“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 frockcoat, 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 tonight, 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 drawingroom, 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 drawingroom, from which it was separated by a double set of hangings.
“Have you the money?” she asked, when they were alone.
She