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Mysteries of Paris, V3

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"Now, M. l'Abbé, if you will allow it, my friend will read you the plan
decided upon."

"Since you are so obliging, _my friend_," said Jacques Ferrand, with
bitterness, "read it yourself. Spare me this trouble, I pray you."

"No, no," answered Polidori, casting a look at the notary which he well
understood, "it gives me great pleasure to hear from your own lips the
noble sentiments which have guided you in this work of philanthropy."

"So be it--I will read," said the notary, hastily, taking up a paper which
lay upon his desk.

Polidori, for a long time the accomplice of Jacques Ferrand, knew the
crimes and secret thoughts of the scoundrel; hence he could not suppress a
malicious smile on seeing him forced to read this paper, dictated by
Rudolph. As will be seen, the prince showed himself inexorable in the
logical manner with which he punished the notary.

Lustful--he tortured him by lust. Covetous--by covetousness. Hypocritical--
by hypocrisy. For Rudolph had chosen this venerable abbé to be the agent
for the restitutions and expiations imposed upon Jacques Fervand, because
he wished doubly to punish him for having, by his detestable hypocrisy,
obtained the esteem and affection of the good priest. Was it not, in
effect, a great punishment for this hideous impostor--this hardened
criminal, to be constrained to practice, at length, the Christian virtues
which he had so often feigned to possess, and this time _really_ to
deserve the just eulogiums of a respectable priest who had been his dupe?

Jacques Ferrand read the following note with feelings imagined.

_"Establishment of the Bank for Workmen out of Work."_

'Love ye one another.'

"These divine words contain the germ of all duties, all virtues, all
charities. They have inspired the humble founder of this Institution. To
God alone belong the benefits it may confer. Limited, as to the means of
action, the founder has wished that the greatest number possible of his
brothers should participate in the succor offered. He addresses himself, in
the first place, to honest, industrious workmen, with families, whom the
want of work often reduces to the most cruel extremities. It is not a
degrading alms which he gives to his brothers but a gratuitous loan which
he offers. May this loan, as he hopes, prevent them often from resorting to
those cruel pledges which they are forced to make (while awaiting the
return of work), for the purpose of sustaining a family of which they are
the sole support. The only guarantee for this loan which he demands from
his brothers is their oath and honor. It has a revenue of twelve thousand
francs, which will be loaned without interest to workmen with families and
out of work, in sums of twenty to forty francs. These loans shall only be
made to working men or women who shall bring a certificate of good conduct
from their last employer, stating the cause and date of the suspension of
employment. These loans will be repaid monthly by sixths or twelfths, at
the choice of the borrower, commencing from the day on which he finds
employment. He will subscribe a simple engagement of honor to reimburse the
loan at stated periods. To this will be added, as indorsers, the names of
two of his companions. The workman who shall not reimburse the amount
borrowed by him, cannot, he or his indorsers, have any claims for a new
loan; or he will have forfeited a sacred engagement, and, above all,
deprived several of his brothers of the advantages which he has enjoyed.
The sums loaned, on the contrary, being scrupulously repaid, the same
benefit can be bestowed on others. Not to degrade man by alms. Not to
encourage idleness by a fruitless charity. To stimulate sentiments of honor
and innate probity among the laboring classes. To come in a brotherly
manner to the aid of the workman, who, living already with difficulty from
day to day, cannot, when no work can be procured, _suspend_ his wants
or those of his family, because his work is suspended. Such are the
thoughts which have given rise to this institution. May He who has said,
'Love ye one another,' be glorified."

"Oh! sir," cried the abbé, with religious admiration, "what a charitable
idea! how easily I can comprehend your emotion on reading these lines of
such touching simplicity."

In truth, while finishing this reading, the voice of Jacques Ferrand was
broken, his impatience and temper were at an end; but, watched by Polidori,
he dared not, could not trangress the least orders of Rudolph. Let his rage
be imagined at being forced to dispose so liberally of his fortune in favor
of a class whom he had so unmercifully persecuted in the person of Morel
the lapidary.

"Is not the idea excellent, M. l'Abbé?" asked Polidori.

