Works of Honore De Balzac, page 750
“I will not have you plundered; all that I have is yours. So you must trust nobody, Schmucke, you that have never suspected any one in your life. I know God watches over you, but He may forget for one moment, and you will be seized like a vessel among pirates.... La Cibot is a monster! She is killing me; and you think her an angel! You shall see what she is. Go and ask her to give you the name of a notary, and I will show you her with her hand in the bag.”
Schmucke listened as if Pons proclaimed an apocalypse. Could so depraved a creature as La Cibot exist? If Pons was right, it seemed to imply that there was no God in the world. He went right down again to Mme. Cibot.
“Mein boor vriend Bons feel so ill,” he said, “dat he vish to make his vill. Go und pring ein nodary.”
This was said in the hearing of several persons, for Cibot’s life was despaired of. Remonencq and his sister, two women from neighboring porters’ lodges, two or three servants, and the lodger from the first floor on the side next the street, were all standing outside in the gateway.
“Oh! you can just fetch a notary yourself, and have your will made as you please,” cried La Cibot, with tears in her eyes. “My poor Cibot is dying, and it is no time to leave him. I would give all the Ponses in the world to save Cibot, that has never given me an ounce of unhappiness in these thirty years since we were married.”
And in she went, leaving Schmucke in confusion.
“Is M. Pons really seriously ill, sir?” asked the first-floor lodger, one Jolivard, a clerk in the registrar’s office at the Palais de Justice.
“He nearly died chust now,” said Schmucke, with deep sorrow in his voice.
“M. Trognon lives near by in the Rue Saint-Louis,” said M. Jolivard, “he is the notary of the quarter.”
“Would you like me to go for him?” asked Remonencq.
“I should pe fery glad,” said Schmucke; “for gif Montame Zipod cannot pe mit mine vriend, I shall not vish to leaf him in der shtate he is in — ”
“Mme. Cibot told us that he was going out of his mind,” resumed Jolivard.
“Bons! out off his mind!” cried Schmucke, terror-stricken by the idea. “Nefer vas he so clear in der head... dat is chust der reason vy I am anxious for him.”
The little group of persons listened to the conversation with a very natural curiosity, which stamped the scene upon their memories. Schmucke did not know Fraisier, and could not note his satanic countenance and glittering eyes. But two words whispered by Fraisier in La Cibot’s ear had prompted a daring piece of acting, somewhat beyond La Cibot’s range, it may be, though she played her part throughout in a masterly style. To make others believe that the dying man was out of his mind — it was the very corner-stone of the edifice reared by the petty lawyer. The morning’s incident had done Fraisier good service; but for him, La Cibot in her trouble might have fallen into the snare innocently spread by Schmucke, when he asked her to send back the person sent by the family.
Remonencq saw Dr. Poulain coming towards them, and asked no better than to vanish. The fact was that for the last ten days the Auvergnat had been playing Providence in a manner singularly displeasing to Justice, which claims the monopoly of that part. He had made up his mind to rid himself at all costs of the one obstacle in his way to happiness, and happiness for him meant capital trebled and marriage with the irresistibly charming portress. He had watched the little tailor drinking his herb-tea, and a thought struck him. He would convert the ailment into mortal sickness; his stock of old metals supplied him with the means.
One morning as he leaned against the door-post, smoking his pipe and dreaming of that fine shop on the Boulevard de la Madeleine where Mme. Cibot, gorgeously arrayed, should some day sit enthroned, his eyes fell upon a copper disc, about the size of a five-franc piece, covered thickly with verdigris. The economical idea of using Cibot’s medicine to clean the disc immediately occurred to him. He fastened the thing in a bit of twine, and came over every morning to inquire for tidings of his friend the tailor, timing his visit during La Cibot’s visit to her gentlemen upstairs. He dropped the disc into the tumbler, allowed it to steep there while he talked, and drew it out again by the string when he went away.
