The Nabob Volume 1 Read online

  V.

  THE JOYEUSE FAMILY.

  Every morning in the year, at precisely eight o'clock, a new and almostuninhabited house in an out-of-the-way quarter of Paris was filled withshouts and cries and happy laughter that rang clear as crystal in thedesert of the hall.

  "Father, don't forget my music."

  "Father, my embroidery cotton."

  "Father, bring us some rolls."

  And the father's voice calling from below:

  "Yaia, throw down my bag."

  "Well, upon my word! he's forgotten his bag."

  Thereupon there was joyous haste from top to bottom of the house, arunning to and fro of all those pretty faces, heavy-eyed with sleep, ofall those touzled locks which they put in order as they ran, up to thevery moment when a half-dozen of young girls, leaning over the rail,bade an echoing farewell to a little old gentleman neatly dressed andwell brushed, whose florid face and slight figure disappeared at lastin the convolutions of the staircase. M. Joyeuse had gone to hisoffice. Thereupon the whole flock of fugitives from the bird-cage ranquickly up to the fourth floor, and, after locking the door, gatheredat an open window to catch another glimpse of the father. The littleman turned, kisses were exchanged at a distance, then the windows wereclosed; the new, deserted house became quiet once more except for thesigns dancing their wild saraband in the wind on the unfinished street,as if they too were stirred to gayety by all that manoeuvring. A momentlater the photographer on the fifth floor came down to hang hisshow-case at the door, always the same, with the old gentleman in thewhite cravat surrounded by his daughters in varied groups; then he wentupstairs again in his turn, and the perfect calm succeeding that littlematutinal tumult suggested the thought that "the father" and his youngladies had returned to the show-case, where they would remainmotionless and smiling, until evening.

  From Rue Saint-Ferdinand to Messieurs Hemerlingue and Son's, hisemployers, M. Joyeuse had a walk of three-quarters of an hour. He heldhis head erect and stiff, as if he were afraid of disarranging thelovely bow of his cravat, tied by his daughters, or his hat, put on bythem; and when the oldest, always anxious and prudent, turned up thecollar of his overcoat just as he was going out, to protect him againstthe vicious gust of wind at the street corner, M. Joyeuse, even whenthe temperature was that of a hothouse, never turned it down until hereached the office, like the lover fresh from his mistress's embrace,who dares not stir for fear of losing the intoxicating perfume.

  The excellent man, a widower for some years, lived for his childrenalone, thought only of them, went out into the world surrounded bythose little blond heads, which fluttered confusedly around him as in apainting of the Assumption. All his desires, all his plans related to"the young ladies" and constantly returned to them, sometimes afterlong detours; for M. Joyeuse--doubtless because of his very short neckand his short figure, in which his bubbling blood had but a shortcircuit to make--possessed an astonishingly fertile imagination. Ideasformed in his mind as rapidly as threshed straw collects around thehopper. At the office the figures kept his mind fixed by theirunromantic rigidity; but once outside, it took its revenge for thatinexorable profession. The exercise of walking and familiarity with aroute of which he knew by heart the most trivial details, gave entireliberty to his imaginative faculties, and he invented extraordinaryadventures, ample material for twenty newspaper novels.

  Suppose, for example, that M. Joyeuse were walking through FaubourgSaint-Honore, on the right hand sidewalk--he always chose thatside--and espied a heavy laundress's cart going along at a smart trot,driven by a countrywoman whose child, perched on a bundle of linen, wasleaning over the side.

  "The child!" the good man would exclaim in dismay, "look out for thechild!"

