Books: Conscience, v1
H >>
Hector Malot >> Conscience, v1
Glady extended it toward him. "I thank you for having applied to me; it
is a proof of confidence that touches me." He pressed the hand that he
had taken with some warmth. "I see that you have divined the sentiments
of esteem with which you have inspired me."
Saniel drew a long breath.
"Unfortunately," continued Glady, "I cannot do what you desire without
deviating from my usual line of conduct. When I started out in life I
lent to all those who appealed to me, and when I did not lose my friends
I lost my money. I then took an oath to refuse every one. It is an oath
that I cannot break. What would my old friends say if they learned that
I did for a young man what I have refused to do for them?"
"Who would know it?"
"My conscience."
They had reached the Quai Voltaire, where fiacres were stationed.
"At last here are some cabs," Glady said. "Pardon me for leaving you,
but I am in a hurry."
CHAPTER III
A LAST RESORT
Gady entered the cab so quickly that Saniel remained staring at the
sidewalk, slightly dazed. It was only when the door closed that he
understood.
"His conscience!" he murmured. "Behold them! Tartufes!"
After a moment of hesitation, he continued his way and reached the bridge
of Saints-Peres, but he walked with doubtful steps, like a man who does
not know where he is going. Presently he stopped, and, leaning his arms
on the parapet, watched the sombre, rapidly flowing Seine, its small
waves fringed with white foam. The rain had ceased, but the wind blew in
squalls, roughening the surface of the river and making the red and green
lights of the omnibus boats sway in the darkness. The passers-by came
and went, and more than one examined him from the corner of the eye,
wondering what this tall man was doing there, and if he intended to throw
himself into the water.
And why not? What better could he do?
And this was what Saniel said to himself while watching the flowing
water. One plunge, and he would end the fierce battle in which he had so
madly engaged for four years, and which would in the end drive him mad.
It was not the first time that this idea of ending everything had tempted
him, and he only warded it off by constantly inventing combinations which
it seemed to him at the moment might save him. Why yield to such a
temptation before trying everything? And this was how he happened to
appeal to Glady. But he knew him, and knew that his avarice, about which
every one joked, had a certain reason for its existence. However, he
said to himself that if the landed proprietor obstinately refused a
friendly loan, which would only pay the debts of youth, the poet would
willingly fill the role of Providence and save from shipwreck, without
risking anything, a man with a future, who, later, would pay him back.
It was with this hope that he risked a refusal. The landed proprietor
replied; the poet was silent. And now there was nothing to expect from
any one. Glady was his last resort.
In explaining his situation to Glady he lightened the misery instead of
exaggerating it. For it was not only his upholsterer that he owed, but
also his tailor, his bootmaker, his coal-dealer, his concierge, and all
those with whom he had dealings. In reality, his creditors had not
harassed him very much until lately, but this state of affairs would not
last when they saw him prosecuted; they also would sue him, and how could
he defend himself? How should he live? His only resource would be to
return to the Hotel du Senat, where even they would not leave him in
peace, or to his native town and become a country doctor. In either case
it was renouncing all his ambitions. Would it not be better to die?
What good was life if his dreams were not realized--if he had nothing
that he wanted?
Like many who frequently come in contact with death, life in itself was a
small thing to him--his own life as well as that of others; with Hamlet
he said: "To die, to sleep, no more," but without adding: "To die, to
sleep, perchance to dream," feeling certain that the dead do not dream;
and what is better than sleep to those who have had a hard life?
He was absorbed in thought when something came between him and the
flaring gaslight, and threw a shadow over him that made him straighten
himself up. What was it? Only a policeman, who came and leaned against
the parapet near him.
He understood. His attitude was that of a man who contemplates throwing
himself into the river, and the policeman had placed himself there in
order to prevent it.
"Thanks!" he said to the astonished man.
He continued his way, walking quickly, but hearing distinctly the steps
of the policeman following him, who evidently took him for a madman who
must be watched.
When he left the bridge of Saints-Peres for the Place du Carrousel this
surveillance ceased, and he could then indulge freely in reflection--at
least as freely as his trouble and discouragement permitted.
"The weak kill themselves; the strong fight to their last breath."
