Works of Honore De Balzac

by Honoré de Balzac

  “See here, listen, my good Schmucke, you must do as dying people tell you — ”

  “I am lisdening.”

  “The little door in the recess in your bedroom opens into that closet.”

  “Yes, but it is blocked up mit bictures.”

  “Clear them away at once, without making too much noise.”

  “Yes.”

  “Clear a passage on both sides, so that you can pass from your room into mine. — Now, leave the door ajar. — When La Cibot comes to take your place (and she is capable of coming an hour earlier than usual), you can go away to bed as if nothing had happened, and look very tired. Try to look sleepy. As soon as she settles down into the armchair, go into the closet, draw aside the muslin curtains over the glass door, and watch her.... Do you understand?”

  “I oondershtand; you belief dat die pad voman is going to purn der vill.”

  “I do not know what she will do; but I am sure of this — that you will not take her for an angel afterwards. — And now play for me; improvise and make me happy. It will divert your thoughts; your gloomy ideas will vanish, and for me the dark hours will be filled with your dreams....”

  Schmucke sat down at the piano. Here he was in his element; and in a few moments, musical inspiration, quickened by the pain with which he was quivering and the consequent irritation that followed came upon the kindly German, and, after his wont, he was caught up and borne above the world. On one sublime theme after another he executed variations, putting into them sometimes Chopin’s sorrow, Chopin’s Raphael-like perfection; sometimes the stormy Dante’s grandeur of Liszt — the two musicians who most nearly approach Paganini’s temperament. When execution reaches this supreme degree, the executant stands beside the poet, as it were; he is to the composer as the actor is to the writer of plays, a divinely inspired interpreter of things divine. But that night, when Schmucke gave Pons an earnest of diviner symphonies, of that heavenly music for which Saint Cecile let fall her instruments, he was at once Beethoven and Paganini, creator and interpreter. It was an outpouring of music inexhaustible as the nightingale’s song — varied and full of delicate undergrowth as the forest flooded with her trills; sublime as the sky overhead. Schmucke played as he had never played before, and the soul of the old musician listening to him rose to ecstasy such as Raphael once painted in a picture which you may see at Bologna.

  A terrific ringing of the door-bell put an end to these visions. The first-floor lodgers sent up a servant with a message. Would Schmucke please stop the racket overhead. Madame, Monsieur, and Mademoiselle Chapoulot had been wakened, and could not sleep for the noise; they called his attention to the fact that the day was quite long enough for rehearsals of theatrical music, and added that people ought not to “strum” all night in a house in the Marais. — It was then three o’clock in the morning. At half-past three, La Cibot appeared, just as Pons had predicted. He might have actually heard the conference between Fraisier and the portress: “Did I not guess exactly how it would be?” his eyes seemed to say as he glanced at Schmucke, and, turning a little, he seemed to be fast asleep.

  Schmucke’s guileless simplicity was an article of belief with La Cibot (and be it noted that this faith in simplicity is the great source and secret of the success of all infantine strategy); La Cibot, therefore, could not suspect Schmucke of deceit when he came to say to her, with a face half of distress, half of glad relief:

  “I haf had a derrible night! a derrible dime of it! I vas opliged to play to keep him kviet, and the virst-floor lodgers vas komm up to tell me to be kviet!... It was frightful, for der life of mein friend vas at shtake. I am so tired mit der blaying all night, dat dis morning I am all knocked up.”

  “My poor Cibot is very bad, too; one more day like yesterday, and he will have no strength left.... One can’t help it; it is God’s will.”

  “You haf a heart so honest, a soul so peautiful, dot gif der Zipod die, ve shall lif togedder,” said the cunning Schmucke.

  The craft of simple, straightforward folk is formidable indeed; they are exactly like children, setting their unsuspected snares with the perfect craft of the savage.

