These changes, on which the inhabitants prided themselves, were due to the impetus given by Gaubertin, who within a day or two had received the cross of the Legion of honor, in anticipation of the coming birthday of the king. In a town so situated and so modern there was of course, neither aristocracy nor nobility. Consequently, the rich merchants of Ville-aux-Fayes, proud of their own independence, willingly espoused the cause of the peasantry against a count of the Empire who had taken sides with the Restoration. To them the oppressors were the oppressed. The spirit of this commercial town was so well known to the government that they send there as sub-prefect a man with a conciliatory temper, a pupil of his uncle, the well-known des Lupeaulx, one of those men, accustomed to compromise, who are familiar with the difficulties and necessities of administration, but whom puritan politicians, doing infinitely worse things, call corrupt.
The interior of Gaubertin’s house was decorated with the unmeaning commonplaces of modern luxury. Rich papers with gold borders, bronze chandeliers, mahogany furniture of a new pattern, astral lamps, round tables with marble tops, white china with gilt lines for dessert, red morocco chairs and mezzo-tint engravings in the dining-room, and blue cashmere furniture in the salon, — all details of a chilling and perfectly unmeaning character, but which to the eyes of Ville-aux-Fayes seemed the last efforts of Sardanapalian luxury. Madame Gaubertin played the role of elegance with great effect; she assumed little airs and was lackadaisical at forty-five years of age, as though certain of the homage of her court.
We ask those who really know France, if these houses — those of Rigou, Soudry, and Gaubertin — are not a perfect presentation of the village, the little town, and the seat of a sub-prefecture?
Without being a man of mind, or a man of talent, Gaubertin had the appearance of being both. He owed the accuracy of his perception and his consummate art to an extreme keenness after gain. He desired wealth, not for his wife, not for his children, not for himself, not for his family, not for the reputation that money gives; after the gratification of his revenge (the hope of which kept him alive) he loved the touch of money, like Nucingen, who, it was said, kept fingering the gold in his pockets. The rush of business was Gaubertin’s wine; and though he had his belly full of it, he had all the eagerness of one who was empty. As with valets of the drama, intrigues, tricks to play, mischief to organize, deceptions, commercial over-reachings, accounts to render and receive, disputes, and quarrels of self-interest, exhilarated him, kept his blood in circulation, and his bile flowing. He went and came on foot, on horseback, in a carriage, by water; he was at all auctions and timber sales in Paris, thinking of everything, keeping hundreds of wires in his hands and never getting them tangled.
Quick, decided in his movements as in his ideas, short and squat in figure, with a thin nose, a fiery eye, an ear on the “qui vive,” there was something of the hunting-dog about him. His brown face, very round and sunburned, from which the tanned ears stood out predominantly, — for he always wore a cap, — was in keeping with that character. His nose turned up; his tightly-closed lips could never have opened to say a kindly thing. His bushy whiskers formed a pair of black and shiny tufts beneath the highly-colored cheek-bones, and were lost in his cravat. Hair that was pepper-and-salt in color and frizzled naturally in stages like those of a judge’s wig, seeming scorched by the fury of the fire which heated his brown skull and gleamed in his gray eyes surrounded by circular wrinkles (no doubt from a habit of always blinking when he looked across the country in full sunlight), completed the characteristics of his physiognomy. His lean and vigorous hands were hairy, knobbed, and claw-like, like those of men who do their share of labor. His personality was agreeable to those with whom he had to do, for he wrapped it in a misleading gayety; he knew how to talk a great deal without saying a word of what he meant to keep unsaid. He wrote little, so as to deny anything that escaped him which might prove unfavorable in its after effects upon his interests. His books and papers were kept by a cashier, — an honest man, whom men of Gaubertin’s stamp always seek to get hold of, and whom they make, in their own selfish interests, their first dupe.
When Rigou’s little green chaise appeared, towards twelve o’clock, in the broad avenue which skirts the river, Gaubertin, in cap, boots, and jacket, was returning from the wharves. He hastened his steps, — feeling very sure that Rigou’s object in coming over could only be “the great affair.”
