THE BETHLEHEM SOCIETY
BETHLEHEM! Why did it give one such a chill to see written in lettersof gold over the iron gate that historic name, sweet and warm like thestraw of the miraculous stable! Perhaps it was partly to be accountedfor by the melancholy of the landscape, that immense gloomy plain whichstretches from Nanterre to Saint Cloud, broken only by a few clumpsof trees or the smoke of factory chimneys. Possibly also by thedisproportion that existed between the humble little straggling villagewhich you expected to find and the grandiose establishment, this countrymansion in the style of Louis XIII, an agglomeration of mortar lookingpink through the branches of its leafless park, ornamented with widepieces of water thick with green weeds. What is certain is that as youpassed this place your heart was conscious of an oppression. When youentered it was still worse. A heavy inexplicable silence weighed on thehouse, and the faces you might see at the windows had a mournful airbehind the little, old-fashioned greenish panes. The goats scatteredalong the paths nibbled languidly at the new spring grass, with "baas"at the woman who was tending them, and looked bored, as she followed thevisitors with a lack-lustre eye. A mournfulness was over the place, likethe terror of a contagion. Yet it had been a cheerful house, and onewhere even recently there had been high junketings. Replanted withtimber for the famous singer who had sold it to Jenkins, it revealedclearly the kind of imagination which is characteristic of theopera-house in a bridge flung over the miniature lake, with itsbroken punt half filled with mouldy leaves, and in its pavilion allof rockery-work, garlanded by ivy. It had witnessed gay scenes, thispavilion, in the singer's time; now it looked on sad ones, for theinfirmary was installed in it.
To tell the truth, the whole establishment was one vast infirmary. Thechildren had hardly arrived when they fell ill, languished, and endedby dying, if their parents did not quickly take them away and put themagain under the protection of home. The cure of Nanterre had to go sooften to Bethlehem with his black vestments and his silver cross, theundertaker had so many orders from the house, that it became knownin the district, and indignant mothers shook their fists at the modelnurse; from a long way off, it is true, for they might chance to have intheir arms pink-and-white babies to be preserved from all the contagionsof the place. It was these things that gave to the poor place soheart-rending an aspect. A house in which children die cannot be gay;you cannot see trees break into flower there, birds building, streamsflowing like rippling laughter.
The thing seemed altogether false. Excellent in itself, Jenkins's schemewas difficult, almost impracticable in its application. Yet, God knows,the affair had been started and carried out with the greatest enthusiasmto the last details, with as much money and as large a staff as wererequisite. At its head, one of the most skilful of practitioners, M.Pondevez, who had studied in the Paris hospitals; and by his side, toattend to the more intimate needs of the children, a trusty matron, Mme.Polge. Then there were nursemaids, seamstresses, infirmary-nurses. Andhow many the arrangements and how thorough was the maintenance of theestablishment, from the water distributed by a regular system from fiftytaps to the omnibus trotting off with jingling of its posting bellsto meet every train of the day at Rueil station! Finally, magnificentgoats, Thibetan goats, silky, swollen with milk. In regard toorganization, everything was admirable; but there was a point whereit all failed. This artificial feeding, so greatly extolled by theadvertisements, did not agree with the children. It was a singular pieceof obstinacy, a word which seemed to have been passed between them bya signal, poor little things! for they couldn't yet speak, most of themindeed were never to speak at all: "Please, we will not suck the goats."And they did not suck them, they preferred to die one after anotherrather than suck them. Was Jesus of Bethlehem in his stable suckled by agoat? On the contrary, did he not press a woman's soft breast, on whichhe could go to sleep when he was satisfied? Who ever saw a goat betweenthe ox and the ass of the story on that night when the beasts spoke toeach other? Then why lie about it, why call the place Bethlehem?
The director had been moved at first by the spectacle of so manyvictims. This Pondevez, a waif of the life of the "Quarter," merestudent still after twenty years, and well known in all the resorts ofthe Boulevard St. Michel under the name of Pompon, was not an unkindman. When he perceived the small success of the artificial feeding, hesimply brought in four or five vigorous nurses from the district aroundand the children's appetites soon returned. This humane impulse wentnear costing him his place.
"Nurses at Bethlehem!" said Jenkins, furious, when he came to pay hisweekly visit. "Are you out of your mind? Well! why then have we goatsat all, and meadows to pasture them; what becomes of my idea, and thepamphlets upon my idea? What happens to all that? But you are goingagainst my system. You are stealing the founder's money."
