A DEBUT IN SOCIETY
"M. BERNARD JANSOULET!"
The plebeian name, accentuated proudly by the liveried servants, andannounced in a resounding voice, sounded in Jenkins's drawing-rooms likethe clash of a cymbal, one of those gongs which, in fairy pieces atthe theatre, are the prelude to fantastic apparitions. The light of thechandeliers paled, every eye sparkled at the dazzling perspective ofthe treasures of the Orient, of the showers of the sequins and of pearlsevoked by the magic syllables of that name, yesterday unknown.
He, it was he himself, the Nabob, the rich among the rich, the greatParisian curiosity, spiced by that relish of adventure which is sopleasing to the surfeited crowd. All heads turned, all conversationswere interrupted; near the door there was a pushing among the guests,a crush as upon the quay of a seaport to witness the entry of a feluccaladen with gold.
Jenkins himself, so hospitable, so self-possessed, who was standing inthe first drawing-room receiving his guests, abruptly quitted thegroup of men about him and hurried to place himself at the head of thegalleons bearing down upon the guest.
"You are a thousand times, a thousand times kind. Mme. Jenkins will beso glad, so proud.--Come, let me conduct you!"
And in his haste, in his vainglorious delight, he bore Jansoulet off soquickly that the latter had no time to present his companion, Paul deGery, to whom he was giving his first entry into society. The young manwelcomed this forgetfulness. He slipped away among the crowd of blackdress-coats constantly pressed back at each new arrival, buried himselfin it, seized by that wild terror which is experienced by every youngman from the country at his first introduction to a Paris drawing-room,especially when he is intelligent and refined, and beneath hisbreastplate of linen does not wear like a coat of mail the imperturbableassurance of a boor.
All you, Parisians of Paris, who from the age of sixteen, in your firstdress-coat and with opera-hat against your thigh, have been wont to airyour adolescence at receptions of all kinds, you know nothing of thatanguish, compounded of vanity, of timidity, of recollections of romanticreadings, which keeps a young man from opening his mouth and so makeshim awkward and for a whole night pins him down to one spot in adoorway, and converts him into a piece of furniture in a recess, a poor,wandering and wretched being, incapable of manifesting his existencesave by an occasional change of place, dying of thirst rather thanapproach the buffet, and going away without having uttered a word,unless perhaps to stammer out one of those incoherent pieces offoolishness which he remembers for months, and which make him, at night,as he thinks of them, heave an "Ah!" of raging shame, with head buriedin the pillow.
Paul de Gery was that martyr. Away yonder in his country home he hadalways lived a very retired existence with an old, pious, and gloomyaunt, up to the time when the law-student, destined in the firstinstance to the career in which his father had left an excellentreputation, had found himself introduced to a few judges' drawing-rooms,ancient, melancholy dwellings with faded pier-glasses, where he used togo to make a fourth at whist with venerable shadows. Jenkins's eveningparty was therefore a _debut_ for this provincial, of whom his veryignorance and his southern adaptability made immediately an observer.
From the place where he stood, he watched the curious defile ofJenkins's guests which had not yet come to an end at midnight; all theclients of the fashionable physician; the fine flower of society;a strong political and financial element, bankers, deputies, a fewartists, all the jaded people of Parisian "high life," wan-faced, withglittering eyes, saturated with arsenic like greedy mice, but withappetite insatiable for poison and for life. The drawing-room beingthrown open, the vast antechamber of which the doors had been removed tobe seen, laden with flowers at the sides, the principal staircase of themansion, over which swept, now shaken out to their full extent, thelong trains, whose silky weight seemed to give a backward pull to theundraped busts of the women in the course of that pretty ascendingmovement which brought them into view, little by little, till thecomplete flower of their splendour was reached. The couples as theygained the top seemed to be making an entry on the stage of a theatre;and that was twice true, since each person left on the last step thecontracted eyebrows, the lines that marked preoccupation, the weariedair, his vexations, his sorrows, to display instead a contented face, agay smile over the reposeful harmony of the features. The men exchangedhonest shakes of the hand, exhibitions of fraternal good-feeling;the women, preoccupied with themselves, as they stood making littlecaracoling movements, with trembling graces, play of eyes and shoulders,murmured, without meaning anything, a few words of greeting:
"Thank you--oh, thank you! How kind you are!"
