The Nabob, Vol. 2 (of 2)

by Alphonse Daudet

  XXIII.

  MEMOIRS OF A CLERK.--LAST SHEETS.

  I here set down, in haste and with an intensely agitated pen, theshocking events of which I have been the plaything for some days past.This time it is all up with the _Territoriale_ and all my ambitiousdreams. Protests, levies, police-raids, all our books in the custody ofthe examining magistrate, the Governor a fugitive, our directorBois-l'Hery at Mazas, our director Monpavon disappeared. My head is in awhirl with all these disasters. And to think that, if I had followed thewarnings of sound common-sense, I should have been tranquilly settled atMontbars six months ago, cultivating my little vineyard, with no otherpreoccupation than watching the grapes grow round and turn to the colorof gold in the pleasant Burgundian sunshine, and picking from the vines,after a shower, the little gray snails that make such an excellentfricassee. With the results of my economy I would have built, on thehigh land at the end of the vineyard, on a spot that I can see at thismoment, a stone summer-house like M. Chalmette's, so convenient for anafternoon nap, while the quail are singing all around among the vines.But no, constantly led astray by treacherous illusions, I longed to makea fortune, to speculate, to try banking operations on a grand scale, totie my fortune to the chariot of the successful financiers of the day;and now here I am at the most melancholy stage of my history, clerk in aruined counting-house, intrusted with the duty of answering a horde ofcreditors, of shareholders drunk with rage, who pour out the vilestinsults upon my white hairs and would fain hold me responsible for theNabob's ruin and the governor's flight. As if I were not as cruelly hitmyself, with my four years' back pay which I lose once more, and myseven thousand francs of money advanced, all of which I intrusted tothat villain, Paganetti of Porto-Vecchio.

  But it was written that I should drink the cup of humiliation andmortification to the dregs. Was I not forced to appear before theexamining magistrate, I, Passajon, formerly apparitor to the Faculty,with my record of thirty years of faithful service and the ribbon of anofficer of the Academy! Oh! when I saw myself ascending that stairway atthe Palais de Justice, so long and broad, with no rail to cling to, Ifelt my head going round and my legs giving way under me. That was whenI had a chance to reflect, as I passed through those halls, black withlawyers and judges, with here and there a high green door, behind whichI could hear the impressive sounds of courts in session; and up above,in the corridor where the offices of the examining magistrates are,during the hour that I had to wait on a bench where I had prison vermincrawling up my legs, while I listened to a lot of thieves, pickpocketsand girls in Saint-Lazare caps, talking and laughing with Gardes deParis, and the ringing of the muskets on the floor of the corridors, andthe dull rumbling of prison vans. I realized then the danger of_combinazioni_, and that it was not always well to laugh at M. Gogo.

  One thing comforted me somewhat, however, and that was that, as I hadnever taken part in the deliberations of the _Territoriale_, I was in noway responsible for its transactions and swindles. But explain this.When I was in the magistrate's office, facing that man in a velvet capwho stared at me from the other side of the table with his littlecrooked eyes, I had such a feeling that I was being explored andsearched and turned absolutely inside out that, in spite of myinnocence, I longed to confess. To confess what? I have no idea. Butthat is the effect that justice produces. That devil of a man sat forfive long minutes staring at me without speaking, turning over a packageof papers covered with a coarse handwriting that seemed familiar to me,then said to me abruptly, in a tone that was at once cunning and stern:

  "Well, Monsieur Passajon! How long is it since we played the drayman'strick?"

  The memory of a certain little peccadillo, in which I had taken part indays of distress, was so distant that at first I did not understand; buta few words from the magistrate proved to me that he was thoroughlyposted as to the history of our bank. That terrible man knew everything,to the most trivial, the most secret details.

  Who could have given him such accurate information?

  And with it all he was very sharp, very abrupt, and when I attempted toguide the course of justice by some judicious observations, he had acertain insolent way of saying: "None of your fine phrases," which wasthe more wounding to me, at my age, with my reputation as a finespeaker, because we were not alone in his office. A clerk sat near me,writing down my deposition, and I could hear some one behind turningover the leaves of some great book. The magistrate asked me all sorts ofquestions about the Nabob, the time when he had made his contributions,where we kept our books, and all at once, addressing the person whom Idid not see, he said:

  "Show us the cash-book, Monsieur l'Expert."

  A little man in a white cravat brought the great volume and placed it onthe table. It was M. Joyeuse, formerly cashier for Hemerlingue and Son.But I had no time to present my respects to him.

  "Who did that?" the magistrate asked me, opening the book at a placewhere a leaf had been torn out. "Come, do not lie about it."

