Оноре де Бальзак
Cousin Betty
He rang the bell.
“That police report must be destroyed,” he added.
“Monseigneur, you are as a father to me! I dared not mention my anxiety on that point.”
“I still wish I had Roger here,” cried the Prince, as Mitouflet, his groom of the chambers, came in. “I was just going to send for him! – You may go, Mitouflet. – Go you, my dear old fellow, go and have the nomination made out; I will sign it. At the same time, that low schemer will not long enjoy the fruit of his crimes. He will be sharply watched, and drummed out of the regiment for the smallest fault. – You are saved this time, my dear Hector; take care for the future. Do not exhaust your friends’ patience. You shall have the nomination this morning, and your man shall get his promotion in the Legion of Honor. – How old are you now?”
“Within three months of seventy.”
“What a scapegrace!” said the Prince, laughing. “It is you who deserve a promotion, but, by thunder! we are not under Louis XV.!”
Such is the sense of comradeship that binds the glorious survivors of the Napoleonic phalanx, that they always feel as if they were in camp together, and bound to stand together through thick and thin.
“One more favor such as this,” Hulot reflected as he crossed the courtyard, “and I am done for!”
The luckless official went to Baron de Nucingen, to whom he now owed a mere trifle, and succeeded in borrowing forty thousand francs, on his salary pledged for two years more; the banker stipulated that in the event of Hulot’s retirement on his pension, the whole of it should be devoted to the repayment of the sum borrowed till the capital and interest were all cleared off.
This new bargain, like the first, was made in the name of Vauvinet, to whom the Baron signed notes of hand to the amount of twelve thousand francs.
On the following day, the fateful police report, the husband’s charge, the letters – all the papers – were destroyed. The scandalous promotion of Monsieur Marneffe, hardly heeded in the midst of the July fetes, was not commented on in any newspaper.
Lisbeth, to all appearance at war with Madame Marneffe, had taken up her abode with Marshal Hulot. Ten days after these events, the banns of marriage were published between the old maid and the distinguished old officer, to whom, to win his consent, Adeline had related the financial disaster that had befallen her Hector, begging him never to mention it to the Baron, who was, as she said, much saddened, quite depressed and crushed.
“Alas! he is as old as his years,” she added.
So Lisbeth had triumphed. She was achieving the object of her ambition, she would see the success of her scheme, and her hatred gratified. She delighted in the anticipated joy of reigning supreme over the family who had so long looked down upon her. Yes, she would patronize her patrons, she would be the rescuing angel who would dole out a livelihood to the ruined family; she addressed herself as “Madame la Comtesse” and “Madame la Marechale,” courtesying in front of a glass. Adeline and Hortense should end their days in struggling with poverty, while she, a visitor at the Tuileries, would lord it in the fashionable world.
A terrible disaster overthrew the old maid from the social heights where she so proudly enthroned herself.
On the very day when the banns were first published, the Baron received a second message from Africa. Another Alsatian arrived, handed him a letter, after assuring himself that he spoke to Baron Hulot, and after giving the Baron the address of his lodgings, bowed himself out, leaving the great man stricken by the opening lines of this letter: —
“DEAR NEPHEW, – You will receive this letter, by my calculations, on the 7th of August. Supposing it takes you three days to send us
the help we need, and that it is a fortnight on the way here, that brings us to the 1st of September.
“If you can act decisively within that time, you will have saved the honor and the life of yours sincerely, Johann Fischer. “This is what I am required to demand by the clerk you have made my accomplice; for I am amenable, it would seem, to the law, at the Assizes, or before a council of war. Of course, you understand that Johann Fischer will never be brought to the bar of any tribunal; he will go of his own act to appear at that of God.
“Your clerk seems to me a bad lot, quite capable of getting you into hot water; but he is as clever as any rogue. He says the line for you to take is to call out louder than any one, and to send out an inspector, a special commissioner, to discover who is really guilty, rake up abuses, and make a fuss, in short; but if we stir up the struggle, who will stand between us and the law?
“If your commissioner arrives here by the 1st of September, and you have given him your orders, sending by him two hundred thousand francs to place in our storehouses the supplies we profess to have secured in remote country places, we shall be absolutely solvent and regarded as blameless. You can trust the soldier who is the bearer of this letter with a draft in my name on a house in Algiers. He is a trustworthy fellow, a relation of mine, incapable of trying to find out what he is the bearer of. I have taken measures to guarantee the fellow’s safe return. If you can do nothing, I am ready and willing to die for the man to whom we owe our Adeline’s happiness!”
