The Nabob Volume 1 Page 7

  IV.

  A DEBUT IN SOCIETY.

  "Monsieur Bernard Jansoulet!"

  That plebeian name, proudly announced by the liveried footman in aresounding voice, rang through Jenkins's salons like the clash ofcymbals, like one of the gongs that announce fantastic apparitions in afairy play. The candles paled, flames flashed from every eye, at thedazzling prospect of Oriental treasures, of showers of pearls andsequins let fall by the magic syllables of that name, but yesterdayunknown.

  Yes, it was he, the Nabob, the richest of the rich, the great Parisiancuriosity, flavored with that spice of adventure that is so alluring tosurfeited multitudes. All heads were turned, all conversation wasinterrupted; there was a grand rush for the door, a pushing andjostling like that of the crowds on the quay at a seaport, to watch thearrival of a felucca with a cargo of gold.

  Even the hospitable Jenkins, who was standing in the first salon toreceive his guests, despite his usual self-possession abruptly left thegroup of men with whom he was talking and bore away to meet thegalleons.

  "A thousand times, a thousand times too kind. Madame Jenkins will bevery happy, very proud. Come and let me take you to her."

  And in his haste, in his vainglorious delight, he dragged Jansouletaway so quickly that the latter had no time to present his companion,Paul de Gery, whom he was introducing into society. The young man waswell pleased to be overlooked. He glided into the mass of black coatswhich was forced farther and farther back by every new arrival, and wasswallowed up in it, a prey to the foolish terror that every youngprovincial feels on his first appearance in a Parisian salon,especially when he is shrewd and intelligent and does not wear theimperturbable self-assurance of the bumpkin like a coat of mail beneathhis linen buckler.

  You, Parisians of Paris, who, ever since you were sixteen haveexhibited your youth at the receptions of all classes of society, inyour first black coat with your crush-hat on your hip,--you, I say,have no conception of that anguish, compounded of vanity, timidity andrecollections of romantic books, which screws our teeth together,embarrasses our movements, makes us for a whole evening a statuebetween two doors, a fixture in a window-recess, a poor, pitiful,wandering creature, incapable of making his existence manifestotherwise than by changing his position from time to time, preferringto die of thirst rather than go near the sideboard, and going awaywithout having said a word, unless we may have stammered one of thoseincoherent absurdities which we remember for months, and which makesus, when we think of it at night, utter an _ah!_ of frantic shame andbury our face in the pillow.

  Paul de Gery was a martyr of that type. In his province he had alwayslived a very retired life, with a pious, melancholy old aunt, until thetime when, as a student of law, originally destined for a profession inwhich his father had left an excellent reputation, he had been inducedto frequent the salons of some of the counsellors of the court,old-fashioned, gloomy dwellings, with dingy hangings, where he made afourth hand at whist with venerable ghosts. Jenkins' evening party wastherefore a debut in society for that provincial, whose very ignoranceand Southern adaptability made him first of all a keen observer.

  From the place where he stood he watched the interesting procession,still in progress at midnight, of Jenkins' guests, the whole body ofthe fashionable physician's patients; the very flower of society, alarge sprinkling of politics and finance, bankers, deputies, a fewartists, all the jaded ones of Parisian high life, pale and wan, withgleaming eyes, saturated with arsenic like gluttonous mice, butinsatiably greedy of poison and of life. Through the open salon and thegreat reception-room, the doors of which had been removed, he could seethe stairway and landing, profusely decorated with flowers along thesides, where the long trains were duly spread, their silky weightseeming to force back the decollete busts of their wearers in thatgraceful ascending motion which caused them to appear, little bylittle, until they burst upon one in the full bloom of their splendor.As the couples reached the top of the stairs they seemed to make theirentrance on the stage; and that was doubly true, for every one left onthe last step the frowns, the wrinkles of deep thought the air ofweariness and all traces of anger or depression, to display a tranquilcountenance, a smile playing over the placid features. The menexchanged hearty grasps of the hand, warm fraternal greetings; thewomen, thinking only of themselves, with little affected shrugs, with acharming simper and abundant play of the eyes and shoulders, murmured afew meaningless words of greeting:

  "Thanks! Oh! thanks--how kind you are."

