The Nabob, Vol. 2 (of 2)

by Alphonse Daudet

  XX.

  BARONESS HEMERLINGUE.

  At the farther end of the long archway beneath which were the offices ofHemerlingue and Son, a dark tunnel which Pere Joyeuse had for ten yearsbedecked and illumined with his dreams, a monumental staircase withwrought-iron rail, a staircase of old Paris, ascended to the left,leading to the baroness's salons, whose windows looked on the courtyardjust above the counting-room, so that, during the warm season, wheneverything was open, the chink of the gold pieces, the noise made bypiles of crowns toppling over on the counters, slightly deadened by therich hangings at the long windows, formed a sort of commercialaccompaniment to the subdued conversations carried on by worldlyCatholicism.

  That detail was responsible for the peculiar physiognomy of that salon,no less peculiar than the woman who presided over it, mingling a vagueodor of the sacristy with the excitement of the Bourse and the mostconsummate worldliness, heterogeneous elements which constantly met andcame in contact there, but remained separate, just as the Seineseparates the noble Catholic faubourg under whose auspices the notoriousconversion of the Moslem woman took place, from the financial quartersin which Hemerlingue's life and his associations were located. Levantinesociety, which is quite numerous in Paris, consisting principally ofGerman Jews, bankers or commission merchants, who, after making enormousfortunes in the Orient, continue in business here in order not to losethe habit of it, was very regular in its attendance on the baroness'sdays. Tunisians sojourning in Paris never failed to call upon the wifeof the great banker, who was in favor at home, and old Colonel Brahim,the bey's charge d'affaires, with his drooping lips and his lustrelesseyes, took his nap every Saturday in the corner of the same divan.

  "Your salon smells of burning flesh, my goddaughter," the old Princessede Dions said laughingly to the newly-christened Marie, whom she andMaitre Le Merquier had held at the baptismal font; but the presence ofthat crowd of heretics, Jews, Mussulmans and even renegades, those fatwomen with pimply faces, gaudily dressed, loaded down with gold andearrings, "veritable bales" of finery, did not prevent FaubourgSaint-Germain from calling upon, surrounding and watching over the youngneophyte, the plaything of those noble dames, a very pliant, very dociledoll, whom they took about and exhibited, quoting her _naive_evangelical remarks, especially interesting by way of contrast to herpast. Perhaps there found its way into the hearts of those amiablepatronesses the hope of encountering in that company fresh from theOrient an opportunity to make a new conversion, to fill the aristocraticmission chapel once more with the touching spectacle of one of thosebaptisms of adults, which carry you back to the early days of the faith,to the banks of the Jordan, and are soon followed by the firstcommunion, the rebaptizing, the confirmation, all affording pretexts forthe godmother to accompany her goddaughter, to guide that young soul, tolook on at the ingenuous transports of a new-born faith, and at the sametime to display costumes deftly varied and shaded to suit the brilliancyor the solemnity of the ceremony. But it does not often happen that abaron prominent in financial circles brings to Paris an Armenian slavewhom he has made his lawful wife.

  A slave! That was the stain in the past of that woman of the Orient,purchased long ago in the slave-mart at Adrianople for the Emperor ofMorocco, then, upon the Emperor's death and the dispersion of his harem,sold to the young Bey Ahmed. Hemerlingue had married her on her exitfrom that second seraglio, but was unable to induce society to receiveher in Tunis, where no woman, be she Moor, Turk, or European, will everconsent to treat a former slave as an equal, by virtue of a prejudicenot unlike that which separates the Creole from the most perfectlydisguised quadroon. There is an invincible repugnance there on thatsubject, which the Hemerlingue family found even in Paris, where theforeign colonies form little clubs overflowing with localsusceptibilities and traditions. Thus Yumina passed two or three yearsin utter solitude, of which she was able to turn to good account all thebitterness of heart and all the leisure hours; for she was an ambitiouswoman of extraordinary strength of will and obstinacy. She learned theFrench language thoroughly, said adieu forever to her embroideredjackets and pink silk trousers, succeeded in adapting her figure and hergait to European garb, to the embarrassment of long skirts; and oneevening, at the opera, displayed to the marvelling Parisians the figure,still a little uncivilized, but elegant, refined and so original, of afemale Mussulman in a decollete costume by Leonard.