Then the couples would separate, for evening parties are no longer thegatherings of charming wits, in which feminine delicacy was wont tocompel the character, the lofty knowledge, the genius, even, of mento bow graciously before it; but these overcrowded routs, in which thewomen, who alone are seated, chattering together like slaves in a harem,have no longer aught save the pleasure of being beautiful or appearingso. De Gery, after having wandered through the doctor's library, theconservatory, the billiard-room, where men were smoking, weary ofserious and dry conversation which seemed to him out of place amidsurroundings so decorated and in the brief hour of pleasure--some onehad asked him carelessly, without looking at him, what the Boursewas doing that day--made his way again towards the door of the largedrawing-room, which was barricaded by a wedged crowd of dress-coats, asea of heads bent sideways and peering past each other, watching.
This salon was a spacious apartment richly furnished with the artistictaste which distinguished the host and hostess. There were a fewold pictures on the light background of the hangings. A monumentalchimneypiece, adorned by a handsome group in marble--"The Seasons," bySebastien Ruys--around which long green stems cut in lacework or of agoffered bronze-like rigidity curved back towards the mirror as towardsthe limpidity of a clear lake. On the low seats, women in close groups,so close as almost to blend the delicate colours of their toilettes,forming an immense basket of living flowers, above which there floatedthe gleam of bare shoulders, of hair sown with diamonds that looked likedrops of water on the dark women, glittering reflections on the fair,and the same heady perfume, the same confused and gentle hum, compactof vibrant warmth and intangible wings, which, in summer, caresses agarden-bed through all its flowering time. Now and then a little laugh,rising into this luminous atmosphere, a quicker inspiration in the air,which would cause aigrettes and curls to tremble, a handsome profile tostand out suddenly. Such was the aspect of the drawing-room.
A few men were present, a very small number, however, and all of thempersonages of note, laden with years and decorations. They were standingabout near couches, leaning over the backs of chairs, with that air ofcondescension which men assume when speaking to children. But in thepeaceful buzz of these conversations, one voice rang out piercing andbrazen, that of the Nabob, who was tranquilly performing his evolutionsacross this social hothouse with the assurance bestowed upon him by hisimmense wealth, and a certain contempt for women which he had broughtback from the East.
At that moment, comfortably installed on a settee, his big hands inyellow gloves crossed carelessly one over the other, he was talking witha very handsome woman, whose original physiognomy--much vitality coupledwith severe features--stood out pale among the pretty faces about her,just as her dress, all white, classic in its folds and following closelythe lines of her supple figure, contrasted with toilettes that werericher, but among which none had that air of daring simplicity. From hiscorner, de Gery admired the low and smooth forehead beneath its fringeof downward combed hair, the well-opened eyes, deep blue in colour, anabysmal blue, the mouth which ceased to smile only to relax its purecurve into an expression that was weary and drooping. In sum, the ratherhaughty mien of an exceptional being.
Somebody near him mentioned her name--Felicia Ruys. At once heunderstood the rare attraction of this young girl, the continuer ofher father's genius, whose budding ce
lebrity had penetrated even to theremote country district where he had lived, with the aureole of reputedbeauty. While he stood gazing at her, admiring her least gestures, alittle perplexed by the enigma of her handsome countenance, he heardwhispers behind him.
"But see how pleasant she is with the Nabob! If the duke were to comein!"
"The Duc de Mora is coming?"
"Certainly. It is for him that the party is given; to bring about ameeting between him and Jansoulet."
"And you think that the duke and Mlle. Ruys----"
"Where have you come from? It is an intrigue known to all Paris. Theaffair dates from the last exhibition, for which she did a bust of him."
"And the duchess?"
"Bah! it is not her first experience of that sort. Ah! there is Mme.Jenkins going to sing."