"All the same, _mon cher maitre_," the student tried to reply, passinghis hands through his long red beard, "all the same, they will not takethis nourishment."
"Well, then, let them go without, but let the principle of artificiallactation be respected. That is the whole point. I do not wish to haveto repeat it to you again. Send off these wretched nurses. For therearing of our children we have goats' milk, cows' milk in case ofabsolute necessity. I can make no further concession in the matter."
He added, with an assumption of his apostle's air: "We are here for thedemonstration of a philanthropic idea. It must be made to triumph, evenat the price of some sacrifices."
Pondevez insisted no further. After all the place was a good one, nearenough to Paris to allow of descents upon Nanterre of a Sunday fromthe Quarter, or to allow the director to pay a visit to his old_brasseries_. Mme. Polge, to whom Jenkins always referred as "ourintelligent superintendent," and whom he had placed there to superintendeverything, and chiefly the director himself, was not so austere, as herprerogatives might have led one to suppose, and submitted willingly to afew liqueur-glasses of cognac or to a game of bezique. He dismissedthe nurses, therefore, and endeavoured to harden himself in advance toeverything that could happen. What did happen? A veritable Massacreof the Innocents. Consequently the few parents in fairly easycircumstances, workpeople or suburban tradesfolk, who, tempted by theadvertisements, had severed themselves from their children, very soontook them home again, and there only remained in the establishment somelittle unfortunates picked up on doorsteps or in out-of-the-way places,sent from the foundling hospitals, doomed to all evil things from theirbirth. As the mortality continued to increase, even these came to bescarce, and the omnibus which had posted to the railway station wouldreturn bouncing and light as an empty hearse. How long would the thinglast? How long would the twenty-five or thirty little ones who remainedtake to die? This was what Monsieur the Director, or rather, to givehim the nickname which he had himself invented, Monsieur theGrantor-of-Certificates-of-death Pondevez, was asking himself onemorning as he sat opposite Mme. Polge's venerable ringlets, taking ahand in this lady's favourite game.
"Yes, my good Mme. Polge, what is to become of us? Things cannot go onmuch longer as they are. Jenkins will not give way; the children are asobstinate as mules. There is no denying it, they will all slip throughour fingers. There is the little Wallachian--I mark the king, Mme.Polge--who may die from one moment to another. Just think, the poorlittle chap for the last three days has had nothing in his stomach. Itis useless for Jenkins to talk. You cannot improve children like snailsby making them go hungry. It is disheartening all the same not to beable to save one of them. The infirmary is full. It is really a wretchedoutlook. Forty and bezique."
A double ring at the entrance gate interrupted his monologue. Theomnibus was returning from the railway station and its wheels weregrinding on the sand in an unusual manner.
"What an astonishing thing," remarked Pondevez, "the conveyance is notempty."
Indeed it did draw up at the foot of the steps with a certain pride, andthe man who got out of it sprang up the staircase at a bound. He wasa courier from Jenkins bearing a great piece of news. The doctor wouldarrive in
two hours to visit the Home, accompanied by the Nabob anda gentleman from the Tuileries. He urgently enjoined that everythingshould be ready for their reception. The thing had been decided at suchshort notice that he had not had the time to write; but he counted on M.Pondevez to do all that was necessary.
"That is good!--necessary!" murmured Pondevez in complete dismay. Thesituation was critical. This important visit was occurring at the worstpossible moment, just as the system had utterly broken down. The poorPompon, exceedingly perplexed, tugged at his beard, thoughtfully gnawingwisps of it.
"Come," said he suddenly to Mme. Polge, whose long face had grown stilllonger between her ringlets, "we have only one course to take. We mustremove the infirmary and carry all the sick into the dormitory. Theywill be neither better nor worse for passing another half-day there. Asfor those with the rash, we will put them out of the way in some corner.They are too ugly, they must not be seen. Come along, you up there! Iwant every one on the bridge."
