With wise foresight, Schmucke turned to go home by the way of the Boulevard du Temple, Pons passively submitting like a fallen fighter, heedless of blows; but chance ordered that he should know that all his world was against him. The House of Peers, the Chamber of Deputies, strangers and the family, the strong, the weak, and the innocent, all combined to send down the avalanche.
In the Boulevard Poissonniere, Pons caught sight of that very M. Cardot’s daughter, who, young as she was, had learned to be charitable to others through trouble of her own. Her husband knew a secret by which he kept her in bondage. She was the only one among Pons’ hostesses whom he called by her Christian name; he addressed Mme. Berthier as “Felicie,” and he thought that she understood him. The gentle creature seemed to be distressed by the sight of Cousin Pons, as he was called (though he was in no way related to the family of the second wife of a cousin by marriage). There was no help for it, however; Felicie Berthier stopped to speak to the invalid.
“I did not think you were cruel, cousin,” she said; “but if even a quarter of all that I hear of you is true, you are very false.... Oh! do not justify yourself,” she added quickly, seeing Pons’ significant gesture, “it is useless, for two reasons. In the first place, I have no right to accuse or judge or condemn anybody, for I myself know so well how much may be said for those who seem to be most guilty; secondly, your explanation would do no good. M. Berthier drew up the marriage contract for Mlle. de Marville and the Vicomte Popinot; he is so exasperated, that if he knew that I had so much as spoken one word to you, one word for the last time, he would scold me. Everybody is against you.”
“So it seems indeed, madame,” Pons said, his voice shaking as he lifted his hat respectfully.
Painfully he made his way back to the Rue de Normandie. The old German knew from the heavy weight on his arm that his friend was struggling bravely against failing physical strength. That third encounter was like the verdict of the Lamb at the foot of the throne of God; and the anger of the Angel of the Poor, the symbol of the Peoples, is the last word of Heaven. They reached home without another word.
There are moments in our lives when the sense that our friend is near is all that we can bear. Our wounds smart under the consoling words that only reveal the depths of pain. The old pianist, you see, possessed a genius for friendship, the tact of those who, having suffered much, knew the customs of suffering.
Pons was never to take a walk again. From one illness he fell into another. He was of a sanguine-bilious temperament, the bile passed into his blood, and a violent liver attack was the result. He had never known a day’s illness in his life till a month ago; he had never consulted a doctor; so La Cibot, with almost motherly care and intentions at first of the very best, called in “the doctor of the quarter.”
In every quarter of Paris there is a doctor whose name and address are only known to the working classes, to the little tradespeople and the porters, and in consequence he is called “the doctor of the quarter.” He undertakes confinement cases, he lets blood, he is in the medical profession pretty much what the “general servant” of the advertising column is in the scale of domestic service. He must perforce be kind to the poor, and tolerably expert by reason of much practice, and he is generally popular. Dr. Poulain, called in by Mme. Cibot, gave an inattentive ear to the old musician’s complainings. Pons groaned out that his skin itched; he had scratched himself all night long, till he could scarcely feel. The look of his eyes, with the yellow circles about them, corroborated the symptoms.
“Had you some violent shock a couple of days ago?” the doctor asked the patient.
“Yes, alas!”
“You have the same complaint that this gentleman was threatened with,” said Dr. Poulain, looking at Schmucke as he spoke; “it is an attack of jaundice, but you will soon get over it,” he added, as he wrote a prescription.
But in spite of that comfortable phrase, the doctor’s eyes had told another tale as he looked professionally at the patient; and the death-sentence, though hidden under stereotyped compassion, can always be read by those who wish to know the truth. Mme. Cibot gave a spy’s glance at the doctor, and read his thought; his bedside manner did not deceive her; she followed him out of the room.
“Do you think he will get over it?” asked Mme. Cibot, at the stairhead.
“My dear Mme. Cibot, your lodger is a dead man; not because of the bile in the system, but because his vitality is low. Still, with great care, your patient may pull through. Somebody ought to take him away for a change — ”
“How is he to go?” asked Mme. Cibot. “He has nothing to live upon but his salary; his friend has just a little money from some great ladies, very charitable ladies, in return for his services, it seems. They are two children. I have looked after them for nine years.”