There was a movement in the drawing-room, a more violent swaying of thecrowd near the door, and conversation ceased for a moment. Paul deGery breathed. What he had just heard had oppressed his heart. He felthimself reached, soiled, by this mud flung in handfuls over the idealwhich in his own mind he had formed of that splendid adolescence,matured by the sun of Art to so penetrating a charm. He moved awaya little, changed his place. He feared to hear again some whisperedinfamy. Mme. Jenkins's voice did him good, a voice that was famous inthe drawing-rooms of Paris and that in spite of all its magnificence hadnothing theatrical about it, but seemed an emotional utterance vibratingover unstudied sonorities. The singer, a woman of forty or forty-five,had splendid ash-blond hair, delicate, rather nerveless features, astriking expression of kindness. Still good-looking, she was dressedin the costly taste of a woman who has not given up the thought ofpleasing. Indeed, she was far from having given it up. Married a dozenyears ago, for a second time, to the doctor, they seemed still to beat the first months of their dual happiness. While she sang a popularRussian melody, savage and sweet like the smile of a Slav, Jenkins wasingenuously proud, without seeking to dissimulate the fact, his broadface all beaming; and she, each time that she bent her head as sheregained her breath, glanced in his direction a timid, affectionatesmile that flew to seek him over the unfolded music. And then, when shehad finished amid an admiring and delighted murmur, it was touching tonotice how discreetly she gave her husband's hand a secret squeeze, asthough to secure to themselves a corner of private bliss in the midst ofher great triumph. Young de Gery was feeling cheered by the spectacle ofthis happy couple, when quite close to him a voice murmured--it was not,however, the same voice that he had heard just before:
"You know what they say--that the Jenkinses are not married."
"How absurd!"
"I assure you. It would seem that there is a veritable Mme. Jenkinssomewhere, but not the lady we know. Besides, have you noticed----"
The dialogue continued in an undertone. Mme. Jenkins advanced, bowing,smiling, while the doctor, stopping a tray that was being borneround, brought her a glass of claret with the alacrity of a mother, animpresario, a lover. Calumny, calumny, ineffaceable defilement! To theprovincial young man, Jenkins's attentions now seemed exaggerated.He fancied that there was something affected about them, somethingdeliberate, and, too, in the words of thanks which she addressed ina low voice to her husband he thought he could detect a timidity, asubmissiveness, not consonant with the dignity of the legitimate spouse,glad and proud in an assured happiness. "But Society is a hideousaffair!" said de Gery to himself, dismayed and with cold hands. Thesmiles around him had upon him the effect of hypocritical grimaces.He felt shame and disgust. Then suddenly revolting: "Come, it is notpossible." And, as though in reply to this exclamation, behind himthe scandalous tongue resumed in an easy tone: "After all, you know, Icannot vouch for its truth. I am only repeating what I have heard. Butlook! Baroness Hemerlingue. He gets all Paris, this Jenkins."
The baroness moved forward on the arm of the doctor, who had rushed tomeet her, and appeared, despite all his control of his facial muscles, alittle ill at ease and discomfited. He had thought, the good Jenkins, toprofit by the opportunity afforded by this evening party to bringabout a reconciliation between his friend Hemerlingue and his friendJansoulet, who were his two most wealthy clients and embarrassed himgreatly with their intestine feud. The Nabob was perfectly willing.He bore his old chum no grudge. Their quarrel had arisen out ofHemerlingue's marriage with one of the favourites of the last Bey. "Astory with a woman at the bottom of it, in short," said Jansoulet, anda story which he would have been glad to see come to an end, since hisexuberant nature found every antipathy oppressive. But it seemed thatthe baron was not anxious for any settlement of their differences; for,notwithstanding his word passed to Jenkins, his wife arrived alone, tothe Irishman's great chagrin.
She was a tall, slender, frail person, with eyebrows that suggested abird's plumes, and a youthful intimidated manner. She was aged aboutthirty but looked twenty, and wore a head-dress of grasses and ears ofcorn drooping over very black hair peppered with diamonds. With her longlashes against cheeks white with that transparency of complexion whichcharacterizes women who have long led a cloistered existence, and alittle ill at ease in her Parisian clothes, she resembled less one whohad formerly been a woman of the harem than a nun who, having renouncedher vows, was returning into the world.