The anguish and raptures of passion and the catastrophe which had checked his career of profligacy had prevented Baron Hulot’s ever thinking of poor Johann Fischer, though his first letter had given warning of the danger now become so pressing. The Baron went out of the dining-room in such agitation that he literally dropped on to a sofa in the drawing-room. He was stunned, sunk in the dull numbness of a heavy fall. He stared at a flower on the carpet, quite unconscious that he still held in his hand Johann’s fatal letter.
Adeline, in her room, heard her husband throw himself on the sofa, like a lifeless mass; the noise was so peculiar that she fancied he had an apoplectic attack. She looked through the door at the mirror, in such dread as stops the breath and hinders motion, and she saw her Hector in the attitude of a man crushed. The Baroness stole in on tiptoe; Hector heard nothing; she went close up to him, saw the letter, took it, read it, trembling in every limb. She went through one of those violent nervous shocks that leave their traces for ever on the sufferer. Within a few days she became subject to a constant trembling, for after the first instant the need for action gave her such strength as can only be drawn from the very wellspring of the vital powers.
“Hector, come into my room,” said she, in a voice that was no more than a breath. “Do not let your daughter see you in this state! Come, my dear, come!”
“Two hundred thousand francs? Where can I find them? I can get Claude Vignon sent out there as commissioner. He is a clever, intelligent fellow. – That is a matter of a couple of days. – But two hundred thousand francs! My son has not so much; his house is loaded with mortgages for three hundred thousand. My brother has saved thirty thousand francs at most. Nucingen would simply laugh at me! – Vauvinet? – he was not very ready to lend me the ten thousand francs I wanted to make up the sum for that villain Marneffe’s boy. No, it is all up with me; I must throw myself at the Prince’s feet, confess how matters stand, hear myself told that I am a low scoundrel, and take his broadside so as to go decently to the bottom.”
“But, Hector, this is not merely ruin, it is disgrace,” said Adeline. “My poor uncle will kill himself. Only kill us – yourself and me; you have a right to do that, but do not be a murderer! Come, take courage; there must be some way out of it.”
“Not one,” said Hulot. “No one in the Government could find two hundred thousand francs, not if it were to save an Administration! – Oh, Napoleon! where art thou?”
“My uncle! poor man! Hector, he must not be allowed to kill himself in disgrace.”
“There is one more chance,” said he, “but a very remote one. – Yes, Crevel is at daggers drawn with his daughter. – He has plenty of money, he alone could – ”
“Listen, Hector it will be better for your wife to perish than to leave our uncle to perish – and your brother – the honor of the family!” cried the Baroness, struck by a flash of light. “Yes, I can save you all. – Good God! what a degrading thought! How could it have occurred to me?”
She clasped her hands, dropped on her knees, and put up a prayer. On rising, she saw such a crazy expression of joy on her husband’s face, that the diabolical suggestion returned, and then Adeline sank into a sort of idiotic melancholy.
“Go, my dear, at once to the War Office,” said she, rousing herself from this torpor; “try to send out a commission; it must be done. Get round the Marshal. And on your return, at five o’clock, you will find – perhaps – yes! you shall find two hundred thousand francs. Your family, your honor as a man, as a State official, a Councillor of State, your honesty – your son – all shall be saved; – but your Adeline will be lost, and you will see her no more. Hector, my dear,” said she, kneeling before him, clasping and kissing his hand, “give me your blessing! Say farewell.”
It was so heart-rending that Hulot put his arms round his wife, raised her and kissed her, saying:
“I do not understand.”
“If you did,” said she, “I should die of shame, or I should not have the strength to carry out this last sacrifice.”
“Breakfast is served,” said Mariette.
Hortense came in to wish her parents good-morning. They had to go to breakfast and assume a false face.
“Begin without me; I will join you,” said the Baroness.
She sat down to her desk and wrote as follows:
“MY DEAR MONSIEUR CREVEL, – I have to ask a service of you; I shall expect you this morning, and I count on your gallantry, which is well known to me, to save me from having too long to wait for you.
– Your faithful servant,“ADELINE HULOT.”
“Louise,” said she to her daughter’s maid, who waited on her, “take this note down to the porter and desire him to carry it at once to this address and wait for an answer.”
