Complete Works of Emile Zola (241 page)

“Then who is it?”

And he tightened his grasp on her wrists. The poor woman struggled a few moments longer.

“Oh, Maxime, if you knew!… And yet I can’t tell you….”

Then, conquered, crushed, looking up with affright at the light in the window:

“It’s M. de Saffré,” she stammered, in a whisper.

Maxime, who had taken delight in his cruel pastime, turned extremely pale before the avowal which he had evoked with so much persistence. He was vexed at the unexpected pain this man’s name caused him. He violently threw back Renée’s wrists, came up to her, and said to her, full in her face, between his clenched teeth:

“Look here, if you want to know, you’re a…!”

He said the word. And he was going away when she ran to him, sobbing, and took him in her arms, murmured words of love, appeals for forgiveness, swore to him that she still adored him, and that she would explain everything the next day. But he disengaged himself, and banging the door of the conservatory, replied:

“No, no, no! it’s over, I’ve had quite enough of it.”

She remained crushed. She watched him crossing the garden. The trees of the hot-house seemed to be revolving around her. Then she slowly dragged her bare feet over the gravel of the pathways, climbed up the steps, her skin mottled with cold, she still more tragical in the disorder of her lace. Upstairs she said, in reply to her husband’s questions, who was waiting for her, that she thought she would have been able to remember where a little memorandum-book might have got to that had been lost since the morning. And when she was in bed, she suddenly felt an infinite despair when she reflected that she ought to have told Maxime that his father had come in with her and had followed her into her room in order to discuss some question of money with her.

It was on the next day that Saccard resolved to bring to a head the Charonne business. His wife belonged to him; he had just felt her soft and inert in his hands, like a yielding thing. On the other hand the direction of the Boulevard du Prince-Eugène was about to be settled, and it was necessary that Renée should be despoiled before the news got about of the approaching expropriation. Saccard put an artist’s love of his work into this piece of business; he watched his plan ripen with devotion, and set his traps with the refinement of a sportsman who takes a special pride in catching his game skilfully. In his case it was simply the self-satisfaction of an expert gamester, of a man who derives a peculiar enjoyment from ill-gotten gains; he wanted to buy the ground for an old song, and was quite ready then to give his wife a hundred thousand francs’ worth of jewellery in the exaltation of his triumph. The simplest operations became complicated so soon as he touched them, and turned into sombre tragedies: he became impassioned, he would have beaten his father for a five-franc piece. And afterwards he scattered his gold right royally.

But before obtaining from Renée the transfer of her share of the property, he had the foresight to go and sound Larsonneau as to the blackmailing intentions of which he suspected him. His intuition saved him in this instance. The expropriation-agent had thought, on his side, that the fruit was now ripe and waiting to be gathered. When Saccard walked into the office in the Rue de Rivoli, he found his associate overcome, giving signs of the most violent despair.

“Ah, my friend,” murmured the latter, taking hold of Saccard’s hands, “we are lost…. I was just coming round to you to discuss the best way out of this terrible scrape….”

While he wrung his hands, and endeavoured to force out a sob, Saccard noticed that he had been engaged in signing letters as he came in, and that the signatures were admirably firm. He looked at him calmly, and then said:

“Pooh, what has happened, then?”

But the other did not at once reply; he threw himself into his arm-chair in front of his writing-table, and there, with his elbows on his blotting-book, and his forehead between his hands, furiously shook his head. At last, in a hollow voice:

“They have stolen the ledger, I tell you….”

And he told how one of his clerks, a rogue fit for the galleys, had abstracted a large number of books, among which was the famous ledger. The worst of it was that the thief had realized to what use he could put that book, and would only sell it back again for a hundred thousand francs.

Saccard reflected. The story struck him as altogether too clumsy. Obviously Larsonneau did not at heart much care whether he believed it or not. He simply sought a pretext for giving him to understand that he wanted a hundred thousand francs out of the Charonne affair; and in fact that on this condition he would restore the compromising papers in his possession. The bargain seemed too dear to Saccard. He would not have minded allowing his ex-colleague a share; but this ambush prepared for him, this vain attempt to dupe him, irritated him. On the other hand he was not quite easy in his mind; he knew his man, and he knew him to be quite capable of carrying the documents to his brother the minister, who would certainly have paid him to prevent any scandal.

