The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 3 of 6

"Very well."

"M. Charles Robert will come in the course of the morning to speak to our master. It seems that he fought a duel yesterday with the Duke de Lucenay."

"And is he wounded?"

"I think not, or else they would have told me so at the house."

"Hark! there's a carriage stopping at the door."

"Oh, what fine horses! how full of spirits they are!"

"And that fat English coachman, with his white wig, and brown livery striped with silver, and his epaulettes like a colonel!"

"It must be some ambassador's."

"And the chasseur, look how he is bedizened all over with silver!"

"And what moustachios!"

"Oh," said Jabulot, "it is the Viscount de Saint-Remy's carriage!"

"What! is that the way he does it? Oh, my!"

Soon after the Viscount de Saint-Remy entered the office.

We have already described the handsome appearance, elegance of style, and aristocratical demeanour of M. de Saint-Remy, when he was on his way to the farm of Arnouville (the estate of Madame de Lucenay), where he had found a retreat from the pursuit of the bailiffs, Malicorne and Bourdin. The viscount, who entered unceremoniously into the office, with his hat on his head, a haughty and disdainful look, and his eyes half closed, asked, with an air of extreme superciliousness, and without looking at anybody:

"Where is the notary?"

"M. Ferrand is engaged in his private room," said the chief clerk. "If you will please to wait a moment, sir, he will see you."

"What do you mean by wait a moment?"

"Why, sir – "

"There is no why in the case, sir. Go and tell him that M. de Saint-Remy is here; and I am much surprised that this notary should make me dance attendance in his waiting-room. It is really most annoying."

"Will you walk into this side room, sir?" said the chief clerk, "and I will inform M. Ferrand this instant."

M. de Saint-Remy shrugged his shoulders, and followed the head clerk. At the end of a quarter of an hour, which seemed very tedious to him, and which converted his spleen into anger, the viscount was introduced into the notary's private apartment.

Nothing could be more striking than the contrast between these two men, both of them profound physiognomists, and habituated to judge at a glance of the persons with whom they had business. M. de Saint-Remy saw Jacques Ferrand for the first time, and was struck with the expression of his pallid, harsh, and impassive features, – the look concealed by the large green spectacles; the skull half hid beneath an old black silk cap. The notary was seated at his writing-desk, in a leathern armchair, beside a low fireplace, almost choked up with ashes, and in which were two black and smoking logs of wood. Curtains of green cotton, almost in rags, hung on small iron rings at the windows, and, concealing the lower window-panes, threw over the room, which was naturally dark, a livid and unpleasant hue. Shelves of black wood were filled with deed-boxes, all duly labelled. Some cherry-wood chairs, covered with threadbare Utrecht velvet; a clock in a mahogany case; a floor yellow, damp, and chilling; a ceiling full of cracks, and festooned with spiders' webs, – such was the sanctum sanctorum of M. Jacques Ferrand. Hardly had the viscount made two steps into his cabinet, or spoken a word, than the notary, who knew him by reputation, conceived an intense antipathy towards him. In the first place, he saw in him, if we may say so, a rival in rogueries; and then he hated elegance, grace, and youth in other persons, and more especially when these advantages were attended with an air of insolent superiority. The notary usually assumed a tone of rude and almost coarse abruptness with his clients, who liked him the better for being in behaviour like a boor of the Danube. He made up his mind to double this brutality towards M. de Saint-Remy, who, only knowing the notary by report also, expected to find an attorney either familiar or a fool; for the viscount always imagined men of such probity as M. Ferrand had the reputation for, as having an exterior almost ridiculous, but, so far from this, the countenance and appearance of the attorney at law struck the viscount with an undefinable feeling, – half fear, half aversion. Consequently, his own resolute character made M. de Saint-Remy increase his usual impertinence and effrontery. The notary kept his cap on his head, and the viscount did not doff his hat, but exclaimed, as he entered the room, with a loud and imperative tone:

"Pardieu, sir! it is very strange that you should give me the trouble to come here, instead of sending to my house for the money for the bills I accepted from the man Badinot, and for which the fellow has issued execution against me. It is true you tell me that you have also another very important communication to make to me; but then, surely, that is no excuse for making me wait for half an hour in your antechamber: it is really most annoying, sir!"

M. Ferrand, quite unmoved, finished a calculation he was engaged in, wiped his pen methodically in a moist sponge which encircled his inkstand of cracked earthenware, and raised towards the viscount his icy, earthy, flat face, shaded by his spectacles. He looked like a death's head in which the eye-holes had been replaced by large, fixed, staring green eyeballs. After having looked at the viscount for a moment or two, the notary said to him, in a harsh and abrupt tone:

"Where's the money?"

This coolness exasperated M. de Saint-Rémy.

He – he, the idol of the women, the envy of the men, the model of the first society in Paris, the dreaded duellist – produced no effect on a wretched attorney-at-law! It was horrid; and, although he was only tête-à-tête with Jacques Ferrand, his pride revolted.

"Where are the bills?" inquired the viscount, abruptly.

With the point of one of his fingers, as hard as iron, and covered with red hair, the notary rapped on a large leathern pocket-book which lay close beside him. Resolved on being as laconic, although trembling with rage, M. de Saint-Remy took from the pocket of his upper coat a Russian leather pocket-book, with gold clasps, from which he drew forth forty notes of a thousand francs each, and showed them to the notary.

"How many are there?" he inquired.

"Forty thousand francs."

"Hand them to me!"

"Take them! and let this have a speedy termination. Ply your trade, pay yourself, and give me the bills," said the viscount, as he threw the notes on the table, with an impatient air.

The notary took up the bank-notes, rose, went close to the window to examine them, turning and re-turning them over and over, one by one, with an attention so scrupulous, and really so insulting for M. de Saint-Rémy, that the viscount actually turned pale with rage. Jacques Ferrand, as if he had guessed the thoughts which were passing in the viscount's mind, shook his head, turned half towards him, and said to him, with an indefinable accent:

"I have seen – "

M. de Saint-Remy, confused for a moment, said, drily:

"What?"

"Forged bank-notes," replied the notary, continuing his scrutiny of a note, which he had not yet examined.

"What do you mean by that remark, sir?"

Jacques Ferrand paused for a moment, looked steadfastly at the viscount through his glasses, then, shrugging his shoulders slightly, he continued to investigate the notes, without uttering a syllable.

"Monsieur Notary! I would wish you to learn that, when I ask a question, I have an answer!" cried M. de Saint-Remy, exasperated at the coolness of Jacques Ferrand.

"These notes are good," said the notary, turning towards his bureau, whence he took a small bundle of stamped papers, to which were annexed two bills of exchange; then, putting down one of the bank-notes for one thousand francs and three rouleaus, of one hundred francs each, on the table, he said to M. de Saint-Remy, pointing to the money and the bills with his finger:

"Here's your change out of the forty thousand francs; my client has desired me to deduct the expenses."

The viscount had contained himself with great difficulty whilst Jacques Ferrand was making out the account, and, instead of taking up the money, he exclaimed, in a voice that literally shook with passion:

"I beg to know, sir, what you meant by saying, whilst you looked at the bank-notes which I handed to you, that you 'had seen forged notes?'"

"What I meant?"

"Yes."

"Because I sent for you to come here on a matter of forgery."

And the notary fixed his green spectacles on the viscount.

"And how can this forgery in any way affect me?"