Eve and David

“In three years’ time,” continued Petit-Claud, “I shall be public prosecutor in Angouleme. You may have need of me some day; bear that in mind.”

“It’s agreed,” said Cerizet, “but you don’t know me. Burn that letter now and trust to my gratitude.”

Petit-Claud looked Cerizet in the face. It was a duel in which one man’s gaze is a scalpel with which he essays to probe the soul of another, and the eyes of that other are a theatre, as it were, to which all his virtue is summoned for display.

Petit-Claud did not utter a word. He lighted a taper and burned the letter. “He has his way to make,” he said to himself.

“Here is one that will go through fire and water for you,” said Cerizet.

David awaited the interview with the Cointets with a vague feeling of uneasiness; not, however, on account of the proposed partnership, nor for his own interests – he felt nervous as to their opinion of his work. He was in something the same position as a dramatic author before his judges. The inventor’s pride in the discovery so nearly completed left no room for any other feelings.

At seven o’clock that evening, while Mme. du Chatelet, pleading a sick headache, had gone to her room in her unhappiness over the rumors of Lucien’s departure; while M. de Comte, left to himself, was entertaining his guests at dinner – the tall Cointet and his stout brother, accompanied by Petit-Claud, opened negotiations with the competitor who had delivered himself up, bound hand and foot.

A difficulty awaited them at the outset. How was it possible to draw up a deed of partnership unless they knew David’s secret? And if David divulged his secret, he would be at the mercy of the Cointets. Petit-Claud arranged that the deed of partnership should be the first drawn up. Thereupon the tall Cointet asked to see some specimens of David’s work, and David brought out the last sheet that he had made, guaranteeing the price of production.

“Well,” said Petit-Claud, “there you have the basis of the agreement ready made. You can go into partnership on the strength of those samples, inserting a clause to protect yourselves in case the conditions of the patent are not fulfilled in the manufacturing process.”

“It is one thing to make samples of paper on a small scale in your own room with a small mould, monsieur, and another to turn out a quantity,” said the tall Cointet, addressing David. “Quite another thing, as you may judge from this single fact. We manufacture colored papers. We buy parcels of coloring absolutely identical. Every cake of indigo used for ‘blueing’ our post-demy is taken from a batch supplied by the same maker. Well, we have never yet been able to obtain two batches of precisely the same shade. There are variations in the material which we cannot detect. The quantity and the quality of the pulp modify every question at once. Suppose that you have in a caldron a quantity of ingredients of some kind (I don’t ask to know what they are), you can do as you like with them, the treatment can be uniformly applied, you can manipulate, knead, and pestle the mass at your pleasure until you have a homogeneous substance. But who will guarantee that it will be the same with a batch of five hundred reams, and that your plan will succeed in bulk?”

David, Eve, and Petit-Claud looked at one another; their eyes said many things.

“Take a somewhat similar case,” continued the tall Cointet after a pause. “You cut two or three trusses of meadow hay, and store it in a loft before ‘the heat is out of the grass,’ as the peasants say; the hay ferments, but no harm comes of it. You follow up your experiment by storing a couple of thousand trusses in a wooden barn – and, of course, the hay smoulders, and the barn blazes up like a lighted match. You are an educated man,” continued Cointet; “you can see the application for yourself. So far, you have only cut your two trusses of hay; we are afraid of setting fire to our paper-mill by bringing in a couple of thousand trusses. In other words, we may spoil more than one batch, make heavy losses, and find ourselves none the better for laying out a good deal of money.”

David was completely floored by this reasoning. Practical wisdom spoke in matter-of-fact language to theory, whose word is always for the future.

“Devil fetch me, if I’ll sign such a deed of partnership!” the stout Cointet cried bluntly. “You may throw away your money if you like, Boniface; as for me, I shall keep mine. Here is my offer – to pay M. Sechard’s debts and six thousand francs, and another three thousand francs in bills at twelve and fifteen months,” he added. “That will be quite enough risk to run. – We have a balance of twelve thousand francs against Metivier. That will make fifteen thousand francs. – That is all that I would pay for the secret if I were going to exploit it for myself. So this is the great discovery that you were talking about, Boniface! Many thanks! I thought you had more sense. No, you can’t call this business.”

“The question for you,” said Petit-Claud, undismayed by the explosion, “resolves itself into this: ‘Do you care to risk twenty thousand francs to buy a secret that may make rich men of you?’ Why, the risk usually is in proportion to the profit, gentlemen. You stake twenty thousand francs on your luck. A gambler puts down a louis at roulette for a chance of winning thirty-six, but he knows that the louis is lost. Do the same.”

“I must have time to think it over,” said the stout Cointet; “I am not so clever as my brother. I am a plain, straight-forward sort of chap, that only knows one thing – how to print prayer-books at twenty sous and sell them for two francs. Where I see an invention that has only been tried once, I see ruin. You succeed with the first batch, you spoil the next, you go on, and you are drawn in; for once put an arm into that machinery, the rest of you follows,” and he related an anecdote very much to the point – how a Bordeaux merchant had ruined himself by following a scientific man’s advice, and trying to bring the Landes into cultivation; and followed up the tale with half-a-dozen similar instances of agricultural and commercial failures nearer home in the departments of the Charente and Dordogne. He waxed warm over his recitals. He would not listen to another word. Petit-Claud’s demurs, so far from soothing the stout Cointet, appeared to irritate him.

“I would rather give more for a certainty, if I made only a small profit on it,” he said, looking at his brother. “It is my opinion that things have gone far enough for business,” he concluded.

“Still you came here for something, didn’t you?” asked Petit-Claud. “What is your offer?”

“I offer to release M. Sechard, and, if his plan succeeds, to give him thirty per cent of the profits,” the stout Cointet answered briskly.

