all those people want your money.”
“But what people, my treasure? Is it your uncle Pillerault, who loves us like the apple of his eye, and dines with us every Sunday? Is it good old Ragon, our predecessor, who has forty upright years in business to boast of, and with whom we play our game of boston? Is it Roguin, a notary, a man fifty-seven years old, twenty-five of which he has been in office? A notary of Paris! he would be the flower of the lot, if honest folk were not all worth the same price. If necessary, my associates will help me. Where is the plot, my white doe? Look here, I must tell you your defect. On the word of an honest man it lies on my heart. You are as suspicious as a cat. As soon as we had two sous worth in the shop you thought the customers were all thieves. I had to go down on my knees to you to let me make you rich. For a Parisian girl you have no ambition! If it hadn’t been for your perpetual fears, no man could have been happier than I. If I had listened to you I should never have invented the Paste of Sultans nor the Carminative Balm. Our shop has given us a living, but these two discoveries have made the hundred and sixty thousand francs which we possess, net and clear! Without my genius, for I certainly have talent as a perfumer, we should now be petty retail shopkeepers, pulling the devil’s tail to make both ends meet. I shouldn’t be a distinguished merchant, competing in the election of judges for the department of commerce; I should be neither a judge nor a deputy-mayor. Do you know what I should be? A shopkeeper like Pere Ragon—be it said without offence, for I respect shopkeeping; the best of our kidney are in it. After selling perfumery like him for forty years, we should be worth three thousand francs a year; and at the price things are now, for they have doubled in value, we should, like them, have barely enough to live on. (Day after day that poor household wrings my heart more and more. I must know more about it, and I’ll get the truth from Popinot to-morrow!) If I had followed your advice—you who have such uneasy happiness and are always asking whether you will have to-morrow what you have got to-day—I should have no credit, I should have no cross of the Legion of honor. I should not be on the highroad to becoming a political personage. Yes, you may shake your head, but if our affair succeeds I may become deputy of Paris. Ah! I am not named Cesar for nothing; I succeed. It is unimaginable! outside every one credits me with capacity, but here the only person whom I want so much to please that I sweat blood and water to make her happy, is precisely the one who takes me for a fool.”
These phrases, divided by eloquent pauses and delivered like shot, after the manner of those who recriminate, expressed so deep and constant an attachment that Madame Birotteau was inwardly touched, though, like all women, she made use of the love she inspired to gain her end.
“Well! Birotteau,” she said, “if you love me, let me be happy in my own way. Neither you nor I have education; we don’t know how to talk, nor to play ‘your obedient servant’ like men of the world; how then do you expect that we could succeed in government places? I shall be happy at Les Tresorieres, indeed I shall. I have always loved birds and animals, and I can pass my life very well taking care of the hens and the farm. Let us sell the business, marry Cesarine, and give up your visions. We can come and pass the winters in Paris with our son-in-law; we shall be happy; nothing in politics or commerce can then change our way of life. Why do you want to crush others? Isn’t our present fortune enough for us? When you are a millionaire can you eat two dinners; will you want two wives? Look at my uncle Pillerault! He is wisely content with his little property, and spends his life in good deeds. Does he want fine furniture? Not he! I know very well you have been ordering furniture for me; I saw Braschon here, and it was not to buy perfumery.”
“Well, my beauty, yes! Your furniture is ordered; our improvements begin to-morrow, and are superintended by an architect recommended to me by Monsieur de la Billardiere.”
“My God!” she cried, “have pity upon us!”
“But you are not reasonable, my love. Do you think that at thirty-seven years of age, fresh and pretty as you are, you can go and bury yourself at Chinon? I, thank God, am only thirty-nine. Chance opens to me a fine career; I enter upon it. If I conduct myself prudently I can make an honorable house among the bourgeoisie of Paris, as was done in former times. I can found the house of Birotteau, like the house of Keller, or Jules Desmartes, or Roguin, Cochin, Guillaume, Lebas, Nucingen, Saillard, Popinot, Matifat, who make their mark, or have made it, in their respective quarters. Come now! If this affair were not as sure as bars of gold—”
“Sure!”
“Yes, sure. For two months I have figured at it. Without seeming to do so, I have been getting information on building from the department of public works, from architects and contractors. Monsieur Grindot, the young architect who is to alter our house, is in despair that he has no money to put into the speculation.”
“He hopes for the work; he says that to screw something out of you.”
“Can he take in such men as Pillerault, as Charles Claparon, as Roguin? The profit is as sure as that of the Paste of Sultans.”
“But, my dear friend, why should Roguin speculate? He gets his commissions, and his fortune is made. I see him pass sometimes more full of care than a minister of state, with an underhand look which I don’t like; he hides some secret anxiety. His face has grown in five years to look like that of an old rake. Who can be sure that he won’t kick over the traces when he gets all your property into his own hands. Such things happen. Do we know him well? He has only been a friend for fifteen years, and I wouldn’t put my hand into the fire for him. Why! he is not decent: he does not live with his wife. He must have mistresses who ruin him; I don’t see any other cause for his anxiety. When I am dressing I look through the blinds, and I often see him coming home in the mornings: where from? Nobody knows. He seems to me like a man who has an establishment in town, who spends on his pleasures, and Madame on hers. Is that the life of a notary? If they make fifty thousand francs a year and spend sixty thousand, in twenty years they will get to the end of their property and be as naked as the little Saint John; and then, as they can’t do without luxury, they will prey upon their friends without compunction. Charity begins at home. He is intimate with that little scamp du Tillet, our former clerk; and I see nothing good in that friendship. If he doesn’t know how to judge du Tillet he must be blind; and if he does know him, why does he pet him? You’ll tell me, because his wife is fond of du Tillet. Well, I don’t look for any good in a man who has no honor with respect to his wife. Besides, the present owners of that land must be fools to sell for a hundred sous what is worth a hundred francs. If you met a child who did not know the value of a louis, wouldn’t you feel bound to tell him of it? Your affair looks to me like a theft, be it said without offence.”
“Good God! how queer women are sometimes, and how they mix up ideas! If Roguin were not in this business, you would say to me: ‘Look here, Cesar, you are going into a thing without Roguin; therefore it is worth nothing.’ But to-day he is in it, as security, and you tell me—”
“No, that is a Monsieur Claparon.”
“But a notary cannot put his own name into a speculation.”
“Then why is he doing a thing forbidden by law? How do you answer that, you who are guided by law?”
“Let me go on. Roguin is in it, and you tell me the business is worthless. Is that reasonable? You say, ‘He is acting against the law.’ But he would put himself openly in the business if it were necessary. Can’t they say the same of me? Would Ragon and Pillerault come and say to me: ‘Why do you have to do with this affair—you who have made your money as a merchant?’ ”
“Merchants are not in the same position as notaries,” said Madame Birotteau.
“Well, my conscience is clear,” said Cesar, continuing; “the people who sell, sell because they must; we do not steal from them any more than you steal from others when you buy their stocks at seventy-five.