  Then the couples separated, for an evening party is no longer, as itused to be, an assemblage of congenial persons, in which the wit of thewomen compelled the force of character, the superior knowledge, thevery genius of the men to bow gracefully before it, but a too numerousmob in which the women, who alone are seated, whisper together likecaptives in the harem, and have no other enjoyment than that of beingbeautiful or of seeming to be. De Gery, after wandering through thedoctor's library, the conservatory and the billiard room, where therewas smoking, tired of dull, serious conversation, which seemed to himto be out of keeping in such a festal scene and in the brief hour ofpleasure--some one had asked him carelessly and without looking at him,what was doing at the Bourse that day--approached the door of the mainsalon, which was blockaded by a dense mass of black coats, a surgingsea of heads packed closely together and gazing.

  An enormous room, handsomely furnished, with the artistic tastecharacteristic of the master and mistress of the house. A few oldpictures against the light background of the draperies. A monumentalchimney-piece, decorated with a fine marble group, "The Seasons" bySebastien Ruys, about which long green stalks, with lacelike edges, orof the stiffness of carved bronze, bent toward the mirror as toward astream of limpid water. On the low chairs groups of women crowdedtogether, blending the vaporous hues of their dresses, forming animmense nosegay of living flowers, above which gleamed bare whiteshoulders, hair studded with diamonds, drops of water on the brunettes,glistening reflections on the blondes, and the same intoxicatingperfume, the same confused, pleasant buzzing, made by waves of heat andintangible wings, that caresses all the flowers in the garden insummer. At times a little laugh, ascending in that luminous atmosphere,a quicker breath, made plumes and curls tremble, and attractedattention to a lovely profile. Such was the aspect of the salon.

  A few men were there, very few, all persons of distinction, laden withyears and decorations, talking on the arm of a divan or leaning overthe back of a chair with the condescending air we assume in conversingwith children. But amid the placid murmur of the private conversations,one voice rang out, loud and discordant, the voice of the Nabob, whowas threading his way through that social conservatory with theself-assurance due to his immense fortune and a certain contempt forwoman which he had brought with him from the Orient.

  At that moment, sprawling upon a chair, with his great yellow-glovedhands awkwardly clasped, he was talking with a very beautiful woman,whose unusual face--much animation upon features of a severe cast--wasnoticeable by reason of its pallor among the surrounding pretty faces,just as her dress, all white, classic in its draping and moulded to hergraceful, willowy figure, contrasted with much richer costumes, not oneof which had its character of bold simplicity. De Gery, from hiscorner, gazed at that smooth, narrow forehead beneath the fringe ofhair brushed low, those long, wide-open eyes of a deep blue, an abysmalblue, that mouth which ceased to smile only to relax its classicoutline in a weary, spiritless expression. All in all, the somewhathaughty aspect of an exceptional being.

  Some one near him mentioned her name--Felicia Ruys. Thereupon heunderstood the rare attraction of that girl, inheritress of herfather's genius, whose new-born celebrity had reached as far as hisprovince, with the halo of a reputation for great beauty. While he wasgazing at her, admiring her slightest movement, a little puzzled by theenigma presented by that beautiful face, he heard a whisperedconversation behind him.

  "Just see how affable she is with the Nabob! Suppose the duke shouldcome!"


  "Is the Duc de Mora expected?"

  "To be sure. The party is given for him; to have him meet Jansoulet."

  "And you think that the duke and Mademoiselle Ruys--"

  "Where have you come from? It's a liaison known to all Paris. It datesfrom the last Salon, for which she did his bust."

  "And what about the duchess?"

  "Pshaw! she has seen many others. Ah! Madame Jenkins is going to sing."