The Baron, who was reading the news, held out a Republican paper to his wife, pointing to an article, and saying:
“Is there time?”
This was the paragraph, one of the terrible “notes” with which the papers spice their political bread and butter: —
“A correspondent in Algiers writes that such abuses have been discovered in the commissariate transactions of the province of Oran, that the Law is making inquiries. The peculation is self-evident, and the guilty persons are known. If severe measures are not taken, we shall continue to lose more men through the extortion that limits their rations than by Arab steel or the fierce heat of the climate. We await further information before enlarging on this deplorable business. We need no longer wonder at the terror caused by the establishment of the Press in Africa, as was contemplated by the Charter of 1830.”
“I will dress and go to the Minister,” said the Baron, as they rose from table. “Time is precious; a man’s life hangs on every minute.”
“Oh, mamma, there is no hope for me!” cried Hortense. And unable to check her tears, she handed to her mother a number of the Revue des Beaux Arts.
Madame Hulot’s eye fell on a print of the group of “Delilah” by Count Steinbock, under which were the words, “The property of Madame Marneffe.”
The very first lines of the article, signed V., showed the talent and friendliness of Claude Vignon.
“Poor child!” said the Baroness.
Alarmed by her mother’s tone of indifference, Hortense looked up, saw the expression of a sorrow before which her own paled, and rose to kiss her mother, saying:
“What is the matter, mamma? What is happening? Can we be more wretched than we are already?”
“My child, it seems to me that in what I am going through to-day my past dreadful sorrows are as nothing. When shall I have ceased to suffer?”
“In heaven, mother,” said Hortense solemnly.
“Come, my angel, help me to dress. – No, no; I will not have you help me in this! Send me Louise.”
Adeline, in her room, went to study herself in the glass. She looked at herself closely and sadly, wondering to herself:
“Am I still handsome? Can I still be desirable? Am I not wrinkled?”
She lifted up her fine golden hair, uncovering her temples; they were as fresh as a girl’s. She went further; she uncovered her shoulders, and was satisfied; nay, she had a little feeling of pride. The beauty of really handsome shoulders is one of the last charms a woman loses, especially if she has lived chastely.
Adeline chose her dress carefully, but the pious and blameless woman is decent to the end, in spite of her little coquettish graces. Of what use were brand-new gray silk stockings and high heeled satin shoes when she was absolutely ignorant of the art of displaying a pretty foot at a critical moment, by obtruding it an inch or two beyond a half-lifted skirt, opening horizons to desire? She put on, indeed, her prettiest flowered muslin dress, with a low body and short sleeves; but horrified at so much bareness, she covered her fine arms with clear gauze sleeves and hid her shoulders under an embroidered cape. Her curls, a l’Anglaise, struck her as too fly-away; she subdued their airy lightness by putting on a very pretty cap; but, with or without the cap, would she have known how to twist the golden ringlets so as to show off her taper fingers to admiration?
As to rouge – the consciousness of guilt, the preparations for a deliberate fall, threw this saintly woman into a state of high fever, which, for the time, revived the brilliant coloring of youth. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks glowed. Instead of assuming a seductive air, she saw in herself a look of barefaced audacity which shocked her.
Lisbeth, at Adeline’s request, had told her all the circumstances of Wenceslas’ infidelity; and the Baroness had learned to her utter amazement, that in one evening in one moment, Madame Marneffe had made herself the mistress of the bewitched artist.
“How do these women do it?” the Baroness had asked Lisbeth.
There is no curiosity so great as that of virtuous women on such subjects; they would like to know the arts of vice and remain immaculate.
“Why, they are seductive; it is their business,” said Cousin Betty. “Valerie that evening, my dear, was, I declare, enough to bring an angel to perdition.”
“But tell me how she set to work.”
“There is no principle, only practice in that walk of life,” said Lisbeth ironically.
The Baroness, recalling this conversation, would have liked to consult Cousin Betty; but there was no time for that. Poor Adeline, incapable of imagining a patch, of pinning a rosebud in the very middle of her bosom, of devising the tricks of the toilet intended to resuscitate the ardors of exhausted nature, was merely well dressed. A woman is not a courtesan for the wishing!