And, low as he was, he was not yet at his last breath.
When he decided to appeal to Glady he had hesitated between him and a
usurer named Caffie, whom he did not know personally, but whom he had
heard spoken of as a rascal who was interested in all sorts of affairs,
preferring the bad to the good--of successions, marriages, interdictions,
extortions; and if he had not been to him it was for fear of being
refused, as much as from the dread of putting himself in such hands in
case of meeting with compliance. But these scruples and these fears were
useless now; since Glady failed him, cost what it might and happen what
would, he must go to this scamp for assistance.
He knew that Caffie lived in the Rue Sainte-Anne, but he did not know the
number. He had only to go to one of his patients, a wine-merchant in the
Rue Therese, to find his address in the directory. It was but a step,
and he decided to run the risk; there was need of haste. Discouraged by
all the applications that he had made up to this time, disheartened by
betrayed hopes, irritated by rebuffs, he did not deceive himself as to
the chances of this last attempt, but at least he would try it, slight
though the hope of success might be.
It was an old house where Caffie lived, and had been formerly a private
hotel; it was composed of two wings, one on the street, the other on an
inside court. A porte cochere gave access to this court, and under its
roof, near the staircase, was the concierge's lodge. Saniel knocked at
the door in vain; it was locked and would not open. He waited several
minutes, and in his nervous impatience walked restlessly up and down the
court. At last an old woman appeared carrying a small wax taper. She
was feeble and bent, and began to excuse herself; she was alone and could
not be everywhere at the same time, in her lodge and lighting the lamps
on the stairways. Caffie lived on the first floor, in the wing on the
street.
Saniel mounted the stairs and rang the bell. A long time passed, or at
least it seemed long to him, before there was an answer. At last he
heard a slow and heavy step on the tiled floor and the door was opened,
but held by a hand and a foot.
"What do you wish?"
"Monsieur Caffie."
"I am he. Who are you?"
"Doctor Saniel."
"I have not sent for a doctor."
"It is not as doctor that I am here, but as client."
"This is not the hour when I receive clients."
"But you are at home."
"That is a fact!"
And Caffie, concluding to open the door, asked Saniel to enter, and then
closed it.
"Come into my office."
They were in a small room filled with papers that had only an old desk
and three chairs for furniture; it communicated with the office of the
business man, which was larger, but furnished with the same simplicity
and strewn with scraps of paper that had a mouldy smell.
"My clerk is ill just now," Caffie said, "and when I am alone I do not
like to open the door."
After giving this excuse he offered Saniel a chair, and, seating himself
before his desk, lighted by a lamp from which he had taken the shade, he
said:
"Doctor, I am ready to listen to you."
He replaced the shade on the lamp.
Saniel made his request concisely, without the details that he had
entered into with Glady. He owed three thousand francs to the
upholsterer who had furnished his apartment, and as he could not pay
immediately he was in danger of being prosecuted.
"Who is the upholsterer?" Caffie asked, while holding his left jaw with
his right hand.
"Jardine, Boulevard Haussmann."
"I know him. It is his trade to take back his furniture in this way,
after three quarters of the sum has been paid, and he has become rich at
it. How much money have you already paid of this ten thousand francs?"
"Including the interest and what I have paid in instalments, nearly
twelve thousand francs."
"And you still owe three thousand?"
"Yes."
"That is nice."
Caffie seemed full of admiration for this manner of proceeding.
"What guarantee have you to offer for this loan of three thousand
francs?"
"No other than my present position, I confess, and above all, my future."
At Caffie's request he explained his plans and prospects for the future,
while the business man, with his cheek resting on his hand, listened, and
from time to time breathed a stifled sigh, a sort of groan.
"Hum! hum!" he said when Saniel finished his explanation. "You know,
my dear friend, you know:
To fools alone the future's smile unchangeable appears,
For Friday's laughter Sunday's sun may change to bitter tears."
"It is Sunday with you, my dear sir."
"But I am not at the end of my life nor at the end of my energy, and I
assure you that my energy makes me capable of many things."
"I do not doubt it; I know what energy can do. Tell a Greek who is dying
of hunger to go to heaven and he will go
Graeculus esuriens in coelum, jusseris, ibit."