  His voice would be lost in the clatter of the wheels and his warning inthe secret design of Providence. The cart would pass on. He would lookafter it for a moment, then go his way; but the drama begun in his mindwould go on unfolding itself there with numberless sudden changes. Thechild had fallen. The wheels were just about to pass over him. M.Joyeuse would dart forward, save the little creature on the very brinkof death, but the shaft would strike himself full in the breast, and hewould fall, bathed in his blood. Thereupon he would see himself carriedto the druggist's amid the crowd that had collected. They would placehim on a litter and carry him home, then suddenly he would hear theheart-rending cry of his daughters, his beloved daughters, upon seeinghim in that condition. And that cry would go so straight to his heart,he would hear it so distinctly, so vividly: "Papa, dear papa!" that hewould repeat it himself in the street, to the great surprise of thepassers-by, in a hoarse voice which would wake him from hismanufactured nightmare.

  Would you like another instance of the vagaries of that prodigiousimagination? It rains, it hails; beastly weather. M. Joyeuse has takenthe omnibus to go to his office. As he takes his seat opposite aspecies of giant, with brutish face and formidable biceps, M. Joyeuse,an insignificant little creature, with his bag on his knees, draws inhis legs to make room for the enormous pillars that support hisneighbor's monumental trunk. In the jolting of the vehicle and thepattering of the rain on the windows, M. Joyeuse begins to dream. Andsuddenly the colossus opposite, who has a good-natured face enough, isamazed to see the little man change color and glare at him with fierce,murderous eyes, gnashing his teeth. Yes, murderous eyes in truth, forat that moment M. Joyeuse is dreaming a terrible dream. One of hisdaughters is sitting there, opposite him, beside that annoying brute,and the villain is putting his arm around her waist under her cloak.

  "Take your hand away, monsieur," M. Joyeuse has already said twice. Theother simply laughs contemptuously. Now he attempts to embrace Elise.

  "Ah! villain!"

  Lacking strength to defend his daughter, M. Joyeuse, foaming with rage,feels in his pocket for his knife, stabs the insolent knave in thebreast, and goes away with head erect, strong in the consciousness ofhis rights as an outraged father, to make his statement at the nearestpolice-station.

  "I have just killed a man in an omnibus!"

  The poor fellow wakes at the sound of his own voice actually utteringthose sinister words, but not at the police-station; he realizesfrom the horrified faces of the passengers that he must have spokenaloud, and speedily avails himself of the conductor's call:"Saint-Philippe--Pantheon--Bastille," to alight, in dire confusion andamid general stupefaction.

  That imagination, always on the alert, gave to M. Joyeuse's face astrangely feverish, haggard expression, in striking contrast to thefaultlessly correct dress and bearing of the petty clerk. He livedthrough so many passionate existences in a single day. Such wakingdreamers as he, in whom a too restricted destiny holds in checkunemployed forces, heroic faculties, are more numerous than isgenerally supposed. Dreaming is the safety valve through which it allescapes, with a terrible spluttering, an intensely hot vapor andfloating images which instantly disappear. Some come forth from thesevisions radiant, others downcast and abashed, finding themselves oncemore on the commonplace level of everyday life. M. Joyeuse was of theformer class, constantly soaring aloft to heights from which one cannotdescend without being a little shaken by the rapidity of the journey.

  Now, one morning when our _Imaginaire_ had left his house at the usualhour and under the usual circumstances, he started upon one of hislittle private romances as he turned out of Rue Saint-Ferdinand. Theend of the year was close at hand, and, perhaps it was the sight of aboard shanty under construction in the neighboring woodyard that madehim think of "New Year's gifts." And thereupon the word _bonus_planted itself in his mind, as the first landmark in an exciting story.In the month of December all Hemerlingue's clerks received double pay,and in small households, you know, a thousand ambitious or generousprojects are based upon such windfalls,--presents to be given, a pieceof furniture to be replaced, a small sum tucked away in a drawer forunforeseen emergencies.

  The fact is that M. Joyeuse was not rich. His wife, a Mademoiselle deSaint-Amand, being tormented with aspirations for w
orldly grandeur, hadestablished the little household on a ruinous footing, and in the threeyears since her death, although _Grandmamma_ had managed affairs soprudently, they had not been able as yet to save anything, the burdenof the past was so heavy. Suddenly the excellent man fancied that thehonorarium would be larger than usual that year on account of theincreased work necessitated by the Tunisian loan. That loan was a veryhandsome thing for his employers, too handsome indeed, for M. Joyeusehad taken the liberty to say at the office that on that occasion"Hemerlingue and Son had shaved the Turk a little too close."

  "Yes, the bonus will certainly be doubled," thought the visionary as hewalked along; and already he saw himself, a month hence, ascending thestaircase leading to Hemerlingue's private office, with hisfellow-clerks, for their New Year's call. The banker announced the goodnews; then he detained M. Joyeuse for a private interview. And lo! thatemployer, usually so cold, and encased in his yellow fat as in a baleof raw silk, became affectionate, fatherly, communicative. He wished toknow how many daughters Joyeuse had.

  "I have three--that is to say, four, Monsieur le Baron. I always getconfused about them. The oldest one is such a little woman."

  How old were they?

  "Aline is twenty, Monsieur le Baron. She's the oldest. Then we haveElise who is eighteen and preparing for her examination, Henriette whois fourteen, and Zaza or Yaia who is only twelve."

  The pet name Yaia amused Monsieur le Baron immensely; he also inquiredas to the resources of the family.

  "My salary, Monsieur le Baron, nothing but that. I had a little moneylaid by, but my poor wife's sickness and the girls' education--"

  "What you earn is not enough, my dear Joyeuse. I raise you to athousand francs a month."

  "Oh! Monsieur le Baron, that is too much!"

  But, although he had uttered this last phrase aloud, in the face of apoliceman who watched with a suspicious eye the little man whogesticulated and shook his head so earnestly, the poor visionary didnot awake. He joyously imagined himself returning home, telling thenews to his daughters, and taking them to the theatre in the evening tocelebrate that happy day. God! how pretty the Joyeuse girls were,sitting in the front of their box! what a nosegay of rosy cheeks! Andthen, on the next day, lo and behold the two oldest are sought inmarriage by--Impossible to say by whom, for M. Joyeuse suddenly foundhimself under the porch of the Hemerlingue establishment, in front of aswing-door surmounted by the words, "Counting Room" in gold letters.

  "I shall always be the same," he said to himself with a little laugh,wiping his forehead, on which the perspiration stood in beads.

  Put in good humor by his fancy, by the blazing fires in the long lineof offices, with inlaid floors and wire gratings, keeping the secretsconfided to them in the subdued light of the ground floor, where onecould count gold pieces without being dazzled by them, M. Joyeuse badethe other clerks a cheery good-morning, and donned his working-coat andblack velvet cap. Suddenly there was a whistle from above; and thecashier, putting his ear to the tube, heard the coarse, gelatinousvoice of Hemerlingue, the only, the genuine Hemerlingue--the other, theson, was always absent--asking for M. Joyeuse. What! was he stilldreaming? He was greatly excited as he took the little inner stairway,which he had ascended so jauntily just before, and found himself in thebanker's office, a narrow room with a very high ceiling, and with noother furniture than green curtains and enormous leather arm-chairs,proportioned to the formidable bulk of the head of the house. He wassitting there at his desk, which his paunch prevented him fromapproaching, corpulent, puffing, and so yellow that his round face withits hooked nose, the face of a fat, diseased owl, shone like a beaconlight in that solemn, gloomy office. A coarse, Moorish merchantmouldering in the dampness of his little courtyard. His eyes gleamed aninstant beneath his heavy slow-moving eyelids when the clerk entered;he motioned to him to approach, and slowly, coldly, with frequentbreaks in his breathless sentences, instead of: "M. Joyeuse, how manydaughters have you?" he said this:

  "Joyeuse, you have assumed to criticize in our offices our recentoperations on the market in Tunis. No use to deny it. What you said hasbeen repeated to me word for word. And as I can't allow such thingsfrom one of my clerks, I notify you that with the end of this month youwill cease to be in my employ."

  The blood rushed to the clerk's face, receded, returned, causing eachtime a confused buzzing in his ears, a tumult of thoughts and images inhis brain.

  His daughters!

  What would become of them?

  Places are so scarce at that time of year!

  Want stared him in the face, and also the vision of a poor devilfalling at Hemerlingue's feet, imploring him, threatening him, leapingat his throat in an outburst of desperate frenzy. All this agitationpassed across his face like a gust of wind which wrinkles the surfaceof a lake, hollowing out shifting caverns of all shapes therein; but hestood mute on the same spot, and at a hint from his employer that hemight withdraw, went unsteadily down to resume his task in thecounting-room.

  That evening, on returning to Rue Saint-Ferdinand, M. Joyeuse saidnothing to his daughters. He dared not. The thought of casting a shadowupon that radiant gayety, which was the whole life of the house, ofdimming with great tears those sparkling eyes, seemed to himunendurable. Moreover he was timid and weak, one of those who alwayssay: "Let us wait till to-morrow." So he waited before speaking, in thefirst place until the month of November should be at an end, comfortinghimself with the vague hope that Hemerlingue might change his mind, asif he did not know that unyielding will, like the flabby, tenaciousgrasp of a mollusk clinging to its gold ingot. Secondly, when hisaccounts were settled and another clerk had taken his place at the talldesk at which he had stood so long, he hoped speedily to find somethingelse and to repair the disaster before he was obliged to avow it.

  Every morning he pretended to start for the office, allowed himself tobe equipped and escorted to the door as usual, his great leather bagall ready for the numerous parcels he was to bring home at night.Although he purposely forgot some of them because of the approach ofthe perplexing close of the month, he no longer lacked time in which todo his daughters' errands. He had his day to himself, an interminableday, which he passed in running about Paris in search of a place. Theygave him addresses and excellent recommendations. But in that month ofDecember, when the air is so cold and the days are so short, a monthoverburdened with expenses and anxieties, clerks suffer in patience andemployers too. Every one tries to end the year in tranquillity,postponing to the month of January, when time takes a great leap onwardtoward another station, all changes, ameliorations, attempts to lead anew life.

  Wherever M. Joyeuse called, he saw faces suddenly turn cold as soon ashe explained the purpose of his visit. "What! you are no longer withHemerlingue and Son? How does that happen?" He would explain thecondition of affairs as best he could, attributing it to a caprice ofhis employer, that violent-tempered Hemerlingue whom all Paris knew;but he was conscious of a cold, suspicious accent in the uniform reply:"Come and see us after the holidays." And, timid as he was at best, hereached a point at which he hardly dared apply anywhere, but would walkback and forth twenty times in front of the same door, nor would heever have crossed the threshold but for the thought of his daughters.That thought alone would grasp his shoulder, put heart into his legsand send him to opposite ends of Paris in the same day, to exceedinglyvague addresses given him by comrades, to a great bone-black factory atAubervilliers, for instance, where they made him call three days insuccession, and all for nothing.

  Oh! the long walks in the rain and frost, the closed doors, theemployer who has gone out or has visitors, the promises given andsuddenly retracted, the disappointed hopes, the enervating effect oflong suspense, the humiliation in store for every man who asks forwork, as if it were a shameful thing to be without it. M. Joyeuseexperienced all those heartsickening details, and he learned too howthe will becomes weary and discouraged in the face of persistentill-luck. And you can imagine whether the bitter martyrdom of "the
manin search of a place" was intensified by the fantasies of hisimagination, by the chimeras which rose before him from the pavementsof Paris, while he pursued his quest in every direction.

  For a whole month he was like one of those pitiful marionettes whosoliloquize and gesticulate on the sidewalks, and from whom theslightest jostling on the part of the crowd extorts a somnambulisticejaculation: "I said as much," or "Don't you doubt it, monsieur." Youpass on, you almost laugh, but you are moved to pity at theunconsciousness of those poor devils, possessed by a fixed idea, blindmen led by dreams, drawn on by an invisible leash. The terrible featureof it all was this, that when M. Joyeuse returned home, after thoselong, cruel days of inaction and fatigue, he must enact the comedy ofthe man returning from work, must describe the events of the day, tellwhat he had heard, the gossip of the office, with which he was alwaysaccustomed to entertain the young ladies.

  In humble households there is always one name that comes to the lipsmore frequently than others, a name that is invoked on days ofdisaster, that plays a part in every wish, in every hope, even in theplay of the children, who are permeated with the idea of itsimportance, a name that fills the role of a sub-providence in thefamily, or rather of a supernatural household god. It is the name ofthe employer, the manager of the factory, the landlord, the minister,the man, in short, who holds in his powerful hand the welfare, the veryexistence of the family. In the Joyeuse household it was Hemerlingue,always Hemerlingue; ten, twenty times a day the name was mentioned inthe conversation of the girls, who associated it with all their plans,with the most trivial details of their girlish ambitions: "IfHemerlingue would consent. It all depends on Hemerlingue." And nothingcould be more delightful than the familiar way in which those childrenspoke of the wealthy boor whom they had never seen.

  They asked questions about him. Had their father spoken to him? Was hein good humor? To think that all of us, however humble we may be,however cruelly enslaved by destiny, have always below us some poorcreature more humble, more enslaved than ourselves, in whose eyes weare great, in whose eyes we are gods, and, as gods, indifferent,scornful or cruel.

  We can fancy M. Joyeuse's torture when he was compelled to inventincidents, to manufacture anecdotes concerning the villain who haddismissed him so heartlessly after ten years of faithful service.However, he played his little comedy in such way as to deceive them allcompletely. They had noticed only one thing, and that was that theirfather, on returning home at night, always had a hearty appetite forthe evening meal. I should say as much! Since he had lost his place,the poor man had ceased to eat any luncheon.

  The days passed. M. Joyeuse found nothing. Yes, he was offered aclerkship at the _Caisse Territoriale_, which he declined, being toowell acquainted with the banking operations, with all the nooks andcorners of financial Bohemia in general and the _Caisse Territoriale_in particular, to step foot in that den.

  "But," said Passajon--for it was Passajon, who, happening to meet thegood man and finding that he was unemployed, had spoken to him oftaking service with Paganetti--"but I tell you again that it's allright. We have plenty of money. We pay our debts. I have been paid;just see what a dandy I am."

  In truth, the old clerk had a new livery, and his paunch protrudedmajestically beneath his tunic with silver buttons. For all that, M.Joyeuse had withstood the temptation, even after Passajon, opening widehis bulging eyes, had whispered with emphasis in his ear these wordsbig with promise:

  "The Nabob is in it."

  Even after that, M. Joyeuse had had the courage to say no. Was it notbetter to die of hunger than to enter the service of an unsubstantialhouse whose books he might some day be called upon to examine as anexpert before a court of justice?

  So he continued to wander about; but he was discouraged and hadabandoned his search for employment. As it was necessary for him toremain away from home, he loitered in front of the shop-windows on thequays, leaned for hours on the parapets, watching the river and theboats discharging their cargoes. He became one of those idlers whom wesee in the front rank of all street crowds, taking refuge from a showerunder porches, drawing near the stoves on which the asphalters boiltheir tar in the open air, to warm themselves, and sinking on benchesalong the boulevard when their feet can no longer carry them.

  What an excellent way of lengthening one's days, to do nothing!

  On certain days, however, when M. Joyeuse was too tired or the weathertoo inclement, he waited at the end of the street until the youngladies had closed their window, then went back to the house, huggingthe walls, hurried upstairs, holding his breath as he passed his owndoor, and took refuge with the photographer, Andre Maranne, who, beingaware of his catastrophe, offered him the compassionate welcome whichpoor devils extend to one another. Customers are rare so near thebarriers. He would sit for many hours in the studio, talking in anundertone, reading by his friend's side, listening to the rain on thewindow-panes or the wind whistling as in mid-ocean, rattling the olddoors and window-frames in the graveyard of demolished buildings below.On the next floor he heard familiar sounds, full of charm for him,snatches of song accompanying the work of willing hands, a chorus oflaughter, the piano lesson given by _Grandmamma_, the tic-tac of themetronome, a delicious domestic hurly-burly that warmed his heart. Helived with his darlings, who certainly had no idea that they had him sonear at hand.

