MEMOIRS OF AN OFFICE PORTER A MERE GLANCE AT THE TERRITORIAL BANK
I had just finished my frugal morning repast and, as my habit was,placed the remains of my modest provisions in the board-room safe with asecret lock, which has served me as a store-cupboard during four years,almost, that I have been at the Territorial. Suddenly the governor walksinto the offices, with his face all red and eyes inflamed, as thoughafter a night's feasting, draws in his breath noisily, and in rude termssays to me, with his Italian accent:
"But this place stinks, _Moussiou_ Passajon."
The place did not stink, if you like the word. Only--shall I sayit?--I had ordered a few onions to garnish a knuckle of veal which Mme.Seraphine had sent down to me, she being the cook on the second floor,whose accounts I write out for her every evening. I tried to explain thematter to the governor, but he had flown into a temper, saying that tohis mind there was no sense in poisoning the atmosphere of an office inthat way, and that it was not worth while to maintain premises at arent of twelve thousand francs, with eight windows fronting full on theBoulevard Malesherbes, in order to roast onions in them. I don't knowwhat he did not say to me in his passion. For my own part, naturallyI got angry at hearing myself addressed in that insolent manner. It issurely the least a man can do to be polite with people in his servicewhom he does not pay. What the deuce! So I answered him that it wasannoying, in truth, but that if the Territorial Bank paid me what itowed me, namely, four years' arrears of salary, _plus_ seven thousandfrancs personal advances made by me to the governor for expenses ofcabs, newspapers, cigars, and American grogs on board days, I would goand eat decently at the nearest cookshop, and should not be reduced tocooking, in the room where our board was accustomed to sit, a wretchedstew, for which I had to thank the public compassion of female cooks.Take that!
In speaking thus I had yielded to an impulse of indignation veryexcusable in the eyes of any person whatever acquainted with my positionhere. Even so, I had said nothing improper and had confined myselfwithin the limits of language conformable to my age and education. (Imust have mentioned somewhere in the course of these memoirs that of thesixty-five years I have lived I passed more than thirty as beadle to theFaculty of Letters in Dijon. Hence my taste for reports and memoirs, andthose ideas of academical style of which traces will be found in manypassages of this lucubration.) I had, then, expressed myself in thegovernor's presence with the most complete reserve, without employingany one of those terms of abuse to which he is treated by everybodyhere, from our two censors--M. de Monpavon, who, every time he comes,calls him laughingly "Fleur-de-Mazas," and M. de Bois l'Hery, of theTrumpet Club, coarse as a groom, who, for adieu, always greets him with,"To your bedstead, bug!"--to our cashier, whom I have heard repeat ahundred times, tapping on his big book, "That he has in there enoughto send him to the galleys when he pleases." Ah, well! All the same,my simple observation produced an extraordinary effect upon him. Thecircles round his eyes became quite yellow, and, trembling withrage, one of those evil rages of his country, he uttered these words:"Passajon, you are a blackguard. One word more, and I discharge you!"Stupor nailed me to the floor when I heard them. Discharge me--_me!_ andmy four years' arrears, and my seven thousand francs of money lent!
As though he could read my thought before it was put into words, thegovernor replied that all accounts were going to be settled, mineincluded. "And as to that," he added, "summon these gentlemen to myprivate room. I have important news to announce to them."
Upon that, he went into his office, banging the doors.
That devil of a man! In vain you may know him to the core--know him aliar, a comedian--he manages always to get the better of you with hisstories. My account, mine!--mine! I was so affected by the thought thatmy legs seemed to give way beneath me as I went to inform the staff.