  The sacrifice of her religion followed close upon that of her costume.Madame Hemerlingue had long since abandoned all Mohammedan practices,when Maitre Le Merquier, the intimate friend of the family and hercicerone in Paris, pointed out that a formal conversion of the baronesswould open to her the doors of that portion of Parisian society whichseems to have become more and more difficult of access, in proportion asthe society all around it has become more democratic. FaubourgSaint-Germain once conquered, all the rest would follow. And so itproved that when, after the sensation occasioned by the baptism, itbecame known that the greatest names of France did not disdain toassemble at Baroness Hemerlingue's Saturdays, Mesdames Guggenheim,Fuernberg, Caraiscaki, Maurice Trott, all wives of Fez millionaires andillustrious in the market-places of Tunis, renounced their prejudicesand prayed to be admitted to the ex-slave's receptions. Madame Jansouletalone, newly landed in France with a stock of Oriental ideas impedingcirculation in her mind, as her nargileh, her ostrich eggs and all therest of her Tunisian trash impeded it in her apartments, protestedagainst what she called impropriety, cowardice, and declared that shewould never step foot inside "that creature's" doors. Immediately aslight retrograde movement took place among Mesdames Guggenheim,Caraiscaki, and other bales of finery, as always happens in Pariswhenever obstinate resistance from some quarter to the regularizing ofan irregular state of affairs leads to regrets and defections. They hadadvanced too far to withdraw, but they determined that the value oftheir complaisance, of the sacrifice of their prejudices should be morefully understood; and Baroness Marie realized the difference simply fromthe patronizing tone of the Levantines, who called her "my dearchild--my good girl," with haughty condescension not unmingled withcontempt. Thereafter her hatred of the Jansoulets knew no bounds, acomplicated, savage, seraglio hatred, with strangling and secretdrowning at the end, an operation rather more difficult of performancein Paris than on the shores of the Lake of El-Baheira, but she wasalready preparing the bow-string and stout bag.

  That implacable hatred being well known and understood, we can imaginethe surprise and excitement in that exotic corner of society, when itwas reported that not only did the stout Afchin--as those ladies calledher--consent to meet the baroness, but was to call first upon her on hernext Saturday. You may be sure that neither the Fuernbergs nor theTrotts proposed to miss that occasion. The baroness for her part did allthat she could to give the utmost possible publicity to that solemn actof reparation, wrote notes and made calls and played her cards so wellthat, notwithstanding the fact that the season was very far advanced,Madame Jansoulet, if she had arrived at the mansion in FaubourgSaint-Honore about four o'clock, might have seen before the lofty archedgateway, beside the Princesse de Dions' quiet livery of the color ofdead leaves, and many genuine coats of arms, the showy, pretentiouscrests, the multi-colored wheels of a multitude of financiers' equipagesand the tall powdered lackeys of the Caraiscakis.

  Above, in the reception-rooms, there was the same strange and gorgeousmedley. There was a constant going and coming over the carpets of thefirst two rooms, which were quite deserted, a rustling of silk dressesto and from the boudoir, where the baroness received, dividing herattentions and her cajoleries between the two very distinct camps; onone side dark dresses, modest in appearance, whose richness wasdiscernible to none but practised eyes, on the other a tumultuousspringtime of bright colors, expansive waists, diamonds in profusion,floating sashes, styles for exportation, wherein one could detect a sortof regretful longing for a warmer climate and a luxurious, ostentatiouslife. Fans waving majestically here, discreet whispering there. Very fewmen, two or three yout
hs, very thoughtful, silent and inactive, suckingthe heads of their canes, several stooping figures, standing behindtheir wives' broad backs, talking with their heads lowered as if theywere discussing smuggling expeditions; in a corner the beautiful,patriarchal beard and violet hood of an orthodox Armenian bishop.

  The baroness, in her efforts to bring these discordant social elementstogether and to keep her salons full until the famous interview,constantly moved about, carried on ten different conversations at once,raising her soft, melodious voice to the purring pitch thatdistinguishes Oriental women,--a wheedling, seductive voice, and a mindas supple as her waist, opening all sorts of subjects, and, asconvention requires, mingling fashions and sermons on charity, theatresand auction sales,--the scandalmonger and the confessor. She possessed agreat personal charm in addition to this acquired science ofentertaining, a science visible even in her very simple black dress,which brought out in relief her cloistral pallor, her houri-like eyes,her smooth, glossy hair, parted above a narrow, unwrinkled brow,--a browwhose mystery was accentuated by the too thin lips, closing to thecurious the whole varied, adventurous past of that ex-odalisque, who wasof no age, had no knowledge of the date of her birth, did not rememberthat she had ever been a child.

  Clearly, if the absolute power of evil, very rarely found in women, whomtheir impressionable physical nature subjects to so many varyingcurrents, could exist in a human soul, it would be found in the soul ofthat slave trained to concessions and fawning, rebellious but patient,and thoroughly self-controlled, like all those whom the habit of wearinga veil lowered over their eyes has accustomed to lying without dangerand without scruple.

  At that moment no one could have suspected the agony of suspense fromwhich she was suffering, to see her kneeling in front of the princess, agood-humored old woman, of unceremonious manners, of whom La Fuernbergconstantly said: "Well, if she's a princess!"

  "Oh! godmother, don't go yet, I beg you!"