  “Oh, well go and sleep, sonny!” returned La Cibot. “Your eyes look tired, they are as big as my fist. But there! if anything could comfort me for losing Cibot, it would be the thought of ending my days with a good man like you. Be easy. I will give Mme. Chapoulot a dressing down.... To think of a retired haberdasher’s wife giving herself such airs!”

  Schmucke went to his room and took up his post in the closet.

  La Cibot had left the door ajar on the landing; Fraisier came in and closed it noiselessly as soon as he heard Schmucke shut his bedroom door. He had brought with him a lighted taper and a bit of very fine wire to open the seal of the will. La Cibot, meanwhile, looking under the pillow, found the handkerchief with the key of the bureau knotted to one corner; and this so much the more easily because Pons purposely left the end hanging over the bolster, and lay with his face to the wall.

  La Cibot went straight to the bureau, opened it cautiously so as to make as little noise as possible, found the spring of the secret drawer, and hurried into the salon with the will in her hand. Her flight roused Pons’ curiosity to the highest pitch; and as for Schmucke, he trembled as if he were the guilty person.

  “Go back,” said Fraisier, when she handed over the will. “He may wake, and he must find you there.”

  Fraisier opened the seal with a dexterity which proved that his was no ‘prentice hand, and read the following curious document, headed “My Will,” with ever-deepening astonishment:

  “On this fifteenth day of April, eighteen hundred and forty-five,

  I, being in my sound mind (as this my Will, drawn up in concert

  with M. Trognon, will testify), and feeling that I must shortly

  die of the malady from which I have suffered since the beginning

  of February last, am anxious to dispose of my property, and have

  herein recorded my last wishes: —

  “I have always been impressed by the untoward circumstances that

  injure great pictures, and not unfrequently bring about total

  destruction. I have felt sorry for the beautiful paintings

  condemned to travel from land to land, never finding some fixed

  abode whither admirers of great masterpieces may travel to see

  them. And I have always thought that the truly deathless work of a

  great master ought to be national property; put where every one of

  every nation may see it, even as the light, God’s masterpiece,

  shines for all His children.

  “And as I have spent my life in collecting together and choosing a

  few pictures, some of the greatest masters’ most glorious work,

  and as these pictures are as the master left them — genuine

  examples, neither repainted nor retouched, — it has been a painful

  thought to me that the paintings which have been the joy of my

  life, may be sold by public auction, and go, some to England, some

  to Russia, till they are all scattered abroad again as if they had

  never been gathered together. From this wretched fate I have

  determined to save both them and the frames in which they are set,

  all of them the work of skilled craftsmen.

  “On these grounds, therefore, I give and bequeath the pictures

  which compose my collection to the King, for the gallery in the

  Louvre, subject to the charge (if the legacy is accepted) of a

  life-annuity of two thousand four hundred francs to my friend

  Wilhelm Schmucke.

  “If the King, as usufructuary of the Louvre collection, should

  refuse the legacy with the charge upon it, the said pictures shall

  form a part of the estate which I leave to my friend, Schmucke, on

  condition that he shall deliver the Monkey
’s Head, by Goya, to

  my cousin, President Camusot; a Flower-piece, the tulips, by

  Abraham Mignon, to M. Trognon, notary (whom I appoint as my

  executor): and allow Mme. Cibot, who has acted as my housekeeper

  for ten years, the sum of two hundred francs per annum.

  “Finally, my friend Schmucke is to give the Descent from the

  Cross, Ruben’s sketch for his great picture at Antwerp, to adorn

  a chapel in the parish church, in grateful acknowledgment of M.

  Duplanty’s kindness to me; for to him I owe it that I can die as a

  Christian and a Catholic.” — So ran the will.

  “This is ruin!” mused Fraisier, “the ruin of all my hopes. Ha! I begin to believe all that the Presidente told me about this old artist and his cunning.”

  “Well?” La Cibot came back to say.

  “Your gentleman is a monster. He is leaving everything to the Crown. Now, you cannot plead against the Crown.... The will cannot be disputed.... We are robbed, ruined, spoiled, and murdered!”