“The devil!” he muttered, sitting down, in his turn, “that’s an ugly business…. And could I see the rogue in question?”

“I will send for him,” said Larsonneau. “He lives close by, in the Rue Jean-Lantier.”

Ten minutes had not elapsed when a short young man, squint-eyed, pale-haired, with a face covered with red patches, entered softly, taking care that the door should make no noise. He was dressed in a badly-cut black frock-coat, too large for him and horribly threadbare. He stood at a respectful distance, watching Saccard out of the corner of his eye, calmly. Larsonneau, addressing him as Baptistin, submitted him to a series of questions to which he replied in monosyllables without being in the least disconcerted; and he received with complete indifference the epithets of thief, swindler, and scoundrel, with which his employer thought fit to accompany each of his questions.

Saccard admired the wretch’s coolness. At one moment the expropriation-agent flew from his chair as though to strike him; and he contented himself with taking a step backwards, squinting with greater humility.

“That will do, leave him alone,” said the financier…. “So, monsieur, you ask a hundred thousand francs to give up those papers?”

“Yes, a hundred thousand francs,” replied the young man. And he went away. Larsonneau seemed unable to calm himself.

“Ugh! what a reptile!” he stuttered. “Did you see his deceitful looks?… Those fellows have a timid look, but they’d murder a man for twenty francs.”

But Saccard interrupted him and said:

“Bah! he’s nothing to be afraid of. I think we shall be able to make terms with him…. I came to see you about a much more distressing matter…. You were right to distrust my wife, my dear friend. Try and realize that she wants to sell her share in the property to M. Haffner. She needs money, she says. Her friend Suzanne must have egged her on.”

The other abruptly ceased his lamentations; he listened, rather pale, adjusting his stand-up collar, which had become bent during his anger.

“This transfer,” continued Saccard, “means ruin to our expectations. If M. Haffner becomes your co-partner, not only will our profits be compromised, but I am dreadfully afraid we shall find ourselves in a very unpleasant position in regard to that fastidious person, who will insist on examining the accounts.”

The expropriation-agent began walking up and down with an agitated step, his patent-leather boots creaking on the carpet.

“You see,” he muttered, “in what a position one puts one’s self to oblige people!… But, my dear fellow, in your place I should absolutely prevent my wife from doing anything so foolish. I would rather beat her.”

“Ah, my friend!…” said the financier, with a cunning smile, “I have no more power over my wife than you seem to have over that low scoundrel of a Baptistin.”

Larsonneau stopped short before Saccard, who went on smiling, and glanced up at him with a penetrating look. Then he resumed his walk to and fro, but with a slow and measured step. He went up to a mirror, pulled up the bow of his cravat, and walked on again, regaining his elegant manner. And suddenly:

“Baptistin!” he cried.

The little young man with the squint came in, but through another door. He no longer carried a hat, but twisted a pen between his fingers.

“Go and fetch the ledger,” said Larsonneau to him.

And when he was gone, he discussed the amount they were to give him.

“Do this for my sake,” he ended by saying, quite bluntly.

Then Saccard consented to give thirty thousand francs out of the future profits of the Charonne undertaking. He considered that he had escaped cheaply from the usurer’s gloved hands. The latter had the promise made out to his name, keeping up the pretence to the end, saying that he would account for the thirty thousand francs to the young man. It was with a laugh of relief that Saccard burnt the ledger in the flames of the fire, page by page. Then, this operation over, he shook Larsonneau vigorously by the hand, and left him, saying:

“You are going to Laure’s to-night, are you not?… Look out for me. I shall have settled everything with my wife; we shall make our final arrangements.”