An air of piety, of extreme devoutness, in her bearing, a certainecclesiastical trick of walking with downcast eyes, elbows close tothe body, hands crossed, mannerisms which she had acquired in the veryreligious atmosphere in which she had lived since her conversion andher recent baptism, completed this resemblance. And you can imaginewith what ardent curiosity that worldly assembly regarded this quondamodalisk turned fervent Catholic, as she advanced escorted by a man witha livid countenance like that of some spectacled sacristan, Maitrele Merquier, deputy of Lyons, Hemerlingue's man of business, whoaccompanied the baroness whenever the baron "was somewhat indisposed,"as on this evening.
At their entry into the second drawing-room, the Nabob came straight upto her, expecting to see appear in her wake the puffy face of his oldcomrade to whom it was agreed that he should go and offer his hand. Thebaroness perceived him and became still whiter. A flash as of steel shotfrom beneath her long lashes. Her nostrils dilated, quivered, and, asJansoulet bowed, she quickened her step, carrying her head high anderect, and letting fall from her thin lips an Arab word which no oneelse could understand but of which the Nabob himself well appreciatedthe insult; for, as he raised his head again, his tanned face was of thecolour of baked earthenware as it leaves the furnace. He stood for aninstant without moving, his huge fists clinched, his mouth swollen withanger. Jenkins came up and rejoined him, and de Gery, who had followedthe whole scene from a distance, saw them talking together withpreoccupied air.
The thing was a failure. The reconciliation, so cunningly planned, wouldnot take place. Hemerlingue did not desire it. If only the duke, now,did not fail to keep his engagement with them. This reflection wasprompted by the lateness of the hour. The Wauters who was to sing themusic of the Night from the _Enchanted Flute_, on her way home from hertheatre, had just entered, completely muffled in her hoods of lace.
And there was still no sign of the Minister.
It was, however, a clearly understood, definitely promised arrangement.Monpavon was to call for him at the club. From time to time the goodJenkins glanced at his watch, while applauding absently the bouquet ofbrilliant notes which the Wauters was pouring forth from her fairylips, a bouquet costing three thousand francs, useless, like the otherexpenses of the evening, if the duke did not come.
Suddenly the double doors were flung wide open:
"His excellency M. le Duc de Mora!"
A long quiver of excitement welcomed him, a respectful curiosity thatranged itself in two rows instead of the mobbing crowd that flocked onthe heels of the Nabob.
None better than he knew how to bear himself in society, to walk acrossa drawing-room with gravity, to endow futile things with an air ofseriousness, and to treat serious things lightly; that was the epitomeo
f his attitude in life, a paradoxical distinction. Still handsome,despite his fifty-six years, with a comeliness compounded of eleganceand proportion, wherein the grace of the dandy was fortified bysomething military about the figure and the haughtiness of the face; hewore with striking effect his black dress-coat, on which, to do honourto Jenkins, he had pinned a few of his decorations, which he was in thehabit of never wearing except upon official occasions. The reflectionfrom the linen, from the white cravat, the dull silver of thedecorations, the smoothness of the thin hair now turning gray, enhancedthe pallor of the features, more bloodless than all the bloodless facesthat were to be seen that evening in the Irishman's house.
He had led such a terrible life! Politics, play under all its forms,from the Stock Exchange to the baccarat-table, and that reputation of aman successful with women which had to be maintained at all costs. Oh,this man was a true client of Jenkins; and this princely visit, he owedit in good sooth to the inventor of those mysterious pills which gavethat fire to his glance, to his whole being that energy so vibrating andextraordinary.
"My dear duke, permit me to----"
Monpavon, with solemn air and a great sense of his own importance,endeavoured to effect the presentation so long looked forward to; buthis excellency, preoccupied, seemed not to hear, continued his progresstowards the large drawing-room, borne along by one of those electriccurrents that break the social monotony. On his passage, and while hegreeted the handsome Mme. Jenkins, the ladies bent forward a little withseductive airs, a soft laugh, concerned to please. But he noticed onlyone among them, Felicia, on her feet in the centre of a group of men,discussing some question as though she were in her studio, and watchingthe duke come towards her, while tranquilly taking her sherbet. Shegreeted him with perfect naturalness. Those near had discreetly retiredto a little distance. There seemed to exist between them, however,notwithstanding what de Gery had overheard with regard to their presumedrelations, nothing more than a quite intellectual intimacy, a playfulfamiliarity.
