The Nabob

A >> Alphonse Daudet >> The Nabob


But, over against this kind of well-to-do business, established in
its own house, warmed, withdrawn behind its rich shop-front, there is
installed the improvised commerce of those wooden huts, open to the
wind of the streets, of which the double row gives to the boulevards
the aspect of some foreign mall. It is in these that you find the true
interest and the poetry of New Year's gifts. Sumptuous in the district
of the Madeleine, well-to-do towards the Boulevard Saint-Denis, of more
"popular" order as you ascend to the Bastille, these little sheds adapt
themselves according to their public, calculate their chances of success
by the more or less well-lined purses of the passers-by. Among these,
there are set up portable tables, laden with trifling objects, miracles
of the Parisian trade that deals in such small things, constructed out
of nothing, frail and delicate, and which the wind of fashion sometimes
sweeps forward in its great rush by reason of their very triviality.
Finally, along the curbs of the footways, lost in the defile of the
carriage traffic which grazes their wandering path, the orange-girls
complete this peripatetic commerce, heaping up the sun-coloured fruit
beneath their lanterns of red paper, crying "La Valence" amid the fog,
the tumult, the excessive haste which Paris displays at the ending of
its year.

Ordinarily, M. Joyeuse was accustomed to make one of the busy crowd
which goes and comes with the jingle of money in its pocket and parcels
in every hand. He would wander about with Bonne Maman at his side on the
lookout for New Year's presents for his girls, stop before the booths of
the small dealers, who are accustomed to do much business and excited
by the appearance of the least important customer, have based upon
this short season hopes of extraordinary profits. And there would be
colloquies, reflections, an interminable perplexity to know what to
select in that little complex brain of his, always ahead of the present
instant and of the occupation of the moment.

This year, alas! nothing of that kind. He wandered sadly through the
town in its rejoicing, time seeming to hang all the heavier for the
activity around him, jostled, hustled, as all are who stand obstructing
the way of active folk, his heart beating with a perpetual fear, for
Bonne Maman for some days past, in conversation with him at table,
had been making significant allusions with regard to the New Year's
presents. Consequently he avoided finding himself alone with her and had
forbidden her to come to meet him at the office at closing-time. But
in spite of all his efforts he knew the moment was drawing near when
concealment would be impossible and his grievous secret be unveiled.
Was, then, a very formidable person, Bonne Maman, that M. Joyeuse should
stand in such fear of her? By no means. A little stern, that was all,
with a pretty smile that instantly forgave one. But M. Joyeuse was
a coward, timid from his birth; twenty years of housekeeping with a
masterful wife, "a member of the nobility," having made him a slave for
ever, like those convicts who, after their imprisonment is over, have to
undergo a period of surveillance. And for him this meant all his life.

One evening the Joyeuse family was gathered in the little drawing-room,
last relic of its splendour, still containing two upholstered chairs,
many crochet decorations, a piano, two lamps crowned with little green
shades, and a what-not covered with bric-a-brac.

True family life exists in humble homes.

For the sake of economy, there was lighted for the whole household but
one fire and a single lamp, around which the occupations and amusements
of all were grouped. A fine big family lamp, whose old painted
shade--night scenes pierced with shining dots--had been the astonishment
and the joy of every one of those young girls in her early childhood.
Issuing softly from the shadow of the room, four young heads were bent
forward, fair or dark, smiling or intent, into that intimate and warm
circle of light which illumined them as far as the eyes, seemed to feed
the fire of their glance, to shelter them, protect them, preserve them
from the black cold blowing outside, from phantoms, from snares, from
miseries and terrors, from all the sinister things that a winter night
in Paris brings forth in the remoteness of its quiet suburbs.

Thus, drawn close together in a small room at the top of the lonely
house, in the warmth, the security of their comfortable home, the
Joyeuse household seems like a nest right at the top of a lofty
tree. The girls sew, read, chat a little. A leap of the lamp-flame,
a crackling of fire, is what you may hear, with from time to time an
exclamation from M. Joyeuse, a little removed from his small circle,
lost in the shadow where he hides his anxious brow and all the
extravagance of his imagination. Just now he is imagining that in
the distress into which he finds himself driven beyond possibility
of escape, in that absolute necessity of confessing everything to his
children, this evening, at latest to-morrow, an unhoped-for succour may
come to him. Hemerlingue, seized with remorse, sends to him, as to
all those who took part in the work connected with the Tunis loan, his
December gratuity. A tall footman brings it: "On behalf of M. le Baron."
The visionary says those words aloud. The pretty faces turn towards him;
the girls laugh, move their chairs, and the poor fellow awakes suddenly
to reality.