  She overwhelmed her with all sorts of fascinating little tricks ofaction and expression, without acknowledging, of course, that she wasdetermined to detain her until Jansoulet's arrival, in order to make hercontribute to her triumph.

  "You see," said the good woman, pointing to the Armenian, sitting,majestic and solemn, his tasselled hat on his knees, "I have to takepoor monseigneur to the _Grand-Saint-Christophe_ to buy medals. He couldnever do it without me."

  "But I want you to stay. You must. Just a few minutes more."

  And the baroness glanced furtively toward the gorgeous, old-fashionedclock hanging in a corner of the salon.

  Five o'clock already, and the stout Afchin did not come. The Levantinesbegan to laugh behind their fans. Luckily, tea had just been served, andSpanish wines, and a quantity of delicious Turkish cakes, which werefound nowhere else, and the receipts for which, brought to Paris by theex-slave, are preserved in harems, as certain secrets connected with thefinest confectionery are preserved in our convents. That made adiversion. Hemerlingue, who came from his office from time to time onSaturdays to pay his respects to the ladies, was drinking a glass ofmadeira at the small table on which the refreshments were served,talking with Maurice Trott, formerly Said-Pacha's bath-master, when hiswife, always mild and tranquil externally, approached him. He knew whatfierce wrath must be hidden beneath that impenetrable calm, and he askedher timidly, in an undertone:

  "No one?"

  "No one. You see to what an outrage you have exposed me!"

  She smiled, her eyes half-closed, as she removed with the ends of herfingers a crumb that had lodged in his long black whiskers; but hertransparent little nostrils quivered with awe-inspiring eloquence.

  "Oh! she will come," said the banker, with his mouth full. "I am sureshe will come."

  A rustling of silk, of a train being adjusted in the adjoining room,caused the baroness to turn her head quickly. To the great delight ofthe cluster of "bales" in one corner, who were watching everything, itwas not she who was expected.

  She bore but little resemblance to Mademoiselle Afchin, the tall,graceful blonde, with the tired features and irreproachable toilet,worthy in every respect to bear a name as illustrious as that of Dr.Jenkins. In the last two or three months the beautiful Madame Jenkinshad changed greatly, had grown much older. There comes a time in thelife of a woman who has long retained her youth, when the years whichhave passed over her head without leaving a wrinkle write themselvesdown pitilessly all at once in ineffaceable marks. We no longer say whenwe see her: "How lovely she is!" but, "She must have been very lovely."And that cruel fashion of speaking of the past, of referring to adistant period what was a visible fact but yesterday, constitutes abeginning of old age and of retirement,--a substitution of reminiscencesfor all past triumphs. Was it the disappointment of seeing the doctor'swife instead of Madame Jansoulet, or was the discredit which the Duc deMora's death had brought upon the fashionable doctor destined tooverflow upon her who bore his name? There was something of both thosecauses, and perhaps of another as well, in the cold welcome which thebaroness accorded Madame Jenkins. A murmured greeting, a few hurriedwords, and she returned to the battalion of noble dames who werenibbling away with great zest. The salon became animated under theinfluence of the Spanish wines. People no longer whispered; theytalked. Lamps were brought in and imparted additional brilliancy to theoccasion, but announced that it was very near its end, as severalpersons who had no interest in the great event were already movingtoward the door. And the Jansoulets did not come.

  Suddenly there was a heavy, hurried step. The Nabob appeared, alone,buttoned into his black frock-coat, correctly gloved and cravatted, butwith distorted features and haggard eye, still trembling from theterrible scene in which he had just taken part.

  She had refused to come.

  In the morning he had told Madame's women to have her dressed at threeo'clock, as he was accustomed to do whenever he took the Levantineabroad with him, for he found it necessary to impart motion to thatindolent creature, who, being incapable of assuming any responsibilitywhatsoever, allowed others to think, to decide and to act for her,although she was quite willing to go wherever he chose, when she wasonce started. And he relied upon that willingness to enable him to takeher to Hemerlingue's house. But when, after breakfast, Jansoulet, fullydressed, magnificent, perspiring in his struggles to put on his gloves,sent to ask if Madame would soon be ready, he was told that Madame wasnot going out. It was a serious crisis, so serious that, discarding themediation of valets and maids, through whom their conjugal interviewswere usually conducted, he ran upstairs four stairs at a time, andentered the Levantine's luxurious apartments like a gust of the mistral.

  She was still in bed, clad in the ample open-work tunic in silk of twocolors, which the Moors call a _djebba_, and in one of theirgold-embroidered caps from which her beautiful heavy black mane escapedin tangled masses around her moon-like face, flushed by the hearty mealshe had just finished. The sleeves of the _djebba_ were turned back,disclosing two enormous, shapeless arms, laden with bracelets, with longslender chains wandering amid a wilderness of little mirrors, redchaplets, boxes of perfume, microscopic pipes, cigarette cases, thetrivial toy-shop display of a Moorish beauty at her hour for rising.