"I called at your house, mademoiselle, on my way to the Bois."
"I was informed of it. You even went into the studio."
"And I saw the famous group--my group."
"Well?"
"It is very fine. The hound runs as though he were mad. The fox scampersaway admirably. Only I did not quite understand. You had told me that itwas our own story, yours and mine."
"Ah, there! Try. It is an apologue that I read in--You do not readRabelais, M. le Duc?"
"My faith, no. He is too coarse."
"Ah, well, his works were the text-book of my first reading lessons.Very badly brought up, you know. Oh, exceedingly badly. My apologue,then, is taken from Rabelais. Here it is: Bacchus created a wonderfulfox, impossible to capture. Vulcan, on the other hand, gave a dog ofhis own creation the power to catch every animal that he should pursue.'Now,' as my author has it, 'it happened that the two met.' You seewhat a wild and interminable chase. It seems to me, my dear duke,that destiny has in the same way brought us together, endowed withconflicting attributes; you who have received from the gods the gift ofreaching all hearts, I whose heart will never be made prisoner."
She spoke these words, looking him full in the face, almost laughing,but sheathed and erect in the white tunic which seemed to defend herperson against the liberties of his thought. He, the conqueror, theirresistible, had never before met one of this audacious and headstrongbreed. He brought to bear upon her, therefore, all the magnetic currentsof his seductiveness, while around them the rising murmur of the _fete_,the soft laughter, the rustle of satins and the rattling of pearlsformed the accompaniment to this duet of mundane passion and juvenileirony. He resumed after a minute's pause:
"But how did the gods escape from that awkward situation?"
"By turning the two runners into stone."
"Upon my word," said he, "that is a solution which I do not at allaccept. I defy the gods ever to petrify my heart."
A fiery gleam shot for a moment from his eyes, extinguished immediatelyby the thought that people were observing them.
In effect, people were observing them intently, but no one with somuch curiosity as Jenkins, who wandered round them a little way off,impatient and fidgety, as though he were annoyed with Felicia for takingprivate possession of the important personage of the assembly. The younggirl laughingly called the duke's attention to it.
"People will say that I am monopolizing you."
She pointed out to him Monpavon waiting, standing near the Nabob who,from afar, was gazing at his excellency with the beseeching, submissiveeyes of a big, good-tempered mastiff. The Minister of State thenremembered the object which had brought him. He bowed to the young girland returned to Monpavon, who was able at last to present to him "hishonourable friend, M. Bernard Jansoulet." His excellency bowed slightly,the _parvenu_ humbled himself lower than the earth, then they chattedfor a moment.
A group curious to observe. Jansoulet, tall, strong, with an air of thepeople about him, a sunburned skin, his broad back arched as though maderound for ever by the low bowings of Oriental courtiery, his big, shorthands splitting his light gloves, his excessive gestures, his southernexuberance chopping up his words like a puncher. The other, a high-bredgentleman, a man of the world, elegance itself, easy in his leastgestures, though these, however, were extremely rare, carelessly lettingfall unfinished sentences, relieving by a half smile the gravity of hisface, concealing beneath an imperturbable politeness the deep contemptwhich he had for man and woman; and it was in that contempt that hisstrength lay. In an American drawing-room the antithesis would have beenless violent. The Nabob's millions would have re-established the balanceand even made the scale lean to his side. But Paris does not yet placemoney above every other force, and to realize this, it was sufficientto observe the great contractor wriggling amiably before the greatgentleman and casting under his feet, like the courtier's cloak ofermine, the dense vanity of a newly rich man.
From the corner in which he had ensconced himself, de Gery was watchingthe scene with interest, knowing what importance his friend attached tothis introduction, when the same chance which all through the eveninghad so cruelly been giving the lie to the native simplicity of hisinexperience, caused him to distinguish a short dialogue near him, amidthat buzz of many conversations through which each hears just the wordthat interests him.
"It is indeed the least that Monpavon can do, to enable him to make afew good acquaintances. He has introduced him to so many bad ones. Youknow that he has just put Paganetti and all his gang on his shoulders."