"But I do not see that you have started for heaven."
A smile of derision, accompanied by a grimace, crossed Caffies face.
Before becoming the usurer of the Rue Sainte-Anne, whom every one called
a rascal, he had been attorney in the country, deputy judge, and if
unmerited evils had obliged him to resign and to hide the unpleasant
circumstances in Paris, he never lost an opportunity to prove that by
education he was far above his present position. Finding this new client
a man of learning, he was glad to make quotations that he thought would
make him worthy of consideration.
"It is, perhaps, because I am not Greek," Saniel replied; "but I am an
Auvergnat, and the men of my country have great physical strength."
Caffie shook his head.
"My dear sir," he said, "I might as well tell you frankly that I do not
believe the thing can be done. I would do it myself willingly, because I
read intelligence in your face, and resolution in your whole person,
which inspire me with confidence in you; but I have no money to put into
such speculations. I can only be, as usual, a go-between--that is to
say, I can propose the loan to one of my clients, but I do not know one
who would be contented with the guarantee of a future that is more or
less uncertain. There are so many doctors in Paris who are in your
position."
Saniel rose.
"Are you going?" cried Caffie.
"But--"
"Sit down, my dear sir! It is no use to throw the handle after the axe.
You make me a proposition, and I show you the difficulties in the way,
but I do not say there is no way to extricate you from embarrassment.
I must look around. I have known you only a few minutes; but it does not
take long to appreciate a man like you, and, frankly, you inspire me with
great interest."
What did he wish? Saniel was not simple enough to be caught by words,
nor was he a fop who accepts with gaping mouth all the compliments
addressed to him. Why did he inspire a sudden interest in this man who
had the reputation of pushing business matters to extremes? He would
find out. In the mean time he would be on his guard.
"I thank you for your sympathy," he said.
"I shall prove to you that it is real, and that it may become useful.
You come to me because you want three thousand francs. I hope I may find
them for you, and I promise to try, though it will be difficult, very
difficult. They will make you secure for the present. But will they
assure your future? that is, will they permit you to continue the
important works of which you have spoken to me, and on which your future
depends? No. Your struggles will soon begin again. And you must shake
yourself clear from such cares in order to secure for yourself the
liberty that is indispensable if you wish to advance rapidly. And to
obtain this freedom from cares and this liberty, I see only one way--
you must marry."
CHAPTER IV
'TWIXT THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA
Saniel, who was on his guard and expected some sort of roguery from this
man, had not foreseen that these expressions of interest were leading up
to a proposal of marriage, and an exclamation of surprise escaped him.
But it was lost in the sound of the door-bell, which rang at that moment.
Caffie rose. "How disagreeable it is not to have a clerk!" he said.
He went to open the door with an eagerness that he had not shown to
Saniel, which proved that he had no fear of admitting people when he was
not alone.
It was a clerk from the bank.
"You will permit me," Caffie said, on returning to his office. "It will
take but an instant."
The clerk took a paper from his portfolio and handed it to Caffie.
Caffie drew a key from the pocket of his vest, with which he opened the
iron safe placed behind his desk, and turning his back to Saniel and the
clerk counted the bills which they heard rustle in his hands. Presently
he rose, and closing the door of the safe he placed under the lamp the
package of bills that he had counted. The clerk then counted them, and
placing them in his portfolio took his leave.
"Close the door when you go out," Caffie said, who was already seated in
his arm-chair.
"Do not be afraid."
When the clerk was gone Caffie apologized for the interruption.
"Let us continue our conversation, my dear sir. I told you that there is
only one way to relieve you permanently from embarrassment, and that way
you will find is in a good marriage, that will place 'hic et nunc' a
reasonable sum at your disposal."
"But it would be folly for me to marry now, when I have no position to
offer a wife."
"And your future, of which you have just spoken with so much assurance,
have you no faith in that?"
"An absolute faith--as firm to-day as when I first began the battle of
life, only brighter. However, as others have not the same reasons that I
have to hope and believe what I hope and believe, it is quite natural
that they should feel doubts of my future. You felt it yourself
instantly in not finding it a good guarantee for the small loan of three
thousand francs."