The trace of tarnished copper, commonly called verdigris, poisoned the wholesome draught; a minute dose administered by stealth did incalculable mischief. Behold the results of this criminal homoeopathy! On the third day poor Cibot’s hair came out, his teeth were loosened in their sockets, his whole system was deranged by a scarcely perceptible trace of poison. Dr. Poulain racked his brains. He was enough of a man of science to see that some destructive agent was at work. He privately carried off the decoction, analyzed it himself, but found nothing. It so chanced that Remonencq had taken fright and omitted to dip the disc in the tumbler that day.
Then Dr. Poulain fell back on himself and science and got out of the difficulty with a theory. A sedentary life in a damp room; a cramped position before the barred window — these conditions had vitiated the blood in the absence of proper exercise, especially as the patient continually breathed an atmosphere saturated with the fetid exhalations of the gutter. The Rue de Normandie is one of the old-fashioned streets that slope towards the middle; the municipal authorities of Paris as yet have laid on no water supply to flush the central kennel which drains the houses on either side, and as a result a stream of filthy ooze meanders among the cobblestones, filters into the soil, and produces the mud peculiar to the city. La Cibot came and went; but her husband, a hard-working man, sat day in day out like a fakir on the table in the window, till his knee-joints were stiffened, the blood stagnated in his body, and his legs grew so thin and crooked that he almost lost the use of them. The deep copper tint of the man’s complexion naturally suggested that he had been out of health for a very long time. The wife’s good health and the husband’s illness seemed to the doctor to be satisfactorily accounted for by this theory.
“Then what is the matter with my poor Cibot?” asked the portress.
“My dear Mme. Cibot, he is dying of the porter’s disease,” said the doctor. “Incurable vitiation of the blood is evident from the general anaemic condition.”
No one had anything to gain by a crime so objectless. Dr. Poulain’s first suspicions were effaced by this thought. Who could have any possible interest in Cibot’s death? His wife? — the doctor saw her taste the herb-tea as she sweetened it. Crimes which escape social vengeance are many enough, and as a rule they are of this order — to wit, murders committed without any startling sign of violence, without bloodshed, bruises, marks of strangling, without any bungling of the business, in short; if there seems to be no motive for the crime, it most likely goes unpunished, especially if the death occurs among the poorer classes. Murder is almost always denounced by its advanced guards, by hatred or greed well known to those under whose eyes the whole matter has passed. But in the case of the Cibots, no one save the doctor had any interest in discovering the actual cause of death. The little copper-faced tailor’s wife adored her husband; he had no money and no enemies; La Cibot’s fortune and the marine-store dealer’s motives were alike hidden in the shade. Poulain knew the portress and her way of thinking perfectly well; he thought her capable of tormenting Pons, but he saw that she had neither motive enough nor wit enough for murder; and besides — every time the doctor came and she gave her husband a draught, she took a spoonful herself. Poulain himself, the only person who might have thrown light on the matter, inclined to believe that this was one of the unaccountable freaks of disease, one of the astonishing exceptions which make medicine so perilous a profession. And in truth, the little tailor’s unwholesome life and unsanitary surroundings had unfortunately brought him to such a pass that the trace of copper-poisoning was like the last straw. Gossips and neighbors took it upon themselves to explain the sudden death, and no suspicion of blame lighted upon Remonencq.
“Oh! this long time past I have said that M. Cibot was not well,” cried one.
“He worked too hard, he did,” said another; “he heated his blood.”
“He would not listen to me,” put in a neighbor; “I advised him to walk out of a Sunday and keep Saint Monday; two days in the week is not too much for amusement.”
In short, the gossip of the quarter, the tell-tale voice to which Justice, in the person of the commissary of police, the king of the poorer classes, lends an attentive ear — gossip explained the little tailor’s demise in a perfectly satisfactory manner. Yet M. Poulain’s pensive air and uneasy eyes embarrassed Remonencq not a little, and at sight of the doctor he offered eagerly to go in search of M. Trognon, Fraisier’s acquaintance. Fraisier turned to La Cibot to say in a low voice, “I shall come back again as soon as the will is made. In spite of your sorrow, you must look for squalls.” Then he slipped away like a shadow and met his friend the doctor.
“Ah, Poulain!” he exclaimed, “it is all right. We are safe! I will tell you about it to-night. Look out a post that will suit you, you shall have it! For my own part, I am a justice of the peace. Tabareau will not refuse me now for a son-in-law. And as for you, I will undertake that you shall marry Mlle. Vitel, granddaughter of our justice of the peace.”