"Poor fellow! But they will devour him."
"Bah! It is only fair that he should be made to disgorge a little. Hehas been such a thief himself away yonder among the Turks."
"Really, do you believe that is so?"
"Do I believe it? I am in possession of very precise details on thepoint which I have from Baron Hemerlingue, the banker, who effected thelast Tunisian loan. He knows some stories about the Nabob, he does. Justimagine."
And the infamous gossip commenced. For fifteen years Jansoulet hadexploited the former Bey in a scandalous fashion. Names of purveyorswere cited and tricks wonderful in their assurance, their effrontery;for instance, the story of a musical frigate, yes, a veritable musicalbox, like a dining-room picture, which he had bought for two hundredthousand francs and sold again for ten millions; the cost price of athrone sold at three millions for which the account could be seen in thebooks of an upholsterer of the Faubourg Saint-Honore did not exceed ahundred thousand francs; and the funniest part of it was that, the Beyhaving changed his mind, the royal seat, fallen into disgrace before ithad even been unpacked, remained still nailed in its packing-case at thecustom-house in Tripoli.
Next, beyond these wildly extravagant commissions on the provision ofthe least toy, they laid stress upon accusations more grave but no lesscertain, since they also sprang from the same source. It seemed therewas, adjoining the seraglio, a harem of European women admirablyequipped for his Highnes
s by the Nabob, who must have been a goodjudge in such matters, having practised formerly, in Paris--beforehis departure for the East--the most singular trades: vendor oftheatre-tickets, manager of a low dancing-hall, and of an establishmentmore ill-famed still. And the whispering ended in a smothered laugh, thecoarse laugh of men chatting among themselves.
The first impulse of the young man from the country, as he heard theseinfamous calumnies, was to turn round and exclaim:
"You lie!"
A few hours earlier he would have done it without hesitating; but, sincehe had been there, he had learned distrust, scepticism. He containedhimself, therefore, and listened to the end, motionless in the sameplace, having deep down within himself an unavowed desire to becomefurther acquainted with the man whose service he had entered. As forthe Nabob, the completely unconscious subject of this hideous recital,tranquilly installed in a small room to which its blue hangings and twoshaded lamps gave a reposeful air, he was playing his game of _ecarte_with the Duc de Mora.
O magic of Fortune's argosy! The son of the dealer in old iron seatedalone at a card-table opposite the first personage of the Empire!Jansoulet could scarcely believe the Venetian mirror in which werereflected his own bright countenance and the august head with itsparting down the middle. Accordingly, in order to show his appreciationof this great honour, he sought to lose decently as many thousand-francnotes as possible, feeling himself even so the winner of the game, andquite proud to see his money pass into those aristocratic hands, whoseleast gesture he studied as they dealt, cut, or held the cards.
A circle had formed around them, always keeping a distance, however,the ten paces exacted for the salutation of a prince; it was the publicthere to witness this triumph in which the Nabob was bearing his partas in a dream, intoxicated by those fairy harmonies rather faint in thedistance, whose songs that reached him in snatches as over the resonantobstacle of a pool, the perfume of flowers that seem to become fullblown in so singular fashion towards the end of Parisian balls, whenthe late hour that confuses all notions of time and the weariness ofthe sleepless nights communicate to brains soothed in a more nervousatmosphere, as it were, a dizzy sense of enjoyment. The robust nature ofJansoulet, civilized savage that he was, was more sensitive than anotherto these unknown subtleties, and he had need of all his strength torefrain from manifesting by some glad hurrah, by some untimely effusionof gestures and speech, the impulse of physical gaiety which pervadedhis whole being, as happens to those great mountain dogs that arethrown into epileptic fits of madness by the inhaling of a drop of someessence.
"The sky is clear, the pavement dry. If you like, my dear boy, wewill send the carriage away and return on foot," said Jansoulet to hiscompanion as they left Jenkins's house.