According to the regulations, there are twelve of us employed at theTerritorial Bank, including the governor and the handsome Moessard,manager of _Financial Truth_; but more than half of that number werewanting. To begin with, since _Truth_ ceased to be issued--it is twoyears since its last appearance--M. Moessard has not once set foot inthe place. It seems he moves amid honours and riches, has a queen forhis mistress--a real queen--who gives him all the money he desires. Oh,what a Babylon, this Paris! The others come from time to time to learnwhether by chance anything new has happened at the bank; and, as nothingever has, we remain weeks without seeing them. Four or five faithfulones, all poor old men like myself, persist in putting in an appearanceregularly every morning at the same hour, from habit, from want ofoccupation, not knowing what else to do. Every one, however, busieshimself about things quite foreign to the work of the office. A man mustlive, you know. And then, too, one cannot pass the day dragging one'sself from easy chair to easy chair, from window to window, to look outof doors (eight windows fronting on the Boulevard). So one tries to dosome work as best one can. I myself, as I have said, keep the accountsof Mme. Seraphine, and of another cook in the building. Also, I writemy memoirs, which, again, takes a good deal of my time. Our receiptclerk--one who has not very hard work with us--makes line for a firmthat deals in fishing requisites. Of our two copying-clerks, one,who writes a good hand, copies plays for a dramatic agency; the otherinvents little halfpenny toys which the hawkers sell at street cornersabout the time of the New Year, and manages by this means to keephimself from dying of hunger during all the rest of the year. Ourcashier is the only one who does no outside work. He would believehis honour lost if he did. He is a very proud man, who never utters acomplaint, and whose one dread is to have the appearance of being inwant of linen. Locked in his office, he is occupied from morning tillevening in the manufacture of shirt-fronts, collars, and cuffs of paper.In this, he has attained very great skill, and his ever-dazzling linenwould deceive, if it were not that at the least movement, when hewalks, when he sits down, the stuff crackles upon him as though he had acardboard box under his waistcoat. Unfortunately all this paper does notfeed him; and he is so thin, has such a mien, that you ask yourselfon what he lives. Between ourselves, I suspect him of paying a visitsometimes to my store-cupboard. He can do so with ease; for, as cashier,he has the "word" which opens the safe with the secret lock, and I fancythat when my back is turned he forages a little among my provisions.
These are certainly very extraordinary, very incredible internalarrangements for a banking house. It is, however, the mere truth thatI am telling, and Paris is full of financial institutions after thepattern of ours. Oh, if ever I publish my memoirs! But to take up theinterrupted thread of my story.
When he saw us all collected in his private room, the manager said to uswith solemnity:
"Gentlemen and dear comrades, the time of trials is ended. TheTerritorial Bank inaugurates a new phase."
Upon this he commenced to speak to us of a superb _combinazione_--it ishis favourite word and he pronounces it in such an insinuating manner--a_combinazione_ into which there was entering this famous Nabob, of whomall the newspapers are talking. The Territorial Bank was therefore aboutto find itself in a position which would enable it to acquit itself ofits obligations to its faithful servants, recognise acts of devotion,rid itself of useless parasites. This for me, I imagine. And inconclusion: "Prepare your statements. All accounts will be settled notlater than to-morrow." Unhappily he has so often soothed us with lyingwords, that the effect of his speech was lost. Formerly thesefine promises were always swallowed. At the announcement of a new_combinazione_, there used to be dancing, weeping for joy in theoffices, and men would embrace each other like shipwrecked sailorsdiscovering a sail.
Each one would prepare his account for the morrow, as he had said. Buton the morrow, no manager. The day following, still nobody. He had lefttown on a little journey.
At length, one day when all would be there, exasperated, putting out ourtongues, maddened by the water which he had brought to our mouths, thegovernor would arrive, let himself drop into an easy chair, his head inhis hands, and before one could speak to him: "
Kill me," he would say,"kill me. I am a wretched impostor. The _combinazione_ has failed. Ithas failed, _Pechero!_ the _combinazione_." And he would cry, sob,throw himself on his knees, pluck out his hair by handfuls, roll on thecarpet. He would call us by our Christian names, implore us to put anend to his existence, speak of his wife and children whose ruin he hadconsummated. And none of us would have the courage to protest in face ofa despair so formidable. What do I say? One always ended by sympathizingwith him. No, since theatres have existed, never has there been acomedian of his ability. But to-day, that is all over, confidence isgone. When he had left, every one shrugged his shoulders. I must admit,however, that for a moment I had been shaken. That assurance about thesettling of my account, and then the name of the Nabob, that man sorich----
"You actually believe it, you?" the cashier said to me. "You will bealways innocent, then, my poor Passajon. Don't disturb yourself. Itwill be the same with the Nabob as it was with Moessard's Queen." And hereturned to the manufacture of his shirt-fronts.