  There was a commotion in the salon, a stronger pressure in the crowdtoward the door, and conversation ceased for a moment. Paul de Gerydrew a long breath. The words he had just overheard had oppressed hisheart. He felt as if he himself were spattered, sullied by the mudunsparingly thrown upon the ideal he had formed for himself of thatglorious youth, ripened in the sun of art and endowed with suchpenetrating charm. He moved away a little, changed his position. Hedreaded to hear some other calumny. Madame Jenkins' voice did him good,a voice famous in Parisian salons, a voice that, with all itsbrilliancy, was in no sense theatrical, but seemed like speech,thrilling with emotion, striking resonant, unfamiliar chords. Thesinger, a woman of from forty to forty-five years of age, hadmagnificent hair of the color of ashes, refined, somewhat weakfeatures, and an expression of great amiability. Still beautiful, shewas dressed with the costly taste of a woman who has not abandoned theidea of pleasing. Nor had she abandoned it; she and the doctor--she wasthen a widow--had been married some ten years, and they seemed still tobe enjoying the first months of their joint happiness. While she sang aRussian folk-song, as wild and sweet as the smile of a Slav, Jenkinsartlessly manifested his pride without attempt at concealment, hisbroad face beamed expansively; and she, every time that she leanedforward to take breath, turned in his direction a timid, loving glancewhich sought him out over the music she held in her hand. And when shehad finished, amid a murmur of delight and admiration, it was touchingto see her secretly press her husband's hand, as if to reserve forherself a little corner of private happiness amid that great triumph.Young de Gery was taking comfort in the sight of that happy couple,when suddenly a voice murmured by his side--it was not the same voicethat had spoken just before:

  "You know what people say--that the Jenkinses are not married."

  "What nonsense!"

  "True, I assure you--it seems that there's a genuine Madame Jenkinssomewhere, but not this one who has been exhibited to us. By the way,have you noticed--"

  The conversation continued in an undertone. Madame Jenkins approached,bowing and smiling, while the doctor, stopping a salver as it passed,brought her a glass of bordeaux with the zeal of a mother, animpresario, a lover. Slander, slander, ineffaceable stain! Now Jenkins'attentions seemed overdone to the provincial. He thought that there wassomething affected, studied in them, and at the same time he fanciedthat he noticed in the thanks she expressed to her husband in a lowtone a dread, a submissiveness derogatory to the dignity of a lawfulwife, happy and proud in an unassailable position. "Why, society is ahideous thing!" said de Gery to himself in dismay, his hands as cold asice. The smiles that encompassed him seemed to him like mere grimacing.He was ashamed and disgusted. Then suddenly his soul rose in revolt:"Nonsense! it isn't possible!" And, as if in answer to thatexclamation, the voice of slander behind him continued carelessly:"After all, you know, I am not sure. I simply repeat what I hear. Look,there's Baronne Hemerlingue. He has all Paris here, this Jenkins."

  The baroness came forward on the doctor's arm; he had rushed forward tomeet her, and, despite his perfect control over his features, he seemeda little perturbed and disconcerted. It had occurred to the excellentJenkins to take advantage of his party to make peace between his friendHemerlingue and his friend Jansoulet, his two wealthiest patients, whoembarrassed him seriously with their internecine warfare. The Nabobasked nothing better. He bore his former chum no malice. Their rupturehad come about as a result of Hemerlingue's marriage with one of thefavorites of the former bey. "A woman's row, in fact," said Jansoulet;and he would be very glad to see the end of it, for any sort ofill-feeling was burdensome to that exuberant nature. But it seemed thatthe baron was not anxious for a reconciliation; for, notwithstandingthe promise he had given Jenkins, his wife appeared alone, to theIrishman's great chagrin.

  She was a tall, thin, fragile personage, with eyebrows like a bird'sfeathers, a youthful, frightened manner, thirty years striving to seemtwenty, with a head-dress of grasses and grain drooping over jet blackhair thickly strewn with diamonds. With her long lashes falling overwhite cheeks of the wax-like tint of women who have lived long in theseclusion of a cloister, a little embarrassed in her Parisian garb, shebore less resemblance to a former occupant of a harem than to a nun whohad renounced her vows and returned to the world. A touch of devotion,of sanctity in her carriage, a certain ecclesiastical trick of walkingwith downcast eyes, elbows close to the sides and hands folded, mannerswhich she had acquired in the ultra-religious environment in which shehad lived since her conversion and her recent baptism, completed theresemblance. And you can imagine whether worldly curiosity was rampantaround that ex-odalisque turned fervent Catholic, as she entered theroom, escorted by a sacristan-like figure with a livid face andspectacles, Maitre Le Merquier, Deputy for Lyon, Hemerlingue's man ofbusiness, who attended the baroness when the baron was "slightlyindisposed," as upon this occasion.