“Woman is soup for man,” as Moliere says by the mouth of the judicious Gros-Rene. This comparison suggests a sort of culinary art in love. Then the virtuous wife would be a Homeric meal, flesh laid on hot cinders. The courtesan, on the contrary, is a dish by Careme, with its condiments, spices, and elegant arrangement. The Baroness could not – did not know how to serve up her fair bosom in a lordly dish of lace, after the manner of Madame Marneffe. She knew nothing of the secrets of certain attitudes. This high-souled woman might have turned round and round a hundred times, and she would have betrayed nothing to the keen glance of a profligate.
To be a good woman and a prude to all the world, and a courtesan to her husband, is the gift of a woman of genius, and they are few. This is the secret of long fidelity, inexplicable to the women who are not blessed with the double and splendid faculty. Imagine Madame Marneffe virtuous, and you have the Marchesa di Pescara. But such lofty and illustrious women, beautiful as Diane de Poitiers, but virtuous, may be easily counted.
So the scene with which this serious and terrible drama of Paris manners opened was about to be repeated, with this singular difference – that the calamities prophesied then by the captain of the municipal Militia had reversed the parts. Madame Hulot was awaiting Crevel with the same intentions as had brought him to her, smiling down at the Paris crowd from his milord, three years ago. And, strangest thing of all, the Baroness was true to herself and to her love, while preparing to yield to the grossest infidelity, such as the storm of passion even does not justify in the eyes of some judges.
“What can I do to become a Madame Marneffe?” she asked herself as she heard the door-bell.
She restrained her tears, fever gave brilliancy to her face, and she meant to be quite the courtesan, poor, noble soul.
“What the devil can that worthy Baronne Hulot want of me?” Crevel wondered as he mounted the stairs. “She is going to discuss my quarrel with Celestine and Victorin, no doubt; but I will not give way!”
As he went into the drawing-room, shown in by Louise, he said to himself as he noted the bareness of the place (Crevel’s word):
“Poor woman! She lives here like some fine picture stowed in a loft by a man who knows nothing of painting.”
Crevel, seeing Comte Popinot, the Minister of Commerce, buy pictures and statues, wanted also to figure as a Maecenas of Paris, whose love of Art consists in making good investments.
Adeline smiled graciously at Crevel, pointing to a chair facing her.
“Here I am, fair lady, at your command,” said Crevel.
Monsieur the Mayor, a political personage, now wore black broadcloth. His face, at the top of this solemn suit, shone like a full moon rising above a mass of dark clouds. His shirt, buttoned with three large pearls worth five hundred francs apiece, gave a great idea of his thoracic capacity, and he was apt to say, “In me you see the coming athlete of the tribune!” His enormous vulgar hands were encased in yellow gloves even in the morning; his patent leather boots spoke of the chocolate-colored coupe with one horse in which he drove.
In the course of three years ambition had altered Crevel’s pretensions. Like all great artists, he had come to his second manner. In the great world, when he went to the Prince de Wissembourg’s, to the Prefecture, to Comte Popinot’s, and the like, he held his hat in his hand in an airy manner taught him by Valerie, and he inserted the thumb of the other hand in the armhole of his waistcoat with a knowing air, and a simpering face and expression. This new grace of attitude was due to the satirical inventiveness of Valerie, who, under pretence of rejuvenating her mayor, had given him an added touch of the ridiculous.
“I begged you to come, my dear kind Monsieur Crevel,” said the Baroness in a husky voice, “on a matter of the greatest importance – ”
“I can guess what it is, madame,” said Crevel, with a knowing air, “but what you would ask is impossible. – Oh, I am not a brutal father, a man – to use Napoleon’s words – set hard and fast on sheer avarice. Listen to me, fair lady. If my children were ruining themselves for their own benefit, I would help them out of the scrape; but as for backing your husband, madame? It is like trying to fill the vat of the Danaides! Their house is mortgaged for three hundred thousand francs for an incorrigible father! Why, they have nothing left, poor wretches! And they have no fun for their money. All they have to live upon is what Victorin may make in Court. He must wag his tongue more, must monsieur your son! And he was to have been a Minister, that learned youth! Our hope and pride. A pretty pilot, who runs aground like a land-lubber; for if he had borrowed to enable him to get on, if he had run into debt for feasting Deputies, winning votes, and increasing his influence, I should be the first to say, ‘Here is my purse – dip your hand in, my friend!’ But when it comes of paying for papa’s folly – folly I warned you of! – Ah! his father has deprived him of every chance of power. – It is I who shall be Minister!”
