Books: Serge Panine, v1
G >>
Georges Ohnet >> Serge Panine, v1
Pages:
1 |
2 | 3 |
4 |
5 |
6
"That's it!" cried Savinien, triumphantly. "My mind is stronger than I;
I must let my imagination have free run, and no one will ever know what
that particular turn of mind has cost me. Even my family do not think me
serious. Aunt Desvarennes has forbidden any kind of enterprise, under
pretence that I bear her name, and that I might compromise it because I
have twice failed. My aunt paid, it is true. Do you think it is
generous of her to take advantage of my situation, and prohibit my trying
to succeed? Are inventors judged by three or four failures? If my aunt
had allowed me I should have astonished the world."
"She feared, above all," said Marechal, simply, "to see you astonishing
the Tribunal of Commerce."
"Oh! you, too," moaned Savinien, "are in league with my enemies; you
make no account of me."
And young Desvarennes sank as if crushed into an armchair and began to
lament. He was very unhappy at being misunderstood. His aunt allowed
him three thousand francs a month on condition that he would not make use
of his ten fingers. Was it moral? Then he with such exuberant vigor had
to waste it on pleasure and seeing life to the utmost. He passed his
time in theatres, at clubs, restaurants, in boudoirs. He lost his time,
his money, his hair, his illusions. He bemoaned his lot, but continued,
only to have something to do. With grim sarcasm he called himself the
galley-slave of pleasure. And notwithstanding all these consuming
excesses, he asserted that he could not render his imagination barren.
Amid the greatest follies at suppers, during the clinking of glasses; in
the excitement of the dance-inspirations came to him in flashes, he made
prodigious discoveries.
And as Marechal ventured a timid "Oh!" tinged with incredulity, Savinien
flew into a passion. Yes; he had invented something astonishing; he saw
fortune within reach, and he thought the bargain made with his aunt very
unjust. Therefore he had come to break it, and to regain his liberty.
Marechal looked at the young man while he was explaining with animation
his ambitious projects. He scrutinized that flat forehead within which
the dandy asserted so many good ideas were hidden. He measured that slim
form bent by wild living, and asked himself how that degenerate being
could struggle against the difficulties of business. A smile played on
his lips. He knew Savinien too well not to be aware that he was a prey
to one of those attacks of melancholy which seized on him when his funds
were low.
On these occasions, which occurred frequently, the young man had longings
for business, which Madame Desvarennes stopped by asking: "How much?"
Savinien allowed himself to be with difficulty induced to consent to
renounce the certain profits promised, as he said, by his projected
enterprise. At last he would capitulate, and with his pocket well lined,
nimble and joyful, he returned to his boudoirs, race-courses, fashionable
restaurants, and became more than ever the galley-slave of pleasure.
"And Pierre?" asked young Desvarennes, suddenly and quickly changing the
subject. "Have you any news of him?"
Marechal became serious. A cloud seemed to have come across his brow; he
gravely answered Savinien's question.
Pierre was still in the East. He was travelling toward Tunis, the coast
of which he was exploring. It was a question of the formation of an
island sea by taking the water through the desert. It would be a
colossal undertaking, the results of which would be considerable as
regarded Algeria. The climate would be completely changed, and the value
of the colony would be increased tenfold, because it would become the
most fertile country in the world. Pierre had been occupied in this
undertaking for more than a year with unequalled ardor; he was far from
his home, his betrothed, seeing only the goal to be attained; turning a
deaf ear to all that would distract his attention from the great work, to
the success of which he hoped to contribute gloriously.
"And don't people say," resumed Savinien with an evil smile, "that during
his absence a dashing young fellow is busy luring his betrothed away from
him?"
At these words Marechal made a quick movement.
"It is false," he interrupted; "and I do not understand how you, Monsieur
Desvarennes, should be the bearer of such a tale. To admit that
Mademoiselle Micheline could break her word or her engagements is to
slander her, and if any one other than you--"
"There, there, my dear friend," said Savinien, laughing, "don't get into
a rage. What I say to you I would not repeat to the first comer;
besides, I am only the echo of a rumor that has been going the round
during the last three weeks. They even give the name of him who has been
chosen for the honor and pleasure of such a brilliant conquest. I mean
Prince Serge Panine."
"As you have mentioned Prince Panine," replied Marechal, "allow me to
tell you that he has not put his foot inside Madame Desvarennes's door
for three weeks. This is not the way of a man about to marry the
daughter of the house."