Oh, how angry he is with himself now for his delay in confessing all,
for that false security which he has maintained around him and which he
will have to destroy at a blow. What need had he, too, to criticise that
Tunis loan? At this moment he even reproaches himself for not having
accepted a place in the Territorial Bank. Had he the right to refuse?
Ah, the sorry head of a family, without strength to keep or to defend
the happiness of his own! And, glancing at the pretty group within
the circle of the lamp-shade, whose reposeful aspect forms so great a
contrast with his own internal agitation, he is seized by a remorse so
violent for the weakness of his soul that his secret rises to his lips,
is about to escape him in a burst of sobs, when the ring of a bell--no
chimera, that--gives them all a start and arrests him at the very moment
when he was about to speak.

Whoever could it be, coming at this hour? They had lived in retirement
since the mother's death and saw almost nobody. Andre Maranne, when
he came down to spend a few minutes with them, tapped like a familiar
friend. Profound silence in the drawing-room, long colloquy on the
landing. Finally, the old servant--she had been in the family as long as
the lamp--showed in a young man, complete stranger, who stopped, struck
with admiration at the charming picture of the four darlings gathered
round the table. This made his entrance timid, rather awkward. However,
he explained clearly the object of his visit. He had been referred to M.
Joyeuse by an honest fellow of his acquaintance, old Passajon, to take
lessons in bookkeeping. One of his friends happened to be engaged in
large financial transactions in connection with an important joint-stock
company. He wished to be of service to him in keeping an eye on the
employment of the capital, the straightforwardness of the operations;
but he was a lawyer, little familiar with financial methods, with the
terms employed in banking. Could not M. Joyeuse in the course of a few
months, with three or four lessons a week--

"Yes, indeed, sir, yes, indeed," stammered the father, quite overcome by
this unlooked-for piece of good luck. "Assuredly I can undertake, in a
few months, to qualify you for such auditing work. Where shall we have
our lessons?"

"Here, at your own house, if you are agreeable," said the young man,
"for I am anxious that no one should know that I am working at the
subject. But I shall be grieved if I always frighten everybody away as I
have this evening."

For, at the first words of the visitor, the four curly heads had
disappeared, with little whisperings, and with rustlings of skirts, and
the drawing-room looked very bare now that the big circle of white light
was empty.

Always quick to take offence, where his daughters were concerned, M.
Joyeuse replied that "the young girls were accustomed to retire early
every evening," and the words were spoken in a brief, dry tone which
very clearly signified: "Let us talk of our lessons, young man, if you
please." Days were then fixed, free hours in the evening.

As for the terms, they would be whatever monsieur desired.

Monsieur mentioned a sum.

The accountant became quite red. It was the amount he used to earn at
Hemerlingue's.

"Oh, no, that is too much."

But the other was no longer listening. He was seeking for words, as
though he had something very difficult to say, and suddenly, making up
his mind to it:

"Here is your first month's salary."

"But, monsieur--"

The young man insisted. He was a stranger. It was only fair that he
should pay in advance. Evidently, Passajon has told his secret.

M. Joyeuse understood, and in a low voice said, "Thank you, oh, thank
you," so deeply moved that words failed him. Life! it meant life,
several months of life, the time to turn round, to find another place.
His darlings would want for nothing. They would have their New Year's
presents. Oh, the mercy of Providence!

"Till Wednesday, then, M. Joyeuse."

"Till Wednesday, monsieur--"

"De Gery--Paul de Gery."

And they separated, both delighted, fascinated, the one by the
apparition of this unexpected saviour, the other by the adorable picture
of which he had only a glimpse, all those young girls grouped round the
table covered with books, exercise-books, and skeins of wool, with an
air of purity, of industrious honesty. This was a new Paris for Paul de
Gery, a courageous, home-like Paris, very different from that which he
already knew, a Paris of which the writers of stories in the newspapers
and the reporters never speak, and which recalled to him his own country
home, with an additional charm, that charm which the struggle and tumult
around lend to the tranquil, secured refuge.




