The Nabob Volume 1 Read online

  III.

  MEMOIRS OF A CLERK.--A CASUAL GLANCE AT THE "CAISSE TERRITORIALE."

  I had just finished my humble morning meal, and, as my custom is, hadbestowed the balance of my provisions in the safe in the directors'room, a magnificent safe with a secret lock, which has served as mypantry during the four years, or nearly that, of my employment in the_Territoriale_; suddenly the Governor enters the office, red as aturkey-cock, his eyes inflamed as if he were fresh from a feast,breathing noisily, and says to me in vulgar phrase, with his Italianaccent:

  "There's a horrible smell here, _Moussiou_ Passajon."

  There was not a horrible smell, if you please. But--shall I say it?--Ihad sent out for a few onions to put around a bit of knuckle of veal,brought down to me by Mademoiselle Seraphine, the cook on the secondfloor, whose accounts I write up every evening. I tried to explain tothe Governor; but he worked himself into a rage, saying that in hisopinion there was no sense in poisoning offices in that way, and thatit wasn't worth while to pay twelve thousand francs a year for a suiteof rooms with eight windows on the front, in the best part of BoulevardMalesherbes, to cook onions in. I don't know what he didn't say to mein his effervescent state. For my part, I was naturally vexed to bespoken to in that insolent tone. The least one can do is to be politeto people whom one neglects to pay, deuce take it! So I retorted thatit was too bad, really; but, if the _Caisse Territoriale_ would paywhat they owe me, to wit my arrears of salary for four years, plusseven thousand francs advanced by me to the Governor to pay forcarriages, newspapers, cigars and American drinks on the days thecouncil met, I would go and eat like a Christian at the nearest cheapalehouse, and should not be reduced to cooking for myself, in thedirectors' room, a wretched stew which I owed to the public compassionof cooks. And there you are!

  In speaking thus I gave way to an indignant impulse very excusable inthe eyes of anybody who is acquainted with my position here. However, Ihad said nothing unseemly, but had kept within the limits of languagesuited to my age and education. (I must have stated somewhere in thesememoirs that I passed more than thirty of my sixty-five years asapparitor to the Faculty of Letters at Dijon. Hence my taste forreports and memoirs, and those notions of academic style of whichtraces will be found in many passages of this lucubration.) I had, Irepeat, expressed myself to the Governor with the greatest reserve,refraining from employing any of those insulting words with which everyone here regales him during the day, from our two censors, M. deMonpavon, who laughingly calls him _Fleur-de-Mazas_, whenever he comeshere, and M. de Bois-l'Hery of the Trompettes Club, who is as vulgar inhis language as a groom, and always says to him by way of adieu: "Toyour wooden bed, flea!" From those two down to our cashier, whom I haveheard say to him a hundred times, tapping his ledger: "There's enoughin here to send you to the galleys whenever I choose." And yet, for allthat, my simple observation produced a most extraordinary effect uponhim. The circles around his eyes turned bright yellow, and he said,trembling with anger, the wicked anger of his country: "Passajon,you're a blackguard! One word more and I discharge you." I was struckdumb with amazement. Discharge me--me! And what about my four years'arrears, and my seven thousand francs of advances! As if he read mythoughts as they entered my head, the Governor replied that all theaccounts were to be settled, including mine. "By the way," he added,"just call all the clerks to my office. I have some great news to tellthem." With that he entered his office and slammed the door behind him.

  That devil of a man! No matter how well you may know him, know what aliar he is and what an actor, he always finds a way to put you off withhis palaver. My account! Why, I was so excited that my legs ran awaywith me while I was going about to notify the staff.