De Gery accepted with eagerness. He felt that he required to walk, toshake off in the open air the infamies and the lies of that comedyof society which had left his heart cold and oppressed, with all hislife-blood driven to his temples where he could hear the swollen veinsbeating. He staggered as he walked, like those unfortunate persons who,having been operated upon for cataract, in the terror of sight regained,do not dare put one foot before the other. But with what a brutal handthe operation had been performed! So that great artist with the gloriousname, that pure and untamed beauty the sight alone of whom had troubledhim like an apparition, was only a courtesan. Mme. Jenkins, that statelywoman, of bearing at once so proud and so gentle, had no real title tothe name. That illustrious man of science with the open countenance, anda manner so pleasant in his welcome, had the impudence thus to paradea disgraceful concubinage. And Paris suspected it, but that did notprevent it from running to their parties. And, finally, Jansoulet, sokind, so generous, for whom he felt in his heart so much gratitude, heknew him to be fallen into the hands of a gang of brigands, a brigandhimself and well worthy of the conspiracy organized to cause him todisgorge his millions.
Was it possible, and how much of it was he to be obliged to believe?
A glance which he threw sideways at the Nabob, whose immense personalmost blocked the pavement, revealed to him suddenly in that walkoppressed by the weight of his wealth, a something low and vulgar whichhe had not previously remarked. Yes, he was indeed the adventurerfrom the south, moulded of the slimy clay that covers the quays ofMarseilles, trodden down by all the nomads and wanderers of a seaport.Kind, generous, forsooth! as harlots are, or thieves. And the gold,flowing in torrents through that tainted and luxurious world, splashingthe very walls, seemed to him now to be loaded with all the dross, allthe filth of its impure and muddy source. There remained, then, forhim, de Gery, but one thing to do, to go away, to quit with all possiblespeed this situation in which he risked the compromising of his goodname, the one heritage from his father. Doubtless. But the two littlebrothers down yonder in the country. Who would pay for their board andlodging? Who would keep up the modest home miraculously brought intobeing once more by the handsome salary of the eldest son, the head ofthe family? Those words, "head of the family," plunged him immediatelyinto one of those internal combats in which interest and consciencestruggled for the mastery--the one brutal, substantial, attackingvigorously with straight thrusts, the other elusive, breaking away bysubtle disengagements--while the worthy Jansoulet, unconscious causeof the conflict, walked with long strides close by his young friend,inhaling the fresh air with delight at the end of his lighted cigar.
Never had he felt it such a happiness to be alive; and this eveningparty at Jenkins's, which had been his own first real entry into societyas well as de Gery's, had left with him an impression of porticoeserected as for a triumph, of an eagerly assembled crowd, of flowersthrown on his path. So true is it that things only exist through theeyes that observe them. What a success! the duke, as he took leave ofhim inviting him to come to see his picture gallery, which meant thedoors of Mora House opened to him within a week. Felicia Ruysconsenting to do his bust, so that at the next exhibition the son of thenail-dealer would have his portrait in marble by the same greatartist who had signed that of the Minister of State. Was it not thesatisfaction of all his childish vanities?
And each pondering his own thoughts, sombre or glad, they continued towalk shoulder to shoulder, absorbed and so absent in mind that the PlaceVendome, silent and bathed in a blue and chilly light, rang under theirsteps before a word had been uttered between them.
"Already?" said the Nabob. "I should not at all have minded walking alittle longer. What do you say?" And while they strolled two or threetimes around the square, he gave vent in spasmodic bursts to the immensejoy which filled him.
"How pleasant the air is! How one can breathe! Thunder of God! I wouldnot have missed this evening's party for a hundred thousand francs.What a worthy soul that Jenkins is! Do you like Felicia Ruys's style ofbeauty? For my part, I dote on it. And the duke, what a great gentleman!so simple, so kind. A fine place, Paris, is it not, my son?"
"It is too complicated for me. It frightens me," answered Paul de Geryin a hollow voice.
"Yes, yes, I understand," replied the other with an adorable fatuity."You are not yet accustomed to it; but, never mind, one quickly becomesso. See how after a single month I find myself at my ease."
"That is because it is not your first visit to Paris. You have livedhere."
"I? Never in my life. Who told you that?"
"Indeed! I thought--" answered the young man; and immediately, a host ofreflections crowding into his mind:
"What, then, have you done to this Baron Hemerlingue? It is a hatred tothe death between you."