  “What has he left to me?”

  “Two hundred francs a year.”

  “A pretty come-down!... Why, he is a finished scoundrel.”

  “Go and see,” said Fraisier, “and I will put your scoundrel’s will back again in the envelope.”

  While Mme. Cibot’s back was turned, Fraisier nimbly slipped a sheet of blank paper into the envelope; the will he put in his pocket. He next proceeded to seal the envelope again so cleverly that he showed the seal to Mme. Cibot when she returned, and asked her if she could see the slightest trace of the operation. La Cibot took up the envelope, felt it over, assured herself that it was not empty, and heaved a deep sigh. She had entertained hopes that Fraisier himself would have burned the unlucky document while she was out of the room.

  “Well, my dear M. Fraisier, what is to be done?”

  “Oh! that is your affair! I am not one of the next-of-kin, myself; but if I had the slightest claim to any of that” (indicating the collection), “I know very well what I should do.”

  “That is just what I want to know,” La Cibot answered, with sufficient simplicity.

  “There is a fire in the grate — — ” he said. Then he rose to go.

  “After all, no one will know about it, but you and me — — ” began La Cibot.

  “It can never be proved that a will existed,” asserted the man of law.

  “And you?”

  “I?... If M. Pons dies intestate, you shall have a hundred thousand francs.”

  “Oh yes, no doubt,” returned she. “People promise you heaps of money, and when they come by their own, and there is talk of paying they swindle you like — ” “Like Elie Magus,” she was going to say, but she stopped herself just in time.

  “I am going,” said Fraisier; “it is not to your interest that I should be found here; but I shall see you again downstairs.”

  La Cibot shut the door and returned with the sealed packet in her hand. She had quite made up her mind to burn it; but as she went towards the bedroom fireplace, she felt the grasp of a hand on each arm, and saw — Schmucke on one hand, and Pons himself on the other, leaning against the partition wall on either side of the door.

  La Cibot cried out, and fell face downwards in a fit; real or feigned, no one ever knew the truth. This sight produced such an impression on Pons that a deadly faintness came upon him, and Schmucke left the woman on the floor to help Pons back to bed. The friends trembled in every limb; they had set themselves a hard task, it was done, but it had been too much for their strength. When Pons lay in bed again, and Schmucke had regained strength to some extent, he heard a sound of sobbing. La Cibot, on her knees, bursting into tears, held out supplicating hands to them in very expressive pantomime.

  “It was pure curiosity!” she sobbed, when she saw that Pons and Schmucke were paying attention to her proceedings. “Pure curiosity; a woman’s fault, you know. But I did not know how else to get a sight of your will, and I brought it back again — ”

  “Go!” said Schmucke, standing erect, his tall figure gaining in height by the full height of his indignation. “You are a monster! You dried to kill mein goot Bons! He is right. You are worse than a monster, you are a lost soul!”

  La Cibot saw the look of abhorrence in the frank German’s face; she rose, proud as Tartuffe, gave Schmucke a glance which made him quake, and went out, carrying off under her dress an exquisite little picture of Metzu’s pointed out by Elie Magus. “A diamond,” he had called it. Fraisier downstairs in the porter’s lodge was waiting to hear that La Cibot had burned the envelope and the sheet of blank paper inside it. Great was his astonishment when he beheld his fair client’s agitation and dismay.

  “What has happened?”

  “This has happened, my dear M. Fraisier. Under pretence of giving me good advice and telling me what to do, you have lost me my annuity and the gentlemen’s confidence....”

  One of the word-tornadoes in which she excelled was in full progress, but Fraisier cut her short.

  “This is idle talk. The facts, the facts! and be quick about it.”

  “Well; it came about in this way,” — and she told him of the scene which she had just come through.

  “You have lost nothing through me,” was Fraisier’s comment. “The gentlemen had their doubts, or they would not have set this trap for you. They were lying in wait and spying upon you.... You have not told me everything,” he added, with a tiger’s glance at the woman before him.

