Other People's Money by Emile Gaboriau (ebook smartphone txt) 📕

for the best interests of the client.  And it has plenty of business.

To the opulent brokerages, must be added advertising and puffing, —another mine.  Six times out of ten, when a new enterprise is set on foot, the organizers send for Saint Pavin.  Honest men, or knaves, they must all pass through his hands.  They know it, and are resigned in advance.

“We rely upon you,” they say to him.

“What advantages have you to offer?” he replies.

Then they discuss the operation, the expected profits of the new company, and M. Saint Pavin’s demands.  For a hundred thousand francs he promises bursts of lyrism; for fifty thousand he will be enthusiastic only.  Twenty thousand francs will secure a moderate praise of the affair; ten thousand, a friendly neutrality.  And, if the said company refuses any advantages to “The Pilot”—

“Ah, you must beware!” says Saint Pavin.

And from the very next number he commences his campaign.  He is moderate at first, and leaves a door open for his retreat.  He puts forth doubts only.  He does not know much about it.  “It may be an excellent thing; it may be a wretched one:  the safest is to wait and see.”

That’s the first hint.  If it remains without result, he takes up his pen again, and makes his doubts more pointed.

He knows how to steer clear of libel suits, how to handle figures so as to demonstrate, according to the requirements of the case, that two and two make three, or make five.  It is seldom, that, before the third article, the company does not surrender at discretion.

All Paris knows him; and he has many friends.  When M. de Tregars and Maxence arrived, they found the office full of people —speculators, brokers, go-betweens—come there to discuss the fluctuations of the day and the probabilities of the evening market.

“M.  Saint Pavin is engaged,” one of the clerks told them.

Indeed, his coarse voice could be distinctly heard behind the screen.  Soon he appeared, showing out an old gentleman, who seemed utterly confused at the scene, and to whom he was screaming,

“No, sir, no!  ‘The Financial Pilot’ does not take that sort of business; and I find you very bold to come and propose to me a twopenny rascality.”  But, noticing Maxence,

“M.  Favoral!” he said.  “By Jove! it is your good star that has brought you here.  Come into the private office, my dear sir:  come, we’ll have some fun now.”

Many of the people who were in the office had a word to say to M. Saint Pavin, some advice to ask him, an order to transmit, or some news to communicate.  They had all stepped forward, and were holding out their hands with a friendly smile.  He set them aside with his usual rudeness.

“By and by.  I am busy now:  leave me alone.”

And pushing Maxence towards the office-door, which he had just opened,

“Come in, come in!” he said in a tone of extraordinary impatience.

But M. de Tregars was coming in too; and, as he did not know him,

“What do you want, you?” he asked roughly.

“The gentleman is my best friend,” said Maxence, turning to him; “and I have no secret from him.”

“Let him walk in, then; but, by Heaven, let us hurry!”

Once very sumptuous, the private office of the editor of “The Financial Pilot” had fallen into a state of sordid dilapidation.  If the janitor had received orders never to use a broom or a duster there, he obeyed them strictly.  Disorder and dirt reigned supreme.  Papers and manuscripts lay in all directions; and on the broad sofas the mud from the boots of all those who had lounged upon them had been drying for months.  On the mantel-piece, in the midst of some half-dozen dirty glasses, stood a bottle of Madeira, half empty.  Finally, before the fireplace, on the carpet, and along the furniture, cigar and cigarette stumps were heaped in profusion.

As soon as he had bolted the door, coming straight to Maxence,

“What has become of your father?” inquired M. Saint Pavin rudely.

Maxence started.  That was the last question he expected to hear.

“I do not know,” he replied.

The manager of “The Pilot” shrugged his shoulders.  “That you should say so to the commissary of police, to the judges, and to all Favoral’s enemies, I understand:  it is your duty.  That they should believe you, I understand too; for, after all, what do they care?  But to me, a friend, though you may not think so, and who has reasons not to be credulous——”

“I swear to you that we have no idea where he has taken refuge.”

Maxence said this with such an accent of sincerity, that doubt was no longer possible.  M. Saint Pavin’s features expressed the utmost surprise.

“What!” he exclaimed, “your father has gone without securing the means of hearing from his family?”

“Yes.”

“Without saying a word of his intentions to your mother, or your sister, or yourself?”

“Without one word.”

“Without leaving any money, perhaps?”

“We found only an insignificant sum after he left.”  The editor of “The Pilot” made a gesture of ironical admiration.  “Well, the thing is complete,” he said; “and Vincent is a smarter fellow than I gave him credit for; or else he must have cared more for those infernal women of his than any one supposed.”

M. de Tregars, who had remained hitherto silent, now stepped forward.

“What women?” he asked.

“How do I know?” he replied roughly.  “How could any one ever find out any thing about a man who was more hermetically shut up in his coat than a Jesuit in his gown?”

“M.  Costeclar—”

“That’s another nice bird!  Still he may possibly have discovered something of Vincent’s life; for he led him a pretty dance.  Wasn’t he about to marry Mlle. Favoral once?”

“Yes, in spite of herself even.”

“Then you are right:  he had discovered something.  But, if you rely on him to tell you anything whatever, you are reckoning without your host.”

“Who knows?” murmured M. de Tregars.

But M. Saint Pavin heard him not.  Prey to a violent agitation, he was pacing up and down the room.

“Ah, those men of cold appearance,” he growled, “those men with discreet countenance, those close-shaving calculators, those moralists!  What fools they do make of themselves when once started!  Who can imagine to what insane extremities this