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

“Exactly; and this gentleman is the Marquis de Tregars.”

“You should have opened the door when you heard a knocking in the name of the law,” grumbled the commissary.

But he did not insist.  Taking a paper from his pocket, he opened it, and, handing it to M. Saint Pavin,

“I have orders to arrest you,” he said.  “Here is the warrant.”

With a careless gesture, the other pushed it back.  “What’s the use of reading?” he said.  “When I heard of the arrest of that poor Jottras, I guessed at once what was in store for me.  It is about the Mutual Credit swindle, I imagine.”

“Exactly.”

“I have no more to do with it than yourself, sir; and I shall have very little trouble in proving it.  But that is not your business.  And you are going, I suppose, to put the seals on my papers?”

“Except on those that you have burnt.”

M. Saint Pavin burst out laughing.  He had recovered his coolness and his impudence, and seemed as much at ease as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Shall I be allowed to speak to my clerks,” he asked, “and to give them my instructions?”

“Yes,” replied the commissary, “but in my presence.”

The clerks, being called, appeared, consternation depicted upon their countenances, but joy sparkling in their eyes.  In reality they were delighted at the misfortune which befell their employer.

“You see what happens to me, my boys,” he said.  “But don’t be uneasy.  In less than forty-eight hours, the error of which I am the victim will be recognized, and I shall be liberated on bail.  At any rate, I can rely upon you, can’t I?”

They all swore that they would be more attentive and more zealous than ever.

And then addressing himself to his cashier, who was his confidential and right-hand man,

“As to you, Bernard,” he said, “you will run to M. de Thaller’s, and advise him of what’s going on.  Let him have funds ready; for all our depositors will want to draw out their money at once.  You will then call at the printing-office:  have my article on the Mutual Credit kept out, and insert in its place some financial news cut out from other papers.  Above all, don’t mention my arrest, unless M. de Thaller should demand it.  Go ahead, and let ‘The Pilot’ appear as usual:  that’s important.”

He had, whilst speaking, lighted a cigar.  The honest man, victim of human iniquity, has not a firmer and more tranquil countenance.

“Justice does not know,” he said to the commissary, who was fumbling in all the drawers of the desk, “what irreparable damage she may cause by arresting so hastily a man who has charge of immense interests like me.  It is the fortune of ten or twelve small capitalists that is put in jeopardy.”

Already the witnesses of the arrest had retired, one by one, to go and scatter the news along the Boulevard, and also to see what could be made out of it; for, at the bourse, news is money.

M. de Tregars and Maxence left also.  As they passed the door,

“Don’t you say any thing about what I told you,” M. Saint Pavin recommended to them.

M. de Tregars made no answer.  He had the contracted features and tightly-drawn lips of a man who is maturing a grave determination, which, once taken, will be irrevocable.

Once in the street, and when Maxence had opened the carriage-door,

“We are going to separate here,” he told him in that brief tone of voice which reveals a settled plan.  “I know enough now to venture to call at M. de Thaller’s.  There only shall I be able to see how to strike the decisive blow.  Return to the Rue St. Gilles, and relieve your mother’s and sister’s anxiety.  You shall see me during the evening, I promise you.”

And, without waiting for an answer, he jumped into the cab, which started off.

But it was not to the Rue St. Gilles that Maxence went.  He was anxious, first, to see Mlle. Lucienne, to tell her the events of that day, the busiest of his existence; to tell her his discoveries, his surprises, his anxieties, and his hopes.

To his great surprise, he failed to find her at the Hotel des Folies.  She had gone riding at three o’clock, M. Fortin told him, and had not yet returned; but she could not be much longer, as it was already getting dark.  Maxence went out again then, to see if he could not meet her.  He had walked a little way along the Boulevard, when, at some distance off, on the Place du Chateau d’Eau, he thought he noticed an unusual bustle.  Almost immediately he heard shouts of terror.  Frightened people were running in all directions; and right before him a carriage, going at full gallop, passed like a flash.

But, quick as it had passed, he had time to recognize Mlle. Lucienne, pale, and clinging desperately to the seat.  Wild with fear, he started after it as fast as he could run.  It was clear that the driver had no control over his horses.  A policeman who tried to stop them was knocked down.  Ten steps farther, the hind-wheel of the carriage, catching the wheel of a heavy wagon, broke to splinters; and Mlle. Lucienne was thrown into the street, whilst the driver fell over on the sidewalk.

The Baron de Thaller was too practical a man to live in the same house, or even in the same district, where his offices were located.  To dwell in the midst of his business; to be constantly subjected to the contact of his employes, to the unkindly comments of a crowd of subordinates; to expose himself to hourly annoyances, to sickening solicitations, to the reclamations and eternal complaints of his stockholders and his clients!  Pouah!  He’d have given up the business first.  And so, on the very days when he had established the offices of the Mutual Credit in the Rue de Quatre-Septembre, he had purchased a house in the Rue de la Pepiniere within a step of the Faubourg St. Honore.

It was a brand-new house, which had never yet been occupied, and which had just been erected by a contractor who was almost celebrated, towards 1866, at the moment of the great transformations of Paris, when whole blocks were leveled to the ground, and rose again so rapidly, that one might well wonder whether the masons, instead of a trowel, did not make use of a magician’s wand.

This contractor, named Parcimieux, had come from the Limousin in 1860 with his carpenter’s tools for all fortune, and, in less than six years, had accumulated, at the lowest estimate, six millions of francs.  Only he was a modest man, and took as much pains to conceal his fortune, and offend no one, as most parvenus do to display their wealth, and insult the public.

Though he could hardly sign his name, yet he