  The bedroom, heavy with the opium-laden, suffocating odor of Turkishtobacco, presented the same disorderly aspect. Negresses went in andout, slowly removing their mistress's coffee service, her favoritegazelle was lapping a cup which he had overturned on the carpet with hisslender nose, while the dark-browed Cabassu, seated at the foot of thebed with touching familiarity, was reading aloud to Madame a drama inverse soon to be produced at Cardaillac's theatre. The Levantine wasamazed, absolutely stupefied by the work.

  "My dear," she said to Jansoulet, in her thick Flemish accent, "I don'tknow what our manager is thinking about. I am just reading that play,_Revolte_, that he is so crazy over. Why, it's a frightful thing! It'snever been on the stage."

  "What do I care for your stage?" cried Jansoulet fiercely, despite allhis respect for the
daughter of the Afchins. "What! you're not dressed,yet? Weren't you told that we were going out?"

  She had been told, but she had begun to read this idiotic play.

  "We will go out to-morrow," she said in her sleepy tone.

  "To-morrow! Impossible! We are expected to-day without fail. A veryimportant visit."

  "Where are we to go, pray?"

  He hesitated a second, then answered:

  "To Hemerlingue's."

  She looked up at him with her great eyes, convinced that he was laughingat her. Thereupon he told her of his meeting with the baron at Mora'sfuneral and the agreement they had made.

  "Go there if you choose," she said coldly; "but you know me very littleif you think that I, an Afchin, will ever set foot inside that slave'sdoor."

  Cabassu, seeing the turn that the discussion was taking, had prudentlydisappeared in an adjoining room, the five books of _Revolte_ in a pileunder his arm.

  "Stay," said the Nabob to his wife, "it is clear that you don'tunderstand the terrible plight I am in. Listen."

  Heedless of the maids and negresses, with the Oriental's sovereignindifference for the servant class, he began to draw the picture of hisgreat embarrassment, his property in Tunis seized, his credit in Parislost, his whole life hanging in suspense on the decision of the Chamber,Hemerlingue's influence with the man who was to make the report, and theabsolute necessity of sacrificing all self-love to such momentousinterests. He talked with great warmth, eager to persuade her, to takeher with him. But she replied, simply: "I will not go," as if it were amatter of an expedition of no possible consequence, so long that it waslikely to tire her.

  "Come, come, it isn't possible that you would say such a thing," hecontinued, quivering with excitement. "Remember that my fortune is atstake, the future of your children, the very name you bear. Everythingis staked on this one concession, which you cannot refuse to make."

  He might have talked thus for hours, he would still have been met by thesame determined, invincible obstinacy. A Mademoiselle Afchin could notcall upon a slave.

  "I tell you, madame," he exclaimed, savagely, "that slave is worth morethan you. By her shrewdness she has doubled her husband's wealth, whileyou on the contrary--"

  For the first time in the twelve years of their married life Jansouletdared to oppose his wife's will. Was he ashamed of that crime of_lese-majeste_ or did he realize that such a declaration might dig animpassable abyss between them? At all events he changed his tone at onceand knelt beside the low bed, with the affectionate, smiling tone oneemploys to make children listen to reason.

  "My dear little Marthe, I implore you--get up and dress yourself. It'sfor your own interest that I ask you to do it, for your luxury, for yourcomfort. What will become of you if, by a mere whim, by naughtywilfulness, we are to be reduced to poverty?"

  The word "poverty" conveyed absolutely no meaning to the Levantine. Youcould speak of it before her as you speak of death before smallchildren. It failed to move her, as she had no idea what it was. At allevents she was obstinately determined to remain in bed in her _djebba_,for, to emphasize her decision, she lighted a fresh cigarette from theone she had just finished, and while the Nabob enveloped his "darlinglittle wife" in apologies and prayers and supplications, promising her adiadem of pearls a hundred times more beautiful than hers if she wouldcome, she watched the heady smoke float up to the painted ceiling andwrapped herself in it as in imperturbable tranquillity. Finally, in faceof that persistent refusal, that silence, that forehead upon which hedetected the barrier of unconquerable obstinacy, Jansoulet gave rein tohis wrath and drew himself up to his full height.

  "Very good," said he, "I say you shall."

  He turned to the negresses:

  "Dress your mistress, at once."

  And the boor that he really was, the son of the Southern junk-dealercoming to the surface in that crisis, which moved him to the depths ofhis being, he threw back the bedclothes with a brutal, contemptuousgesture, tossing the innumerable gewgaws they held to the floor, andforcing the half-naked Levantine to jump to her feet with a promptitudemost remarkable in that bulky personage. She roared under the outrage,gathered the folds of her tunic about her misshapen bust, fixed herlittle cap crosswise over her falling hair, and began to blackguard herhusband.

