CHAPTER XXIII
A SIMPLE BANKER
Mr. John Turner had none of the outward signs of the discreet adviser inhis person or surroundings. He had, it was currently whispered, inheritedfrom his father an enormous clientele of noble names. And to such as havestudied the history of Paris during the whole of the nineteenth century,it will appear readily comprehensible that the careful or the pennilessshould give preference to an English banker.
Mr. Turner's appearance suggested solidity, and the carpet of his privateroom was a good one. The room smelt of cigar smoke, while the office,through which the client must pass to reach it, was odoriferous ofancient ledgers.
Half a dozen clerks were seated in the office, which was simply furnishedand innocent of iron safes. If a client entered, one of the six, whosebusiness it was, looked up, while the other five continued to give theirattention to the books before them.
One cold morning, toward the end of the year, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrencewas admitted by the concierge. She noted that only one clerk gave heed toher entry, and, it is to be presumed, the quiet perfection of her furs.
"Of the six young men in your office," she observed, when she was seatedin the bare wooden chair placed invitingly by the side of John Turner'swriting-table, "only one appears to be in full possession of his senses."
Turner, sitting--if the expression be allowed--in a heap in an armchairbefore a table provided with pens, ink, and a blotting-pad, but otherwisebare, looked at his client with a bovine smile.
"I don't pay them to admire my clients," he replied.
"If Mademoiselle de Montijo came in, I suppose the other five would notlook up."
John Turner settled himself a little lower into his chair, so that heappeared to be in some danger of slipping under the table.
"If the Archangel Gabriel came in, they would still attend to theirbusiness," he replied, in his thick, slow voice. "But he won't. He is notone of my clients. Quite the contrary."
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence smoothed the fur that bordered her neat jacketand glanced sideways at her banker. Then she looked round the room. Itwas bare enough. A single picture hung on the wall--a portrait of an oldlady. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence raised her eyebrows, and continued herscrutiny. Here, again, was no iron safe. There were no ledgers, nodiaries, no note-books, no paraphernalia of business. Nothing but a baretable and John Turner seated at it, in a much more comfortable chair thanthat provided for the client, staring apathetically at a date-case whichstood on a bare mantelpiece.
The lady's eyes returned to the portrait on the wall.
"You used to have a portrait of Louis Philippe there," she said.
"When Louis Philippe was on the throne," admitted the banker.
"And now?" inquired this daughter of Eve, looking at the portrait.
"My maternal aunt," replied Turner, making a gesture with two fingers, asif introducing his client to the portrait.
"You keep her, one may suppose, as a stop-gap--between the dynasties. Itis so safe--a maternal aunt!"
"One cannot hang a republic on the wall, however much one may want to."
"Then you are a Royalist?" inquired Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence.
"No; I am only a banker," replied Turner, with his chin sinking lower onhis bulging waistcoat and his eyes scarcely visible beneath the heavylids.
The remark, coupled with a thought that Turner was going to sleep, seemedto remind the client of her business.
"Will you kindly ask one of your clerks to let me know how much money Ihave?" she said, casting a glance not wholly innocent of scornfulreproach at the table, so glaringly devoid of the bare necessities of abanking business.
"Only eleven thousand francs and fourteen sous," replied Turner, with apromptness which seemed to suggest that he kept no diary or note-book onthe table before him because he had need of neither.
"I feel sure I must have more than that," said Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence,with some spirit. "I quite thought I had."
But John Turner only moistened his lips and sat patiently gazing at thedate. His attitude dimly suggested--quite in a nice way--that the chairupon which Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence sat was polished bright by thegarments of persons who had found themselves labouring under the sameerror.
"Well, I must have a hundred thousand francs to-morrow; that is all.Simply must. And in notes, too. I told you I should want it when you cameto see me at Royan. You must remember. I told you at luncheon."
"When we were eating a sweetbread _aux champignons._ I rememberperfectly. We do not get sweetbreads like that in Paris."
And John Turner shook his head sadly. "Well, will you let me have themoney to-morrow morning--in notes?"
"I remember I advised you not to sell just now; after we had finished thesweetbread and had gone on to a _creme renversee_--very good one, too.Yes, it is a bad time to sell. Things are uncertain in France just now.One cannot even get one's meals properly served. Cook's head is full ofpolitics, I suppose."
"To-morrow morning--in notes," repeated Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence.
"Now, your man at Royan was excellent--kept his head all through--and alight hand, too. Got him with you in Paris?"
"No, I have not. To-morrow morning, about ten o'clock--in notes."
And Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence tapped a neat gloved finger on the corner ofthe table with some determination.