  When they entered the second salon, the Nabob walked forward to meether, expecting to descry in her wake the bloated face of his oldcomrade, to whom it was agreed that he should offer his hand. Thebaroness saw him coming and became whiter than ever. A steely gleamshot from under her long lashes. Her nostrils dilated, rose and fell,and as Jansoulet bowed, she quickened her pace, holding her head erectand rigid, letting fall from her thin lips a word in Arabic which noone else could understand, but in which the poor Nabob, for his part,understood the bitter insult; for when he raised his head his swarthyface was of the color of terra-cotta when it comes from the oven. Hestood for a moment speechless, his great fists clenched, his lipsswollen with anger. Jenkins joined him, and de Gery, who had watchedthe whole scene from a distance, saw them talking earnestly togetherwith a preoccupied air.

  The attempt had miscarried. The reconciliation, so cleverly planned,would not take place. Hemerlingue did not want it. If only the duke didnot break his word! It was getting late. La Wauters, who was to singthe "Night" aria from the _Magic Flute_, after the performance ather theatre, had just arrived all muffled up in her lace hood.

  And the minister did not come.

  But it was a promise and everything was understood. Monpavon was totake him up at the club. From time to time honest Jenkins drew hiswatch, as he tossed an absent-minded _bravo_ to the bouquet of limpidnotes that gushed from La Wauters' fairy lips, a bouquet worth threethousand francs, and absolutely wasted, in common with the otherexpenses of the festivity, if the duke did not come.

  Suddenly both wings of the folding-doors were thrown open:

  "His Excellency the Duc de Mora!"

  A prolonged thrill of excitement greeted him, respectful curiositydrawn up in a double row, instead of the brutal crowding that hadimpeded the passage of the Nabob.

  No one could be more skilled than he in the art of making hisappearance in society, of walking gravely across a salon, ascending thetribune with smiling face, imparting solemnity to trifles and treatingserious matters lightly; it was a resume of his attitude in life, aparadoxical distinction. Still handsome, despite his fifty-sixyears,--a beauty attributable to refined taste and perfect proportion,in which the grace of the dandy was intensified by something of asoldierly character in the figure and the haughty expression of theface,--he appeared to admirable advantage in the black coat, whereon,in Jenkins' honor, he had placed a few of his decorations, which henever displayed except on days of official functions. The sheen of thelinen and the white cravat, the unpolished silver of the decorations,the softness of the thin, grayish hair, gave added pallor to the face,the most bloodless of all the bloodless faces assembled that eveningunder the Irish
man's roof.

  He led such a terrible life! Politics, gambling in every form, on theBourse and at baccarat, and the reputation of a lady-killer which hemust maintain at any price. Oh! he was a typical patient of Jenkins,and he certainly owed that visit in princely state to the inventor ofthe mysterious Pearls, which gave to his eyes that glance of flame, tohis whole being that extraordinary pulsing vivacity.

  "'_His Excellency, the Due de Mora!_'"]

  "My dear duke, allow me to present to you--"

  Monpavon, solemn of face, with padded calves, attempted to make theintroduction so anxiously expected; but His Excellency, in hispreoccupation, did not hear and kept on toward the large salon, borneonward by one of those electric currents that break the monotony ofsocial life. As he passed, and while he paid his respects to the fairMadame Jenkins, the women leaned forward with alluring glances, softlaughter, intent upon making a favorable impression. But he saw onlyone, Felicia, who stood in the centre of a group of men, holding forthas if in her own studio, and tranquilly sipping a sherbet as shewatched the duke's approach. She welcomed him with perfect naturalness.Those who stood by discreetly withdrew. But, in spite of what de Geryhad overheard concerning their alleged relations, there seemed to beonly a good-fellowship entirely of the mind between them, a playfulfamiliarity.