What he had just said referred to the time when Moessard was making loveto his Queen, and had promised the governor that in case of success hewould induce her Majesty to put capital into our undertaking. At theoffice, we were all aware of this new adventure, and very anxious,as you may imagine, that it should succeed quickly, since our moneydepended upon it. For two months this story held all of us breathless.We felt some disquiet, we kept a watch on Moessard's face, consideredthat the lady was inclined to insist upon a great deal of ceremony;and our old cashier, with his dignified and serious air, when he wasquestioned on the matter, would answer gravely, behind his wire screen:"Nothing fresh," or "The thing is in a good way." Whereupon everybodywas contented. One would say to another, "It is making progress," asthough merely an ordinary enterprise was in question. No, in good truth,there is only one Paris, where one can see such things. Positively itmakes your head turn sometimes. In a word, Moessard, one fine morning,ceased coming to the office. He had succeeded, it appears, but theTerritorial Bank had not seemed to him a sufficiently advantageousinvestment for the money of his mistress. Now, I ask you, was thathonest?
For that matter, the notion of honesty is lost so easily as hardly tobe believed. When I reflect that I, Passajon, with my white hair, myvenerable appearance, my so blameless past--thirty years of academicalservices--am grown accustomed to living like a fish in the water, in themidst of these infamies, this swindling! One might well ask what I amdoing here, why I remain, how I am come to this.
How I am come to it? Oh, _mon Dieu!_ very simply. Four years ago, mywife being dead, my children married, I had just retired from my postas hall-porter at the college, when an advertisement in the newspaperchanced to meet my eye: "Wanted, an office-porter, middle-aged, at theTerritorial Bank, 56, Boulevard Malesherbes. Good references." Let meconfess it at the outset. The modern Babylon had always attracted me.Then, too, I felt myself still a young man. I saw before me ten goodyears during which I might earn a little money, a great deal, perhaps,by means of investing my savings in the banking-house which I shouldenter. So I wrote, inclosing my photograph, the one taken at Crespon's,in the Market Place, which represents me with chin closely shaven, akeen eye beneath my thick white eyebrows, my steel chain about my neck,my ribbon as an academy official, "the air of a conscript father uponhis curule-chair," as M. Chalmette, our dean used to say. (He insistedalso that I much resembled the late King Louis XVIII; less strongly,however.) I supplied, further, the best of references; the mostflattering recommendations from the gentlemen of the college. By returnof post, the governor replied that my appearance pleased him--I believeit, _parbleu!_ an antechamber in the charge of a person with a strikingface like mine is a bait for the shareholder--and that I might comewhen I liked. I ought, you may say to me, myself also to have made myinquiries. Eh! no doubt. But I had to give so much information aboutmyself that it never occurred to me to ask for any about them. Besides,how could a man be suspicious, seeing this admirable installation,these lofty ceilings, these great safes, as big as cupboards, and thesemirrors, in which you can see yourself from head to knee? And thenthose sonorous prospectuses, those millions that I seemed to hear flyingthrough the air, those colossal enterprises with their fabulous profits.I was dazzled, fascinated. It must be mentioned, too, that at the timethe house did not bear quite the aspect which it has to-day. Certainly,business was already going badly--our business always has gonebadly--the paper appeared only at irregular intervals. But a little_combinazione_ of the governor's enabled him to save appearances.
He had conceived the idea, just imagine, of opening a patrioticsubscription for the purpose of erecting a statue to General PaoloPaoli, or some such name; in any case, to a great countryman of his own.Money flowed accordingly into the Territorial. Unfortunately, that stateof things did not last. By the end of a couple of months the statue waseaten up before it had been made, and the series of protests and writsrecommenced. Nowadays I am accustomed to them. But in the days when Ihad just come from the country, the Auvergnats at the door, caused me apainful impression. In the house, nobody paid attention to such thingsany longer. It was known that at the last moment there would alwaysarrive a Monpavon, a Bois l'Hery, to pacify the bailiffs; for all thosegentlemen, being deeply implicated in the concern, have an interest inavoiding a bankruptcy. That is the very circumstance which saves him,our wily governor. The others run after their money--we know the meaningwhich that expression has in gaming--and they would not like all thestock on their hands to become worthless save to sell for waste paper.
Small and great, that is the case of all of us who are connected withthe firm. From the landlord, to whom two years' rent is owing and who,for fear of losing it all, allows us to stay for nothing, to us pooremployees, even to me, who am involved to the extent of my seventhousand francs of savings and my four years of arrears, we are runningafter our money. That is the reason why I remain obstinately here.
Doubtless, in spite of my advanced age, thanks to my good appearance,to my education, to the care which I have always taken of my clothes,I might have obtained some post under other management. There is oneperson of excellent repute known to me, M. Joyeuse, a bookkeeper in thefirm of Hemerlingue & Son, the great bankers of the Rue Saint-Honore,who, every time he meets me, never fails to remark:
"Passajon, my friend, don't stop in that den of brigands. You are wrongto persist in remaining. You will never get a halfpenny out of them. Socome to Hemerlingue's. I undertake to find some little corner for youthere. You will earn less, but you will be paid much more."