“I spend my life watching people die, not of their disease, but of another bad and incurable complaint — the want of money,” said the doctor. “How often it happens that so far from taking a fee, I am obliged to leave a five-franc piece on the mantel-shelf when I go — ”
“Poor, dear M. Poulain!” cried Mme. Cibot. “Ah, if you hadn’t only the hundred thousand livres a year, what some stingy folks has in the quarter (regular devils from hell they are), you would be like Providence on earth.”
Dr. Poulain had made the little practice, by which he made a bare subsistence, chiefly by winning the esteem of the porters’ lodges in his district. So he raised his eyes to heaven and thanked Mme. Cibot with a solemn face worthy of Tartuffe.
“Then you think that with careful nursing our dear patient will get better, my dear M. Poulain?”
“Yes, if this shock has not been too much for him.”
“Poor man! who can have vexed him? There isn’t nobody like him on earth except his friend M. Schmucke. I will find out what is the matter, and I will undertake to give them that upset my gentleman a hauling over the coals — ”
“Look here, my dear Mme. Cibot,” said the doctor as they stood in the gateway, “one of the principal symptoms of his complaint is great irritability; and as it is hardly to be supposed that he can afford a nurse, the task of nursing him will fall to you. So — ”
“Are you talking of Mouchieu Ponsh?” asked the marine store-dealer. He was sitting smoking on the curb-post in the gateway, and now he rose to join in the conversation.
“Yes, Daddy Remonencq.”
“All right,” said Remonencq, “ash to moneysh, he ish better off than Mouchieu Monishtrol and the big men in the curioshity line. I know enough in the art line to tell you thish — the dear man has treasursh!” he spoke with a broad Auvergne dialect.
“Look here, I thought you were laughing at me the other day when my gentlemen were out and I showed you the old rubbish upstairs,” said Mme. Cibot.
In Paris, where walls have ears, where doors have tongues, and window bars have eyes, there are few things more dangerous than the practice of standing to chat in a gateway. Partings are like postscripts to a letter — indiscreet utterances that do as much mischief to the speaker as to those who overhear them. A single instance will be sufficient as a parallel to an event in this history.
In the time of the Empire, when men paid considerable attention to their hair, one of the first coiffeurs of the day came out of a house where he had just been dressing a pretty woman’s head. This artist in question enjoyed the custom of all the lower floor inmates of the house; and among these, there flourished an elderly bachelor guarded by a housekeeper who detested her master’s next-of-kin. The ci-devant young man, falling seriously ill, the most famous of doctors of the day (they were not as yet styled the “princes of science”) had been called in to consult upon his case; and it so chanced that the learned gentlemen were taking leave of one another in the gateway just as the hairdresser came out. They were talking as doctors usually talk among themselves when the farce of a consultation is over. “He is a dead man,” quoth Dr. Haudry. — ”He had not a month to live,” added Desplein, “un
less a miracle takes place.” — These were the words overheard by the hairdresser.
Like all hairdressers, he kept up a good understanding with his customers’ servants. Prodigious greed sent the man upstairs again; he mounted to the ci-devant young man’s apartment, and promised the servant-mistress a tolerably handsome commission to persuade her master to sink a large portion of his money in an annuity. The dying bachelor, fifty-six by count of years, and twice as old as his age by reason of amorous campaigns, owned, among other property, a splendid house in the Rue de Richelieu, worth at that time about two hundred and fifty thousand francs. It was this house that the hairdresser coveted; and on agreement to pay an annuity of thirty thousand francs so long as the bachelor lived, it passed into his hands. This happened in 1806. And in this year 1846 the hairdresser is still paying that annuity. He has retired from business, he is seventy years old; the ci-devant young man is in his dotage; and as he has married his Mme. Evrard, he may last for a long while yet. As the hairdresser gave the woman thirty thousand francs, his bit of real estate has cost him, first and last, more than a million, and the house at this day is worth eight or nine hundred thousand francs.