  "Never, you hear me, never--you shall never drag me to that--"

  Filth poured from her heavy lips as from the mouth of a drain. Jansouletmight well have believed that he was in one of the frightful dens alongthe water front in Marseille, listening to a quarrel between aprostitute and a _nervi_, or looking on at some open-air fracas betweenGenoese, Maltese and Provencal women gleaning on the quay around bags ofgrain in process of unloading, and reviling each other at full speed ineddies of golden dust. She was the typical seaport Levantine, thespoiled, neglected child, who from her terrace, or from her gondola, inthe evening, has heard sailors cursing one another in all the languagesof the Latin seas, and has remembered everything. The wretched manstared at her, horrified and dismayed at what she compelled him to hear,at her grotesque figure, foaming at the mouth and sputtering:

  "No, I won't go--no, I won't go!"

  And she was the mother of his children, an Afchin!

  Suddenly, at the thought that his fate was in that woman's hands, thatshe had only to put on a dress to save him, and that time was flying,that it would soon be too late, a gust of crime rushed to his brain,distorted all his features. He rushed at her, opening and closing hishands with such a terrible expression that the daughter of the Afchins,in deadly terror, darted toward the door through which the _masseur_ hadjust left the room, calling:

  "Aristide!"

  That cry, that voice, his wife's evident intimacy with hislieutenant--Jansoulet stopped, his frantic anger passed away, and herushed from the room, throwing the doors open, more eager to escape thedisaster and the horror whose presence he felt in his own house, than togo elsewhere to seek the help that had been promised him.

  A quarter of an hour later he made his appearance at Hemerlingue's,making a despairing gesture in the banker's direction as he entered, andapproached the baroness, stammering the ready-made phrase that he hadheard repeated so often on the evening of his own ball: "His wife wasvery ill--in despair that she could not--" She did not give him time tofinish, but rose slowly, like a long, slender snake in the crosswisefolds of her clinging skirt, and said, in her schoolgirl accent, withoutlooking at him: "Oh! _I_ knew--_I_ knew;" then moved away and paid nofurther heed to him. He tried to accost Hemerlingue, but that gentlemanseemed deeply absorbed in his conversation with Maurice Trott. Thereuponhe went and sat down beside Madame Jenkins, whose isolation was no lessmarked than his. But, while he talked with the poor woman, who was aslanguid as he himself was preoccupied, he watched the baroness do thehonors of that salon, so much more comfortable than his own great gildedhalls.

  The guests were taking their leave. Madame Hemerlingue escorted some ofthe ladies to the door, bent her head beneath the benediction of theArmenian bishop, bowed smilingly to the young dandies with canes,bestowed upon every one the proper variety of salutation, with perfectself-possession; and the poor devil could not avoid a mental comparisonbetween that Oriental slave become such a thorough Parisian, of suchmarked distinction in the most refined society on earth, and that otherwoman, the European enervated by the Orient, brutalized by Turkishtobacco and bloated by a life of sloth. His ambition, his pride as ahusband were disappointed, humiliated in that union of which he now sawthe peril and the emptiness, the last cruel blow of destiny whichdeprived him even of the refuge of domestic happiness against all hispublic misfortunes.

  Gradually the salons became empty. The Levantines disappeared one afteranother, each leaving an immense void in her place. Madame Jenkins hadgone, and only two or three women, strangers to Jansoulet, remained,among whom the mistress of the house seemed to be seeking refuge fromhim. But Hemerlingue was at liberty, and the Nabob joined him just as hewas sidling furtively away in the direction
of his offices, which wereon the same floor opposite the state apartments. Jansoulet went out withhim, forgetting in his confusion to salute the baroness; and when theywere safely out on the landing, arranged as a reception-room, thecorpulent Hemerlingue, who had been very cold and reserved so long as hefelt his wife's eye upon him, assumed a somewhat more open expression.

  "It's a great pity," he said in a low tone, as if he were afraid ofbeing overheard, "that Madame Jansoulet would not come."

  Jansoulet replied with a gesture of despair and savage helplessness.

  "Too bad--too bad!" said the other, blowing his nose and feeling in hispocket for his key.

  "Look here, old fellow," said the Nabob, taking his arm, "because ourwives don't hit it off together, is no reason--That doesn't prevent ourremaining friends. What a nice little chat we had the other day, eh?"

  "To be sure," said the baron, withdrawing his hand to unlock the door,which opened noiselessly, disclosing the lofty private office with itsone lamp burning in front of the capacious, empty armchair.

  "Ya didon, Mouci,"[5] said the poor Nabob, trying to jest, and resortingto the _sabir_ patois to remind his old chum of all the pleasantreminiscences they had overhauled the day before. "Our visit to LeMerquier still holds. The picture we were going to offer him, you know.What day shall we go?"