"Oh, sir, I, who am acquainted with all kinds of poverty, can comprehend,
better than any one, of what importance this loan would be to poor and
honest workmen without employ. Indigence without employment never finds
credit, or, if obtainable, it is at a most usurious rate; they will lend
thirty sous at eight days, and then forty must be returned; and even these
loans are very difficult to be obtained; those from the pawnbrokers cost
often near three hundred per cent. The artisan without work often pledges
for forty sous the only covering which, during the nights of winter,
defends him and his from the rigor of the cold. But," added the abbé, with
enthusiasm, "a loan of thirty or forty francs without interest, and
reimbursable by twelfths, when work returns-for honest workmen, it is their
safety, it is hope, it is life. And with what fidelity they would pay it
back! It is a sacred debt, which they have contracted to give bread to
their wives and children!"

"How precious the eulogiums of M. l'Abbé must be to you, Jacques," said
Polidori; "and how many more will he pronounce when he hears of your
establishment of a Feeless Pawnbroker's."

"How?"

"Certainly, M. l'Abbé, Jacques has not forgotten this; it is a kind of
appendage to his Bank for the Poor."

"Can it be true?" cried the priest, clasping his hands with admiration.

"Continue, Jacques," said Polidori.

The notary proceeded to read with a rapid voice, for the whole scene was
odious and hateful to him.

"These loans have for their object the remedy for one of the gravest
incidents in the life of a laborer--intermission of work. They shall
therefore be granted only to those out of employment. But it remains to
provide for the other cruel embarrassments which reach even those with
employment. Often, the loss of one or two days, caused sometimes by
fatigue, by the attention necessary to bestow on a wife or sick child,
deprives the workman of his daily resources. Then he has recourse to the
pawnbroker's, or to unlawful lenders of money, at an enormous rate of
interest. Wishing, as much as possible, to lighten the burden of his
brothers, the founder of the Bank of the Poor sets apart an income of
twenty-five thousand francs a year, for the purpose of lending on pledges,
not to exceed the amount of ten francs for each loan. The borrowers will
pay neither cost nor interest, but they must prove that they follow an
honorable profession, and produce a declaration from their employers which
will prove their morality. At the end of two years, the articles which have
not been redeemed will be sold, without costs; the proceeds arising from
the surplus of this sale shall be placed, at five per cent. interest, to
the profit of the owners. At the end of five years, if this sum shall not
be reclaimed, it shall be added to the Bank of the Poor. The administration
and the office of said bank shall be placed in the Rue du Temple, No. 17,
in a house bought for this purpose, in the center of that most populous
quarter. A revenue of ten thousand francs shall be appropriated to the
expenses and to the administration of the Bank of the Poor, of which the
director for life shall be---"

Polidori interrupted the notary, and said to the priest, "You will see, M.
l'Abbé, by the choice of the director of this establishment, whether
Jacques knows how to repair the wrong which he has involuntarily done. You
know that by an error which he deplores, he had falsely accused his cashier
of taking a sum which he afterward discovered."

"Doubtless."

"Well! it is to this honest young man, François Germain, that Jacques
assigns the life governorship of this bank, with a salary of four thousand
francs. Is it not admirable, M. l'Abbé?"

"Nothing astonishes me now, or, rather, nothing has astonished me," said
the priest. "The fervent piety, the virtues of our worthy friend, could
hardly fail of such a result. To consecrate all his fortune to such an
institution--ah! it is admirable!"

"More than a million, M. l'Abbé," said Polidori, "more than a million,
amassed by dint of order, economy, and probity; and yet there are those who
accuse Jacques of avarice! How, said they, his office brings him in fifty
or sixty thousand francs a year, and he lives like a miser!"

"To such as these," replied the abbé, with enthusiasm, "I would answer:
During fifteen years he has lived like a poor man, in order to be able at
the present time magnificently to solace the poor."

"Be, then, at least proud and joyous at the good you have done," cried
Polidori, addressing Jacques Ferrand, who, gloomy and cast down, seemed
absorbed in profound meditation.

"Alas!" said the abbé, sadly, "it is not in this world that one receives
the recompense of so many virtues; he has a more exalted ambition."

"Jacques," said Polidori, touching the notary lightly on the shoulder,
"finish your reading." The notary started, passed his hand over his face,
and said to the priest:

"Pardon, M. l'Abbé, but I was thinking--I was thinking of the immense
extension that this bank for the poor might have from the returned loans.
If the loans of each year were regularly repaid at the end of four years,
it would have already loaned about fifty thousand crowns on pledge or
gratuitously. It is enormous--enormous; and I felicitate myself on it," he
added, thinking of the value of the sacrifice imposed upon him. He resumed:
"I was, I believe, at--"

"At the nomination of François Germain for director of the bank," said
Polidori. Jacques Ferrand continued.