Fraisier left Poulain reduced to dumb bewilderment by these wild words; bounced like a ball into the boulevard, hailed an omnibus, and was set down ten minutes later by the modern coach at the corner of the Rue de Choiseul. By this time it was nearly four o’clock. Fraisier felt quite sure of a word in private with the Presidente, for officials seldom leave the Palais de Justice before five o’clock.
Mme. de Marville’s reception of him assured Fraisier that M. Leboeuf had kept his promise made to Mme. Vatinelle and spoken favorably of the sometime attorney at Mantes. Amelie’s manner was almost caressing. So might the Duchesse de Montpensier have treated Jacques Clement. The petty attorney was a knife to her hand. But when Fraisier produced the joint-letter signed by Elie Magus and Remonencq offering the sum of nine hundred thousand francs in cash for Pons’ collection, then the Presidente looked at her man of business and the gleam of the money flashed from her eyes. That ripple of greed reached the attorney.
“M. le President left a message with me,” she said; “he hopes that you will dine with us to-morrow. It will be a family party. M. Godeschal, Desroches’ successor and my attorney, will come to meet you, and Berthier, our notary, and my daughter and son-in-law. After dinner, you and I and the notary and attorney will have the little consultation for which you ask, and I will give you full powers. The two gentlemen will do as you require and act upon your inspiration; and see that everything goes well. You shall have a power of attorney from M. de Marville as soon as you want it.”
“I shall want it on the day of the decease.”
“It shall be in readiness.”
“Mme. la Presidente, if I ask for a power of attorney, and would prefer that your attorney’s name should not appear I wish it less in my own interest than in yours.... When I give myself, it is without reserve. And in return, madame, I ask the same fidelity; I ask my patrons (I do not venture to call you my clients) to put the same confidence in me. You may think that in acting thus I am trying to fasten upon this affair — no, no, madame; there may be reprehensible things done; with an inheritance in view one is dragged on... especially with nine hundred thousand francs in the balance. Well, now, you could not disavow a man like Maitre Godeschal, honesty itself, but you can throw all the blame on the back of a miserable pettifogging lawyer — ”
Mme. Camusot de Marville looked admiringly at Fraisier.
“You ought to go very high,” said she, “or sink very low. In your place, instead of asking to hide myself away as a justice of the peace, I would aim at the crown attorney’s appointment — at, say, Mantes! — and make a great career for myself.”
“Let me have my way, madame. The post of justice of the peace is an ambling pad for M. Vitel; for me it shall be a war-horse.”
And in this way the Presidente proceeded to a final confidence.
“You seem to be so completely devoted to our interests,” she began, “that I will tell you about the difficulties of our position and our hopes. The President’s great desire, ever since a match was projected between his daughter and an adventurer who recently started a bank, — the President’s wish, I say, has been to round out the Marville estate with some grazing land, at that time in the market. We dispossessed ourselves of fine property, as you know, to settle it upon our daughter; but I wish very much, my daughter being an only child, to buy all that remains of the grass land. Part has been sold already. The estate belongs to an Englishman who is returning to England after a twenty years’ residence in France. He built the most charming cottage in a delightful situation, between Marville Park and the meadows which once were part of the Marville lands; he bought up covers, copse, and gardens at fancy prices to make the grounds about the cottage. The house and its surroundings make a feature of the landscape, and it lies close to my daughter’s park palings. The whole, land and house, should be bought for seven hundred thousand francs, for the net revenue is about twenty thousand francs.... But if Mr. Wadman finds out that we think of buying it, he is sure to add another two or three hundred thousand francs to the price; for he will lose money if the house counts for nothing, as it usually does when you buy land in the country — ”
“Why, madame,” Fraisier broke in, “in my opinion you can be so sure that the inheritance is yours that I will offer to act the part of purchaser for you. I will undertake that you shall have the land at the best possible price, and have a written engagement made out under private seal, like a contract to deliver goods.... I will go to the Englishman in the character of buyer. I understand that sort of thing; it was my specialty at Mantes. Vatinelle doubled the value of his practice, while I worked in his name.”