"A loan and marriage are not the same thing. A loan relieves you
temporarily, and leaves you in a state to contract several others
successively, which, you must acknowledge, weakens the guarantee that
you offer. While a marriage instantly opens to you the road that your
ambition wishes to travel."
"I have never thought of marriage."
"If you should think of it?"
"There must be a woman first of all."
"If I should propose one, what would you say?"
"But--"
"You are surprised?"
"I confess that I am."
"My dear sir, I am the friend of my clients, and for many of them--I dare
to say it--a father. And having much affection for a young woman, and
for the daughter of one of my friends, while listening to you I thought
that one or the other might be the woman you need. Both have fortunes,
and both possess physical attractions that a handsome man like yourself
has a right to demand. And for the rest, I have their photographs, and
you may see for yourself what they are."
He opened a drawer in his desk, and took from it a package of
photographs. As he turned them over Saniel saw that they were all
portraits of women. Presently he selected two and handed them to Saniel.
One represented a woman from thirty-eight to forty years, corpulent,
robust, covered with horrible cheap jewelry that she had evidently put on
for the purpose of being photographed. The other was a young girl of
about twenty years, pretty, simply and elegantly dressed, whose
distinguished and reserved physiognomy was a strong contrast to the first
portrait.
While Saniel looked at these pictures Caffie studied him, trying to
discover the effect they produced.
"Now that you have seen them," he said, "let us talk of them a little.
If you knew me better, my dear sir, you would know that I am frankness
itself, and in business my principle is to tell everything, the good and
the bad, so that my clients are responsible for the decisions they make.
In reality, there is nothing bad about these two persons, because, if
there were, I would not propose them to you. But there are certain
things that my delicacy compels me to point out to you, which I do
frankly, feeling certain that a man like you is not the slave of narrow
prejudices."
An expression of pain passed over his face, and he clasped his jaw with
both hands.
"You suffer?" Saniel asked.
"Yes, from my teeth, cruelly. Pardon me that I show it; I know by myself
that nothing is more annoying than the sight of the sufferings of
others."
"At least not to doctors."
"Never mind; we will return to my clients. This one"--and he touched
the portrait of the bejewelled woman--" is, as you have divined already,
a widow, a very amiable widow. Perhaps she is a little older than you
are, but that is nothing. Your experience must have taught you that the
man who wishes to be loved, tenderly loved, pampered, caressed, spoiled,
should marry a woman older than himself, who will treat him as a husband
and as a son. Her first husband was a careful merchant, who, had he
lived, would have made a large fortune in the butcher business"--he
mumbled this word instead of pronouncing it clearly--"but although he
died just at the time when his affairs were beginning to develop, he left
twenty thousand pounds' income to his wife. As I have told you what is
good, I must tell you what is to be regretted. Carried away by gay
companions, this intelligent man became addicted to intemperance, and
from drinking at saloons she soon took to drinking at home, and his wife
drank with him. I have every reason to believe that she has reformed;
but, if it is otherwise, you, a doctor, can easily cure her--"
"You believe it?"
"Without doubt. However, if it is impossible, you need only let her
alone, and her vice will soon carry her off; and, as the contract will be
made according to my wishes in view of such an event, you will find
yourself invested with a fortune and unencumbered with a wife."
"And the other?" Saniel said, who had listened silently to this curious
explanation of the situation that Caffie made with the most perfect good-
nature. So grave were the circumstances that he could not help being
amused at this diplomacy.
"I expected your demand," replied the agent with a shrewd smile. "And if
I spoke of this amiable widow it was rather to acquit my conscience than
with any hope of succeeding. However free from prejudices one may be,
one always retains a few. I understand yours, and more than that, I
share them. Happily, what I am now about to tell you is something quite
different. Take her photograph, my dear sir, and look at it while I
talk. A charming face, is it not? She has been finely educated at a
fashionable convent. In a word, a pearl, that you shall wear. And now
I must tell you the flaw, for there is one. Who is blameless? The
daughter of one of our leading actresses, after leaving the convent she
returned to live with her mother. It was there, in this environment-
ahem! ahem!--that an accident happened to her. To be brief, she has a
sweet little child that the father would have recognized assuredly, had
he not been already married. But at least he has provided for its future
by an endowment of two hundred thousand francs, in such a way that
whoever marries the mother and legitimizes the child will enjoy the
interest of this sum until the child's majority. If that ever arrives--
these little creatures are so fragile! You being a physician, you know
more about that than any one. In case of an accident the father will
inherit half the money from his son; and if it seems cruel for an own
father to inherit from his own son, it is quite a different thing when it
is a stranger who receives the fortune. This is all, my dear sir,
plainly and frankly, and I will not do you the injury to suppose that you
do not see the advantages of what I have said to you without need of my
insisting further. If I have not explained clearly,"
"But nothing is more clear."