  Theoretically there are twelve of us at the _Caisse Territoriale_,including the Governor and the dandy Moessard, manager of the _VeriteFinanciere_; but really there are less than half that number. In thefirst place, since the _Verite_ ceased to appear--that was two yearsago--M. Moessard hasn't once set foot inside our doors. It seems thathe is swimming in honors and wealth, that he has for a dear friend aqueen, a real queen, who gives him all the money he wants. Oh! what aBabylon this Paris is! The others look in occasionally to see if bychance there is anything new at the _Caisse_; and, as there never is,weeks pass without our seeing them. Four or five faithful ones, poorold fellows all, like myself, persist in appearing regularly everymorning, at the same hour, as a matter of habit, because they havenothing else to do, and are at a loss to know what to turn their handto; but they all busy themselves with matters that have no connectionwhatever with the office. One must live, there's no doubt of that! Andthen a man cannot pass his day lounging from chair to chair, fromwindow to window, to look out (eight front windows on the boulevard).So we try to get such work as we can. For my part, I write forMademoiselle Seraphine and another cook in the house. Then I writeup my memoirs, which takes no small amount of time. Our receivingteller--there's a fellow who hasn't a very laborious task withus--makes netting for a house that deals in fishermen's supplies. Oneof our two copyists, who writes a beautiful hand, copies plays for adramatic agency; the other makes little toys worth a sou, which aresold by hucksters at the street corners toward New Year's Day, and inthat way succeeds in keeping himself from starving to death the rest ofthe year. Our cashier is the only one who does no outside work. Hewould think that he had forfeited his honor. He is a very proud man,who never complains, and whose only fear is that he may seem to beshort of linen. Locked into his office, he employs his time frommorning till night, making shirt-fronts, collars and cuffs out ofpaper. He has attained very great skill, and his linen, alwaysdazzlingly white, would deceive any one, were it not that, at theslightest movement, when he walks, when he sits down, it cracks as ifhe had a pasteboard box in his stomach. Unluckily all that paper doesnot feed him; and he is so thin, he has such a gaunt look, that onewonders what he can live on. Between ourselves, I suspect him ofsometimes paying a visit to my pantry. That's an easy matter for him;for, in his capacity of cashier, he has the "word" that opens thesecret lock, and I fancy that, when my back is turned, he does a littleforaging among my supplies.

  Surely this is a most extraordinary, incredible banking-house. And yetwhat I am writing is the solemn truth, and Paris is full of financialestablishments of the same sort as ours. Ah! if I ever publish mymemoirs. But let me take up the interrupted thread of my narrative.

  When we were all assembled in his office, the manager said to us withgreat solemnity:

  "Messieurs and dear comrades, the time of our trials is at an end. The_Caisse Territoriale_ is entering upon a new phase of its existence."

  With that he began to tell us about a superb _combinazione_--that ishis favorite word, and he says it in such an insinuating tone!--a_combinazione_ in which the famous Nabob of whom all the papers aretalking is to have a part. Thus the _Caisse Territoriale_ would be ableto discharge its obligation to its loyal servants, to reward those whohad shown devotion to its service and lop off those who were useless.This last for me, I imagine. And finally: "Make up your accounts. Theywill all be settled to-morrow." Unfortunately he has so often soothedour feelings with lying words that his discourse produced no effect.Formerly those fine promises of his always succeeded. On theannouncement of a new _combinazione_, we used to caper about and weepwith joy in the offices, and embrace one another like shipwreckedsailors at sight of a sail.

  Everyone prepared his account for the next day, as he had told us. Butthe next day, no Governor. The next day but one, still no Governor. Hehad gone on a little journey.

  At last, when we were all together, exasperated beyond measure, puttingout our tongues, crazy for the water that he had held to our mouths,the Governor arrived, dropped into a chair, hid his face in his hands,and, before we had time to speak to him, exclaimed: "Kill me, kill me!I am a miserable impostor. The _combinazione_ has fallen through._Pechero!_ the _combinazione_ has fallen through!" And he cried andsobbed, threw himself on his knees, tore out his hair by handfuls androlle
d on the carpet; he called us all by our nicknames, begged us totake his life, spoke of his wife and children, whom he had utterlyruined. And not one of us had the courage to complain in the face ofsuch despair. What do I say? We ended by sharing it. No, never sincetheatres existed, has there been such an actor. But to-day, it is allover, our confidence has departed. When he had gone everybody gave ashrug. I must confess, however, that for a moment I was shaken. Theassurance with which he talked about discharging me, and the name ofthe Nabob, who was so wealthy--

  "Do you believe that?" said the cashier. "Why, you'll always be aninnocent, my poor Passajon. Never you fear! The Nabob's in it justabout as much as Moessard's queen was."

  And he went back to his shirt-fronts.