  "I called at your house, Mademoiselle, on my way to the Bois."

  "So I understood. You even went into the studio."

  "And I saw the famous group--my group."

  "Well?"

  "It is very fine. The greyhound runs like a mad dog. The fox isadmirably done. But I didn't quite understand. You told me that it wasthe story of us two."

  "And so it is! Look carefully. It's a fable that I read in--You don'tread Rabelais, Monsieur le Duc?"

  "Faith, no. He is too vulgar."

  "Well, I have learned to read him. Very ill-bred, you know! Oh! very.My fable, then, is taken from Rabelais. This is it: Bacchus has made awonderful fox that cannot possibly be overtaken. Vulcan, for his part,has given a dog of his making the power to overtake any animal that hepursues. 'Now,' as my author says, 'suppose that they meet.' You seewhat a wild and interminable race will result. It seems to me, my dearduke, that destiny has brought us face to face in like manner, endowedwith contrary qualities, you, who have received from the gods the giftof reaching all hearts, and I, whose heart will never be taken."

  She said this, looking him fairly in the face, almost laughing, butslim and erect in her white tunic, which seemed to protect her personagainst the liberties of his wit. He, the conqueror, the irresistible,had never met one of that audacious, self-willed race. So he envelopedher in all the magnetic currents of his seductive charm, while aroundthem the murmur of the fete, the flute-like laughter, the rustling ofsatins and strings of pearls played an accompaniment to that duet ofworldly passion and juvenile irony.

  In a moment he rejoined:

  "But how did the gods extricate themselves from that scrape?"

  "By changing the two coursers to stone."

  "By heaven," said he, "that is a result which I refuse to accept. Idefy the gods to turn my heart to stone."

  A flame darted from his eyes, extinguished instantly at the thoughtthat people were looking at them.

  In truth many people were looking at them, but no one with such deepinterest as Jenkins, who prowled around them, impatient and chafing, asif he were angry with Felicia for monopolizing the important guest ofthe evening. The girl laughingly remarked upon the fact to the duke:

  "They will say that I am appropriating you."

  She pointed to Monpavon standing expectantly by the Nabob, who, fromafar, bestowed upon His Excellency the submissive, imploring gaze of agreat faithful dog. Thereupon the Minister of State remembered what hadbrought him there. He bowed to Felicia and returned to Monpavon, whowas able at last to present "his honorable friend, Monsieur BernardJansoulet." His Excellency bowed; the parvenu humbled himself lowerthan the earth; then they conversed for a moment.

  It was an interesting group to watch. Jansoulet, tall and stronglybuilt, with his vulgar manners, his tanned skin, his broad back, bentas if it had become rounded for good and all in the salaams of Orientalsycophancy, his short fat hands bursting through his yellow gloves, hisabundant pantomime, his Southern exuberance causing him to cut off hiswords as if with a machine. The other, of noble birth, a thorough manof the world, elegance itself, graceful in the least of his gestures,which were very rare by the way, negligently letting fall incompletesentences, lighting up his grave face with a half smile, concealingbeneath the most perfect courtesy his boundless contempt for men andwomen; and that contempt was the main element of his strength. In anAmerican parlor the antithesis would have been less offensive. TheNabob's millions would have established equilibrium and even turned thescale in his favor. But Paris does not as yet place money above all theother powers, and, to be convinced of that fact, one had only to seethat stout merchant frisking about with an amiable smile before thegreat nobleman, and spreading beneath his feet, like the courtier'sermine cloak, his dense parvenu's pride.

  From the corner in which he had taken refuge, de Gery was watching thescene with interest, knowing what importance his friend attached tothis presentation, when chance, which had so cruelly given the lie allthe evening to his artless neophyte's ideas, brought to his ears thisbrief dialogue, in that sea of private conversations in which every onehears just the words that are of interest to him:

  "The least that Monpavon can do is to introduce him to some decentpeople. He has introduced him to so many bad ones. You know that he'sjust tossed Paganetti and his whole crew into his arms."