The dinner-bell being violently rung, immediately hurried steps areheard. Seamstresses, infirmary-nurses, servants, goatherds, issue fromall directions, running, jostling each other across the court-yards.Others fly about, cries, calls; but that which dominates is the noiseof a mighty cleansing, a streaming of water as though Bethlehem had beensuddenly attacked by fire. And those groanings of sick children snatchedfrom the warmth of their beds, all those little screaming bundlescarried across the damp park, their coverings fluttering through thebranches, powerfully complete the impression of a fire. At the end oftwo hours, thanks to a prodigious activity, the house is ready from topto bottom for the visit which it is about to receive, all the staff attheir posts, the stove lighted, the goats picturesquely sprinkled overthe park. Mme. Polge has donned her green silk dress, the director acostume somewhat less _neglige_ than usual, but of which the simplicityexcluded all idea of premeditation. The Departmental Secretary may come.
And here he is.
He alights with Jenkins and Jansoulet from a splendid coach with thered and gold livery of the Nabob. Feigning the deepest astonishment,Pondevez rushes forward to meet his visitors.
"Ah, M. Jenkins, what an honour! What a surprise!"
Greetings are exchanged on the flight of steps, bows, shakings of hands,introductions. Jenkins with his flowing overcoat wide open overhis loyal breast, beams his best and most cordial smile; there isa significant wrinkle on his brow, however. He is uneasy about thesurprises which may be held in store for them by the establishment, ofthe distressful condition of which he is better aware than any one. Ifonly Pondevez had taken proper precautions. Things begin well, at anyrate. The rather theatrical view from the entrance, of those whitefleeces frisking about among the bushes, have enchanted M. de laPerriere, who himself, with his honest eyes, his little white beard,and the continual nodding of his head, resembles a goat escaped from itstether.
"In the first place, gentlemen, the apartment of principal importancein the house, the nursery," said the director, opening a massive door atthe end of the entrance-hall. His guests follow him, go down a fewsteps and find themselves in an immense, low room, with a tiled floor,formerly the kitchen of the mansion. The most striking object onentering is a lofty and vast fireplace built on the antique model,of red brick, with two stone benches opposite one another beneath thechimney, and the singer's coat of arms--an enormous lyre barred witha roll of music--carved on the monumental pediment. The effect isstartling; but a frightful draught comes from it, which joined to thecoldness of the tile floor and the dull light admitted by the littlewindows on a level with the ground, may well terrify one for thehealth of the children. But what was do be done? The nursery had tobe installed in this insalubrious spot on account of the sylvan andcapricious nurses, accustomed to the unconstraint of the stable. Youonly need to notice the pools of milk, the great reddish puddles dryingup on the tiles, to breathe in the strong odour that meets you asyou enter, a mingling of whey, of wet hair, and of many other thingsbesides, in order to be convinced of the absolute necessity of thisarrangement.
The gloomy-walled apartment is so large that to the visitors at firstthe nursery seems to be deserted. However, at the farther end, a groupof creatures, bleating, moaning, moving about, is soon distinguished.Two peasant women, hard and brutalized in appearance, with dirty faces,two "dry-nurses," who well deserve the name, are seated on mats,each with an infant in her arms and a big nanny-goat in front of her,offering its udder with legs parted. The director seems pleasantlysurprised.
"Truly, gentlemen, this is lucky. Two of our children are having theirlittle luncheon. We shall see how well the nurses and infants understandeach other."
"What can he be doing? He is mad," said Jenkins to himself inconsternation.
But the director on the contrary knows very well what he is doing andhas himself skilfully arranged the scene, selecting two patient andgentle beasts and two exceptional subjects, two little desperate mortalswho want to live at any price and open their mouths to swallow, nomatter what food, like young birds still in the nest.
"Come nearer, gentlemen, and observe."
Yes, they are indeed sucking, these little cherubs! One of them, lyingclose to the ground, squeezed up under the belly of the goat, is goingat it so heartily that you can hear the gurglings of the warm milkdescending, it would seem, even into the little limbs that kick withsatisfaction at the meal. The other, calmer, lying down indolently,requires some little encouragement from his Auvergnoise attendant.
"Suck, will you suck then, you little rogue!" And at length, as thoughhe had suddenly come to a decision, he begins to drink with such aviditythat the woman leans over to him, surprised by this extraordinaryappetite, and exclaims laughing:
"Ah, the rascal, is he not cunning?--it is his thumb that he is suckinginstead of the goat."
The angel has hit on that expedient so that he may be left in peace.The incident does not create a bad impression. M. de la Perriere is muchamused by this notion of the nurse that the child was trying totake them all in. He leaves the nursery, delighted. "Positivelyde-e-elighted," he repeats, nodding his head as they ascend the greatstaircase with its echoing walls decorated with the horns of stags,leading to the dormitory.
