of heavy feet trying to step lightly. Once more alone and back in the street, she walked along for a time and was soon able to think for herself again. Although she had not recovered from the shock of this consultation and was still terrified at the prospect of the scaffold, the Law Courts and the judges, she came to a very natural decision – one which was going to put her, secretly, at odds with her terrible counsellor.

  ‘After all,’ she asked herself, ‘do I need partners? I’ll feather my own nest, and after that I’ll take anything they offer me to work for them…’

  This resolution, as we shall see, was destined to hasten the demise of the unfortunate musician.

  20. La Cibot at the theatre

  ‘WELL now, dear Monsieur Schmucke,’ said La Cibot as she entered the flat. ‘How is our dear, cherished patient doing?’

  ‘Not veil,’ the German replied. ‘Hiss mint hass peen vanterink all ze night.’

  ‘What was he talking about?’

  ‘Foolish sinks! He vantet to leaf me all hiss fortune, put so zet I sell nossink… unt he vass veeping, ze poor man! It mate me fery sat.’

  ‘He’ll get over that, dearie,’ replied the concierge. ‘I’ve kept you waiting for your breakfast. It’s after nine o’clock. But don’t be cross with me. I’ve had such a lot to do, you see… about your concerns. The fact is, we’ve nothing left, and I’ve been getting some money.’

  ‘Vere tit you get it?’

  ‘At Uncle’s.’

  ‘Vat uncle?’

  ‘The pop-shop.’

  ‘Pop-shop?’

  ‘Oh the dear man, isn’t he a simple one! No really, you’re just a saint, an angel, a blessed innocent. You should be put in a glass case, as the old actor said. What! You’ve been in Paris these twenty-nine years, you’ve lived through the July Revolution, and you’ve never heard tell of the pawnbroker’s, where they lend you cash on your bits and pieces… I’ve popped my silver spoons and forks – eight of them with thread design. Well, it can’t be helped. Cibot’ll have to make do with Algiers metal: it’s quite good style, as they say. And don’t go telling our poor cherub about that. It would only get him all bothered and turn him yellow; he’s touchy enough as it is. Let’s pull him through first, and then we’ll see about it. After all, there’s a time and a place for everything. You’ve got to take the rough with the smooth, haven’t you…?’

  ‘You kint voman! You goot-heartet soul!’ said the poor musician, taking La Cibot’s hand and laying it against his heart, his face working with emotion.

  The angelic creature raised her eyes to heaven, so as to show the tears swimming in them.

  ‘Don’t take on so, Papa Schmucke! You really are funny! Fancy making such a fuss! I’m only an old working-woman, and I wear my heart on my sleeve. I’ve got one, you know,’ she added, slapping her bosom, ‘just like you two have, and you’ve got hearts of gold…’

  ‘I to not feel funny,’ said the musician. ‘No inteet, to sink off him hafink so much sorrow, veepink tears of ploot and zen leafink zis vorlt pehint, it iss preakink my heart. If Pons tie, I tie also.’

  ‘Lord help us, I shouldn’t be surprised, you’re taking it so hard. Listen, my duckling…’

  ‘Tucklink? Vass iss zet?’

  ‘Well then, my poppet…’

  ‘Puppet?’

  ‘My petsy then, if you like that better.’

  ‘Zet iss not clear eizer.’

  ‘Well anyhow, let me look after you. Be advised by me, or else, if you go on like this, I’ll have two sick people on my hands sure and certain. The way I see it, we’ve got to share jobs here. You’ll have to give up your lessons in town : you get all done up and then you’re no good for anything here, and there’s a lot of sitting-up to be done with Monsieur Pons getting worse all the time. I’m going off this very day to tell all your customers you’re ill… That makes sense, doesn’t it? From now on, you can spend your nights sitting up with our poor lamb, and you can go to bed from five in the morning till two in the afternoon, let’s say. I’ll do the hardest jobs, the day ones. I’ve got to give you lunch and dinner, care for the patient, get him out of bed, change him, give him his medicine… You see, the way I’m slaving now, I shan’t last out a fortnight. We’ve both been on edge for a month. And what would you do if I got knocked up?… You too, you’re in a shocking state after sitting up all last night with Monsieur Pons…’

  She shepherded Schmucke to the looking-glass to show him how altered he was.

  ‘So then, if you’re of the same mind as me, I’m going to give you your breakfast double-quick. Then you’ll mind our dearie till two o’clock. But you must give me a list of your customers, and I’ll soon settle that. That’ll get you a fortnight off. When I get back you can go and lie down and take it easy till this evening.’

  The suggestion was such a wise one that Schmucke agreed to it there and then.

  ‘Mum’s the word with Monsieur Pons. You know he would think he was done for if we told him straight out that he’s giving up the theatre and his lessons for a time. The poor gentleman would imagine he’d never get his pupils back – as if it mattered 1 Dr Poulain says we won’t pull our pet through if we don’t keep him as quiet as possible.’

  ‘Fery goot! Fery goot! Get ze preakfast unt I vill make ze list and gif you ze attresses. You are qvite right, I coult not holt out!’

  One hour afterwards, La Cibot put on her Sunday best and sailed off like a great lady – to Rémonencq’s amazement. She was determined to cut a dignified figure as the confidential representative of the two ‘Nutcrackers’ in carrying out her mission to all the young ladies’ seminaries and all the private houses where the musicians’ pupils lived.

  There would be no point in recording the diversified gossip, the variations on a single theme performed by La Cibot for the benefit of the headmistresses and families she visited. It will suffice to report the scene which took place in the ‘illustrious’ Gaudissart’s managerial bureau, to which she obtained admission, though not without considerable difficulty. Theatre directors in Paris are better guarded than kings and ministers. The reason why strong barriers are raised between them and other mortals is easy to comprehend: kings have only to ward off ambition, whereas theatre directors have to contend with the amour-propre of artistes and authors.

  La Cibot got over all the hurdles thanks to a sudden amity established between herself and the theatre door-keeper. Concierges can pick one another out of a crowd, like all members of one and the same profession. Each calling has its own shibboleths as well as its grievances and stigmata.

  ‘Ah, Madame! You are the caretaker of this theatre,’ La Cibot had said. ‘I am only a humble concierge in a house in the rue de Normandie, where your orchestra conductor Monsieur Pons lives. What wouldn’t I
give to be in your shoes, watching the actors, the dancers and the authors coming in and out! As the old actor said, yours is the top rung in our profession.’

  ‘How is dear Monsieur Pons getting on?’ asked the concierge.

  ‘He’s not getting on a bit. All of two months it’s been since he last got out of bed, and mark my words, he’ll be carried out feet first!’

  ‘Oh dear! That will be such a loss.’

  ‘It will that. Now, I’ve come from him to explain his position to your director. So do try and get him to see me, my dear.’

  ‘A lady on behalf of Monsieur Pons!’ It was thus that the commissionaire attached to the director’s office announced Madame Cibot after the theatre concierge had put her case to him. Gaudissart had just come in to supervise a rehearsal, and it turned out that there was no one waiting to catch him, and that actors and authors were late in arriving. So he beckoned La Cibot in with a sweeping Napoleonic gesture.

  This commercial traveller of former times, now in charge of a popular theatre, had been treating his partners in the concern as a man treats his lawful spouse – that is to say he deceived them. In consequence, his rise in financial importance was writ large on his person. Having grown stout and portly and acquired the ruddy countenance which comes of good cheer and prosperity, he had undergone a real metamorphosis: he now looked like a successful pill-merchant.

  ‘I’m on the way to becoming a Croesus!’ he said in an effort to be the first to laugh at himself.