"--it is the fault of this pain that paralyzes me."
And he groaned while holding his jaw.
"You have a troublesome tooth?" Saniel said, with the tone of a
physician who questions a patient.
"All my teeth trouble me. To tell the truth, they are all going to
pieces."
"Have you consulted a doctor?"
"Neither a doctor nor a dentist. I have faith in medicine, of course;
but when I consult doctors, which seldom happens, I notice that they
think much more of their own affairs than of what I am saying, and that
keeps me away from them. But, my dear sir, when a client consults me, I
put myself in his place."
While he spoke, Saniel examined him, which he had not done until this
moment, and he saw the characteristic signs of rapid consumption. His
clothes hung on him as if made for a man twice his size, and his face was
red and shining, as if he were covered with a coating of cherry jelly.
"Will you show me your teeth?" he asked. "It may be possible to relieve
your sufferings."
"Do you think so?"
The examination did not last long.
"Your mouth is often dry, is it not?" he asked.
"Yes."
"You are often thirsty?"
"Always."
"Do you sleep well?"
"No."
"Your sight troubles you?"
"Yes."
"Have you a good appetite?"
"Yes, I eat heartily; and the more I eat the thinner I become. I am
turning into a skeleton."
"I see that you have scars from boils on the back of your neck."
"They made me suffer enough, the rascals; but they are gone as they came.
Hang it, one is no longer young at seventy-two years; one has small
vexations. They are small vexations, are they not?"
"Certainly. With some precautions and a diet that I shall prescribe, if
you wish, you will soon be better. I will give you a prescription that
will relieve your toothache."
"We will talk of this again, because we shall have occasion to meet if,
as I presume, you appreciate the advantages of the proposition that I
have made you."
"I must have time to reflect."
"Nothing is more reasonable. There is no hurry."
"But I am in a hurry because, if I do not pay Jardine, I shall find
myself in the street, which would not be a position to offer to a wife."
"In the street? Oh, things will not come to such a pass as that! What
are the prosecutions?"
"They will soon begin; Jardine has already threatened me."
"They are going to begin? Then they have not begun. If he does, as we
presume he will, proceed by a replevin, we shall have sufficient time
before the judgment. Do you owe anything to your landlord?"
"The lease expired on the fifteenth."
"Do not pay it."
"That is easy; it is the only thing that is easy for me to do."
"It is an obstacle in the way of your Jardine, and may stop him a moment.
We can manage this way more easily. The important thing is to warn me as
soon as the fire begins. 'Au revoir', my dear Sir."
CHAPTER V
A CHARMING VISITOR
Although Saniel had had no experience in business, he was not simple
enough not to know that in refusing him this loan Caffie meant to make
use of him.
"It is very simple," he said to himself, as he went downstairs. "He
undertakes to manage my affairs, and in such a way that some day I shall
have to save myself by marrying that charming girl. What a scoundrel!"
However, the situation was such that he was glad to avail himself of the
assistance of this scoundrel. At least, some time was gained, and when
Jardine found that he was not disposed to let himself be slaughtered, he
might accept a reasonable arrangement. But he must manage so that Caffie
would not prevent this arrangement.
Unfortunately, he felt himself hardly capable of such manoeuvring, having
been always straightforward, his eyes fixed on the end he wished to
attain, and thinking only of the work through which he would attain it.
And now he must act the part of a diplomat, submitting to craftiness and
rogueries that were not at all in accord with his open nature. He had
begun by not telling Caffie, instantly, what he thought of his
propositions; but it is more difficult to act than to control one's self,
to speak than to be silent.