Very bright, very airy, is this vast room, running the whole length ofone side of the house, with numerous windows and cots, separated onefrom another by a little distance, hung with fleecy white curtains likeclouds. Women go and come through the large arch in the centre, withpiles of linen on their arms, or keys in their hands, nurses with thespecial duty of washing the babies.
Here too much has been attempted and the first impression of thevisitors is a bad one. All this whiteness of muslin, this polishedparquet, the brightness of the window-panes reflecting the sky sad atbeholding these things, seem to throw into bold relief the thinness, theunhealthy pallor of these dying little ones, already the colour of theirshrouds. Alas! the oldest are only aged some six months, the youngestbarely a fortnight, and already there is in all these faces, these facesin embryo, a disappointed expression, a scowling, worn look, a sufferingprecocity visible in the numerous lines on those little bald foreheads,cramped by linen caps edged with poor, narrow hospital lace. What arethey suffering? What diseases can they have? They have everything,everything that one can have: diseases of children and diseases ofmen. The fruit of vice and poverty, they bring into the world hideousphenomena of heredity at their very birth. This one has a perforatedpalate, and this great copper-coloured patches on the forehead, allof them rickety. Then they are dying of hunger. Notwithstanding thespoonfuls of milk, of sweetened water, which are forced down theirthroats, notwithstanding the feeding-bottle employed now and then,though against orders, they perish of inanition. These littlecreatures, worn out before birth, require the most tender and the moststrengthening food; the goats might perhaps be able to give it, butapparently they have sworn not to suck the goats. And this is whatmakes the dormitory mournful and silent, not one of those littleclinched-fisted tempers, one of those cries sho
wing the pink and firmgums in which the child makes trial of his lungs and strength; only aplaintive moaning, as it were the disquiet of a soul that turns overand over in a little sick body, without being able to find a comfortableplace to rest there.
Jenkins and the director, who have seen the bad impression produced ontheir guests by this inspection of the dormitory, try to put a littlelife into the situation, talk very loudly in a good-natured, complacent,satisfied way. Jenkins shakes hands warmly with the superintendent.
"Well, Mme. Polge, and how are our little nurslings getting on?"
"As you see, M. le Docteur," she replies, pointing to the beds.
This tall Mme. Polge is funereal in her green dress, the ideal ofdry-nurses. She completes the picture.
But where has Monsieur the Departmental Secretary gone? He has stoppedbefore a cot which he examines sadly, as he stands nodding his head.
"_Bigre de bigre!_" says Pompon in a low voice to Mme. Polge. "It is theWallachian."
The little blue placard hung over the cot, as in the foundlinghospitals, states the child's nationality: "Moldo, Wallachian." What apiece of ill-luck that Monsieur the Secretary's attention should havebeen attracted to that particular child! Oh, that poor little head lyingon the pillow, its linen cap askew, with pinched nostrils, and mouthhalf opened by a quick, panting respiration, the breathing of the newlyborn, of those also who are about to die.
"Is he ill?" asked Monsieur the Secretary softly of the director, whohas come up to him.
"Not the least in the world," the shameless Pompon replies, and,advancing to the side of the cot, he tries to make the little one laughby tickling him with his finger, straightens the pillow, and says in ahearty voice, somewhat overcharged with tenderness: "Well, old fellow?"Shaken out of his torpor, escaping for a moment from the shades whichalready are closing on him, the child opens his eyes on those facesleaning over him, glances at them with a gloomy indifference, then,returning to his dream which he finds more interesting, clinches hislittle wrinkled hands and heaves an elusive sigh. Mystery! Who shall sayfor what end that baby had been born into life? To suffer for two monthsand to depart without having seen anything, understood anything, withoutany one even knowing the sound of his voice.
"How pale he is!" murmurs M. de la Perriere, very pale himself. TheNabob is livid also. A cold breath seems to have passed over the place.The director assumes an air of unconcern.
"It is the reflection. We are all of us green here."
"Yes, yes, that is so," remarks Jenkins, "it is the reflection of thelake. Come and look, Monsieur the Secretary." And he draws him to thewindow to point out to him the large sheet of water with its dippingwillows, while Mme. Polge makes haste to draw over the eternal dream ofthe little Wallachian the parted curtains of his cradle.
The inspection of the establishment must be continued very quickly inorder to destroy this unfortunate impression.