Laure d’Aurigny, who often changed her address, was at that time living in a large apartment on the Boulevard Haussmann, opposite the Chapelle Expiatoire. She had taken to having a day every week, like the ladies in the real world. It enabled her to bring together at the same time all the men who saw her, separately, during the week. Aristide Saccard exulted in these Tuesday evenings; he was the acknowledged protector; and he turned away his head, with a vacuous laugh, whenever the mistress of the house deceived him in the doorways by granting an assignation for the same night to one of those gentlemen. He stayed till all the rest had gone, lit another cigar, talked business, joked a moment about the gentleman who was dancing attendance in the street, while waiting for him to go, and then, after calling Laure “his dear child” and giving her a little pat on the cheek, he quietly went out by one way while the gentleman came in by another. The secret treaty of alliance, which had consolidated Saccard’s credit and provided the d’Aurigny with two sets of furniture in one month, continued to amuse them. But Laure wanted a finale to this comedy. This finale, arranged beforehand, was to consist in a public rupture, in favour of some idiot who would pay a heavy price for the right of becoming the serious protector and of being known as such to all Paris. The idiot was forthcoming. The Duc de Rozan, tired of wearying the women of his own set to no purpose, dreamt of acquiring the reputation of a debauchee, in order to lend some relief to his insipid personality. He was an assiduous visitor at Laure’s Tuesdays, and had conquered her by his absolute innocence. Unfortunately, although thirty-five years of age, he was still dependent upon his mother, so much so that the most he could dispose of was some ten louis at a time. On the evenings when Laure deigned to take his ten louis, pitying herself, talking of the hundred thousand francs she stood in need of, he sighed, he promised to give it her on the day when he should be his own master. Thereupon she conceived the bright idea of causing him to make friends with Larsonneau, one of the familiars of the house. The two men breakfasted together at Tortoni’s; and at dessert Larsonneau, while describing his love affair with a delicious Spaniard, professed to know some money-lenders; but he strongly advised Rozan never to fall into their clutches. This disclosure excited the duc, who ended by wringing a promise from his good friend that he would interest himself in “his little affair.” He took so practical an interest in it that he was to bring the money on the very evening when Saccard had arranged to meet him at Laure’s.

When Larsonneau entered the d’Aurigny’s great white-and-gold drawing-room, there had arrived only five or six women, who seized his hands and hung round his neck with a great display of affection. They called him “that big Lar!” a caressing diminutive invented by Laure. And he replied, in fluted tones:

“There, there, my turtle-doves; you’ll crush my hat.”

They calmed down, and gathered close round him on a couch, while he told them about a stomach-ache of Sylvia’s with whom he had supped the night before. Then, taking a bag of sweets from the pocket of his dress-coat, he handed round some burnt almonds. But Laure came in from her bedroom, and as many gentlemen were arriving, she drew Larsonneau into a boudoir at one end of the drawing-room, from which it was separated by a double set of hangings.

“Have you the money?” she asked, when they were alone.

She addressed him in the second person singular on important occasions. Larsonneau made no reply, but bowed humorously, and tapped the inside pocket of his coat.

“Oh, that big Lar!” murmured the young woman, enchanted.

And she seized him round the waist and kissed him.

“Wait,” she said, “I want the curl-papers at once…. Rozan is in my room, I will fetch him.”

But he held her back, and kissing her on the shoulders in his turn:

“You know what commission I asked of you?”

“Why, yes, you great stupid, that’s all right.”

She returned with Rozan. Larsonneau was dressed more correctly than the duc, with better fitting gloves and a more artistic cravat. They touched hands carelessly, and talked of the races of two days ago, when one of their friends had run a loser. Laure stamped about.

“Come, never mind all that, dear,” she said to Rozan, “that big Lar has the money, you know. We had better settle up.”

Larsonneau pretended to remember.

“Ah yes, that’s true,” he said, “I have the amount…. But how much wiser you would have been to have listened to me, old chap! To think that those rogues asked me fifty per cent!… However, I agreed at any cost, as you told me it made no difference….”

Laure d’Aurigny had procured some bill-stamps during the day. But when it became a question of a pen and ink, she looked at the two men with an air of consternation, doubting whether she had such a thing in the house. She proposed to go and look in the kitchen, when Larsonneau took from his pocket, the same pocket that held the bag of sweets, two marvels, a silver penholder that screwed out, and an inkstand in steel and ebony, finished off as daintily as a trinket. And as Rozan sat down: