Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  They said: “What tastes, what passions, what feelings, what weaknesses, must the notary sacrifice to obtain the confidence he inspires! He gains, perhaps, sixty thousand francs (2,400l.) a year, and his household consists of a servant and an old housekeeper. His only pleasure is to go on Sundays to mass and vespers, and he knows no opera comparable to the grave chanting of the organ, no worldly society which is worth an evening quietly passed at his fireside corner with the curé of the parish after a frugal dinner; in fine, he places his enjoyment in probity, his pride in honour, his happiness in religion.”

  Such was the opinion of the contemporaries of M. Jacques Ferrand.

  CHAPTER IV.

  THE OFFICE.

  THE OFFICE OF M. Ferrand resembled all other offices, and his clerks all other clerks. It was approached through an antechamber, furnished with four old chairs. In the office, properly so-called, surrounded by rows of shelves, ornamented with pasteboard boxes, containing the papers of the clients of M. Ferrand, five young men, stooping over black wooden desks, were laughing, gossiping, or scribbling perpetually. A waiting-room, also filled with pasteboard boxes, and in which the chief clerk was constantly stationed, and another room, which, for greater secrecy, was kept unoccupied, between the notary’s private room and the waiting-room, completed the total of this laboratory of deeds of every description.

  An old cuckoo-clock, placed between the two windows of the office, had just struck two o’clock, and a certain bustle prevailed amongst the clerks; a part of their conversation will inform the reader as to the cause of this excitement.

  “Well, if any one had told me that François Germain was a thief,” said one of the young men, “I should have said, ‘That’s a lie!’”

  “So should I.”

  “And I.”

  “And I. It really quite affected me to see him arrested and led away by the police. I could not eat any breakfast; but I have been rewarded by not having to eat the daily mess doled out by Mother Séraphin, for, as the song goes:

  ‘To eat the allowance of old Séraphin, One must have a twist indeed.’”

  “Capital! why, Chalamel, you are beginning your poetry already.”

  “I demand Chalamel’s head!”

  “Folly apart, it is very terrible for poor Germain.”

  “Seventeen thousand francs (680l.) is a lump of money!”

  “I believe you!”

  “And yet, for the fifteen months that Germain has been cashier, he was never a farthing deficient in making up his books.”

  “I think the governor was wrong to arrest Germain, for the poor fellow swore that he had only taken thirteen hundred francs (52l.) in gold, and that, moreover, he brought back the thirteen hundred francs this morning, to return them to the money-chest, at the very moment when our master sent for the police.”

  “Ah, that’s the bore of people of such ferocious honesty as our governor, they have no pity!”

  “But they ought to think twice before they ruin a poor young fellow, who, up to this time, has behaved with strict honesty.”

  “M. Ferrand said he did it for an example.”

  “Example? What? It is none to the honest, and the dishonest know well enough what they expose themselves to if they are found out in any delinquencies.”

  “Our house seems to produce lots of jobs for the police officers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why, this morning there was poor little Louise, and now poor Germain.”

  “I confess that Germain’s affair was not quite clear to me.”

  “But he confessed?”

  “He confessed that he had taken thirteen hundred francs, certainly; but he declared most vehemently that he had not taken the other fifteen thousand francs in bank-notes, and the other seven hundred francs which are short in the strong box.”

  “True; and, if he confessed one thing, why shouldn’t he confess another?”

  “Exactly so; for a man is as much punished for five hundred francs as he is for fifteen thousand francs.”

  “Yes; only they retain the fifteen thousand francs, and, when they leave prison, this forms a little fund to start upon; and, as the swan of Cambrai sings:

  ‘To get a jolly lot of “swag” A cove must dip deep in the lucky-bag.’”

  “I demand Chalamel’s head!”

  “Can’t you talk sense for five minutes?”

  “Ah, here’s Jabulot! won’t he be astonished?”

  “What at, my boys? what at? Anything fresh about poor Louise?”

  “You would have known, roving blade, if you had not been so long in your rounds.”

  “What, you think it is but a step from here to the Rue de Chaillot?”

  “I never said so.”

  “Well, what about that gallant don, the famous Viscount de Saint-Rémy?”

  “Has he not been here yet?”

  “No.”

  “Well, his horses were harnessed, and he sent me word by his valet de chambre, that he would come here directly. But he didn’t seem best pleased, the servant said. Oh, my boys! such a lovely little house, furnished most magnificently, like one of the dwellings of the olden time that Faublas writes about. Oh, Faublas! he is my hero — my model!” said the clerk, putting down his umbrella and taking off his clogs.

  “You are right, Jabulot; for, as that sublime old blind man, Homer, said:

  ‘Faublas, that amorous hero, it is said, Forsook the duchess for the waiting-maid.’”

  “Yes; but then, she was a theatrical ‘waiting-maid,’ my lads.”

  “I demand Chalamel’s head!”

  “But about this Viscount de Saint-Rémy? Jabulot says his mansion is superb.”

  “Pyramidic!”

  “Then, I’ll be bound, he has debts not a few, and arrests to match, this viscount.”

  “A bill of thirty-four thousand francs (1,360l.) has been sent here by the officer. It is made payable at the office. This is his creditors’ doing; I don’t know why or wherefore.”

  “Well, I should say that this dandy viscount would pay now, because he came from the country last night, where he has been concealed these three days, in order to escape from the bailiffs.”

  “How is it, then, that they have not seized the furniture already?”

  “Why? oh, he’s too cunning! The house is not his own; all the furniture is in the name of his valet de chambre, who is said to let it to him furnished; and, in the same way, his horses and carriages are in his coachman’s name, who declares that he lets to the viscount his splendid turn-out at so much a month. Ah, he’s a ‘downy’ one, is M. de Saint-Rémy! But what were you going to tell me? what has happened here fresh?”

  “Why, imagine the governor coming in here two hours ago in a most awful passion. ‘Germain is not here?’ he exclaimed. ‘No, sir.’ ‘Well, the rascal has robbed me last night of seventeen thousand francs!’ says the governor.”

  “Germain — rob — ah, come, that’s ‘no go!’”

  “You will hear. ‘What, sir, are you sure? but it cannot be,’ we all cried out. ‘I tell you, gentlemen,’ said the governor, ‘that yesterday I put in the drawer of the bureau at which he writes, fifteen notes of one thousand francs each, and two thousand francs in gold, in a little box, and it is all gone.’ At this moment old Marriton, the porter, came in, and he said, ‘Sir, the police are coming; where is Germain?’ ‘Wait a bit,’ said the governor to the porter; ‘as soon as M. Germain returns, send him into the office, without saying a word. I will confront him before you all, gentlemen,’ said the governor. At the end of a quarter of an hour in comes poor Germain, as if nothing had happened. Old Mother Séraphin had brought in our morning mess. Germain made his bow to the governor, and wished us all ‘good morning,’ as usual. ‘Germain, don’t you take your breakfast?’ inquired M. Ferrand. ‘No, thank you, sir, I am not hungry.’ ‘You’re very late this morning.’ ‘Yes, sir; I was obliged to go to Belleville this morning.’ ‘No doubt to hide the money you have stolen from me!�
� M. Ferrand said, in a terrible voice.”

  “And Germain?”

  “The poor fellow turned as pale as death, and stammered out, ‘Pray — pray, sir, do not ruin me—’”

  “What! he had stolen—”