  FOOTNOTES:

  [5] Ah! I say, Monsieur.

  "Ah! yes, Le Merquier. To be sure. Well, very soon. I will write you."

  "Sure? You know it's very urgent."

  "Yes, yes, I'll write you. Adieu."

  And the fat man closed his door hastily as if he feared that his wifemight appear.

  Two days later the Nabob received a note from Hemerlingue, almostundecipherable with its little fly-tracks, complicated by abbreviationsmore or less commercial, behind which the ex-sutler concealed hisabsolute lack of orthography:

  "MON CH/ANC/CAM/--Je ne puis decid/t'accom/ chez Le Merq/. Trop d'aff/ence mom/. D'aill/v/ ser/mieux seuls pour caus/. Vas-y carrem/. On t'att/.R/Cassette, tous les mat/de 8 a 10.

  "A toi cor/

  "HEM/."[6]

  FOOTNOTES:

  [6] "MY DEAR OLD COMRADE,--I cannot see my way to accompanying you tosee Le Merquier. Too busy just now. Indeed, you will do better to talkwith him alone. Go there openly. You are expected. Rue Cassette, everymorning, 8 to 10.

  "Yours cordially,

  "HEMERLINGUE."

  Below, by way of postscript, in a hand equally fine, but much clearer,was written very legibly:

  "A religious picture, if possible."

  What was he to think of that letter? Was it dictated by realfriendliness or polite dissimulation? At all events, further hesitationwas out of the question. The time was very short. So Jansoulet made abrave effort, for Le Merquier frightened him sadly, and went to hisoffice one morning.

  This strange Paris of ours, in its population and its varied aspects,seems like a map of the whole world. We find in the Marais narrowstreets with old, carved, vermiculated doors, with overhanging gables,with balconies _en moucharabies_, which make one think of oldHeidelberg. Faubourg Saint-Honore where it is broadest, near the Russianchurch with its white minarets and golden balls, recalls a bit ofMoscow. On Montmartre there is a picturesque, crowded spot that is pureAlgiers. Low, clean little houses, with their copper-plates on thedoors, and their private gardens, stand in line along typical Englishstreets between Neuilly and the Champs-Elysees; while the whole circuitof the apse of Saint-Sulpice, Rue Ferou, Rue Cassette, lying placidly inthe shadow of the great towers, roughly paved, with knockers on thefront doors, seems to have been transplanted from some pious provincialcity,--Tours or Orleans for instance, in the neighborhood of thecathedral and the bishop's palace, where tall trees tower above thewalls and sway to the music of the bells and the responses.

  There, in the vicinity of the Catholic club, of which he had been chosenhonorary president, lived Maitre Le Merquier, advocate, Deputy for Lyon,man of business of all the great religious communities of France, andthe man whom Hemerlingue, in pursuance of an idea of great profundityfor that bulky individual, had intrusted with the legal affairs of hisfirm.

  Arriving about nine o'clock at an ancient mansion, whose ground-floorwas occupied by a religious publishing house sleeping peacefully in itsodor of the sacristy and of coarse paper for printing miracles, andascending the broad staircase, the walls of which were whitewashed likethose of a convent, Jansoulet felt permeated with that provincial andCatholic atmosphere wherein the memories of his Southern past revived,childish impressions still fresh and intact, thanks to his long exile,impressions which the son of Francoise had had neither time nor occasionto disown since his arrival in Paris. Worldly hypocrisy had assumed allits different shapes before him, tried all its masks, except that ofreligious integrity. So that he refused in his own mind to believe inthe venality of a man who lived in such surroundings. Ushered into theadvocate's waiting-room, a large parlor with curtains of starched muslinas fine as that of which surplices are made, its only ornament a largeand beautiful copy of Tintoret's _Dead Christ_ over the door, hisuncertainty and anxiety changed to indignant conviction. It was notpossible. He had been misled touching Le Merquier. Surely it was animpudent slander, such as Paris is so ready to spread; or perhaps theywere laying another one of those wicked traps for him, against which hehad done nothing but stumble for six months past. No, that timidconscience renowned at the Palais de Justice and the Chamber, thatcold, austere man could not be dealt with like those coarse, pot-belliedpashas, with their loose belts and floating sleeves so convenient asreceptacles for purses of sequins. He would expose himself to a shamefulrefusal, to the natural revolt of outraged honor, if he should attemptsuch methods of bribery.

  The Nabob said this to himself as he sat on the oak bench that ranaround the room, polished by serge gowns and the rough broadcloth ofcassocks. Notwithstanding the early hour, several persons beside himselfwere waiting. A Dominican striding back and forth, ascetic and serene offace, two nuns buried in their hoods, telling their beads on longrosaries which measured their time of waiting, priests from the dioceseof Lyon, recognizable from the shape of their hats, and other persons ofstern and meditative mien seated by the great table of black wood whichstood in the centre of the room, and turning the leaves of some of thoseedifying periodicals which are printed on the hill of Fourvieres, the_Echoes from Purgatory_, or _Marie's Rose-bush_, and which give aspremiums to yearly subscribers papal indulgences, absolution for futuresins. A few words in a low voice, a stifled cough, the faint murmuringof the two sisters' prayer reminded Jansoulet of the confused, farawaysensation of hours of waiting around the confessional, in a corner ofhis village church, when the great religious festivals were drawingnear.

  At last it came his turn to enter the sanctum, and if any shadow ofdoubt concerning Maitre Le Merquier remained in his mind, that doubtvanished when he saw that high-studded office, simple and severe inappearance,--although somewhat more decorated than the waiting-room--ofwhich the advocate made a framework for his rigid principles and hislong, thin, stooping, narrow-shouldered person, eternally squeezed intoa black coat too short in the sleeves, from which protruded two flat,square, black hands, two clubs of India ink covered with swollen veinslike hieroglyphics. In the clerical deputy's sallow complexion, thecomplexion of the Lyonnais turned mouldy between his two rivers, therewas a certain animation, due to his varying expression, sometimessparkling but impenetrable behind his spectacles, more frequently keen,suspicious and threatening over those same spectacles, and surrounded bythe retreating shadow which follows the arch of the eyebrow when the eyeis raised and the head low.

  After a greeting that was almost cordial in comparison with the coldsalutation which the two colleagues exchanged at the Chamber, an "I wasexpecting you," uttered with a purpose perhaps, the advocate waved theNabob to the chair near his desk, bade the smug domestic, dressed inblack from head to foot, not to "tighten the sack-cloth with thescourge," but to stay away until the bell should ri
ng for him, arrangeda few scattered papers, and then, crossing his legs, burying himself inhis armchair in the crouching attitude of the man who is making ready tolisten, who becomes all ears, he took his chin in his hand and sat withhis eyes fixed on a long curtain of green ribbed velvet that fell fromthe ceiling to the floor opposite him.

  It was a decisive moment, an embarrassing situation. But Jansoulet didnot hesitate. It was one of the poor Nabob's boasts that he understoodmen as well as Mora. And the keen scent, which, he said, had neverdeceived him, warned him that he was at that moment in presence of arigid, immovable honesty, a conscience of solid rock unassailable bypick-axe or powder. "My conscience!" So he suddenly changed hisprogramme, cast aside the stratagems, the equivocal hints, in which hisopen, courageous nature was wallowing about, and with head erect andheart laid bare, talked to that upright man in a language which he wasbuilt to understand.

  "Do not be surprised, my dear colleague,"--his voice trembled at first,but soon became firm in his conviction of the justice of his cause--"donot be surprised that I have come to see you here instead of simplyasking to be heard by the third committee. The explanations that I haveto put before you are of such a delicate and confidential nature that itwould have been impossible for me to give them in a public place, beforemy assembled colleagues."

  Maitre Le Merquier looked at the curtain over his spectacles with an airof dismay. Evidently the conversation was taking an unexpected turn.

  "I do not touch upon the substance of the question," continued theNabob. "I am sure that your report is impartial and just, such a reportas your conscience must have dictated. But certain disgusting slandershave been set on foot concerning myself, to which I have not replied,and which may have influenced the opinion of the committee. That is thesubject on which I wish to speak to you. I know the confidence whichyour colleagues repose in you, Monsieur Le Merquier, and that, when Ihave convinced you, your word will be sufficient and I shall not beobliged to parade my distress before the full committee. You know thecharge. I refer to the most horrible, the most shameful one. There areso many that one might make a mistake among them. My enemies have givennames, dates, addresses. Be it so! I bring you the proofs of myinnocence. I lay them before you, before you only; for I have thegravest reasons for keeping this whole affair secret."

  Thereupon he showed the advocate a certificate from the consulate atTunis that in twenty years he had left the principality but twice, thefirst time to see his father who lay dying at Bourg-Saint-Andeol, thesecond time to pay a visit of three days at his Chateau of Saint-Romanswith the bey.

  "How does it happen that with such a decisive document in my hands Ihave not cited my defamers before the courts to contradict them and putthem to shame? Alas! Monsieur, there are family bonds that cut into theflesh. I had a brother, a poor weak spoiled creature, who rolled for along while in the filth of Paris, left his intelligence and his honorhere. Did he really descend to that stage of degradation at which I havebeen placed in his name? I have not dared to ascertain. What I can sayis that my poor father, who knew more about it than any one else in thefamily, whispered to me when he was dying: 'Bernard, your brother iskilling me. I am dying of shame, my child.'"