"My dear fellow, I only repeat what I have heard. As for me, I don't
know any more. I have kept out of the way for more than three months.
And besides, it matters little to me whether Micheline be a commoner or a
princess, the wife of Delarue or of Panine. I shall be none the richer
or the poorer, shall I? Therefore I need not care. The dear child will
certainly have millions enough to marry easily. And her adopted sister,
the stately Mademoiselle Jeanne, what has become of her?"
"Ah! as to Mademoiselle de Cernay, that is another affair," cried
Marechal.
And as if wishing to divert the conversation in an opposite direction to
which Savinien had led it a moment before, he spoke readily of Madame
Desvarennes's adopted daughter. She had made a lively impression on one
of the intimate friends of the house--the banker Cayrol, who had offered
his name and his fortune to the fair Jeanne.
This was a cause of deep amazement to Savinien. What! Cayrol! The
shrewd close--fisted Auvergnat! A girl without a fortune! Cayrol Silex
as he was called in the commercial world on account of his hardness.
This living money-bag had a heart then! It was necessary to believe it
since both money-bag and heart had been placed at Mademoiselle de
Cernay's feet. This strange girl was certainly destined to millions.
She had just missed being Madame Desvarennes's heiress, and now Cayrol
had taken it into his head to marry her.
But that was not all. And when Marechal told Savinien that the fair
Jeanne flatly refused to become the wife of Cayrol, there was an outburst
of joyful exclamations. She refused! By Jove, she was mad! An
unlooked-for marriage--for she had not a penny, and had most extravagant
notions. She had been brought up as if she were to live always in velvet
and silks--to loll in carriages and think only of her pleasure. What
reason did she give for refusing him! None. Haughtily and disdainfully
she had declared that she did not love "that man," and that she would not
marry him.
When Savinien heard these details his rapture increased. One thing
especially charmed him: Jeanne's saying "that man," when speaking of
Cayrol. A little girl who was called "De Cernay" just as he might call
himself "Des Batignolles" if he pleased: the natural and unacknowledged
daughter of a Count and of a shady public singer! And she refused
Cayrol, calling him "that man." It was really funny. And what did
worthy Cayrol say about it?
When Marechal declared that the banker had not been damped by this
discouraging reception, Savinien said it was human nature. The fair
Jeanne scorned Cayrol and Cayrol adored her. He had often seen those
things happen. He knew the baggages so well! Nobody knew more of women
than he did. He had known some more difficult to manage than proud
Mademoiselle Jeanne.
An old leaven of hatred had festered in Savinien's heart against Jeanne
since the time when the younger branch of the Desvarennes had reason to
fear that the superb heritage was going to the adopted daughter.
Savinien had lost the fear, but had kept up the animosity. And
everything that could happen to Jeanne of a vexing or painful nature
would be witnessed by him with pleasure.
He was about to encourage Marechal to continue his revelations, and had
risen and was leaning on the desk. With his face excited and eager, he
was preparing his question, when, through the door which led to Madame
Desvarennes's office, a confused murmur of voices was heard. At the same
time the door was half opened, held by a woman's hand, square, with short
fingers, a firm-willed and energetic hand. At the same time, the last
words exchanged between Madame Desvarennes and the Financial Secretary of
the War Office were distinctly audible. Madame Desvarennes was speaking,
and her voice sounded clear and plain; a little raised and vibrating.
There seemed a shade of anger in its tone.
"My dear sir, you will tell the Minister that does not suit me. It is
not the custom of the house. For thirty-five years I have conducted
business thus, and I have always found it answer. I wish you good-
morning."
The door of the office facing that which Madame Desvarennes held closed,
and a light step glided along the corridor. It was the Financial
Secretary's. The mistress appeared.
Marechal rose hastily. As to Savinien, all his resolution seemed to have
vanished at the sound of his aunt's voice, for he had rapidly gained a
corner of the room, and seated himself on a leather-covered sofa, hidden
behind an armchair, where he remained perfectly quiet.
"Do you understand that, Marechal?" said dame Desvarennes; "they want to
place a resident agent at the mill on pretext of checking things. They
say that all military contractors are obliged to submit to it. My word,
do they take us for thieves, the rascals? It is the first time that
people have seemed to doubt me. And it has enraged me. I have been
arguing for a whole hour with the man they sent me. I said to him, 'My
dear sir, you may either take it or leave it. Let us start from this
point: I can do without you and you cannot do without me. If you don't
buy my flour, somebody else will. I am not at all troubled about it.