  “Listen, Jabulot: ‘Do not ruin me,’ says he to the governor. ‘What! you confess it, then, you villain?’ ‘Yes, sir; but here is the money; I thought I could replace it before you came into the office this morning; but, unfortunately, a person who had a small sum of mine, and whom I expected to find at home last night, had been at Belleville these two days, and I was compelled to go there this morning; that made me late. Pray, sir, forgive me, — do not destroy me! When I took the money I knew I could return it this morning; and here are the thirteen hundred francs in gold.’ ‘What do you mean by thirteen hundred francs?’ exclaimed M. Ferrand; ‘what’s the use of talking of thirteen hundred francs? You have stolen, from the bureau in my room, fifteen thousand francs that were in a green pocket-book, and two thousand francs in gold.’ ‘I? Never!’ cried poor Germain, quite aghast. ‘I took thirteen hundred francs in gold, but not a farthing more. I did not even see the pocket-book in the drawer; there were only two thousand francs, in gold, in a box.’ ‘Oh, shameless liar!’ cried the governor; ‘you confess to having plundered thirteen hundred francs, and may just as well have stolen more; that will be for the law to decide. I shall be without mercy for such an infamous breach of trust; you shall be an example.’ In fact, my dear Jabulot, the police came in at that moment, with the commissary’s chief clerk, to draw up the depositions, and they laid hands on poor Germain; and that’s all about it.”

  “Really, you do surprise me! I feel as if some one had given me a thump on the head. Germain — Germain, who seemed such an honest fellow, — a chap to whom one would have given absolution without confession.”

  “I should say that he had some presentiment of his misfortune.”

  “How?”

  “For some days past he seemed to have something on his mind.”

  “Perhaps about Louise.”

  “Louise?”

  “Why, I only repeat what Mother Séraphin said this morning.”

  “What did she say?”

  “What? that he was Louise’s lover, and the father of her child.”

  “Sly dog! Do you think so?”

  “Why — why — why—”

  “Pooh! pooh!”

  “That’s not the case.”

  “How do you know, Master Jabulot?”

  “Because it is not a fortnight ago that Germain told me, in confidence, that he was over head and ears in love with a little needle-woman, a very correct lass, whom he had known in the house where he lived; and, when he talked of her, the tears came in his eyes.”

  “Why, Jabulot, you are getting quite poetical.”

  “He says Faublas is his hero, and he is not ‘wide awake’ enough to know that a man may be in love with one woman and a lover of another at the same time; for, as the tender Fénélon says, in his Instructions to the Duke of Burgundy:

  ‘A spicy blade, of the right cock-feather, May love a blonde and brunette together.’”

  “I demand Chalamel’s head!”

  “I tell you that Germain spoke in earnest.”

  At this moment the head clerk entered the office.

  “Well, M. Jabulot,” said he, “have you completed your rounds?”

  “Yes, M. Dubois; I have been to M. de Saint-Remy, and he will come and pay immediately.”

  “And as to the Countess Macgregor?”

  “Here is her answer.”

  “And the Countess d’Orbigny?”

  “She returns her compliments to our employer. She only arrived from Normandy yesterday morning, and did not know that her reply was required so soon; here is a note from her. I also called on the Marquis d’Harville’s steward, as he desired me to receive the money for drawing up the contract which I witnessed at their house the other day.”

  “You should have told him there was no hurry.”

  “I did, but the steward insisted on paying. Here is the money. Oh! I had almost forgotten to say, M. Badinot said that M. Ferrand had better do as they had agreed; it was the best thing to do.”

  “He did not write an answer?”

  “No, sir; he said he had not time.”

  “Very well.”

  “M. Charles Robert will come in the course of the morning to speak to our master. It seems that he fought a duel yesterday with the Duke de Lucenay.”

  “And is he wounded?”

  “I think not, or else they would have told me so at the house.”

  “Hark! there’s a carriage stopping at the door.”

  “Oh, what fine horses! how full of spirits they are!”

  “And that fat English coachman, with his white wig, and brown livery striped with silver, and his epaulettes like a colonel!”

  “It must be some ambassador’s.”

  “And the chasseur, look how he is bedizened all over with silver!”

  “And what moustachios!”

  “Oh,” said Jabulot, “it is the Viscount de Saint-Remy’s carriage!”

  “What! is that the way he does it? Oh, my!”

  Soon after the Viscount de Saint-Remy entered the office.

  We have already described the handsome appearance, elegance of style, and aristocratical demeanour of M. de Saint-Remy, when he was on his way to the farm of Arnouville (the estate of Madame de Lucenay), where he had found a retreat from the pursuit of the bailiffs, Malicorne and Bourdin. The viscount, who entered unceremoniously into the office, with his hat on his head, a haughty and disdainful look, and his eyes half closed, asked, with an air of extreme superciliousness, and without looking at anybody:

  “Where is the notary?”