“Alas, my dear Crevel, it has nothing to do with the children, poor devoted souls! – If your heart is closed to Victorin and Celestine, I shall love them so much that perhaps I may soften the bitterness of their souls caused by your anger. You are punishing your children for a good action!”
“Yes, for a good action badly done! That is half a crime,” said Crevel, much pleased with his epigram.
“Doing good, my dear Crevel, does not mean sparing money out of a purse that is bursting with it; it means enduring privations to be generous, suffering for liberality! It is being prepared for ingratitude! Heaven does not see the charity that costs us nothing – ”
“Saints, madame, may if they please go to the workhouse; they know that it is for them the door of heaven. For my part, I am worldly-minded; I fear God, but yet more I fear the hell of poverty. To be destitute is the last depth of misfortune in society as now constituted. I am a man of my time; I respect money.”
“And you are right,” said Adeline, “from the worldly point of view.”
She was a thousand miles from her point, and she felt herself on a gridiron, like Saint Laurence, as she thought of her uncle, for she could see him blowing his brains out.
She looked down; then she raised her eyes to gaze at Crevel with angelic sweetness – not with the inviting suggestiveness which was part of Valerie’s wit. Three years ago she could have bewitched Crevel by that beautiful look.
“I have known the time,” said she, “when you were more generous – you used to talk of three hundred thousand francs like a grand gentleman – ”
Crevel looked at Madame Hulot; he beheld her like a lily in the last of its bloom, vague sensations rose within him, but he felt such respect for this saintly creature that he spurned all suspicions and buried them in the most profligate corner of his heart.
“I, madame, am still the same; but a retired merchant, if he is a grand gentleman, plays, and must play, the part with method and economy; he carries his ideas of order into everything. He opens an account for his little amusements, and devotes certain profits to that head of expenditure; but as to touching his capital! it would be folly. My children will have their fortune intact, mine and my wife’s; but I do not suppose that they wish their father to be dull, a monk and a mummy! My life is a very jolly one; I float gaily down the stream. I fulfil all the duties imposed on me by law, by my affections, and by family ties, just as I always used to be punctual in paying my bills when they fell due. If only my children conduct themselves in their domestic life as I do, I shall be satisfied; and for the present, so long as my follies – for I have committed follies – are no loss to any one but the gulls – excuse me, you do not perhaps understand the slang word – they will have nothing to blame me for, and will find a tidy little sum still left when I die. Your children cannot say as much of their father, who is ruining his son and my daughter by his pranks – ”
The Baroness was getting further from her object as he went on.
“You are very unkind about my husband, my dear Crevel – and yet, if you had found his wife obliging, you would have been his best friend – ”
She shot a burning glance at Crevel; but, like Dubois, who gave the Regent three kicks, she affected too much, and the rakish perfumer’s thoughts jumped at such profligate suggestions, that he said to himself, “Does she want to turn the tables on Hulot? – Does she think me more attractive as a Mayor than as a National Guardsman? Women are strange creatures!”
And he assumed the position of his second manner, looking at the Baroness with his Regency leer.
“I could almost fancy,” she went on, “that you want to visit on him your resentment against the virtue that resisted you – in a woman whom you loved well enough – to – to buy her,” she added in a low voice.
“In a divine woman,” Crevel replied, with a meaning smile at the Baroness, who looked down while tears rose to her eyes. “For you have swallowed not a few bitter pills! – in these three years – hey, my beauty?”
“Do not talk of my troubles, dear Crevel; they are too much for the endurance of a mere human being. Ah! if you still love me, you may drag me out of the pit in which I lie. Yes, I am in hell torment! The regicides who were racked and nipped and torn into quarters by four horses were on roses compared with me, for their bodies only were dismembered, and my heart is torn in quarters – ”
Crevel’s thumb moved from his armhole, he placed his hand on the work-table, he abandoned his attitude, he smiled! The smile was so vacuous that it misled the Baroness; she took it for an expression of kindness.
“You see a woman, not indeed in despair, but with her honor at the point of death, and prepared for everything, my dear friend, to hinder a crime.”
Fearing that Hortense might come in, she bolted the door; then with equal impetuosity she fell at Crevel’s feet, took his hand and kissed it.
“Be my deliverer!” she cried.