“But, monsieur,” objected Eve, “how should we live while the experiments were being made? My husband has endured the disgrace of imprisonment already; he may as well go back to prison, it makes no difference now, and we will pay our debts ourselves – ”

Petit-Claud laid a finger on his lips in warning.

“You are unreasonable,” said he, addressing the brothers. “You have seen the paper; M. Sechard’s father told you that he had shut his son up, and that he had made capital paper in a single night from materials that must have cost a mere nothing. You are here to make an offer. Are you purchasers, yes or no?”

“Stay,” said the tall Cointet, “whether my brother is willing or no, I will risk this much myself. I will pay M. Sechard’s debts, I will pay six thousand francs over and above the debts, and M. Sechard shall have thirty per cent of the profits. But mind this – if in the space of one year he fails to carry out the undertakings which he himself will make in the deed of partnership, he must return the six thousand francs, and we shall keep the patent and extricate ourselves as best we may.”

“Are you sure of yourself?” asked Petit-Claud, taking David aside.

“Yes,” said David. He was deceived by the tactics of the brothers, and afraid lest the stout Cointet should break off the negotiations on which his future depended.

“Very well, I will draft the deed,” said Petit-Claud, addressing the rest of the party. “Each of you shall have a copy to-night, and you will have all to-morrow morning in which to think it over. To-morrow afternoon at four o’clock, when the court rises, you will sign the agreement. You, gentlemen, will withdraw Metivier’s suit, and I, for my part, will write to stop proceedings in the Court-Royal; we will give notice on either side that the affair has been settled out of court.”

David Sechard’s undertakings were thus worded in the deed: —

“M. David Sechard, printer of Angouleme, affirming that he has discovered a method of sizing paper-pulp in the vat, and also a method of affecting a reduction of fifty per cent in the price of all kinds of manufactured papers, by introducing certain vegetable substances into the pulp, either by intermixture of such substances with the rags already in use, or by employing them solely without the addition of rags: a partnership for working the patent to be presently applied for is entered upon by M. David Sechard and the firm of Cointet Brothers, subject to the following conditional clauses and stipulations.”

One of the clauses so drafted that David Sechard forfeited all his rights if he failed to fulfil his engagements within the year; the tall Cointet was particularly careful to insert that clause, and David Sechard allowed it to pass.

When Petit-Claud appeared with a copy of the agreement next morning at half-past seven o’clock, he brought news for David and his wife. Cerizet offered twenty-two thousand francs for the business. The whole affair could be signed and settled in the course of the evening. “But if the Cointets knew about it,” he added, “they would be quite capable of refusing to sign the deed of partnership, of harassing you, and selling you up.”

“Are you sure of payment?” asked Eve. She had thought it hopeless to try to sell the business; and now, to her astonishment, a bargain which would have been their salvation three months ago was concluded in this summary fashion.

“The money has been deposited with me,” he answered succinctly.

“Why, here is magic at work!” said David, and he asked Petit-Claud for an explanation of this piece of luck.

“No,” said Petit-Claud, “it is very simple. The merchants in L’Houmeau want a newspaper.”

“But I am bound not to publish a paper,” said David.

“Yes, you are bound, but is your successor? – However it is,” he continued, “do not trouble yourself at all; sell the business, pocket the proceeds, and leave Cerizet to find his way through the conditions of the sale – he can take care of himself.”

“Yes,” said Eve.

“And if it turns out that you may not print a newspaper in Angouleme,” said Petit-Claud, “those who are finding the capital for Cerizet will bring out the paper in L’Houmeau.”

The prospect of twenty-two thousand francs, of want now at end, dazzled Eve. The partnership and its hopes took a second place. And, therefore, M. and Mme. Sechard gave way on a final point of dispute. The tall Cointet insisted that the patent should be taken out in the name of any one of the partners. What difference could it make? The stout Cointet said the last word.

“He is finding the money for the patent; he is bearing the expenses of the journey – another two thousand francs over and above the rest of the expenses. He must take it out in his own name, or we will not stir in the matter.”

The lynx gained a victory at all points. The deed of partnership was signed that afternoon at half-past four.

The tall Cointet politely gave Mme. Sechard a dozen thread-pattern forks and spoons and a beautiful Ternaux shawl, by way of pin-money, said he, and to efface any unpleasant impression made in the heat of discussion. The copies of the draft had scarcely been made out, Cachan had barely had time to send the documents to Petit-Claud, together with the three unlucky forged bills, when the Sechards heard a deafening rumble in the street, a dray from the Messageries stopped before the door, and Kolb’s voice made the staircase ring again.

“Montame! montame! vifteen tausend vrancs, vrom Boidiers” (Poitiers). “Goot money! vrom Monziere Lucien!”

“Fifteen thousand francs!” cried Eve, throwing up her arms.

“Yes, madame,” said the carman in the doorway, “fifteen thousand francs, brought by the Bordeaux coach, and they didn’t want any more neither! I have two men downstairs bringing up the bags. M. Lucien Chardon de Rubempre is the sender. I have brought up a little leather bag for you, containing five hundred francs in gold, and a letter it’s likely.”

Eve thought that she must be dreaming as she read: —

“MY DEAR SISTER, – Here are fifteen thousand francs. Instead of taking my life, I have sold it. I am no longer my own; I am only the secretary of a Spanish diplomatist; I am his creature. A new and dreadful life is beginning for me. Perhaps I should have done better to drown myself.

“Good-bye. David will be released, and with the four thousand francs he can buy a little paper-mill, no doubt, and make his fortune. Forget me, all of you. This is the wish of your unhappy brother.

    “LUCIEN.”

“It is decreed that my poor boy should be unlucky in everything, and even when he does well, as he said himself,” said Mme. Chardon, as she watched the men piling up the bags.