  I did not lie, for I had no idea, as I never concerned myself about thebooks. However, I thought it my duty to mention M. de Gery, the Nabob'ssecretary, who used often to come to our offices at night and shuthimself up alone in the counting-room for hours at a time. Thereuponlittle Pere Joyeuse turned red with anger.

  "What he says is absurd, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction. Monsieur deGery is the young man I mentioned to you. He went to the _Territoriale_solely for the purpose of keeping an eye on affairs there, and felt toodeep an interest in poor Monsieur Jansoulet to destroy the receipts forhis contributions, the proofs of his blind but absolute honesty.However, Monsieur de Gery, who has been detained a long while in Tunis,is now on his way home, and will soon be able to afford all necessaryexplanations."

  I felt that my zeal was likely to compromise me.

  "Be careful, Passajon," said the judge very sternly. "You are here onlyas a witness; but if you try to give the investigation a wrong turn youmay return as a suspect."--Upon my word the monster seemed to desireit.--"Come, think, who tore out this page?"

  Thereupon I very opportunely remembered that, a few days before leavingParis, our Governor had told me to bring the books to his house, wherethey had remained until the following day. The clerk made a note of mydeclaration, whereupon the magistrate dismissed me with a wave of thehand, warning me that I must hold myself at his disposal. When I was atthe door he recalled me:

  "Here, Monsieur Passajon, take this; I have no further use for it."

  He handed me the papers he had been consulting while he questioned me;and my confusion can be imagined when I saw on the cover the word"_Memoirs_" written in my roundest hand. I had myself furnished justicewith weapons, with valuable information which the suddenness of ourcatastrophe had prevented me from rescuing from the general cleaning outexecuted by the police in our offices.

  My first impulse, on returning, was to tear these tale-bearing sheets inpieces; then, after reflection, having satisfied myself that there wasnothing in these _Memoirs_ to compromise me, I decided, instead ofdestroying them, to continue them, with the certainty of makingsomething out of them some day or other. There is no lack in Paris ofnovelists without imagination, who have not the art of introducinganything but true stories in their books, and who will not be sorry tobuy a little volume of facts. That will be my way of revenging myself onthis crew of high-toned pirates with whom I have become involved, to myshame and to my undoing.

  It was necessary, however, for me to find some way of occupying myleisure time. Nothing to do at the office, which has been utterlydeserted since the legal investigation began, except to pile upsummonses of all colors. I have renewed my former practice of writingfor the cook on the second floor, Mademoiselle Seraphine, from whom Iaccept some trifling supplies which I keep in the safe, once more apantry. The Governor's wife also is very kind to me and stuffs mypockets whenever I go to see her in her fine apartments in the Chausseed'Antin. Nothing is changed there. The same magnificence, the samecomfort; furthermore, a little baby three months old
, the seventh, and asuperb nurse, whose Normandy cap creates a sensation when they drive inthe Bois de Boulogne. I suppose that when people are once fairly startedon the railway of fortune they require a certain time to slacken theirspeed or come to a full stop. And then, too, that thief of a Paganetti,to guard against accidents, had put everything in his wife's name.Perhaps that is why that jabbering Italian has taken a vow of affectionfor him which nothing can weaken. He is a fugitive, he is in hiding; butshe is fully convinced that her husband is a little St. John inguilelessness, a victim of his kindness of heart and credulity. Youshould hear her talk: "You know him, Moussiou Passajon. You know whetherhe is _e_scrupulous. Why, as true as there's a God, if my husband haddone the dishonest things they accuse him of, I myself--do you hearme--I myself would have put a gun in his hands, and I would have said:'Here, Tchecco, blow your head off!'" And the way she opens the nostrilsin her little turned-up nose, and her round black eyes, like two ballsof jet, makes you feel that that little Corsican from Ile Rousse wouldhave done as she says. I tell you that damned Governor must be a shrewdfellow to deceive even his wife, to act a part in his own house, wherethe cleverest let themselves be seen as they are.

  Meanwhile all these people are living well; Bois-l'Hery at Mazas has hismeals sent from the Cafe Anglais, and Uncle Passajon is reduced toliving on odds and ends picked up in kitchens. However, we must notcomplain too much. There are those who are more unfortunate than we, M.Francis, for instance, whom I saw at the _Territoriale_ this morning,pale and thin, with disgraceful linen and ragged cuffs, which hecontinues to pull down as a matter of habit.

  I was just in the act of broiling a bit of bacon in front of the fire inthe directors' room, my cover being laid on the corner of a marquetrytable with a newspaper underneath in order not to soil it. I invitedMonpavon's valet to share my frugal repast; but, because he has waitedon a marquis, that fellow fancies that he's one of the nobility, and hethanked me with a dignified air, which made me want to laugh when Ilooked at his hollow cheeks. He began by telling me that he was stillwithout news of his master, that they had sent him away from the club onRue Royale where all the papers were under seal and crowds of creditorsswooping down like flocks of swallows on the marquis's trifling effects."So that I find myself a little short," added M. Francis. That meantthat he had not a sou in his pocket, that he had slept two nights on thebenches along the boulevards, waked every minute by policemen,compelled to get up, to feign drunkenness in order to obtain anothershelter. As for eating, I believe that he had not done that for a longwhile, for he stared at the food with hungry eyes that made one's heartache, and when I had forcibly placed a slice of bacon and a glass ofwine in front of him, he fell on them like a wolf. The blood instantlycame to his cheeks, and as he ate he began to chatter and chatter.

  "Do you know, Pere Passajon," he said between two mouthfuls, "I knowwhere he is--I've seen him."

  He winked slyly. For my part, I stared at him in amazement.

  "In God's name, what have you seen, Monsieur Francis?"

  "The marquis, my master--yonder in the little white house behind NotreDame." He did not say the morgue, because that is a too vulgar word. "Iwas very sure I should find him there. I went straight there the nextday. And there he was. Oh! very well hidden, I promise you. No one buthis valet de chambre could have recognized him. His hair all gray, histeeth gone, and his real wrinkles, his sixty-five years that he used tofix up so well. As he lay there on that marble slab with the faucetdripping on him, I fancied I saw him at his dressing table."

  "And you said nothing?"

  "No, I had known his intentions on that subject for a long while. I lethim go out of the world quietly, in the English fashion, as he wantedto do. All the same, he might have given me a bit of bread before hewent, when I had been in his service twenty years."

  Suddenly he brought his fist down upon the table in a rage:

  "When I think that, if I had chosen, I might have entered Mora's serviceinstead of Monpavon's, that I might have had Louis's place! There was alucky dog! Think of the rolls of a thousand he nabbed at his duke'sdeath!--And the clothes the duke left, shirts by the hundred, adressing-gown in blue fox-skin worth more than twenty thousand francs!And there's that Noel, he must have lined his pockets! Simply by makinghaste, _parbleu!_ for he knew it couldn't last long. And there's nothingto be picked up on Place Vendome now. An old gendarme of a mother whomanages everything. They're selling Saint-Romans, they're selling thepictures. Half of the house is to let. It's the end of everything."

  I confess that I could not help showing my satisfaction; for, after all,that wretched Jansoulet is the cause of all our misfortunes. A man whoboasted of being so rich and talked about it everywhere. The public wastaken in by it, like the fish that sees scales shining in a net. He haslost millions, I grant you; but why did he let people think he hadplenty more? They have arrested Bois-l'Hery, but he's the one theyshould have arrested.--Ah! if we had had another expert, I am sure itwould have been done long ago.--Indeed, as I said to Francis, one hasonly to look at that parvenu of a Jansoulet to see what he amounts to.Such a face, like a high and mighty brigand!

  "And so common," added the former valet.

  "Not the slightest moral character."

  "Utter lack of breeding.--However, he's under water, and Jenkins too,and many others with them."

  "What! the doctor too? That's too bad. Such a polite, pleasant man!"

  "Yes, there's another man that's being sold out. Horses, carriages,furniture. The courtyard at his house is full of placards and soundsempty as if death had passed that way. The chateau at Nanterre's forsale. There were half a dozen 'little Bethlehems' left, and they packedthem off in a cab. It's the crash, I tell you, Pere Passajon, a crashthat we may not see the end of, perhaps, because we're both old, but itwill be complete. Everything's rotten; everything must burst!"

  It was horrible to see that old flunkey of the Empire, gaunt andstooping, covered with filth and crying like Jeremiah: "This is theend," with his toothless mouth wide open like a great black hole. I wasafraid and ashamed before him, I longed to see his back; and I thoughtto myself: "O Monsieur Chalmette! O my little vineyard at Montbars!"

  Same date.

  Great news! Madame Paganetti came this afternoon mysteriously andbrought me a letter from the Governor. He is in London, just about tostart a magnificent enterprise. Splendid offices in the finest part ofthe city; a stock company with superb prospects. He requests me to joinhim there, "happy," he says, "to repair in that way the wrong that hasbeen done me." I shall have twice the salary I had at the_Territoriale_, with lodgings and fuel thrown in, five shares in the newcompany, and all my back pay in full. Only a trifling advance to be madefor travelling expenses and some few importunate debts in the quarter._Vive la joie!_ my fortune is assured. I must write to the notary atMontbars to raise some money on my vineyard.