  Once, while Maranne was out, M. Joyeuse, acting as a faithful custodianof the studio and its brand-new equipment, heard two little taps on theceiling of the fourth floor, two separate, very distinct taps, then acautious rumbling like the scampering of a mouse. The intimacy betweenthe photographer and his neighbors justified this prisoner-like methodof communication, but what did that mean? How should he answer whatseemed like a call? At all hazards he repeated the two taps, the softdrumming sound, and the interview stopped there. When Andre Marannereturned, he explained it. It was very simple: sometimes, during theday, the young ladies, who never saw their neighbor except in theevening, took that means of inquiring for his health and whetherbusiness was improving. The signal he had heard signified: "Is businessgood to-day?" and M. Joyeuse had instinctively but unwittingly replied:"Not bad for the season." Although young Maranne blushed hotly as hesaid it, M. Joyeuse believed him. But the idea of frequentcommunication between the two households made him fear lest his secretshould be divulged, and thereafter he abstained from what he called his"artistic days." However, the time was drawing near when he could nolonger conceal his plight, for the end of the month was at hand,complicated by the end of the year.

  Paris was already assuming the usual festal aspect of the last weeks ofDecember. That is about all that is left in the way of national orpopular merrymaking. The revels of the carnival died with Gavarni, thereligious festivals, the music of which we scarcely hear above the dinof the streets, seclude themselves behind the heavy church doors, theFifteenth of August has never been aught but the Saint-Charlemagne ofthe barracks; but Paris has retained its respect for the first day ofthe year.

  Early in December a violent epidemic of childishness is apparent in thestreets. Wagons pass, laden with gilded drums, wooden horses,playthings by the score. In the manufacturing districts, from top tobottom of the five-story buildings, former palaces of the Marais, wherethe shops have such lofty ceilings and stately double doors, peoplework all night, handling gauze, flowers and straw, fastening labels onsatin-covered boxes, sorting out, marking and packing; the innumerabledetails of the toy trade, that great industry upon which Paris placesthe sign-manual of its refined taste. There is a smell of green wood,of fresh paint, of glistening varnish, and in the dust of the garrets,on the rickety stairways where the common people deposit all the mudthrough which they have tramped, chips of rosewood are strewn about,clippings of satin and velvet, bits of tinsel, all the debris of thetreasures employed to dazzle childish eyes. Then the shop-windows arraythemselves. Behind the transparent glass the gilt binding of gift-booksascends like a gleaming wave under the gas-lights, rich stuffs ofkaleidoscopic, tempting hues
display their heavy, graceful folds, whilethe shop-girls, with their hair piled high upon their heads and ribbonsaround their necks, puff their wares with the little finger in the air,or fill silk bags, into which the bonbons fall like a shower of pearls.

  But face to face with this bourgeois industry, firmly established andintrenched behind its gorgeous shop fronts, is the ephemeral industrycarried on in the stalls built of plain boards, open to the wind fromthe street, standing in a double row which gives the boulevard theaspect of a foreign market place. There are to be found the realinterest, the poetry of New Year's gifts. Luxurious in the Madeleinequarter, less ostentatious toward Boulevard Saint-Denis, cheaper andmore tawdry as you approach the Bastille, these little booths changetheir character to suit their customers, estimate their chances ofsuccess according to the condition of the purses of the passers-by.Between them stand tables covered with trifles, miracles of the pettyParisian trades, made of nothing, fragile and insignificant, butsometimes whirled away by fashion in one of its fierce gusts, becauseof their very lightness. And lastly, along the sidewalks, lost in theline of vehicles which brush against them as they stroll along, theorange-women put the final touch to this ambulatory commerce, heapingup the sun-colored fruit under their red lanterns, and crying: "LaValence!" in the fog, the uproar, the excessive haste with which Parisrushes to meet the close of the year.

  Ordinarily M. Joyeuse made a part of the happy crowd that throngs thestreets with a jingling of money in the pockets and packages in everyhand. He would run about with _Grandmamma_ in quest of presents for theyoung ladies, stopping in front of the booths of the small shopkeeperswhom the slightest indication of a customer excites beyond measure, forthey are unfamiliar with the art of selling and have based upon thatbrief season visions of extraordinary profits. And there would beconsultations and meditations, a never-ending perplexity as to thefinal selection in that busy little brain, always in advance of thepresent and of the occupation of the moment.

  But that year, alas! there was nothing of the sort. He wandered sadlythrough the joyous city, sadder and more discouraged by reason of allthe activity around him, jostled and bumped like all those who impedethe circulation of the industrious, his heart beating with constantdread, for _Grandmamma_, for several days past, had been makingsignificant, prophetic remarks at table on the subject of New Year'sgifts. For that reason he avoided being left alone with her and hadforbidden her coming to meet him at the office. But, struggle as hewould, the time was drawing near, he felt it in his bones, when furthermystery would be impossible and his secret would be divulged. Was this_Grandmamma_ of whom M. Joyeuse stood in such fear such a terriblecreature, pray? _Mon Dieu_, no! A little stern, that was all, with asweet smile which promised instant pardon to every culprit. But M.Joyeuse was naturally cowardly and timid; twenty years of housekeepingwith a masterful woman, "a person of gentle birth," had enslaved himforever, like those convicts who are subjected to surveillance for acertain period after their sentences have expired. And he was subjectedto it for life.

  One evening the Joyeuse family was assembled in the small salon, thelast relic of its splendor, where there still were two stuffedarm-chairs, an abundance of crochet-work, a piano, two Carcel lampswith little green caps, and a small table covered with trivialornaments.

  The true family exists only among the lowly.

  For economy's sake only one fire was lighted for the whole house, andonly one lamp around which all their occupations, all their diversionswere grouped; an honest family lamp, whose old-fashioned shade--withnight scenes, studded with brilliant points--had been the wonder andthe delight of all the girls in their infancy. Emerging gracefully fromthe shadow of the rest of the room, four youthful faces, fair or dark,smiling or engrossed, bent forward in the warm, cheerful rays, whichillumined them to the level of the eyes and seemed to feed the fire oftheir glances, the radiant youth beneath their transparent brows, towatch over them, to shelter them, to protect them from the black coldwind without, from ghosts, pitfalls, misery and terror, from all thesinister things that lurk in an out-of-the-way quarter of Paris on awinter's night.

  Thus assembled in a small room near the top of the deserted house, inthe warmth and security of its neatly kept and comfortable home, theJoyeuse family resembles a family of birds in a nest at the top of atall tree. They sew and read and talk a little. A burst of flame, thecrackling of the fire, are the only sounds to be heard, save for anoccasional exclamation from M. Joyeuse, who sits just outside of hislittle circle, hiding in the shadow his anxious brow and all thevagaries of his imagination. Now he fancies that, in the midst of thedistress by which he is overwhelmed, the absolute necessity ofconfessing everything to his children to-night, to-morrow at latest,unforeseen succor comes to him. Hemerlingue, seized with remorse, sendsto him, to all the others who worked on the Tunisian loan, theaccustomed December bonus. It is brought by a tall footman: "FromMonsieur le Baron." The _Imaginaire_ says this aloud. The pretty facesturn to look at him; they laugh and move about, and the poor wretchwakes with a start.