“Good morning, gendarme; good morning, paunch of gall and wisdom,” he said, giving a little slap to the stomachs of his two visitors. “We have business to talk over, and, faith! we’ll do it glass in hand; that’s the true way to take things.”
“If you do your business that way, you ought to be fatter than you are,” said Rigou.
“I work too hard; I’m not like you two, confined to the house and bewitched there, like old dotards. Well, well, after all that’s the best way; you can do your business comfortably in an arm-chair, with your back to the fire and your belly at table; custom goes to you, I have to go after it. But now, come in, come in! the house is yours for the time you stay.”
A servant, in blue livery edged with scarlet, took the horse by the bridle and led him into the courtyard, where were the offices and the stable.
Gaubertin left his guests to walk about the garden for a moment, while he went to give his orders and arrange about the breakfast.
“Well, my wolves,” he said, as he returned, rubbing his hands, “the gendarmerie of Soulanges were seen this morning at daybreak, marching towards Conches; no doubt they mean to arrest the peasants for depredations; ha, ha! things are getting warm, warm! By this time,” he added, looking at his watch, “those fellows may have been arrested.”
“Probably,” said Rigou.
“Well, what do you all say over there? Has anything been decided?”
“What is there to decide?” asked Rigou. “We have no part in it,” he added, looking at Soudry.
“How do you mean nothing to decide? If Les Aigues is sold as the result of our coalition, who is to gain five or six hundred thousand francs out of it? Do you expect me to, all alone? No, my inside is not strong enough to split up two millions, with three children to establish, and a wife who hasn’t the first idea about the value of money; no, I must have associates. Here’s the gendarme, he has plenty of funds all ready. I know he doesn’t hold a single mortgage that isn’t ready to mature; he only lends now on notes at sight of which I endorse. I’ll go into this thing by the amount of eight hundred thousand francs; my son, the judge, two hundred thousand; and I count on the gendarme for two hundred thousand more; now, how much will you put in, skull-cap?”
“All the rest,” replied Rigou, stiffly.
“The devil! well, I wish I had my hand where your heart is!” exclaimed Gaubertin. “Now what are you going to do?”
“Whatever you do; tell your plan.”
“My plan,” said Gaubertin, “is to take double, and sell half to the Conches, and Cerneux, and Blangy folks who want to buy. Soudry has his clients, and you yours, and I, mine. That’s not the difficulty. The thing is, how are we going to arrange among ourselves? How shall we divide up the great lots?”
“Nothing easier,” said Rigou. “We’ll each take what we like best. I, for one, shall stand in nobody’s way; I’ll take the woods in common with Soudry and my son-in-law; the timber has been so injured that you won’t care for it now, and you may have all the rest. Faith, it is worth the money you’ll put into it!”
“Will you sign that agreement?” said Soudry.
“A written agreement is worth nothing,” replied Gaubertin. “Besides, you know I am playing above board; I have perfect confidence in Rigou, and he shall be the purchaser.”
“That will satisfy me,” said Rigou.
“I will make only one condition,” added Gaubertin. “I must have the pavilion of the Rendezvous, with all its appurtenances, and fifty acres of the surrounding land. I shall make it my country-house, and it shall be near my woods
. Madame Gaubertin — Madame Isaure, for that’s what she wants people to call her — says she shall make it her villa.”
“I’m willing,” said Rigou.
“Well, now, between ourselves,” continued Gaubertin, after looking about him on all sides and making sure that no one could overhear him, “do you think they are capable of striking a blow?”
“Such as?” asked Rigou, who never allowed himself to understand a hint.
“Well, if the worst of the band, the best shot, sent a ball whistling round the ears of the count — just to frighten him?”
“He’s a man to rush at an assailant and collar him.”
“Michaud, then.”
“Michaud would do nothing at the moment, but he’d watch and spy till he found out the man and those who instigated him.”