She thought there was some generous fibre in this mercantile soul, and full of sudden hope that she might get the two hundred thousand francs without degrading herself:
“Buy a soul – you were once ready to buy virtue!” she went on, with a frenzied gaze. “Trust to my honesty as a woman, to my honor, of which you know the worth! Be my friend! Save a whole family from ruin, shame, despair; keep it from falling into a bog where the quicksands are mingled with blood! Oh! ask for no explanations,” she exclaimed, at a movement on Crevel’s part, who was about to speak. “Above all, do not say to me, ‘I told you so!’ like a friend who is glad at a misfortune. Come now, yield to her whom you used to love, to the woman whose humiliation at your feet is perhaps the crowning moment of her glory; ask nothing of her, expect what you will from her gratitude! – No, no. Give me nothing, but lend – lend to me whom you used to call Adeline – ”
At this point her tears flowed so fast, Adeline was sobbing so passionately, that Crevel’s gloves were wet. The words, “I need two hundred thousand francs,” were scarcely articulate in the torrent of weeping, as stones, however large, are invisible in Alpine cataracts swollen by the melting of the snows.
This is the inexperience of virtue. Vice asks for nothing, as we have seen in Madame Marneffe; it gets everything offered to it. Women of that stamp are never exacting till they have made themselves indispensable, or when a man has to be worked as a quarry is worked where the lime is rather scarce – going to ruin, as the quarry-men say.
On hearing these words, “Two hundred thousand francs,” Crevel understood all. He cheerfully raised the Baroness, saying insolently:
“Come, come, bear up, mother,” which Adeline, in her distraction, failed to hear. The scene was changing its character. Crevel was becoming “master of the situation,” to use his own words. The vastness of the sum startled Crevel so greatly that his emotion at seeing this handsome woman in tears at his feet was forgotten. Besides, however angelical and saintly a woman may be, when she is crying bitterly her beauty disappears. A Madame Marneffe, as has been seen, whimpers now and then, a tear trickles down her cheek; but as to melting into tears and making her eyes and nose red! – never would she commit such a blunder.
“Come, child, compose yourself. – Deuce take it!” Crevel went on, taking Madame Hulot’s hands in his own and patting them. “Why do you apply to me for two hundred thousand francs? What do you want with them? Whom are they for?”
“Do not,” said she, “insist on any explanations. Give me the money! – You will save three lives and the honor of our children.”
“And do you suppose, my good mother, that in all Paris you will find a man who at a word from a half-crazy woman will go off hic et nunc, and bring out of some drawer, Heaven knows where, two hundred thousand francs that have been lying simmering there till she is pleased to scoop them up? Is that all you know of life and of business, my beauty? Your folks are in a bad way; you may send them the last sacraments; for no one in Paris but her Divine Highness Madame la Banque, or the great Nucingen, or some miserable miser who is in love with gold as we other folks are with a woman, could produce such a miracle! The civil list, civil as it may be, would beg you to call again tomorrow. Every one invests his money, and turns it over to the best of his powers.
“You are quite mistaken, my angel, if you suppose that King Louis-Philippe rules us; he himself knows better than that. He knows as well as we do that supreme above the Charter reigns the holy, venerated, substantial, delightful, obliging, beautiful, noble, ever-youthful, and all-powerful five-franc piece! But money, my beauty, insists on interest, and is always engaged in seeking it! ‘God of the Jews, thou art supreme!’ says Racine. The perennial parable of the golden calf, you see! – In the days of Moses there was stock-jobbing in the desert!
“We have reverted to Biblical traditions; the Golden Calf was the first State ledger,” he went on. “You, my Adeline, have not gone beyond the Rue Plumet. The Egyptians had lent enormous sums to the Hebrews, and what they ran after was not God’s people, but their capital.”
He looked at the Baroness with an expression which said, “How clever I am!”
“You know nothing of the devotion of every city man to his sacred hoard!” he went on, after a pause. “Excuse me. Listen to me. Get this well into your head. – You want two hundred thousand francs? No one can produce the sum without selling some security. Now consider! To have two hundred thousand francs in hard cash it would be needful to sell about seven hundred thousand francs’ worth of stock at three per cent. Well; and then you would only get the money on the third day. That is the quickest way. To persuade a man to part with a fortune – for two hundred thousand francs is the whole fortune of many a man – he ought at least to know where it is all going to, and for what purpose – ”