FELICIA RUYS

"And your son, Jenkins. What are you doing with him? Why does one never
see him now at your house? He seemed a nice fellow."

As she spoke in that tone of disdainful bluntness which she almost
always used when speaking to the Irishman, Felicia was at work on the
bust of the Nabob which she had just commenced, posing her model, laying
down and taking up the boasting-tool, quickly wiping her fingers with
the little sponge, while the light and peace of a fine Sunday afternoon
fell on the top-light of the studio. Felicia "received" every Sunday,
if to receive were to leave her door open to allow people to come in,
go out, sit down for a moment, without stirring from her work or even
interrupting the course of a discussion to welcome the new arrivals.
They were artists, with refined heads and luxuriant beards; here and
there you might see among them white-haired friends of Ruys, her father;
then there were society men, bankers, stock-brokers, and a few young men
about town, come to see the handsome girl rather than her sculpture, in
order to be able to say at the club in the evening, "I was at Felicia's
to-day." Among them was Paul de Gery, silent, absorbed in an admiration
which each day sunk into his heart a little more deeply, trying to
understand the beautiful sphinx draped in purple cashmere and ecru lace,
who worked away bravely amid her clay, a burnisher's apron reaching
nearly to her neck, allowing her small, proud head to emerge with those
transparent tones, those gleams of veiled radiance of which the sense,
the inspiration bring the blood to the cheek as they pass. Paul always
remembered what had been said of her in his presence, endeavoured to
form an opinion for himself, doubted, worried himself, and was charmed,
vowing to himself each time that he would come no more and never missing
a Sunday. A little woman with gray, powdered hair was always there in
the same place, her pink face like a pastel somewhat worn by years, who,
in the discrete light of a recess, smiled sweetly, with her hands lying
idly on her knees, motionless as a fakir. Jenkins, amiable, with his
open face, his black eyes, and his apostolical manner, moved on from one
group to another, liked and known by all. He did not miss, either, one
of Felicia's days; and, indeed, he showed his patience in this, all the
snubs of his hostess both as artist and pretty woman being reserved for
him alone. Without appearing to notice them, with ever the same smiling,
indulgent serenity, he continued to pay his visits to the daughter of
his old Ruys, of the man whom he had so loved and tended to his last
moments.

This time, however, the question which Felicia had just addressed to him
respecting his son appeared extremely disagreeable to him, and it was
with a frown and a real expression of annoyance that he replied:
"Ma foi! I know no more than yourself what he is doing. He has quite
deserted us. He was bored at home. He cares only for his Bohemia."

Felicia gave a jump that made them all start, and with flashing eyes and
nostrils that quivered, said:

"That is too absurd. Ah, now, come, Jenkins. What do you mean by
Bohemia? A charming word, by-the-bye, and one that ought to recall long
days of wandering in the sun, halts in woody nooks, all the freshness of
fruits gathered by the open road. But since you have made a reproach of
the name, to whom do you apply it? To a few poor devils with long hair,
in love with liberty in rags, who starve to death in a fifth-floor
garret, or seek rhymes under tiles through which the rain filters;
to those madmen, growing more and more rare, who, from horror of the
customary, the traditional, the stupidity of life, have put their feet
together and made a jump into freedom? Come, that is too old a story.
It is the Bohemia of Murger, with the workhouse at the end, terror of
children, boon of parents, Red Riding-Hood eaten by the wolf. It was
worn out a long time ago, that story. Nowadays, you know well that
artists are the most regular people in their habits on earth, that they
earn money, pay their debts, and contrive to look like the first man you
may meet on the street. The true Bohemians exist, however; they are the
backbone of our society; but it is in your own world especially that
they are to be found. _Parbleu!_ They bear no external stamp and
nobody distrusts them; but, so far as uncertainty, want of substantial
foundation in their lives is concerned, they have nothing to wish for
from those whom they call so disdainfully 'irregulars.' Ah! if we
knew how much turpitude, what fantastic or abominable stories, a black
evening-coat, the most correct of your hideous modern garments, can
mask. Why, see, Jenkins, the other evening at your house I was amusing
myself by counting them--all these society adventurers--"

The little old lady, pink and powdered, put in gently from her place:

"Felicia, take care!"