“Hence your connection with little Madame Vatinelle. He must be very well off — ”
“But Mme. Vatinelle has expensive tastes.... So be easy, madame — I will serve you up the Englishman done to a turn — ”
“If you can manage that you will have eternal claims to my gratitude. Good-day, my dear M. Fraisier. Till to-morrow — ”
Fraisier went. His parting bow was a degree less cringing than on the first occasion.
“I am to dine to-morrow with President de Marville!” he said to himself. “Come now, I have these folk in my power. Only, to be absolute master, I ought to be the German’s legal adviser in the person of Tabareau, the justice’s clerk. Tabareau will not have me now for his daughter, his only daughter, but he will give her to me when I am a justice of the peace. I shall be eligible. Mlle. Tabareau, that tall, consumptive girl with the red hair, has a house in the Place Royale in right of her mother. At her father’s death she is sure to come in for six thousand francs, you must not look too hard at the plank.”
As he went back to the Rue de Normandie by way of the boulevards, he dreamed out his golden dream, he gave himself up to the happiness of the thought that he should never know want again. He would marry his friend Poulain to Mlle. Vitel, the daughter of the justice of the peace; together, he and his friend the doctor would reign like kings in the quarter; he would carry all the elections — municipal, military, or political. The boulevards seem short if, while you pace afoot, you mount your ambition on the steed of fancy in this way.
Schmucke meanwhile went back to his friend Pons with the news that Cibot was dying, and Remonencq gone in search of M. Trognon, the notary. Pons was struck by the name. It had come up again and again in La Cibot’s interminable talk, and La Cibot always recommended him as honesty incarnate. And with that a luminous idea occurred to Pons, in whom mistrust had grown paramount since the morning, an idea which completed his plan for outwitting La Cibot and unmasking her completely for the too-credulous Schmucke.
So many unexpected things had happened that day that poor Schmucke was quite bewildered. Pons took his friend’s hand.
“There must be a good deal of confusion in the house, Schmucke; if the porter is at death’s door, we are almost free for a minute or two; that is to say, there will be no spies — for we are watched, you may be sure of that. Go out, take a cab, go to the theatre, and tell Mlle. Heloise Brisetout that I should like to see her before I die. Ask her to come here to-night when she leaves the theatre. Then go to your friends Brunner and Schwab and beg them to come to-morrow morning at nine o’clock to inquire after me; let them come up as if they were just passing by and called in to see me.”
The old artist felt that he was dying, and this was the scheme that he forged. He meant Schmucke to be his universal legatee. To protect Schmucke from any possible legal quibbles, he proposed to dictate his will to a notary in the presence of witnesses, lest his sanity should be called in question and the Camusots should attempt upon that pretext to dispute the will. At the name of Trognon he caught a glimpse of machinations of some kind; perhaps a flaw purposely inserted, or premeditated treachery on La Cibot’s part. He would prevent this. Trognon should dictate a holograph will which should be signed and deposited in a sealed envelope in a drawer. Then Schmucke, hidden in one of the cabinets in his alcove, should see La Cibot search for the will, find it, open the envelope, read it through, and seal it again. Next morning, at nine o’clock, he would cancel the will and make a new one in the presence of two notaries, everything in due form and order. La Cibot had treated him as a madman and a visionary; he saw what this meant — he saw the Presidente’s hate and greed, her revenge in La Cibot’s behavior. In the sleepless hours and lonely days of the last two months, the poor man had sifted the events of his past life.
It has been the wont of sculptors, ancient and modern, to set a tutelary genius with a lighted torch upon either side of a tomb. Those torches that light up the paths of death throw light for dying eyes upon the spectacle of a life’s mistakes and sins; the carved stone figures express great ideas, they are symbols of a fact in human experience. The agony of death has its own wisdom. Not seldom a simple girl, scarcely more than a child, will grow wise with the experience of a hundred years, will gain prophetic vision, judge her family, and see clearly through all pretences, at the near approach of Death. Herein lies Death’s poetry. But, strange and worthy of remark it is, there are two manners of death.