  “M. Ferrand is engaged in his private room,” said the chief clerk. “If you will please to wait a moment, sir, he will see you.”

  “What do you mean by wait a moment?”

  “Why, sir—”

  “There is no why in the case, sir. Go and tell him that M. de Saint-Remy is here; and I am much surprised that this notary should make me dance attendance in his waiting-room. It is really most annoying.”

  “Will you walk into this side room, sir?” said the chief clerk, “and I will inform M. Ferrand this instant.”

  M. de Saint-Remy shrugged his shoulders, and followed the head clerk. At the end of a quarter of an hour, which seemed very tedious to him, and which converted his spleen into anger, the viscount was introduced into the notary’s private apartment.

  Nothing could be more striking than the contrast between these two men, both of them profound physiognomists, and habituated to judge at a glance of the persons with whom they had business. M. de Saint-Remy saw Jacques Ferrand for the first time, and was struck with the expression of his pallid, harsh, and impassive features, — the look concealed by the large green spectacles; the skull half hid beneath an old black silk cap. The notary was seated at his writing-desk, in a leathern armchair, beside a low fireplace, almost choked up with ashes, and in which were two black and smoking logs of wood. Curtains of green cotton, almost in rags, hung on small iron rings at the windows, and, concealing the lower window-panes, threw over the room, which was naturally dark, a livid and unpleasant hue. Shelves of black wood were filled with deed-boxes, all duly labelled. Some cherry-wood chairs, covered with threadbare Utrecht velvet; a clock in a mahogany case; a floor yellow, damp, and chilling; a ceiling full of cracks, and festooned with spiders’ webs, — such was the sanctum sanctorum of M. Jacques Ferrand. Hardly had the viscount made two steps into his cabinet, or spoken a word, than the notary, who knew him by reputation, conceived an intense antipathy towards him. In the first place, he saw in him, if we may say so, a rival in rogueries; and then he hated elegance, grace, and youth in other persons, and more especially when these advantages were attended with an air of insolent superiority. The notary usually assumed a tone of rude and almost coarse abruptness
with his clients, who liked him the better for being in behaviour like a boor of the Danube. He made up his mind to double this brutality towards M. de Saint-Remy, who, only knowing the notary by report also, expected to find an attorney either familiar or a fool; for the viscount always imagined men of such probity as M. Ferrand had the reputation for, as having an exterior almost ridiculous, but, so far from this, the countenance and appearance of the attorney at law struck the viscount with an undefinable feeling, — half fear, half aversion. Consequently, his own resolute character made M. de Saint-Remy increase his usual impertinence and effrontery. The notary kept his cap on his head, and the viscount did not doff his hat, but exclaimed, as he entered the room, with a loud and imperative tone:

  “Pardieu, sir! it is very strange that you should give me the trouble to come here, instead of sending to my house for the money for the bills I accepted from the man Badinot, and for which the fellow has issued execution against me. It is true you tell me that you have also another very important communication to make to me; but then, surely, that is no excuse for making me wait for half an hour in your antechamber: it is really most annoying, sir!”

  M. Ferrand, quite unmoved, finished a calculation he was engaged in, wiped his pen methodically in a moist sponge which encircled his inkstand of cracked earthenware, and raised towards the viscount his icy, earthy, flat face, shaded by his spectacles. He looked like a death’s head in which the eye-holes had been replaced by large, fixed, staring green eyeballs. After having looked at the viscount for a moment or two, the notary said to him, in a harsh and abrupt tone:

  “Where’s the money?”

  This coolness exasperated M. de Saint-Rémy.

  He — he, the idol of the women, the envy of the men, the model of the first society in Paris, the dreaded duellist — produced no effect on a wretched attorney-at-law! It was horrid; and, although he was only tête-à-tête with Jacques Ferrand, his pride revolted.

  “Where are the bills?” inquired the viscount, abruptly.