But she continued, without listening:

"What do you call Monpavon, doctor? And Bois l'Hery? And de Mora
himself? And--" She was going to say "and the Nabob?" but stopped
herself.

"And how many others! Oh, truly, you may well speak of Bohemia with
contempt. But your fashionable doctor's clientele, oh sublime Jenkins,
consists of that very thing alone. The Bohemia of commerce, of finance,
of politics; unclassed people, shady people of all castes, and the
higher one ascends the more you find of them, because rank gives
impunity and wealth can pay for rude silence."

She spoke with a hard tone, greatly excited, with lip curled by a savage
disdain. The doctor forced a laugh and assumed a light, condescending
tone, repeating: "Ah, feather-brain, feather-brain!" And his glance,
anxious and beseeching, sought the Nabob, as though to demand his pardon
for all these paradoxical impertinences.

But Jansoulet, far from appearing vexed, was so proud of posing to this
handsome artist, so appreciative of the honour that was being done him,
that he nodded his head approvingly.

"She is right, Jenkins," said he at last, "she is right. It is we who
are the true Bohemia. Take me, for example; take Hemerlingue, two of the
men who handle the most money in Paris. When I think of the point from
which we started, of all the trades through which we have made our way.
Hemerlingue, once keeper of a regimental canteen. I, who have carried
sacks of wheat in the docks of Marseilles for my living. And the strokes
of luck by which our fortunes have been built up--as all fortunes,
moreover, in these times are built up. Go to the Bourse between three
and five. But, pardon, mademoiselle, see, through my absurd habit of
gesticulating when I speak, I have lost the pose. Come, is this right?"

"It is useless," said Felicia. A true daughter of an artist, of a genial
and dissolute artist, thoroughly in the romantic tradition, as was
Sebastien Ruys. She had never known her mother. She was the fruit of one
of those transient loves which used to enter suddenly into the bachelor
life of the sculptor like swallows into a dovecote of which the door is
always open, and who leave it again because no nest can be built there.

This time, the lady, ere she flew away, had left to the great artist,
then about forty years of age, a beautiful child whom he had brought
up, and who became the joy and the passion of his life. Until she
was thirteen, Felicia had lived in her father's house, introducing a
childish and tender note into that studio full of idlers, models, and
huge greyhounds lying at full length on the couches. There was a corner
reserved for her, for her attempts at sculpture, a whole miniature
equipment, a tripod, wax, etc., and old Ruys would cry to those who
entered:

"Don't go there. Don't move anything. That is the little one's corner."

So it came about that at ten years old she scarcely knew how to read and
could handle the boasting-tool with marvellous skill. Ruys would have
liked to keep always with him this child whom he never felt to be in the
way, a member of the great brotherhood from her earliest years. But
it was pitiful to see the little girl amid the free behaviour of the
frequenters of the house, the constant going and coming of the models,
the discussions of an art, so to speak, entirely physical, and even at
the noisy Sunday dinner-parties, sitting among five or six women, to all
of whom her father spoke familiarly. There were actresses, dancers or
singers, who, after dinner, would settle themselves down to smoke with
their elbows on the table absorbed in the indecent stories so keenly
relished by their host. Fortunately, childhood is protected by a
resisting candour, by an enamel over which all impurities glide. Felicia
became noisy, turbulent, ill-behaved, but without being touched by all
that passed over her little soul so near to earth.

Every year, in the summer, she used to go to stay for a few days with
her godmother, Constance Crenmitz, the elder Crenmitz, whom all Europe
had called for so long "the famous dancer," and who lived in peaceful
retirement at Fontainebleau.

The arrival of the "little demon" used to bring into the life of the old
dancer an element of disturbance from which she had afterward all the
year to recover. The frights which the child caused her by her daring
in climbing, in jumping, in riding, all the passionate transports of
her wild nature made this visit for her at once delicious and terrible;
delicious for she adored Felicia, the one family tie that remained to
this poor old salamander in retirement after thirty years of fluttering
in the glare of the footlights; terrible, for the demon used to upset
without pity the dancer's house, decorated, carefully ordered, perfumed,
like her dressing-room at the opera, and adorned with a museum of
souvenirs dated from every stage in the world.