  "The poor devil! Why, they'll devour him."

  "Pshaw! it's only fair to make him disgorge a little. He stole so muchdown there among the Turks."

  "Really, do you think so?"

  "Do I think so! I have some very precise information on that subjectfrom Baron Hemerlingue, the banker who negotiated the last Tunisianloan. He knows some fine stories about this Nabob. Just fancy--"

  And the stream of calumny began to flow. For fifteen years Jansoulethad plundered the late bey shamefully. They mentioned the names ofcontractors and cited divers swindles characterized by admirablecoolness and effrontery; for instance, the story of a musicalfrigate--yes, it really played tunes--intended as a dining-roomornament, which he bought for two hundred thousand francs and soldagain for ten millions; a throne sold to the bey for three millions,whereas the bill could be seen on the books of a house furnisher ofFaubourg Saint-Honore, and amounted to less than a hundred thousandfrancs; and the most comical part of it was that the bey's fancychanged and the royal seat, having fallen into disgrace before it hadeven been unpacked, was still in its packing-case at the custom-housein Tripoli.

  Furthermore, aside from these outrageous commissions on the sale of themost trivial playthings, there were other far more serious accusations,but equally authentic, as they all came from the same source. Inaddition to the seraglio there was a harem of European women, admirablyequipped for His Highness by the Nabob, who should be a connoisseur insuch matters, as he had been engaged in the most extraordinaryoccupations in Paris before his departure for the Orient: ticketspeculator, manager of a public ball at the barrier, and of a house ofmuch lower reputation. And the whispering terminated in a stifledlaugh,--the coarse laugh of two men in private conversation.

  The young provincial's first impulse, on hearing those infamousslanders, was to turn and cry out:

  "You lie!"

  A few hours earlier he would have done it without hesitation, but sincehe had been there he had learned to be suspicious, sceptical. Herestrained himself therefore and listened to the end, standing in thesame spot, having in his heart an unconfessed desire to know more ofthe man in whose service he was. As for the Nabob, the perfectlyunconscious subject of that ghastly chronicle, he was quietly playing agame of ecarte with the Due de Mora in a small salon to which the bluehangings and two shaded lamps imparted a meditative
air.

  O wonderful magic of the galleon! The son of the dealer in old ironalone at a card-table with the first personage of the Empire! Jansouletcould hardly believe the Venetian mirror in which were reflected hisresplendent, beaming face and that august cranium, divided by a longbald streak. So it was that, in order to show his appreciation of thatgreat honor, he strove to lose as many thousand-franc notes as hedecently could, feeling that he was the winner none the less, and proudas Lucifer to see his money pass into those aristocratic hands, whoseevery movement he studied while they were cutting, dealing, or holdingthe cards.

  A circle formed around them, but at a respectful distance, the tenpaces required for saluting a prince; that was the audience of thetriumph at which the Nabob was present as if in a dream, intoxicated bythe fairy-like strains slightly muffled in the distance, the songs thatreached his ears in detached phrases, as if they passed over a resonantsheet of water, the perfume of the flowers that bloom so strangelytoward the close of Parisian balls, when the late hour, confusing allnotions of time, and the weariness of the sleepless night communicateto brains which have become more buoyant in a more nervous atmosphere asort of youthful giddiness. The robust nature of Jansoulet, thatcivilized savage, was more susceptible than another to these strangerefinements; and he had to exert all his strength to refrain frominaugurating with a joyful hurrah an unseasonable out-pouring of wordsand gestures, from giving way to the impulse of physical buoyancy whichstirred his whole being; like the great mountain dogs which are throwninto convulsions of epileptic frenzy by inhaling a single drop of acertain essence.

  * * *

  "It is a fine night and the sidewalks are dry. If you like, my dearboy, we will send away the carriage and go home on foot," saidJansoulet to his companion as they left Jenkins' house.