“You are right,” said Gaubertin; “those peasants must make a riot and a few must be sent to the galleys. Well, so much the better for us; the authorities will catch the worst, whom we shall want to get rid of after they’ve done the work. There are those blackguards, the Tonsards and Bonnebault — ”
“Tonsard is ready for mischief,” said Soudry, “I know that; and we’ll work him up by Vaudoyer and Courtecuisse.”
“I’ll answer for Courtecuisse,” said Rigou.
“And I hold Vaudoyer in the hollow of my hand.”
“Be cautious!” said Rigou; “before everything else be cautious.”
“Now, papa skull-cap, do you mean to tell me that there’s any harm in speaking of things as they are? Is it we who are indicting and arresting, or gleaning or depredating? If Monsieur le comte knows what he’s about and leases the woods to the receiver-general it is all up with our schemes, — ’Farewell baskets, the vintage is o’er’; in that case you will lose more than I. What we say here is between ourselves and for ourselves; for I certainly wouldn’t say a word to Vaudoyer that I couldn’t repeat to God and man. But it is not forbidden, I suppose, to profit by any events that may take place. The peasantry of this canton are hot-headed; the general’s exactions, his severity, Michaud’s persecutions, and those of his keepers have exasperated them; to-day things have come to a crisis and I’ll bet there’s a rumpus going on now with the gendarmerie. And so, let’s go and breakfast.”
Madame Gaubertin came into the garden just then. She was a rather fair woman with long curls, called English, hanging down her cheeks, who played the style of sentimental virtue, pretended never to have known love, talked platonics to all the men about her, and kept the prosecuting-attorney at her beck and call. She was given to caps with large bows, but preferred to wear only her hair. She danced, and at forty-five years of age had the mincing manner of a girl; her feet, however, were large and her hands frightful. She wished to be called Isaure, because among her other oddities and absurdities she had the taste to repudiate the name of Gaubertin as vulgar. Her eyes were light and her hair of an undecided color, something like dirty nankeen. Such as she was, she was taken as a model by a number of young ladies, who stabbed the skies with their glances, and posed as angels.
“Well, gentlemen,” she said, bowing, “I have some strange news for you. The gendarmerie have returned.”
“Did they make any prisoners?”
“None; the general, it seems, had previously obtained the pardon of the depredators. It was given in honor of this happy anniversary of the king’s restoration to France.”
The three associates looked at each other.
“He is cleverer than I thought for, that big cuirassier!” said Gaubertin. “Well, come to breakfast. After all, the game is not lost, only postponed; it is your affair now, Rigou.”
Soudry and Rigou drove back disappointed, not being able as yet to plan any other catastrophe to serve their ends and relying, as Gaubertin advised, on what might turn up. Like certain Jacobins at the outset of the Revolution who were furious with Louis XVI.’s conciliations, and who provoked severe measures at court in the hope of producing anarchy, which to them meant fortune and power, the formidable enemies of General Montcornet staked their present hopes on the severity which Michaud and his keepers were likely to employ against future depredators. Gaubertin promised them his assistance, without explaining who were his co-operators, for he did not wish them to know about his relations with Sibilet. Nothing can equal the prudence of a man of Gaubertin’s stamp, unless it be that of an ex-gendarme or an unfrocked priest. This plot could not have been brought to a successful issue, — a successfully evil issue, — unless by three such men as these, steeped in hatred and self-interest.
CHAPTER V. VICTORY WITHOUT A FIGHT
Madame Michaud’s fears were the effect of that second sight which comes of true passion. Exclusively absorbed by one only being, the soul finally grasps the whole moral world which surrounds that being; it sees clearly. A woman when she loves feels the same presentiments which disquiet her later when a mother.
While the poor young woman listened to the confused voices coming from afar across an unknown space, a scene was really happening in the tavern of the Grand-I-Vert which threatened her husband’s life.