Constance Crenmitz was the one feminine element in Felicia's childhood.
Futile, limited in mind, she had at least a coquettish taste, agile
fingers that knew how to sew, to embroider, to arrange things, to leave
in every corner of the room their dainty and individual trace. She
alone undertook to train up the wild young plant, and to awaken with
discretion the woman in this strange being on whom cloaks, furs,
everything elegant devised by fashion, seemed to take odd folds or look
curiously awkward.

It was the dancer again--in what neglect must she not have lived, this
little Ruys--who, triumphing over the paternal selfishness, insisted
upon a necessary separation, when Felicia was twelve or thirteen years
old; and she took also the responsibility of finding a suitable school,
a school which she selected of deliberate purpose, very comfortable and
very respectable, right at the upper end of an airy road, occupying a
roomy, old-world building surrounded by high walls, big trees, a sort of
convent without its constraint and contempt of serious studies.

Much work, on the contrary, was done in Mme. Belin's institution,
where the pupils went out only on the principal holidays and had no
communication with outside except the visits of relatives on Thursdays,
in a little garden planted with flowering shrubs or in the immense
parlour with carved and gilded work over its doors. The first entry
of Felicia into this almost monastic house caused indeed a certain
sensation; her dresses chosen by the Austrian dancer, her hair curling
to her waist, her gait free and easy like a boy's, aroused some
hostility, but she was a Parisian and could adapt herself quickly to
every situation and to all surroundings. A few days later, she looked
better than any one in the little black apron, to which the more
coquettish were wont to hang their watches, the straight skirt--a severe
and hard prescription at that period when fashion expanded women's
figures with an infinity of flounces--the regulation coiffure, two
plaits tied rather low, at the neck, after the manner of the Roman
peasants.

Strange to say, the regularity of the classes, their calm exactitude,
suited Felicia's nature, intelligent and quick, in which the taste
for study was relieved by a juvenile expansion at ease in the noisy
good-humour of playtime. She was popular. Among those daughters of
wealthy businessmen, of Parisian lawyers or of gentlemen-farmers, a
respectable and rather affectedly serious world, the well-known name
of old Ruys, the respect with which at Paris an artist's reputation is
surrounded, created for Felicia a greatly envied position, rendered more
brilliant still by her successes in the school-work, a genuine talent
for drawing, and her beauty, that superiority which asserts its
power even among young girls. In the wholesale atmosphere of the
boarding-school, she was conscious of an extreme pleasure as she grew
feminized, in resuming her sex, in learning to know order, regularity,
otherwise than these were taught by that amiable dancer whose kisses
seemed always to keep the taste of paint and her embraces somewhat
artificial in the curving of her arms. Ruys, her father, was enraptured
each time that he came to see his daughter, to find her more grown,
womanly, knowing how to enter, to walk, and to leave a room with that
pretty courtesy which caused all Mme. Belin's pupils to long for the
trailing rustle of a long skirt.

At first he came often, then, as he had not time enough for all his
commissions, accepted and undertaken, the advances on which went to pay
for the scrapes, the pleasures of his existence, he was seen more seldom
in the parlour. Finally, sickness intervened. Stricken by an incurable
anaemia, he would remain for weeks without leaving his house, without
doing any work. Thereupon he wished to have his daughter with him again;
and from the boarding-school, sheltered by so healthy a tranquility,
Felicia returned once more to her father's studio, haunted still by the
same boon companions, the parasites which swarm around every celebrity,
into the midst of which sickness had introduced a new personage, Dr.
Jenkins.

His fine open countenance, the air of candour, of serenity that seemed
to dwell about the person of this physician, already famous, who was
wont to speak of his art so carelessly and yet seemed to work miraculous
cures, the care with which he surrounded her father, these things made
a great impression on the young girl. Jenkins became immediately her
friend, confidant, a vigilant and kind guardian. Occasionally, when,
in the studio, somebody--her father most likely of all--uttered a risky
jest, the Irishman would contract his eyebrows, give a little click of
the tongue, or perhaps distract Felicia's attention.

He often used to take her to pass the day with Mme. Jenkins,
endeavouring to prevent her from becoming again the wild young thing she
was before going to school, or even something worse, as she threatened
to do in the moral neglect, sadder than all other, in which she was
left.