To begin with, M. de la Perriere is shown a splendid laundry, withstoves, drying-rooms, thermometers, immense presses of polished walnut,full of babies' caps and frocks, labelled and tied up in dozens. Whenthe linen has been warmed, the linen-room maid passes it out througha little door in exchange for the number left by the nurse. A perfectorder reigns, one can see, and everything, down to its healthy smell ofsoap-suds, gives to this apartment a wholesome and rural aspect. Thereis clothing here for five hundred children. That is the number whichBethlehem can accommodate, and everything has been arranged upon acorresponding scale; the vast pharmacy, glittering with bottles andLatin inscriptions, pestles and mortars of marble in every corner, thehydropathic installation, its large rooms built of stone, with gleamingbaths possessing a huge apparatus including pipes of all dimensions fordouches, upward and downward, spray, jet, or whip-lash, and the kitchensadorned with superb kettles of copper, and with economical coal and gasovens. Jenkins wished to institute a model establishment; and he foundthe thing easy, for the work was done on a large scale, as it can bewhen funds are not lacking. You feel also over it all the experience andthe iron hand of "our intelligent superintendent," to whom the directorcannot refrain from paying a public tribute. This is the signal forgeneral congratulations. M. de la Perriere, delighted with the manner inwhich the establishment is equipped, congratulates Dr. Jenkins upon hisfine creations, Jenkins compliments his friend Pondevez, who, in histurn, thanks the Departmental secretary for having consented to honourBethlehem with a visit. The good Nabob makes his voice heard in thischorus of eulogy, finds a kind word for each one, but is a littlesurprised all the same that he has not been congratulated himself, sincethey were about it. It is true that the best of congratulations awaitshim on the 16th March on the front page of the _Official Journal_ ina decree which flames in advance before his eyes and makes him glanceevery now and then at his buttonhole.
These pleasant words are exchanged as the party passes along a bigcorridor in which the voices ring out in all their honest accents; butsuddenly a frightful noise interrupts the conversation and the advanceof the visitors. It seems to be made up of the mewing of cats indelirium, of bellowings, of the howlings of savages performing awar-dance, an appalling tempest of human cries, reverberated, swelled,and prolonged by the echoing vaults. It rises and falls, ceasessuddenly, then goes on again with an extraordinary effect of unanimity.
Monsieur the Director begins to be uneasy, makes an inquiry. Jenkinsrolls furious eyes.
"Let us go on," says the director, rather anxious this time. "I knowwhat it is."
He knows what it is; but M. de la Perriere wishes to know also what itis, and, before Pondevez has had the time to unfasten it, he pushes openthe massive door whence this horrible concert proceeds.
In a sordid kennel which the great cleansing has passed over, for, infact, it was not intended to be exhibited, on mattresses ranged on thefloor, a dozen little wretches are laid, watched over by an empty chairon which the beginning of a knitted vest lies with an air of dignity,and by a little broken saucepan, full of hot wine, boiling on a smokywood fire. These are the children with ringworm, with rashes, thedisfavoured of Bethlehem, who had been hidden in this retired cornerwith recommendation to their dry-nurse to rock them, to soothe them, tosit on them, if need were, in order to keep them from crying; but whomthis country-woman, stupid and inquisitive, had left alone there inorder to see the fine carriage standing in the court-yard. Her backturned, the infants had very quickly grown weary of their horizontalposition; and then all these little scrofulous patients raised theirlusty concert, for they, by a miracle, are strong, their malady savesand nourishes them. Bewildered and kicking like beetles when they areturned on their backs, helping themselves with their hips and theirelbows, some fallen on one side and unable to regain their balance,others raising in the air their little benumbed, swaddled legs,spontaneously they cease their gesticulations and cries as they see thedoor open; but M. de la Perrier's nodding goatee beard reassures them,encourages them anew, and in the renewed tumult the explanation givenby the director is only heard with difficulty: "Children keptseparate--Contagion--Skin-diseases." This is quite enough for Monsieurthe Departmental Secretary; less heroic than Bonaparte on his visit tothe plague-stricken of Jaffa, he hastens towards the door, and in histimid anxiety, wishing to say something and yet not finding words,murmurs with an ineffable smile: "They are char-ar-ming."