"A revenue often thousand francs shall be set aside for the expenses and
administration of the Bank of the Poor without work, of which the perpetual
director shall be François Germain, and the porter and keeper shall be the
present porter of the house, named Pipelet.

"M. l'Abbé Dumont, with whom the funds necessary for this undertaking shall
be deposited, will form a superior council of supervision, composed of the
mayor and the justice of the peace of the ward, who will add to their
number the persons whose assistance they shall consider useful to the
extension of the Bank for the Poor; for the founder will esteem himself a
thousand times paid for the little that he has done if some charitable
person will aid in the work.

"The opening of this bank will be announced by every means of publicity
possible. The founder repeats, in conclusion, that he takes no credit for
what he has done for his brothers. His sole thought is but the echo of this
Divine command: 'Love ye one another.'"

"And your place above shall be assigned to you beside Him who hath
pronounced th immortal words," cried the abbé, pressing with much warmth
the hands of Jacques Ferrand in his own.

The notary was overpowered. Without replying to the encomiums of the abbé
he hastened to give him in treasury bonds the considerable sum necessary
for the establishment of this institution and for the annuity of Morel the
lapidary.

"I dare hope, M. l'Abbé," at length said Jacques Ferrand, "that you will
not refuse this new mission confided to your charitable care. Besides, a
stranger, called Sir Walter Murphy, who has given me some advice about the
drawing up of this project, will partake of your labor, and will visit you
today to converse with you on the practicability of the plan, and to place
himself at your service, if he can be of any use. Except with him, I pray
you to preserve the most profound secrecy, M. l'Abbé."

"You are right. God knows what you are doing for your poor brothers. What
matters the rest? All my regret is that I have nothing but my zeal to
contribute in aid of this most noble institution; it will be, at least, as
ardent as your charity is untiring. But what is the matter? You turn pale.
Do you suffer?"

"A little, M. l'Abbé. This long reading, the emotions caused by your kind
words, the indisposition from which I am suffering. Pardon my weakness,"
said Jacques Ferrand, seating himself as if in pain; "there is nothing
serious in it, but I am exhausted."

"Perhaps you had better go to bed," said the priest, with an air of lively
interest, "and send for your physician?"

"I am a physician, M. l'Abbé," said Polidori. "The situation of Ferrand
demands great care; I will give him all my attention."

The notary shuddered.

"A little repose will relieve you, I hope," said the cure. "I leave you;
but before I go, I wish to give you a receipt for this money. Come, take
courage, be of good cheer!" said the priest, handing the receipt, which he
wrote at the desk, to Jacques Ferrand. "Farewell; tomorrow I will call and
see you again. Adieu, sir--adieu, my friend, my worthy, pious friend!"

The priest went out, and Jacques Ferrand and Polidori remained alone.
Hardly had the abbé gone than Jacques Ferrand uttered a terrible
imprecation. His despair and rage, so long restrained, burst forth with
fury; breathless, his face convulsed, his eyes rolling in their sockets, he
walked up and down in the cabinet like a wild beast confined by a chain.
Polidori, presenting the greatest composure, observed the notary
attentively.

"Thunder and blood!" cried Jacques, in a voice choked with rage; "my
fortune entirely swallowed up in these stupid good works! I, who despise
and execrate men; I, who have only lived to deceive and despoil them; I
found philanthropic establishments--to be forced to do it by infernal
means! But is it the devil, then, who is your master?" he cried, with fury,
stopping abruptly before Polidori.

"I have no master," he answered, coldly. "Like you, I have a judge!"

"To obey like a fool the orders of this man!" said Jacques Ferrand, with
renewed rage. "And this priest, whom I have so often laughed at, because he
was the dupe of my hypocrisy; every one of the praises he gave me was like
a thrust with a dagger. And to be compelled--"

"Or the scaffold, as an alternative."

"Oh! not to be able to escape this fatal power! There is more than a
million that I have given up. If I have left, with this house a hundred
thousand francs, it is the very outside. What more do they want?"

"You are not at the end yet. The prince knows, through Badinot, that your
man of straw, Petit Jean, was only a name borrowed by you for the purpose
of making the usurious loans to the Viscount de Saint Rémy. The sums which
Saint Rémy repaid you were loaned to him by a great lady; probably another
restitution awaits you: but it stands adjourned. Doubtless because it is a
more delicate affair."

"Chained, chained here!"

"As securely as with an iron cable."