But as to having any one here who would be as much master as myself, or
perhaps more, never! I am too old to change my customs.' Thereupon the
Financial Secretary left. There! And, besides, they change their
Ministry every fortnight. One would never know with whom one had to
deal. Thank you, no."
While talking thus with Marechal, Madame Desvarennes was walking about
the office. She was still the same woman with the broad prominent
forehead. Her hair, which she wore in smooth plaits, had become gray,
but the sparkle of her dark eyes only seemed the brighter from this. She
had preserved her splendid teeth, and her smile had remained young and
charming. She spoke with animation, as usual, and with the gestures of a
man. She placed herself before her secretary, seeming to appeal to him
as a witness of her being in the right. During the hour with the
official personage she had been obliged to contain herself. She
unburdened herself to Marechal, saying just what she thought.
But all at once she perceived Savinien, who was waiting to show himself
now that she had finished. The mistress turned sharply to the young man,
and frowned slightly:
"Hallo! you are there, eh? How is it that you could leave your fair
friends?"
"But, aunt, I came to pay you my respects."
"No nonsense now; I've no time," interrupted the mistress. "What do you
want?"
Savinien, disconcerted by this rude reception, blinked his eyes, as if
seeking some form to give his request; then, making up his mind, he said:
"I came to see you on business."
"You on business?" replied Madame Desvarennes, with a shade of
astonishment and irony.
"Yes, aunt, on business," declared Savinien, looking down as if he
expected a rebuff.
"Oh, oh, oh!" said Madame Desvarennes, "you know our agreement; I give
you an allowance--"
"I renounce my income," interrupted Savinien, quickly, "I wish to take
back my independence. The transfer I made has already cost me too dear.
It's a fool's bargain. The enterprise which I am going to launch is
superb, and must realize immense profits. I shall certainly not abandon
it."
While speaking, Savinien had become animated and had regained his self-
possession. He believed in his scheme, and was ready to pledge his
future. He argued that his aunt could not blame him for giving proof of
his energy and daring, and he discoursed in bombastic style.
"That's enough!" cried Madame Desvarennes, interrupting her nephew's
oration. "I am very fond of mills, but not word-mills. You are talking
too much about it to be sincere. So many words can only serve to
disguise the nullity of your projects. You want to embark in
speculation? With what money?"
"I contribute the scheme and some capitalists will advance the money to
start with; we shall then issue shares!"
"Never in this life! I oppose it. You! With a responsibility. You!
Directing an undertaking. You would only commit absurdities. In fact,
you want to sell an idea, eh? Well, I will buy it."
"It is not only the money I want," said Savinien, with an indignant air,
"it is confidence in my ideas, it is enthusiasm on the part of my
shareholders, it is success. You don't believe in my ideas, aunt!"
"What does it matter to you, if I buy them from you? It seems to me a
pretty good proof of confidence. Is that settled?"
"Ah, aunt, you are implacable!" groaned Savinien. "When you have laid
your hand upon any one, it is all over. Adieu, independence; one must
obey you. Nevertheless, it was a vast and beautiful conception."
"Very well. Marechal, see that my nephew has ten thousand francs. And
you, Savinien, remember that I see no more of you."
"Until the money is spent!" murmured Marechal, in the ear of Madame
Desvarennes's nephew.
And taking him by the arm he was leading him toward the safe when the
mistress turned to Savinien and said:
"By the way, what is your invention?"
"Aunt, it is a threshing machine," answered the young man, gravely.
"Rather a machine for coining money," said the incorrigible Marechal, in
an undertone.
"Well; bring me your plans," resumed Madame Desvarennes, after having
reflected a moment. "Perchance you may have hit upon something."
The mistress had been generous, and now the woman of business reasserted
herself and she thought of reaping the benefit.
Savinien seemed very confused at this demand, and as his aunt gave him an
interrogative look, he confessed:
"There are no drawings made as yet."
"No drawings as yet?" cried the mistress. "Where then is your
invention?"
"It is here," replied Savinien, and with an inspired gesture he struck
his narrow forehead.
Madame Desvarennes and Marechal could not resist breaking out into a
laugh.
"And you were already talking of issuing shares?" said the mistress.
"Do you think people would have paid their money with your brain as sole
guarantee? You! Get along; I am the only one to make bargains like
that, and you are the only one with whom I make them. Go, Marechal, give
him his money; I won't gainsay it. But you are a trickster, as usual!"