About five o’clock that morning early risers had seen the gendarmerie of Soulanges on its way to Conches. The news circulated rapidly; and those whom it chiefly interested were much surprised to learn from others, who lived on high ground, that a detachment commanded by the lieutenant of Ville-aux-Fayes had marched through the forest of Les Aigues. As it was a Monday, there were already good reasons why the peasants should be at the tavern; but it was also the eve of the anniversary of the restoration of the Bourbons, and though the frequenters of Tonsard’s den had no need of that “august cause” (as they said in those days) to explain their presence at the Grand-I-Vert, they did not fail to make the most of it if the mere shadow of an official functionary appeared.
Vaudoyer, Courtecuisse, Tonsard and his family, Godain, and an old vine-dresser named Laroche, were there early in the morning. The latter was a man who scratched a living from day to day; he was one of the delinquents collected in Blangy under the sort of subscription invented by Sibilet and Courtecuisse to disgust the general by the results of his indictments. Blangy had supplied three men, twelve women, also eight girls and five boys for whom parent were answerable, all of whom were in a condition of pauperism; but they were the only ones who could be found that were so. The year 1823 had been a very profitable one to the peasantry, and 1826 as likely, through the enormous quantity of wine yielded, to bring them in a good deal of money; add to this the works at Les Aigues, undertaken by the general, which had put a great deal more in circulation throughout the three districts which bordered on the estate. It had therefore been quite difficult to find in Blangy, Conches, and Cerneux, one hundred and twenty indigent persons against whom to bring the suits; and in order to do so, they had taken old women, mothers, and grandmothers of those who owned property but who possessed nothing of their own, like Tonsard’s mother. Laroche, an old laborer, possessed absolutely nothing; he was not, like Tonsard, hot-blooded and vicious, — his motive power was a cold, dull hatred; he toiled in silence with a sullen face; work was intolerable to him, but he had to work to live; his features were hard and their expression repulsive. Though sixty years old, he was still strong, except that his back was bent; he saw no future before him, no spot that he could call his own, and he envied those who possessed the land; for this reason he had no pity on the forests of Les Aigues, and took pleasure in despoiling them uselessly.
“Will they be allowed to put us in prison?” he was saying. “After Conches they’ll come to Blangy. I’m an old offender, and I shall get three months.”
“What can we do against the gendarmerie, old drunkard?” said Vaudoyer.
“Why! cut the legs of their horses with our scythes. That’ll bring them down; their muskets are not loaded, and when they find us ten to one against them they’ll decamp. If the three villages all rose and killed two or three gendarmes, they couldn’t guillotine the whole of us. They’d have to give w
ay, as they did on the other side of Burgundy, where they sent a regiment. Bah! that regiment came back again, and the peasants cut the woods just as much as they ever did.”
“If we kill,” said Vaudoyer; “it is better to kill one man; the question is, how to do it without danger and frighten those Arminacs so that they’ll be driven out of the place.”
“Which one shall we kill?” asked Laroche.
“Michaud,” said Courtecuisse. “Vaudoyer is right, he’s perfectly right. You’ll see that when a keeper is sent to the shades there won’t be one of them willing to stay even in broad daylight to watch us. Now they’re there night and day, — demons!”
“Wherever one goes,” said old Mother Tonsard, — who was seventy-eight years old, and presented a parchment face honey-combed with the small-pox, lighted by a pair of green eyes, and framed with dirty-white hair, which escaped in strands from a red handkerchief, — ”wherever one goes, there they are! they stop us, they open our bundles, and if there’s a single branch, a single twig of a miserable hazel, they seize the whole bundle, and they say they’ll arrest us. Ha, the villains! there’s no deceiving them; if they suspect you, you’ve got to undo the bundle. Dogs! all three are not worth a farthing! Yes, kill ‘em, and it won’t ruin France, I tell you.”
“Little Vatel is not so bad,” said Madame Tonsard.
“He!” said Laroche, “he does his business, like the others; when there’s a joke going he’ll joke with you, but you are none the better with him for that. He’s worse than the rest, — heartless to poor folks, like Michaud himself.”
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 1004