"You--my jailer--wretch!"

"What would you have? According to the system of the prince, nothing more
logical; he punishes crime by crime, accomplice by accomplice."

"Oh! rage! madness!"

"Oh! unfortunately, powerless rage, for, as long as I am not told, 'Jacques
Ferrand is free to quit this house,' I will remain like your shadow.
Listen, then: as well as you, I merit the scaffold. If I fail to execute
the orders given to me, my head falls. You cannot, then, have a more
incorruptible guardian. As for flying, both of us--impossible: we could not
take a step outside of this house without falling into the hands of those
who are watching it night and day."

"Death and fury, I know it!"

"Be resigned, then, for this flight is impossible; even should we succeed
in escaping, it would only make our situation more precarious, for they
would send the police in search of us. On the contrary, you in obeying, and
I, in watching the accuracy of your obedience, we are certain of not having
our throats cut. Once more, I say, let us be resigned."

"Do not exasperate me by this indifference, or---"

"Or what? I do not fear you: I am on my guard, I am armed; and even if you
were to find the poisoned dagger of Cecily to kill me---"--"Be quiet!"

"It would be of no use; you know that every two hours I am obliged to give
a bulletin of your precious health, an indirect way of hearing from us
both. On not seeing me appear, they will suspect you of the murder; you
will be arrested. And--But hold. I do you an injury in supposing you
capable of this crime. You have sacrificed a million to save your life, and
you would not risk your head for the foolish and fruitless vengeance of
killing me! Come, come, you are not fool enough for that."

"It is because you know I cannot kill you that you increase my torments by
your sarcasms."

"Your position is so original, you do not see it yourself; but, on my
honor, it is enjoyable!"

"Oh, misfortune! misfortune irretrievable! On whatever side I turn, it is
death! And what I most dread now is destruction! Curses on myself, on you,
on the whole world!"

"Your misanthropy is more extensive than your philanthropy! The former
embraces the whole world; the latter but one of the wards of Paris."

"Go on--rail, monster!"

"Would you prefer that I should crush you with reproaches?"

"Whose fault is it that we are reduced to this position?"

"Yours. Why preserve around your neck, suspended as a relic, that letter of
mine relative to the murder which was worth a hundred thousand crowns to
you--the murder which we had so adroitly passed off as a suicide?"

"Why? wretch! Did I not give you fifty thousand francs for your
co-operation in the crime, and for this letter, which I required that I
might have a guarantee against your denouncing me? My life and fortune
were, then, dependent on its possession; that is the reason why I always
wore it around my neck."

"It is true, it was cunning on your part, for I would gain nothing by
denouncing you except the pleasure of going to the scaffold side by side
with you. And yet your cunning has ruined us, while mine would have assured
impunity for the crime to the present moment."

"Impunity?"

"Who could foresee what has come to pass? But, in the ordinary march of
events, our crime would have been unpunished, thanks to me."

"Thanks to you?"

"Yes; when we had blown this man's brains out, you wished simply to
counterfeit his signature, and to write his sister that, ruined completely,
he had killed himself from despair. You thought that you would make a great
stroke of policy by not speaking in this letter of the deposit he had
confided to you. It was absurd. This deposit being known to his sister, she
would have unquestionably reclaimed it. It was necessary, then, on the
contrary, to mention it as we did, in order that, if there were any
suspicions of the reality of the suicide, you might be the last person to
be suspected. Then what happened? The suicide was believed; from your
reputation for probity, you were enabled to deny the deposit, and it was
thought that the brother killed himself after having dissipated the fortune
of his sister."

"But what matters all this at present? The crime is discovered."

"And thanks to whom? Was it my fault if my letter was a double-edged sword,
cutting both ways? How could you be so weak, so stupid, as to deliver such
a terrible weapon to this infernal Cecily?"

"Hush--do not pronounce that name!" cried Jacques Ferrand, with a frightful
expression.

"So be it; I do not wish to make you epileptic. You will see that, in
guarding against ordinary justice, our mutual precautions were sufficient;
but the extraordinary justice of him who holds us both in his power defied
all calculations."

"Oh! I know it but too well."

"He believes that to cut off the head of a criminal does not sufficiently
repair the evil he has done. With the proofs which he holds, if he were to
deliver us to the tribunals, what would be the result? Two corpses, at the
most only good to fatten the graveyard."

"Oh! yes--it is tears, and anguish, and tortures which this prince
demands--this demon. But I do not know him, I have never done him any harm.
Why does he pursue me thus?"