CHAPTER III
PIERRE RETURNS
By a wave of her hand she dismissed Savinien, who, abashed, went out with
Marechal. Left alone, she seated herself at her secretary's desk, and
taking the pile of letters she signed them. The pen flew in her fingers,
and on the paper was displayed her name, written in large letters in a
man's handwriting.
She had been occupied thus for about a quarter of an hour when Marechal
reappeared. Behind him came a stout thickset man of heavy build, and
gorgeously dressed. His face, surrounded by a bristly dark brown beard,
and his eyes overhung by bushy eyebrows, gave him, at the first glance, a
harsh appearance. But his mouth promptly banished this impression. His
thick and sensual lips betrayed voluptuous tastes. A disciple of Lavater
or Gall would have found the bump of amativeness largely developed.
Marechal stepped aside to allow him to pass.
"Good-morning, mistress," said he familiarly, approaching Madame
Desvarennes.
The mistress raised her head quickly, and said:
"Ah! it's you, Cayrol! That's capital! I was just going to send for
you."
Jean Cayrol, a native of Cantal, had been brought up amid the wild
mountains of Auvergne. His father was a small farmer in the neighborhood
of Saint-Flour, scraping a miserable pittance from the ground for the
maintenance of his family. From the age of eight years Cayrol had been a
shepherd-boy. Alone in the quiet and remote country, the child had given
way to ambitious dreams. He was very intelligent, and felt that he was
born to another sphere than that of farming.
Thus, at the first opportunity which had occurred to take him into a
town, he was found ready. He went as servant to a banker at Brioude.
There, in the service of this comparatively luxurious house, he got
smoothed down a little, and lost some of his clumsy loutishness. Strong
as an ox, he did the work of two men, and at night, when in his garret,
fell asleep learning to read. He was seized by the ambition to get on.
No pains were to be spared to gain his goal.
His master having been elected a member of the Chamber of Deputies,
Cayrol accompanied him to Paris. Life in the capital finished the
turmoil of Cayrol's brain. Seeing the prodigious activity of the great
city on whose pavements fortunes sprang up in a day like mushrooms, the
Auvergnat felt his moral strength equal to the occasion, and leaving his
master, he became clerk to a merchant in the Rue du Sentier.
There, for four years, he studied commerce, and gained much experience.
He soon learned that it was only in financial transactions that large
fortunes were to be rapidly made. He left the Rue du Sentier, and found
a place at a stock-broker's. His keen scent for speculation served him
admirably. After the lapse of a few years he had charge of the business.
His position was getting better; he was making fifteen thousand francs
per annum, but that was nothing compared to his dreams. He was then
twenty-eight years of age. He felt ready to do anything to succeed,
except something unhandsome, for this lover of money would have died
rather than enrich himself by dishonest means.
It was at this time that his lucky star threw him in Madame Desvarennes's
way. The mistress, understanding men, guessed Cayrol's worth quickly.
She was seeking a banker who would devote himself to her interests. She
watched the young man narrowly for some time; then, sure she was not
mistaken as to his capacity, she bluntly proposed to give him money to
start a business. Cayrol, who had already saved eighty thousand francs,
received twelve hundred thousand from Madame Desvarennes, and settled in
the Rue Taitbout, two steps from the house of Rothschild.
Madame Desvarennes had made a lucky hit in choosing Cayrol as her
confidential agent. This short, thickset Auvergnat was a master of
finance, and in a few years had raised the house to an unexpected degree
of prosperity. Madame Desvarennes had drawn considerable sums as
interest on the money lent, and the banker's fortune was already
estimated at several millions. Was it the happy influence of Madame
Desvarennes that changed everything she touched into gold, or were
Cayrol's capacities really extraordinary? The results were there and
that was sufficient. They did not trouble themselves over and above
that.
The banker had naturally become one of the intimates of Madame
Desvarennes's house. For a long time he saw Jeanne without particularly
noticing her. This young girl had not struck his fancy. It was one
night at a ball, on seeing her dancing with Prince Panine, that he
perceived that she was marvellously engaging. His eyes were attracted by
an invincible power and followed her graceful figure whirling through the
waltz. He secretly envied the brilliant cavalier who was holding this
adorable creature in his arms, who was bending over her bare shoulders,
and whose breath lightly touched her hair. He longed madly for Jeanne,
and from that moment thought only of her.