  De Gery eagerly assented. He needed to walk, to shake off in the sharpair the infamies and lies of that society comedy which left his heartcold and oppressed, while all his life-blood had taken refuge in histemples, of whose swollen veins he could hear the beating. He walkedunsteadily, like a poor creature who has been operated on for cataractand in the first terror of recovered vision dares not put one footbefore the other. But with what a brutal hand the operation had beenperformed! And so that great artist with the glorious name, that pure,wild beauty, the mere sight of whom had agitated him like asupernatural apparition, was simply a courtesan. Madame Jenkins, thatimposing creature, whose manner was at once so proud and so sweet, wasnot really Madame Jenkins. That illustrious scientist, so frank offeature and so hospitable, had the impudence to live publicly inshameless concubinage. And Paris suspected it, yet that did not preventParis from attending their parties. Last of all, this Jansoulet, sokind-hearted and generous, for whom he felt such a burden of gratitudein his heart, had to his knowledge fallen into the hands of a crew ofbandits, being himself a bandit, and quite worthy of the scheme devisedto make him disgorge his millions.

  Was it possible; must he believe it?

  A sidelong glance at the Nabob, whose huge frame filled the wholesidewalk, suddenly revealed to him something low and common that he hadnot before noticed in that gait to which the weight of the money in hispockets gave a decided lurch. Yes, he was the typical adventurer fromthe South, moulded of the slime that covers the quays of Marseille,trodden hard by all the vagabonds who wander from seaport to seaport.Kind-hearted, generous, forsooth! as prostitutes are, and thieves. Andthe gold that flowed into that luxurious and vicious receptacle,spattering everything, even the walls, seemed to him now to bring withit all the dregs, all the filth of its impure and slimy source. Thatbeing so, there was but one thing for him, de Gery, to do, and that wasto go, to leave as soon as possible the place where he ran the risk ofcompromising his name, all that there was of his patrimony. Of course.But there were the two little brothers down yonder in theprovinces,--who would pay for their schooling? Who would keep up themodest home miraculously restored by the handsome salary of the oldestson, the head of the family? The words "head of the family" cast him atonce into one of those inward combats in which self-interest andconscience are the contending parties--the one strong, brutal,attacking fiercely with straight blows, the other retreating, breakingthe measure by suddenly withdrawing its weapon--while honest Jansoulet,the unconscious cause of the conflict, strode along beside his youngfriend, inhaling the fresh air delightedly with the lighted end of hiscigar.

  He had never been so happy that he was alive. And that evening atJenkins', his own debut in society as well as Paul's, had left upon himan impression of arches erected as if for a triumph, of a curiouscrowd, of flowers thrown in his path. So true is it that things existonly through the eyes that see them. What a success! The duke, just asthey parted, urging him to come and see his gallery; which meant thatthe doors of the hotel de Mora would be open to him within a week.Felicia Ruys consenting to make a bust of him, so that at the nextexposition the junk-dealer's son would have his portrait in marble bythe same great artist whose name was appended to that of the Ministerof State. Was not this the gratification of all his childish vanities?

  Revolving thus their thoughts, cheerful or sinister, they walked onside by side, preoccupied, distraught, so that Place Vendome, silentand flooded by a cold, blue light, rang beneath their feet before theyhad spoken a word.

  "Already!" said the Nabob. "I would have liked to walk a littlefarther. What do you say?" And as they walked around the square two orthree times, he emitted in puffs the exuberant joy with which he wasfull to overflowing.

  "How fine it is! What pleasure to breathe! God's thunder! I wouldn'tgive up my evening for a hundred thousand francs. What a fine fellowthat Jenkins is! Do you like Felicia Ruys' type of beauty? For my part,I dote on it. And the duke, what a perfect great nobleman! so simple,so amiable. That is fashionable Paris, eh, my son?"

  "It's too complicated for me--it frightens me," said Paul de Gery in alow voice.

  "Yes, yes, I understand," rejoined the other, with adorable conceit."You aren't used to it yet, but one soon gets into it, you know! Seehow perfectly at my ease I am after only a month."

  "That's because you had been in Paris before. You used to live here."

  "I? Never in my life. Who told you that?"