"In the first place he pretends to reward the good, and punish the evil
done to others; and, besides, he knows those whom you have injured, and he
punishes you in his own way."

"But by what right?"

"Come, come, Jacques, between us, do not speak of right; he had the power
to have your head taken off in a judicial manner. What would have been the
result? Your relations are all dead--the state would have profited by your
fortune instead of those whom you have despoiled. On the contrary, in
redeeming your life at the price of your money all your victims will be
remunerated for their sufferings, in the manner already decided upon. So in
this point of view, we can confess to each other that if society should
have gained nothing by your death, it gains much by your living."

"And it is this which causes my rage--and this is not my only torture."

"The prince knows it well. Now what will he decide to do with us? I am
ignorant. He has promised to spare us our lives if we faithfully obey his
orders. He will keep his promise. But if he does not believe our crimes
sufficiently expiated he will know how to make us prefer death a thousand
times to the life he grants us. You do not know him. Besides, he has more
than one devil in his service--for this Cecily--whom may the thunder
blast!"

"Once more, be still--not that name--not that name!"

"Yes, yes! may the thunder blast her who bears that name! It is she who has
ruined all. Our heads would now be in security on our shoulders but for
your silly love for this creature."

Instead of storming with rage, Jacques Ferrand answered with a deep sigh,
"Do you know this woman? Speak. Have you ever seen her?"

"Never. They say she is beautiful."

"Beautiful!" answered the notary, shrugging his shoulders. "Hold!" he added
with a kind of bitter desperation; "be still! Do not speak of what you do
not know. Do not accuse me! What I have done you would have done in my
place."

"I place my life at the mercy of a woman!"

"Of that one--yes--and I would do it again."

"By Jove, he is still under the charm," cried Polidori amazed.

"Listen," answered the notary, in a low, calm voice, "listen: you know if I
love gold? You know what I have braved to acquire it? To reckon up the sums
I possessed, to see them doubled by my avarice, to endure every privation,
and know myself the master of a treasure--it was my joy, my happiness. Yes,
to possess, not to enjoy, but to theorize, was my life. One month since, if
they had said to me, 'Between your fortune and your head choose,' I would
have given up my head."

"But of what use to have money when one dies?"

"Ask me, then, 'Of what use to possess it, when one makes no use of what
one possesses?' I, a millionaire, did I lead the life of a millionaire? No:
I lived like a poor beggar. I loved, then, to possess, for possession's
sake."

"But once more I ask you, of what use is it when one dies?"

"To the possessing! Yes, to enjoy that even to the last moment for which
you have braved privations, infamy, the scaffold; yes, to say once more,
the head under the ax, 'I possess!' Oh! do you see, death is sweet compared
to the torments that are endured on seeing one's self during life
dispossessed, as I am, of all that I have amassed at the price of so much
pain, so much danger! Oh! to say, at each moment of the day, 'I, who had
more than a million--I, who have endured every privation to preserve it--I,
who in ten years would have doubled it, tripled it--I have no longer
anything. It is cruel! it is to die, not each day, but each moment of the
day. Yes, to this horrible agony, which may endure for years, perhaps, I
would have preferred death a thousand times. Once more, I could have said
in dying, 'I possess.'"

Polidori looked at his accomplice with profound astonishment.

"I cannot comprehend you. Then why have you obeyed the commands of him who
might have caused your head to roll from the scaffold? Why have you
preferred life, without your treasure, if this life seems so horrible to
you?"

"It is, do you see," answered the notary, in a voice sunk to a whisper, "it
is not the thought of death--it is annihilation. And Cecily!"

"And you hope!" cried Polidori, astonished.

"I hope not; I possess---"

"What?"

"The remembrance."

"But you will never see her again; she has delivered up your head!"

"But I love her still, and more madly than ever," cried Jacques Ferrand,
with an explosion of tears, of sobs, which strangely contrasted with the
calmness of his last words. "Yes, I love her always, and I do not wish to
die, so that I can plunge myself deeper and deeper with wild delight into
this furnace where I am consumed by inches. For you do not know--that
night--that night in which I saw her so beautiful--that night is always
present to my thoughts--that picture of voluptuousness is there,
there--always there--before my eyes. Let them be open or shut, in feverish
weakness or burning watchfulness, I see her black eyes and inflaming
glances, which boil the marrow of my bones. I feel her breath upon my
face--I hear her voice."

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