  Oh! how he reviles himself now for his delay in confessing everything,for the fallacious security which he has encouraged in his home andwhich he will have to destroy at one blow. Why need he have criticisedthat Tunisian loan? He even blames himself now for having declined aposition at the _Caisse Territoriale_. Had he the right to decline it?Ah! what a pitiful head of a family, who lacked strength to maintainor to defend the welfare of his dear ones. And, in presence of thecharming group sitting within the rays of the lamp, whose tranquilaspect is in such glaring contrast to his inward agitation, he isseized with remorse, which assails his feeble mind so fiercely thathis secret comes to his lips, is on the point of escaping him inan outburst of sobs, when a ring at the bell--not an imaginaryring--startles them all and checks him as he is about to speak.

  Who could have come at that hour? They had lived in seclusion since themother's death, receiving almost no visitors. Andre Maranne, when hecame down to pass a few moments with them, knocked familiarly after themanner of those to whom a door is always open. Profound silence in thesalon, a long colloquy on the landing. At last the old servant--she hadbeen in the family as long as the lamp--introduced a young man, aperfect stranger, who stopped suddenly, spellbound, at sight of thecharming picture presented by the four darlings grouped about thetable. He entered with an abashed, somewhat awkward air. However, heset forth very clearly the purpose of his call. He was recommended toapply to M. Joyeuse by a worthy man of his acquaintance, old Passajon,to give him lessons in book-keeping. A friend of his was involved insome large financial enterprises, a stock company of some size. He wasanxious to be of service to him by keeping an eye upon the employmentof his funds and the rectitude of his associates' operations; but hewas a lawyer, with a very imperfect knowledge of financial matters andthe vernacular of the banking business. Could not M. Joyeuse, in a fewmonths, with three or four lessons a week--"

  "Why, yes indeed, monsieur, yes indeed," stammered the father, dazed bythis unhoped-for chance; "I will willingly undertake to fit you in amonth or two for this work of examining accounts. Where shall we havethe lessons?"

  "Here, if you please," said the young man, "for I am anxious thatnobody should know that I am working at it. But I shall be very sorryif I am to put everybody to flight every time I appear, as I seem tohave done this evening."

  It was a fact that, as soon as the visitor opened his mouth, the fourcurly heads had disappeared, with much whispering and rustling ofskirts, and the salon appeared very bare now that the great circle ofwhite light was empty.

  Always quick to take alarm where his daughters were concerned, M.Joyeuse replied that "the young ladies always retired early," in ashort, sharp tone which said as plainly as could be: "Let us confineour conversation to our lessons, young man, I beg."

  Thereupon they agreed upon the days and the hours in the evening.

  As for the terms, that would be for monsieur to determine.

  Monsieur named a figure.
r />   The clerk turned scarlet; it was what he earned at Hemerlingue's.

  "Oh! no, that is too much."

  But the other would not listen; he hemmed and hawed and rolled histongue around as if he were trying to say something that it was verydifficult to say; then with sudden resolution:

  "Here is your first month's pay."

  "But, monsieur--"

  The young man insisted. He was a stranger. It was fair that he shouldpay in advance. Evidently Passajon had told him. M. Joyeuse understoodand said, beneath his breath: "Thanks, oh! thanks!" so deeply movedthat words failed him. Life, it meant life for a few months, time toturn around, to find a situation. His darlings would be deprived ofnothing. They would have their New Year's gifts. O Providence!

  "Until Wednesday, then, Monsieur Joyeuse."

  "Until Wednesday, Monsieur--?"

  "De Gery--Paul de Gery."

  They parted, equally dazzled, enchanted, one by the appearance of thatunexpected saviour, the other by the lovely tableau of which he hadcaught a glimpse, all those maidens grouped around the table coveredwith books and papers and skeins, with an air of purity, ofhard-working probity. That sight opened up to de Gery a whole newParis, brave, domestic, very different from that with which he wasalready familiar, a Paris of which the writers of feuilletons and thereporters never speak, and which reminded him of his province, with anadditional element, namely, the charm which the surrounding hurly-burlyand turmoil impart to the peaceful shelter that they do not reach.