  He paused for a moment, compelled by his suffocating emotion, thencontinued:

  "My father died, Monsieur Le Merquier, but my mother is still alive, andit is for her sake, for her repose, that I have recoiled, that I stillrecoil from making public my justification. Thus far the filth that hasbeen thrown at me has not splashed upon her. It does not extend outsidea certain social circle, a special class of newspapers, from which thedear woman is a thousand leagues away. But the courts, a law-suit, meansthe parading of our misfortune from one end of France to the other, the_Messager_ articles printed by every newspaper, even those in theretired little place where my mother lives. The slander itself, mydefence, both her children covered with shame at one blow, the familyname--the old peasant woman's only pride--tarnished forever. That wouldbe too much for her. And really it seems to me that one is enough. Thatis why I have had the courage to hold my peace, to tire out my enemies,if possible, by my silence. But I need some one to answer for me in theChamber, I wish to deprive it of the right to eject me for reasonsdishonoring to me, and as it selected you to report upon my election, Ihave come to tell everything to you, as to a confessor, a priest, beggingyou not to divulge a word of this conversation, even in the interest ofmy cause. I ask nothing but that, my dear colleague,--absolute reticenceon this subject; for the rest I rely upon your justice and your loyalty."

  He rose, prepared to go, and Le Merquier did not stir, still questioningthe green hanging in front of him, as if seeking there an inspirationfor his reply. At last,--

  "It shall be as you wish, my dear colleague," he said. "This confidenceshall remain between ourselves. You have told me nothing, I have heardnothing."

  The Nabob, still all aflame with his eloquent outburst, which, as itseemed to him, called for a cordial response, a warm grasp of the hand,had a strangely uneasy feeling. That cold manner, that absent expressionweighed so heavily upon him, that he was already walking to the doorwith the awkward salutation of unwelcome visitors. But the otherdetained him.

  "Stay a moment, my dear colleague. How eager you are to leave me! A fewmoments more, I beg. I am too happy to converse with such a man as you.Especially as we have more than one common bond. Our friend Hemerlinguetells me that you, like myself, are much interested in pictures."

  Jansoulet started. The two words "Hemerlingue" and "pictures," meetingso unexpectedly in the same sentence, brought back all his doubts, allhis perplexity. He did not surrender even then, however, but left LeMerquier to put his words forward, one in front of another, feeling theground for his stumbling advance. He had heard much of his honorablecolleague's gallery. Would it be presumptuous for him to ask the favorof being admitted to--?

  "Nonsense! why, I should be too highly honored," said the Nabob, tickledin the most sensitive--because it had been the most expensive--part ofhis vanity; and, glancing about at the walls of the study, he added inthe tone of a connoisseur:

  "You have some fine examples yourself."

  "Oh!" said the other modestly, "a few poor canvases. Pictures are sodear in these days--it's a taste so hard to gratify, a genuinelyluxurious passion. A Nabob's passion," he added with a smile and astealthy glance over his spectacles.

  They were two prudent gamblers face to face; Jansoulet, however, wassomewhat at fault in that novel situation, in which he was obliged towalk warily, he who knew of no other mode of action than by bold,audacious strokes.

  "When I think," murmured the advocate, "that I have spent ten yearscovering these walls, and that I still have this whole panel to fill!"

  In truth, in the most conspicuous part of the high partition there wasan empty space, a vacated space rather, for a great gilt-headed nailnear the ceiling showed the visible, almost clumsy trace of the trapset for the poor innocent, who foolishly allowed himself to be taken init.

  "My dear Monsieur Le Merquier," he said, in an engaging, affable tone,"I have a _Virgin_ by Tintoret just the size of your panel."

  It was impossible to read anything in the advocate's eyes, which had nowtaken refuge behind their gleaming shelter.

  "Permit me to hang it there, opposite your desk. It will give you anexcuse for thinking of me sometimes--"

  "And for mitigating the strictures of my report, eh, Monsieur?" cried LeMerquier, springing to his feet, a threatening figure, with his hand onthe bell. "I have seen many shameless performances in my life, but neveranything equal to this. Such offers to me, in my own house!"

  "But, my dear colleague, I swear--"

  "Show him out," said the advocate to the surly servant who entered theroom at that moment; and from the centre of his office, the doorremaining open, before the whole parlor, where the prayers had ceased,he pursued Jansoulet,--who turned his back and hastened, mumblingincoherently, toward the outer door--with these crushing words:


  "You have insulted the honor of the whole Chamber in my person,Monsieur. Our colleagues shall be informed of it this very day; and,this additional offence being added to the others, you will learn toyour sorrow that Paris is not the Orient, and the human conscience isnot shamefully traded in and bartered here as it is there."

  Thereupon, having driven the money-changer from the temple, the just manclosed his door, and approaching the green curtain, said in a tone whichsounded sweet as honey after his pretended anger:

  "Was that about right, Baronne Marie?"