For a moment the Nabob was taken aback. That name of Hemerlingue, thrownsuddenly into his glee, recalled to him the one annoying episode of theevening.
"To him as to the others," said he in a saddened voice, "I have neverdone anything save good. We began together in poverty. We made progressand prospered side by side. Whenever he wished to try a flight on hisown wings, I always aided and supported him to the best of my ability.It was I who during ten consecutive years secured for
him the contractsfor the fleet and the army; almost his whole fortune came from thatsource. Then one fine morning this slow-blooded imbecile of a Bernesegoes crazy over an odalisk whom the mother of the Bey had caused to beexpelled from the harem. The hussy was beautiful and ambitious, she madehim marry her, and naturally, after this brilliant match, Hemerlinguewas obliged to leave Tunis. Somebody had persuaded him to believe that Iwas urging the Bey to close the principality to him. It was not true. Onthe contrary, I obtained from his Highness permission for Hemerlingue'sson--a child by his first wife--to remain in Tunis in order to lookafter their suspended interests, while the father came to Paris to foundhis banking-house. Moreover, I have been well rewarded for my kindness.When, at the death of my poor Ahmed, the Mouchir, his brother, ascendedthe throne, the Hemerlingues, restored to favour, never ceased to workfor my undoing with the new master. The Bey still keeps on good termswith me; but my credit is shaken. Well, in spite of that, in spite ofall the shabby tricks that Hemerlingue has played me, that he plays mestill, I was ready this evening to hold out my hand to him. Not onlydoes the blackguard refuse it, but he causes me to be insulted by hiswife, a savage and evil-disposed creature, who does not pardon me foralways having declined to receive her in Tunis. Do you know what shecalled me just now as she passed me? 'Thief and son of a dog.' As freein her language as that, the odalisk--That is to say, that if I did notknow my Hemerlingue to be as cowardly as he is fat--After all, bah! letthem say what they like. I snap my fingers at them. What can they doagainst me? Ruin me with the Bey? That is a matter of indifferenceto me. There is nothing any longer for me to do in Tunis, and I shallwithdraw myself from the place altogether as soon as possible. Thereis only one town, one country in the world, and that is Paris--Pariswelcoming, hospitable, not prudish, where every intelligent man may findspace to do great things. And I, now, do you see, de Gery, I want to dogreat things. I have had enough of mercantile life. For twenty years Ihave worked for money; to-day I am greedy of glory, of consideration, offame. I want to be somebody in the history of my country, and that willbe easy for me. With my immense fortune, my knowledge of men and ofaffairs, the things I know I have here in my head, nothing is beyond myreach and I aspire to everything. Believe me, therefore, my dear boy,never leave me"--one would have said that he was replying to the secretthought of his young companion--"remain faithfully on board my ship. Themasts are firm; I have my bunkers full of coal. I swear to you that weshall go far, and quickly, _nom d'un sort_!"
The ingenuous southerner thus poured out his projects into the nightwith many expressive gestures, and from time to time, as they walkedrapidly to and fro in the vast and deserted square, majesticallysurrounded by its silent and closed palaces, he raised his head towardsthe man of bronze on the column, as though taking to witness that greatupstart whose presence in the midst of Paris authorizes all ambitions,endows every chimera with probability.
There is in young people a warmth of heart, a need of enthusiasm whichis awakened by the least touch. As the Nabob talked, de Gery felt hissuspicion take wing and all his sympathy return, together with a shadeof pity. No, very certainly this man was not a rascal, but a poor,illuded being whose fortune had gone to his head like a wine too heavyfor a stomach long accustomed to water. Alone in the midst of Paris,surrounded by enemies and people ready to take advantage of him,Jansoulet made upon him the impression of a man on foot laden with goldpassing through some evil-haunted wood, in the dark and unarmed. Andhe reflected that it would be well for the _protege_ to watch,without seeming to do so, over the protector, to become the discerningTelemachus of the blind Mentor, to point out to him the quagmires, todefend him against the highwaymen, to aid him, in a word, in his combatsamid all that swarm of nocturnal ambuscades which he felt were prowlingferociously around the Nabob and his millions.