  His last remark referred back to the time when Moessard was payingcourt to his queen and had promised the Governor that, in case he wassuccessful, he would induce Her Majesty to invest some funds in ourenterprise. All of us in the office were informed of that new prospectand deeply interested, as you may imagine, in its speedy realization,since our money depended on it. For two months that fable kept us inbreathless suspense. We were consumed with anxiety, we scrutinizedMoessard's face; we thought that the effects of his association withthe lady were very visible there; and our old cashier, with his proud,serious air, would reply gravely from behind his grating, when wequestioned him on the subject: "There's nothing new," or: "The affair'sin good shape." With that everybody was content and we said to eachother: "It's coming along, it's coming along," as if it were a matterin the ordinary course of business. No, upon my word, Paris is theonly place in the world where such things can be seen. It positivelymakes one's head spin sometimes. The upshot of it was that, one finemorning, Moessard stopped coming to the office. He had succeeded, itseems; but the _Caisse Territoriale_ did not seem to him a sufficientlyadvantageous investment for his dear friend's funds. That washonorable, wasn't it?

  However, the sentiment of honor is so easily lost that one can scarcelybelieve it. When I think that I, Passajon, with my white hair, myvenerable appearance, my spotless past--thirty years of academicservice--have accustomed myself to living amid these infamies and baseintrigues like a fish in water! One may well ask what I am doing here,why I remain here, how I happened to come here.

  How did I happen to come here? Oh! bless your soul, in the simplest wayyou can imagine. Nearly four years ago, my wife being dead and mychildren married, I had just accepted my retiring pension as apparitorto the Faculty, when an advertisement in the newspaper happened tocome to my notice. "WANTED, a clerk of mature age at the _CaisseTerritoriale_, 56 Boulevard Malesherbes. Good references." Let me makea confession at once. The modern Babylon had always tempted me. Andthen I felt that I was still vigorous, I could see ten active yearsbefore me, during which I might earn a little money, much perhaps, byinvesting my savings in the banking-house I was about to enter. So Iwrote, inclosing my photograph by Crespon, Place De Marche, in which Iam represented with a clean-shaven chin, a bright eye under my heavywhite eyebrows, wearing my steel chain around my neck, my insignia asan academic official, "with the air of a conscript father on his curulechair!" as our dean, M. Chalmette, used to say. (Indeed he declaredthat I looked very much like the late Louis XVIII., only not so heavy.)

  So I furnished the best of references, the most flatteringrecommendations from the gentlemen of the Faculty. By return mail theGovernor answered my letter to the effect that my face pleased him--Ishould think so, _parbleu!_ a reception room guarded by an imposingcountenance like mine is a tempting bait to the investor,--and that Imight come when I chose. I ought, you will tell me, to have madeinquiries on my own account. Oh! of course I ought. But I had so muchinformation to furnish about myself that it never occurred to me to askthem for any about themselves. Moreover, how could one have a feelingof distrust after seeing these superb quarters, these lofty ceilings,these strong-boxes, as large as wardrobes, and these mirrors in whichyou can see yourself from head to foot? And then the sonorousprospectuses, the millions that I heard flying through the air, thecolossal enterprises with fabulous profits. I was dazzled, fascinated.I must say, also, that at that time the establishment had a verydifferent look from that it has to-day. Certainly affairs were goingbadly--they have always gone badly, have our affairs--and the journalappeared only at irregular intervals. But one of the Governor's little_combinazioni_ enabled him to save appearances.

  He had conceived the idea, if you please, of opening a patrioticsubscription to erect a statue to General Paolo Paoli, a great man ofhis country. The Corsicans are not rich, but they are as vain asturkeys. So money poured into the _Territoriale_. But unfortunately itdid not last. In two months the statue was devoured, before it waserected, and the succession of protests and summonses began again.To-day I am used to it. But when I first came from my province, thenotices posted by order of the court, the bailiffs at the door, made apainful impression upon me. Inside, no attention was paid to them. Theyknew that at the last moment a Monpavon or a Bois-l'Hery was certain toturn up to appease the bailiffs; for all those gentlemen, being deeplyinvolved in the affair, are interested to avoid a failure. That is justwhat saves our evil-minded little Governor. The others run after theirmoney--everyone knows what that means in gambling--and they would notbe pleased to know that all the shares they have in their hands areworth nothing more than their weight as old paper.

  From the smallest to the greatest, all of us in the house are in thatplight. From the landlord, to whom we owe two years' rent and who keepsus on for nothing for fear of losing it all, down to us poor clerks, tomyself, who am in for seven thousand francs of savings and my fouryears' back pay, we are all running after our money. That is why Ipersist in remaining here.