Next, the inspection at an end, see them all gathered in the salon onthe ground floor, where Mme. Polge has prepared a little luncheon. Thecellar of Bethlehem is well stocked. The keen air of the table-land,these climbs up and downstairs have given the old gentleman from theTuileries an appetite such as he has not known for a long time, so thathe chats and laughs as if he were at a picnic, and at the moment ofdeparture, as they are all standing, raises his glass, nodding his head,to drink, "To Be-Be-Bethlehem!" Those present are moved, glasses aretouched, then, at a quick trot, the carriage bears the party away downthe long avenue of limes, over which a red and cold sun is just setting.Behind them the park resumes its dismal silence.
Great dark massesgather in the depths of the copses, surround the house, gain little bylittle the paths and open spaces. Soon all is lost in gloom save theironical letters embossed above the entrance-gate, and, away overyonder, at a first-floor window, one red and wavering spot, the light ofa candle burning by the pillow of the dead child.
"By a decree dated the 12th March, 1865, issued upon the proposal of the Minister of the Interior, Monsieur the Doctor Jenkins, President and Founder of the Bethlehem Society is named a Chevalier of the Imperial Order of the Legion of Honour. Great devotion to the cause of humanity."
As he read these words on the front page of the _Official Journal_, onthe morning of the 16th, the poor Nabob felt dazed.
Was it possible?
Jenkins decorated, and not he!
He read the paragraph twice over, distrusting his own eyes. His earsbuzzed. The letters danced double before his eyes with those great redrings round them which they have in strong sunlight. He had been soconfident of seeing his name in this place; Jenkins, only the eveningbefore, had repeated to him with so much assurance, "It is alreadydone!" that he still thought his eyes must have deceived him. But no,it was indeed Jenkins. The blow was heavy, deep, prophetic, as it were afirst warning from destiny, and one that was felt all the more intenselybecause for years this man had been unaccustomed to failure. Everythinggood in him learned mistrust at the same time.
"Well," said he to de Gery as he came as usual every morning into hisroom, and found him visibly affected, holding the newspaper in his hand,"have you seen? I am not in the _Official_."
He tried to smile, his features puckered like those of a childrestraining his tears. Then, suddenly, with that frankness which wassuch a pleasing quality in him: "It is a great disappointment to me. Iwas looking forward to it too confidently."
The door opened upon these words, and Jenkins rushed in, out of breath,stammering, extraordinarily agitated.
"It is an infamy, a frightful infamy! The thing cannot be, it shall notbe!"
The words stumbled over each other in disorder on his lips, all tryingto get out at once; then he seemed to despair of finding expression forhis thoughts and in disgust threw on the table a small box and a largeenvelope, both bearing the stamp of the chancellor's office.
"There are my cross and my brevet. They are yours, friend. I could notkeep them."
At bottom the words did not signify much. Jansoulet adorning himselfwith Jenkins's ribbon might very well have been guilty of illegality.But a piece of theatrical business is not necessarily logical; this onebrought about between the two men an effusion of feeling, embraces, agenerous battle, at the end of which Jenkins replaced the objects in hispocket, speaking of protests, letters to the newspapers. The Nabob wasagain obliged to check him.
"Be very careful you do no such thing. To begin with, it would be toinjure my chances for another time--who knows, perhaps on the 15th ofAugust, which will soon be here."
"Oh, as to that," said Jenkins, jumping at this idea, and stretching outhis arm as in the _Oath_ of David, "I solemnly swear it."
The matter was dropped at this point. At luncheon the Nabob was as gayas usual. This good humour was maintained all day, and de Gery, for whomthe scene had been a revelation of the true Jenkins, the explanation ofthe ironies and the restrained wrath of Felicia Ruys whenever she spokeof the doctor, asked himself in vain how he could enlighten his dearpatron about such hypocrisy. He should have been aware, however, thatin southerners, with all their superficiality and effusion, there is noblindness, no enthusiasm, so complete as to remain insensible beforethe wisdom of reflection. In the evening the Nabob had opened a shabbylittle letter-case, worn at the corners, in which for ten years he hadbeen accustomed to work out the calculations of his millions, writingdown in hieroglyphics understood only by himself his receipts andexpenditures. He buried himself in his accounts for a moment, thenturning to de Gery:
"Do you know what I am doing, my dear Paul?" he asked.
"No, sir."
"I am just calculating"--and his mocking glance thoroughlycharacteristic of his race, rallied the good nature of his smile--"Iam just calculating that I have spend four hundred and thirty thousandfrancs to get a decoration for Jenkins."
Four hundred and thirty thousand francs! And that was not the end.