Like the hairdresser, Remonencq the Auvergnat had overheard Brunner’s parting remark in the gateway on the day of Cecile’s first interview with that phoenix of eligible men. Remonencq at once longed to gain a sight of Pons’ museum; and as he lived on good terms with his neighbors the Cibots, it was not very long before the opportunity came one day when the friends were out. The sight of such treasures dazzled him; he saw a “good haul,” in dealers’ phrase, which being interpreted means a chance to steal a fortune. He had been meditating this for five or six days.
“I am sho far from joking,” he said, in reply to Mme. Cibot’s remark, “that we will talk the thing over; and if the good shentleman will take an annuity, of fifty thousand francsh, I will shtand a hamper of wine, if — ”
“Fifty thousand francs!” interrupted the doctor; “what are you thinking about? Why, if the good man is so well off as that, with me in attendance, and Mme. Cibot to nurse him, he may get better — for liver complaint is a disease that attacks strong constitutions.”
“Fifty, did I shay? Why, a shentleman here, on your very doorshtep, offered him sheven hundred thoushand francsh, shimply for the pictursh, fouchtra!”
While Remonencq made this announcement, Mme. Cibot was looking at Dr. Poulain. There was a strange expression in her eyes; the devil might have kindled that sinister glitter in their tawny depths.
“Oh, come! we must not pay any attention to such idle tales,” said the doctor, well pleased, however, to find that his patient could afford to pay for his visits.
“If my dear Mme. Cibot, here, would let me come and bring an ekshpert (shinsh the shentleman upshtairs ish in bed), I will shertainly find the money in a couple of hoursh, even if sheven hundred thousand francsh ish in queshtion — ”
“All right, my friend,” said the doctor. “Now, Mme. Cibot, be careful never to contradict the invalid. You must be prepared to be very patient with him, for he will find everything irritating and wearisome, even your services; nothing will please him; you must expect grumbling — ”
“He will be uncommonly hard to please,” said La Cibot.
“Look here, mind what I tell you,” the doctor said in a tone of authority, “M. Pons’ life is in the hands of those that nurse him; I shall come perhaps twice a day. I shall take him first on my round.”
The doctor’s profound indifference to the fate of a poor patient had suddenly given place to a most tender solicitude when he saw that the speculator was serious, and that there was a possible fortune in question.
“He will be nursed like a king,” said Madame Cibot, forcing up enthusiasm. She waited till the doctor turned the corner into the Rue Charlot; then she fell to talking again with the dealer in old iron. Remonencq had finished smoking his pipe, and stood in the doorway of his shop, leaning against the frame; he had purposely taken this position; he meant the portress to come to him.
The shop had once been a cafe. Nothing had been changed there since the Auvergnat discovered it and took over the lease; you could still read “Cafe de Normandie” on the strip left above the windows in all modern shops. Remonencq had found somebody, probably a housepainter’s apprentice, who did the work for nothing, to paint another inscription in the remaining space below — ”REMONENCQ,” it ran, “DEALER IN MARINE STORES, FURNITURE BOUGHT” — painted in small black letters. All the mirrors, tables, seats, shelves, and fittings of the Cafe de Normandie had been sold, as might have been expected, before Remonencq took possession of the shop as it stood, paying a yearly rent of six hundred francs for the place, with a back shop, a kitchen, and a single room above, where the head-waiter used to sleep, for the house belonging to the Cafe de Normandie was let separately. Of the former splendor of the cafe, nothing now remained save the plain light green paper on the walls, and the strong iron bolts and bars of the shop-front.