The Prince was then very friendly with Mademoiselle de Cernay; he
overwhelmed her with kind attentions. Cayrol watched him to see if he
spoke to her of love, but Panine was a past master in these drawing-room
skirmishes, and the banker got nothing for his pains. That Cayrol was
tenacious has been proved. He became intimate with the Prince. He
tendered him such little services as create intimacy, and when he was
sure of not being repulsed with haughtiness, he questioned Serge. Did he
love Mademoiselle de Cernay? This question, asked in a trembling voice
and with a constrained smile, found the Prince quite calm. He answered
lightly that Mademoiselle de Cernay was a very agreeable partner, but
that he had never dreamed of offering her his homage. He had other
projects in his head. Cayrol pressed the Prince's hand violently, made a
thousand protestations of devotedness, and finally obtained his complete
confidence.
Serge loved Mademoiselle Desvarennes, and it was to become intimate with
her that he had so eagerly sought her friend's company. Cayrol, in
learning the Prince's secret, resumed his usual reserved manner. He knew
that Micheline was engaged to Pierre Delarue, but still, women were so
whimsical! Who could tell? Perhaps Mademoiselle Desvarennes had looked
favorably upon the handsome Serge.
He was really admirable to view, this Panine, with his blue eyes, pure as
a maiden's, and his long fair mustache falling on each side of his rosy
mouth. He had a truly royal bearing, and was descended from an ancient
aristocratic race; he had a charming hand and an arched foot, enough to
make a woman envious. Soft and insinuating with his tender voice and
sweet Sclavonic accent, he was no ordinary man, but one usually creating
a great impression wherever he went.
His story was well known in Paris. He was born in the province of Posen,
so violently seized on by Prussia, that octopus of Europe. Serge's
father had been killed during the insurrection of 1848, and he, when a
year old, was brought by his uncle, Thaddeus Panine, to France, and was
educated at the College Rollin, where he had not acquired over much
learning.
In 1866, at the moment when war broke out between Prussia and Austria,
Serge was eighteen years old. By his uncle's orders he had left Paris,
and had entered himself for the campaign in an Austrian cavalry regiment.
All who bore the name of Panine, and had strength to hold a sword or
carry a gun, had risen to fight the oppressor of Poland. Serge, during
this short and bloody struggle, showed prodigies of valor. On the night
of Sadowa, out of seven bearing the name of Panine, who had served
against Prussia, five were dead, one was wounded; Serge alone was
untouched, though red with the blood of his uncle Thaddeus, who was
killed by the bursting of a shell. All these Panines, living or dead,
had gained honors. When they were spoken of before Austrians or Poles,
they were called heroes.
Such a man was a dangerous companion for a young, simple, and artless
girl like Micheline. His adventures were bound to please her
imagination, and his beauty sure to charm her eyes. Cayrol was a prudent
man; he watched, and it was not long before he perceived that Micheline
treated the Prince with marked favor. The quiet young girl became
animated when Serge was there. Was there love in this transformation?
Cayrol did not hesitate. He guessed at once that the future would be
Panine's, and that the maintenance of his own influence in the house of
Desvarennes depended on the attitude which he was about to take. He
passed over to the side of the newcomer with arms and baggage, and placed
himself entirely at his disposal.
It was he who three weeks before, in the name of Panine, had made
overtures to Madame Desvarennes. The errand had been difficult, and the
banker had turned his tongue several times in his mouth before speaking.
Still, Cayrol could overcome all difficulties. He was able to explain the
object of his mission without Madame flying into a passion. But, the
explanation over, there was a terrible scene. He witnessed one of the
most awful bursts of rage that it was possible to expect from a violent
woman. The mistress treated the friend of the family as one would not
have dared to treat a petty commercial traveller who came to a private
house to offer his wares. She showed him the door, and desired him not
to darken the threshold again.
But if Cayrol was resolute he was equally patient. He listened without
saying a word to the reproaches of Madame Desvarennes, who was
exasperated that a candidate should be set up in opposition to the son-
in-law of her choosing. He did not go, and when Madame Desvarennes was a
little calmed by the letting out of her indignation, he argued with her.
The mistress was too hasty about the business; it was no use deciding
without reflecting. Certainly, nobody esteemed Pierre Delarue more than
he did; but it was necessary to know whether Micheline loved him. A
childish affection was not love, and Prince Panine thought he might hope
that Mademoiselle Desvarennes----
Pages:
1 |
2 | 3 |
4 |
5 |
6