  "Why, I thought so," replied the young man, and added, as a multitudeof thoughts came crowding into his mind:

  "What have you ever done to this Baron Hemerlingue? There seems to be adeadly hatred between you."

  The Nabob was taken aback for a moment. That name Hemerlingue, suddenlyobtruded upon his joy, reminded him of the only unpleasant episode ofthe evening.

  "To him, as to everybody else," he said in a sad voice, "I never didanything but good. We began life together in a miserable way. We grewand prospered side by side. When he attempted to fly with his own wingsI always assisted him, supported him as best I could. It was through methat he had the contract for supplying the fleet and army for tenyears; almost the whole of his fortune comes from that. And then onefine morning that idiot of a cold-blooded Bearnese must go and fall inlove with an odalisque whom the bey's mother had turned out of theharem! She was a handsome, ambitious hussy; she made him marry her, andnaturally, after that excellent marriage, Hemerlingue had to leaveTunis. They had made him believe that I egged the bey on to forbid himthe country. That is not true. On the contrary, I persuaded HisHighness to allow the younger Hemerlingue--his first wife's child--toremain at Tunis to look after their interests there, while the fathercame to Paris to establish his banking-house. But I was well repaid formy kindness. When my poor Ahmed died and the _mouchir_, his brother,ascended the throne, the Hemerlingues, being restored to favor, neverceased to try to injure me in the eyes of the new master. The bey wasalways pleasant with me, but my influence was impaired. Ah well! inspite of all that, in spite of all the tricks Hemerlingue has played onme and is playing on me still, I was ready to offer him my handto-night. Not only did the villain refuse it, but he sent his wife toinsult me,--an uncivili
zed, vicious beast, who can never forgive me forrefusing to receive her at Tunis. Do you know what she called me thereto-night when she passed me? 'Robber and son of a dog.' The harlot hadthe face to call me that. As if I didn't know my Hemerlingue, who's ascowardly as he is fat. But, after all, let them say what they choose. Isnap my fingers at 'em. What can they do against me? Destroy my creditwith the bey? That makes no difference to me. I have no more businessin Tunis, and I shall get away from there altogether as soon aspossible. There's only one city, one country in the world, and that isParis, hospitable, open-hearted Paris, with no false modesty, where anyintelligent man finds room to do great things. And, you see, de Gery, Ipropose to do great things. I've had enough of business life. I haveworked twenty years for money; now I am greedy for respect, glory,renown. I mean to be a personage of some consequence in the history ofmy country, and that will be an easy matter for me. With my greatfortune, my knowledge of men and of affairs, with what I feel here inmy head, I can aspire to anything and reach any eminence. So take myadvice, my dear boy, don't leave me,"--one would have said he wasanswering his young companion's secret thought,--"stick loyally to myship. The spars are stanch and the hold is full of coal. I swear to youthat we will sail far and fast, damme!"

  The artless Southerner thus discharged his plans into the darkness withan abundance of expressive gestures, and from time to time, as theypaced the vast, deserted square, majestically surrounded by itstightly-closed silent palaces, he looked up toward the bronze man onthe column, as if calling to witness that great upstart, whose presencein the heart of Paris justifies the most extravagant ambitions andrenders all chimeras probable.

  There is in youth a warmth of heart, a craving for enthusiasm which arearoused by the slightest breath. As the Nabob spoke, de Gery felt hissuspicions vanishing and all his sympathy reviving with an infusion ofpity. No, surely that man was no vile knave, but a poor deluded mortalwhose fortune had gone to his head, like a wine too powerful for astomach that has long slaked its thirst with water. Alone in the midstof Paris, surrounded by enemies and sharpers, Jansoulet reminded him ofa pedestrian laden with gold passing through a wood haunted by thieves,in the dark and unarmed. And he thought that it would be well for theprotege to watch over the patron without seeming to do so, to be theclear-sighted Telemachus of that blind Mentor, to point out thepitfalls to him, to defend him against the brigands, in short to assisthim to fight in that swarm of nocturnal ambuscades which he felt to belurking savagely about the Nabob and his millions.