When Remonencq came hither in 1831, after the Revolution of July, he began by displaying a selection of broken doorbells, cracked plates, old iron, and the obsolete scales and weights abolished by a Government which alone fails to carry out its own regulations, for pence and half pence of the time of Louis XVI. are still in circulation. After a time this Auvergnat, a match for five ordinary Auvergnats, bought up old saucepans and kettles, old picture-frames, old copper, and chipped china. Gradually, as the shop was emptied and filled, the quality of the stock-in-trade improved, like Nicolet’s farces. Remonencq persisted in an unfailing and prodigiously profitable martingale, a “system” which any philosophical idler may study as he watches the increasing value of the stock kept by this intelligent class of trader. Picture-frames and copper succeed to tin-ware, argand lamps, and damaged crockery; china marks the next transition; and after no long tarriance in the “omnium gatherum” stage, the shop becomes a museum. Some day or other the dusty windows are cleaned, the interior is restored, the Auvergnat relinquishes velveteen and jackets for a great-coat, and there he sits like a dragon guarding his treasure, surrounded by masterpieces! He is a cunning connoisseur by this time; he has increased his capital tenfold; he is not to be cheated; he knows the tricks of the trade. The monster among his treasures looks like some old hag among a score of young girls that she offers to the public. Beauty and miracles of art are alike indifferent to him; subtle and dense as he is, he has a keen eye to profits, he talks roughly to those who know less than he does; he has learned to act a part, he pretends to love his pictures, or again he lets you know the price he himself gave for the things, he offers to let you see the memoranda of the sale. He is a Proteus; in one hour he can be Jocrisse, Janot, Queue-rouge, Mondor, Hapagon, or Nicodeme.
The third year found armor, and old pictures, and some tolerably fine clocks in Remonencq’s shop. He sent for his sister, and La Remonencq came on foot all the way from Auvergne to take charge of the shop while her brother was away. A big and very ugly woman, dressed like a Japanese idol, a half-idiotic creature with a vague, staring gaze she would not bate a centime of the prices fixed by her brother. In the intervals of business she did the work of the house, and solved the apparently insoluble problem — how to live on “the mists of the Seine.” The Remonencqs’ diet consisted of bread and herrings, with the outside leaves of lettuce or vegetable refuse selected from the heaps deposited in the kennel before the doors of eating-houses. The two between them did not spend more than fivepence a day on food (bread included), and La Remonencq earned the money by sewing or spinning.
Remonencq came to Paris in the first instance to work as an errand-boy. Between the years 1825 and 1831 he ran errands for dealers in curiosities in the Boulevard Beaumarchais or coppersmiths in the Rue de Lappe. It is the usual start in life in his line of business. Jews, Normans, Auvergnats, and Savoyards, those four different races of men all have the same instincts, and make their fortunes in the same way; they spend nothing, make small profits, a
nd let them accumulate at compound interest. Such is their trading charter, and that charter is no delusion.
Remonencq at this moment had made it up with his old master Monistrol; he did business with wholesale dealers, he was a chineur (the technical word), plying his trade in the banlieue, which, as everybody knows, extends for some forty leagues round Paris.
After fourteen years of business, he had sixty thousand francs in hand and a well-stocked shop. He lived in the Rue de Normandie because the rent was low, but casual customers were scarce, most of his goods were sold to other dealers, and he was content with moderate gains. All his business transactions were carried on in the Auvergue dialect or charabia, as people call it.
Remonencq cherished a dream! He wished to establish himself on a boulevard, to be a rich dealer in curiosities, and do a direct trade with amateurs some day. And, indeed, within him there was a formidable man of business. His countenance was the more inscrutable because it was glazed over by a deposit of dust and particles of metal glued together by the sweat of his brow; for he did everything himself, and the use and wont of bodily labor had given him something of the stoical impassibility of the old soldiers of 1799.
In personal appearance Remonencq was short and thin; his little eyes were set in his head in porcine fashion; a Jew’s slyness and concentrated greed looked out of those dull blue circles, though in his case the false humility that masks the Hebrew’s unfathomed contempt for the Gentile was lacking.
The relations between the Cibots and the Remonencqs were those of benefactors and recipients. Mme. Cibot, convinced that the Auvergnats were wretchedly poor, used to let them have the remainder of “her gentlemen’s” dinners at ridiculous prices. The Remonencqs would buy a pound of broken bread, crusts and crumbs, for a farthing, a porringer-full of cold potatoes for something less, and other scraps in proportion. Remonencq shrewdly allowed them to believe that he was not in business on his own account, he worked for Monistrol, the rich shopkeepers preyed upon him, he said, and the Cibots felt sincerely sorry for Remonencq. The velveteen jacket, waistcoat, and trousers, particularly affected by Auvergnats, were covered with patches of Cibot’s making, and not a penny had the little tailor charged for repairs which kept the three garments together after eleven years of wear.
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 736