  Doubtless, notwithstanding my advanced age, I might have succeeded, byfavor of my education, my general appearance and the care I have alwaystaken of my clothes, in getting a place in some other office. There isa very honorable person of my acquaintance, M. Joyeuse, bookkeeper forHemerlingue and Son, the great bankers on Rue Saint-Honore, who neverfails to say to me whenever he meets me:

  "Passajon, my boy, don't stay in that den of thieves. You make amistake in staying on there; you'll never get a sou out of it. Come toHemerlingue's. I'll undertake to find some little corner for you. Youwill earn less, but you'll receive very much more."

  I feel that he is right, the honest fellow. But it's stronger than Iam, I cannot make up my mind to go. And yet this is not a cheerful lifethat I lead here in these great cold rooms where no one ever comes,where every one slinks into a corner without speaking. What would youhave? We know one another too well, that's the whole of it. Up to lastyear we had meetings of the council of supervision, meetings ofstockholders, stormy, uproarious meetings, genuine battles of savages,whose yells could be heard at the Madeleine. And subscribers used tocome too, several times a week, indignant because they had never heardanything from their money. Those were the times when our Governor cameout strong. I have seen people go into his office, monsieur, as fierceas wolves thirsty for blood, and come out, after a quarter of an hour,milder than sheep, satisfied, reassured, and their pockets comfortedwith a few bank-notes. For there was the cunning of the thing: to ruinwith money the poor wretches who came to demand it. To-day theshareholders of the _Caisse Territoriale_ never stir. I think that theyare all dead or resigned to their fate. The council never meets. Wehave sessions only on paper; it is my duty to make up a so-calledbalance-sheet--always the same--of which I make a fresh copy everythree months. We never see a living soul, except that at rare intervalssome subscriber to the Paoli statue drops down on us from the wilds ofCorsica, anxious to know if the monument is progressing; or perhapssome devout reader of the _Verite Financiere_, which disappeared morethan two years ago, comes with an air of timidity to renew hissubscription, and requests that it be forwarded a little moreregularly, if possible. There is a confidence which nothing weakens.When one of those innocent creatures falls in the midst of ourhalf-starved band, it is something terrible
. We surround him, weembrace him, we try to get his name on one of our lists, and, in casehe resists, if he will subscribe neither to the Paoli monument nor tothe Corsican railways, then those gentry perform what they call--my penblushes to write it--what they call "the drayman trick."

  This is how it is done: we always have in the office a package preparedbeforehand, a box tied with stout string which arrives, presumably fromsome railway station, while the visitor is there. "Twenty francs cartage,"says the one of us who brings in the package. (Twenty francs, or sometimes thirty, according to the victim's appearance.) Every one at oncebegins to fumble in his pocket. "Twenty francs cartage! I haven'tit."--"Nor I--What luck!" Some one runs to the counting-room.--Closed!They look for the cashier. Gone out. And the hoarse voice of thedrayman waxing impatient in the ante-room: "Come, come, make haste." (Iam generally selected for the drayman's part, because of my voice.)What is to be done? Send back the package? the Governor won't likethat. "Messieurs, I beg you to allow me," the innocent victim venturesto observe, opening his purse.--"Ah! monsieur, if you would."--He payshis twenty francs, we escort him to the door, and as soon as his backis turned we divide the fruit of the crime, laughing like brigands.

  Fie! Monsieur Passajon. Such performances at your time of life! Oh!_Mon Dieu_! I know all about it. I know that I should honor myselfmuch more if I left this vile place. But, what then? why, I mustabandon all that I have at stake here. No, it is not possible. It isurgently necessary that I remain, that I keep a close watch, that I amalways on hand to have the advantage of a windfall, if one should come.Oh! I swear by my ribbon, by my thirty years of academic service, ifever an affair like this of the Nabob makes it possible for me torecoup my losses, I will not wait a moment, I will take myself off inhot haste to look after my little vineyard near Monbars, cured foreverof my speculative ideas. But alas! that is a very chimericalhope,--played out, discredited, well known as we are on 'Change, withour shares no longer quoted at the Bourse, our obligations fastbecoming waste paper, such a wilderness of falsehood and debts, and thehole that is being dug deeper and deeper. (We owe at this moment threemillion five hundred thousand francs. And yet that three millions isnot what embarrasses us. On the other hand it is what keeps us up; butwe owe the concierge a little bill of a hundred and twenty five francsfor postage stamps, gas and the like. That's the dangerous thing.) Andthey would have us believe that a man, a great financier like thisNabob, even though he was just from the Congo or had come from the moonthis very day, is fool enough to put his money in such a trap.Nonsense! Is it possible? Tell that story elsewhere, my dear Governor.