"I remember--at dessert--you told me you wanted to realise a considerablesum of money at the beginning of the year, to put into some businessventure. Is this part of that sum?"
"Yes," returned the lady, arranging her veil.
"A venture of Dormer Colville's, I think you told me--while we werehaving coffee. One never gets coffee hot enough in a private house, butyours was all right."
"Yes," mumbled Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, behind her quick finger, busywith the veil.
Beneath the sleepy lids John Turner's eyes, which were small anddeep-sunken in the flesh, like the eyes of a pig, noted in passing thathis client's cheeks were momentarily pink.
"I hope you don't mean to suggest that there is anything unsafe in Mr.Colville as a business man?"
"Heaven forbid!" ejaculated Turner. "On the contrary, he is mostenterprising. And I know no one who smokes a better cigar thanColville--when he can get it. And the young fellow seemed nice enough."
"Which young fellow?" inquired the lady, sharply.
"His young friend--the man who was with him. I think you told me, afterluncheon, that Colville required the money to start his young friend inbusiness."
"Never!" laughed Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, who, if she felt momentarilyuneasy, was quickly reassured. For this was one of those fortunate ladieswho go through life with the comforting sense of being always clevererthan their neighbour. If the neighbour happen to be a man, and a stoutone, the conviction is the stronger for those facts. "Never! I never toldyou that. You must have dreamt it."
"Perhaps I did," admitted the banker, placidly. "I am afraid I often feelsleepy after luncheon. Perhaps I dreamt it. But I could not hand such asum in notes to an unprotected lady, even if I can effect a sale of yoursecurities so quickly as to have the money ready by to-morrow morning.Perhaps Colville will call for it himself."
"If he is in Paris."
"Every one is in Paris now," was Mr. Turner's opinion. "And if he likesto bring his young friend with him, all the better. In these uncertaintimes it is not fair on a man to hand to him a large sum of money innotes." He paused and jerked his thumb toward the window, which was adouble one, looking down into the Rue Lafayette. "There are always peoplein the streets watching those who pass in and out of a bank. If a mancomes out smiling, with his hand on his pocket, he is followed, and if anopportunity occurs, he is robbed. Better not have it in notes."
"I know," replied Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, not troubling further todeceive one so lethargic and simple. "I know that Dormer wants it innotes."
"Then let him come and fetch it."
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence rose from her chair and shook her dr
ess intostraighter folds, with the air of having accomplished a task which shehad known to be difficult, but not impossible to one equipped with witand self-confidence.
"You will sell the securities, and have it all ready by ten o'clockto-morrow morning," she repeated, with a feminine insistence.
"You shall have the money to-morrow morning, whether I succeed in sellingfor cash or not," was the reply, and John Turner concealed a yawn withimperfect success.
"A loan?"
"No banker lends--except to kings," replied Turner, stolidly. "Call it anaccommodation."
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence glanced at him sharply over the fur collar whichshe was clasping round her neck. Here was a banker, reputed wealthy, whosat in a bare room, without so much as a fireproof safe to suggestriches; a business man of world-wide affairs, who drummed indolentfingers on a bare table; a philosopher with a maxim ever ready to teach,as all maxims do, cowardice in the guise of prudence, selfishnessmasquerading as worldly wisdom, hard-heartedness passing for foresight.Here was one who seemed to see, and was yet too sleepy to perceive. Mrs.St. Pierre Lawrence was not always sure of her banker, but now, as everbefore, one glance at his round, heavy face reassured her. She laughedand went away, well satisfied with the knowledge, only given to women, ofhaving once more carried out her object with the completeness which isknown as twisting round the little finger.
She nodded to Turner, who had ponderously risen from the chair which wasmore comfortable than the client's seat, and held the door open for herto pass. He glanced at the clock as he did so. And she knew that he wasthinking that it was nearly the luncheon hour, so transparent to thefeminine perception are the thoughts of men.
When he had closed the door he returned to his writing-table. Like manystout people, he moved noiselessly, and quickly enough when the occasiondemanded haste.
He wrote three letters in a very few minutes, and, when they wereaddressed, he tapped on the table with the end of his pen-holder, whichbrought, in the twinkling of an eye, that clerk whose business it was toabandon his books when called.
"I shall not go out to luncheon until I have the written receipt for eachone of those letters," said the banker, knowing that until he went out toluncheon his six clerks must needs go hungry. "Not an answer," heexplained, "but a receipt in the addressee's writing."
And while the clerk hurried from the room and down the stone stairs at abreak-neck speed, Turner sank back into his chair, with lustreless eyesfixed on space.
"No one can wait," he was in the habit of saying, "better than I can."
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