  “I hide anything from you!” cried she — ”after all that we have done together!” she added with a shudder.

  “My dear madame, I have done nothing blameworthy,” returned Fraisier. Evidently he meant to deny his nocturnal visit to Pons’ rooms.

  Every hair on La Cibot’s head seemed to scorch her, while a sense of icy cold swept over her from head to foot.

  “What?”... she faltered in bewilderment.

  “Here is a criminal charge on the face of it.... You may be accused of suppressing the will,” Fraisier made answer drily.

  La Cibot started.

  “Don’t be alarmed; I am your legal adviser. I only wished to show you how easy it is, in one way or another, to do as I once explained to you. Let us see, now; what have you done that this simple German should be hiding in the room?”

  “Nothing at all, unless it was that scene the other day when I stood M. Pons out that his eyes dazzled. And ever since, the two gentlemen have been as different as can be. So you have brought all my troubles upon me; I might have lost my influence with M. Pons, but I was sure of the German; just now he was talking of marrying me or of taking me with him — it is all one.”

  The excuse was so plausible that Fraisier was fain to be satisfied with it. “You need fear nothing,” he resumed. “I gave you my word that you shall have your money, and I shall keep my word. The whole matter, so far, was up in the air, but now it is as good as bank-notes.... You shall have at least twelve hundred francs per annum.... But, my good lady, you must act intelligently under my orders.”

  “Yes, my dear M. Fraisier,” said La Cibot with cringing servility. She was completely subdued.

  “Very good. Good-bye,” and Fraisier went, taking the dangerous document with him. He reached home in great spirits. The will was a terrible weapon.

  “Now,” thought he, “I have a hold on Mme. la Presidente de Marville; she must keep her word with me. If she did not, she would lose the property.”

  At daybreak, when Remonencq had taken down his shutters and left his sister in charge of the shop, he came, after his wont of late, to inquire for his good friend Cibot. The portress was contemplating the Metzu, privately wondering how a little bit of painted wood could be worth such a lot of money.

  “Aha!” said he, looking over her shoulder, “that is the one picture which M. Elie Magus regretted; with that little bit of a thing, he says, his happiness would be complete.”

  “What would he
give for it?” asked La Cibot.

  “Why, if you will promise to marry me within a year of widowhood, I will undertake to get twenty thousand francs for it from Elie Magus; and unless you marry me you will never get a thousand francs for the picture.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you would be obliged to give a receipt for the money, and then you might have a lawsuit with the heirs-at-law. If you were my wife, I myself should sell the thing to M. Magus, and in the way of business it is enough to make an entry in the day-book, and I should note that M. Schmucke sold it to me. There, leave the panel with me. ... If your husband were to die you might have a lot of bother over it, but no one would think it odd that I should have a picture in the shop.... You know me quite well. Besides, I will give you a receipt if you like.”

  The covetous portress felt that she had been caught; she agreed to a proposal which was to bind her for the rest of her life to the marine-store dealer.

  “You are right,” said she, as she locked the picture away in a chest; “bring me the bit of writing.”

  Remonencq beckoned her to the door.

  “I can see, neighbor, that we shall not save our poor dear Cibot,” he said lowering his voice. “Dr. Poulain gave him up yesterday evening, and said that he could not last out the day.... It is a great misfortune. But after all, this was not the place for you.... You ought to be in a fine curiosity shop on the Boulevard des Capucines. Do you know that I have made nearly a hundred thousand francs in ten years? And if you will have as much some day, I will undertake to make a handsome fortune for you — as my wife. You would be the mistress — my sister should wait on you and do the work of the house, and — ”

  A heartrending moan from the little tailor cut the tempter short; the death agony had begun.

  “Go away,” said La Cibot. “You are a monster to talk of such things and my poor man dying like this — ”

  “Ah! it is because I love you,” said Remonencq; “I could let everything else go to have you — ”