I feel that he is quite right, that worthy fellow. But the thing isstronger than I. I cannot make up my mind to leave. And yet it is by nomeans gay, the life I lead here in these great, cold rooms, where noone ever comes, where each man stows himself away in a corner withoutspeaking. What will you have? Each knows the other too well. Everythinghas been said already.
Again, until last year, we used to have sittings of the board ofinspection, meetings of shareholders, stormy and noisy assemblies,veritable battles of savages, from which the cries could be heard tothe Madeleine. Several times a week also there would call subscribersindignant at no longer ever receiving any news of their money. It wason such occasions that our governor shone. I have seen these people,monsieur, go into his office furious as wolves thirsting for blood,and, after a quarter of an hour, come out milder than sheep, satisfied,reassured, and their pockets relieved of a few bank-notes. For, therelay the acme of his cleverness; in the extraction of money from theunlucky people who came to demand it. Nowadays the shareholders of theTerritorial Bank no longer give any sign of existence. I think they areall dead or else resigned to the situation. The board never meets.The sittings only take place on paper; it is I who am charged with thepreparation of a so-called report--always the same--which I copy outafresh each quarter. We should never see a living soul, if, atlong intervals, there did not rise from the depths of Corsica somesubscribers to the statue of Paoli, curious to know how the monumentis p
rogressing; or, it may be, some worthy reader of _Financial Truth_,which died over two years ago, who calls to renew his subscription witha timid air, and begs a little more regularity, if possible, in theforwarding of the paper. There is a faith that nothing shakes. So, whenone of these innocents falls among our hungry band, it is somethingterrible. He is surrounded, hemmed in, an attempt is made to secure hisname for one of our lists, and, in case of resistance, if he wishes tosubscribe neither to the Paoli monument nor to Corsican railways, thesegentlemen deal him what they call--my pen blushes to write it--what theycall, I say, "the drayman thrust."
Here is what it is: We always keep at the office a parcel prepared inadvance, a well-corded case which arrives nominally from the railwaystation while the visitor is present. "There are twenty francs carriageto pay," says the one among us who brings the thing in. (Twenty francs,sometimes thirty, according to the appearance of the patient.) Everyone then begins to ransack his pockets: "Twenty francs carriage! but Ihaven't got it." "Nor I either. What a nuisance!" Some one runs to thecash-till. Closed. The cashier is summoned. He is out. And the gruffvoice of the drayman, growing impatient in the antechamber: "Come, come,make haste." (It is generally I who play the drayman, because of thestrength of my vocal organs.) What is to be done now? Return the parcel?That will vex the governor. "Gentlemen, I beg, will you permit me,"ventures the innocent victim, opening his purse. "Ah, monsieur,indeed--" He hands over his twenty francs, he is ushered to the door,and, as soon as his heel is turned, we all divide the fruit of thecrime, laughing like highway robbers.
Fie! M. Passajon. At your age, such a trade! Eh! _mon Dieu!_ I well knowit. I know that I should do myself more honour in quitting this evilplace. But what! You would have me then renounce the hope of gettingback anything of all I have put in here. No, it is not possible. Thereis urgent need on the contrary that I should remain, that I should beon the watch, always at hand, ready to profit by any windfall, if oneshould come. Oh, for example, I swear it upon my ribbon, upon my thirtyyears of academical service, if ever an affair like this of the Naboballow me to recover my disbursements, I shall not wait another singleminute. I shall quickly be off to look after my pretty vineyard downyonder, near Monbars, cured forever of my thoughts of speculation. But,alas! that is a very chimerical hope. Exhausted, used up, known as weare upon the Paris market, with our stocks which are no longer quoted onthe Bourse, our bonds which are near being waste paper, so many lies, somany debts, and the hole that grows ever deeper and deeper. (We oweat this moment three million five hundred thousand francs. It is not,however, those three millions that worry us. On the contrary, it is theythat keep us going; but we have with the _concierge_ a little bill of ahundred and twenty-five francs for postage-stamps, a month's gas bill,and other little things. That is the really terrible part of it.) and weare expected to believe that a man, a great financier like this Nabob,even though he were just arrived from the Congo, or dropped from themoon the same day, would be fool enough to put his money into a concernlike this. Come! Is the thing possible? You may tell that story to themarines, my dear governor.