Cousin Pons

by Honoré de Balzac

  ‘Stop shouting and try to keep your temper, my love,’ said Fraisier. ‘Listen to me. You’ve been feathering your own nest… This morning, while the funeral procession was being arranged, I found this catalogue, in duplicate, all in Monsieur Pons’s handwriting, and my eye happened to fall on this.’

  He opened the manuscript catalogue and started reading:

  No. 7. A magnificent portrait painted on marble by Sebastiano del Piombo in 1546; sold by a family who had it abstracted from the Cathedral of Terni. This picture was one of a pair, the other being the portrait of a bishop, bought by an Englishman. This one presents a Maltese Knight at prayer, and used to hang over the tomb of the Rossi family. But for the date, this work might be attributed to Raphael. In my view it is superior to the portrait of Baccio Bandinelli, in the Louvre, which is a little faded, whereas this Knight of Malta owes its continued freshness to the fact that the painting was done on lavagna (slate).

  ‘I looked,’ Fraisier continued, ‘at the place where No. 7 should be, and found a Portrait of a Lady, signed by Chardin, without a number on it!… While the master of ceremonies was making up the requisite number of pall-bearers, I checked all the pictures and found that eight commonplace oils, unnumbered, had been substituted for works which Monsieur Pons catalogued as first-rate, and which have disappeared… Lastly, a little painting on wood, by Metsu, also classed as a masterpiece, is missing.’

  ‘Was it my job to look after pictures?’

  ‘No, but you were a trusted servant, keeping house for Monsieur Pons and looking after his belongings. This is a case of theft.’

  ‘Theft indeed! Look here, Monsieur Fraisier, those pictures were sold, by Monsieur Schmucke, on Monsieur Pons’s instructions, to meet his needs…’

  ‘Sold to whom?’

  ‘To Monsieur Elias Magus and Monsieur Rémonencq.’

  ‘For how much?’

  ‘I really don’t remember.’

  ‘Listen, my dear Madame Cibot, you’ve made yourself a nest-egg, a big round one! I shall keep my eye on you. I have a hold on you, but if you serve my ends I will keep quiet. In any case, understand that you can expect nothing from Monsieur le Président Camusot now that you have seen fit to despoil him.’

  ‘I knew perfectly well, my dear Monsieur Fraisier, that I shouldn’t get even a sniff of that particular roast…’

  The words ‘I will keep quiet’ had mollified her.

  *

  Rémonencq came up. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘you’re picking a quarrel with Madame. That’s not right! The pictures were sold with Monsieur Pons’s consent, and it took Monsieur Magus and me three days to bring him to the point, he was so crazy about his pictures. We’ve got proper receipts and if – as is always done – we slipped a few coins, say forty francs or so, across to Madame Cibot, she got no more than we’d give the servants in any respectable house where we do a deal. Oh no, my dear sir! If you’re thinking of fleecing a defenceless woman you’re making a big mistake!… You know what I mean, you meddlesome pettifogger? Monsieur Magus holds the trump cards, and if you don’t play fair with Madame Cibot and give her what you promised, you’ll find me in your way at the auction, and you’ll lose a pretty penny if you get me and Monsieur Magus against you. We can easily stir up the dealers… You won’t get seven or eight hundred thousand francs; you won’t even get two hundred thousand!’

  ‘Is that so? We shall see! We’ll refuse to sell – or sell the things in London.’

  ‘We know our way about London,’ said Rémonencq. ‘Monsieur Magus can pull as many strings there as he can in Paris.’

  ‘Good-day to you, Madame. I’m going to look closely into your activities,’ said Fraisier – ‘unless,’ he added, ‘you are willing to do what I tell you.’

  ‘Mean little pickpocket!’

  ‘Mind what you say,’ said Fraisier. ‘I shall soon be a justice of the peace!’

  So they parted, with threats whose purport was well appreciated on both sides.

  ‘Thanks, Rémonencq,’ said La Cibot. ‘It’s very nice for a poor widow to have somebody to stand up for her.’

  That evening, at about ten o’clock, Gaudissart summoned the theatre employee to his office. He took up his stance in front of the fireplace, striking the Napoleonic attitude which had become habitual to him since he had begun reigning over a host of actors, dancers, supernumeraries and scene-shifters, and dealing with authors… He had acquired the trick of slipping his right forearm inside his waistcoat and holding on to the left-hand strap of his braces. He poised his head in semi-profile and gazed out into the void.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Topinard. Have you any private means?’

  ‘No, Monsieur.’

  ‘Well then, are you looking for a better job?’

  ‘No, Monsieur.’

  The theatre handyman turned pale.

  ‘Damn it all, your wife is a stage-box attendant here… I kept her on here out of respect for my predecessor when he went bankrupt. I gave you a day-time job, cleaning the lamps in the wings, and now you’re in charge of the music-scores. And that’s not all. You make a franc a day extra for working the monsters and organizing the demons when we put on a scene from Hell. A position all handymen in a theatre aspire to. There are jealous people in this theatre, my friend, and you have made enemies.’

  ‘Enemies?’

  ‘And you have three children. Your eldest takes children’s parts at fifty centimes for each performance!’

  ‘Monsieur…’

  ‘Don’t interrupt!’ said Gaudissart in a thunderous voice. ‘And yet, with a job like that, you want to quit the theatre!’

  ‘Monsieur…’

  ‘You want to meddle in legal affairs and get a finger in an inheritance!… Why, you poor fool, you’d be squashed like a beetle! One of my patrons is His Excellency the Comte Popinot, a man of unrivalled intelligence and character, a man whom the King, in his wisdom, has recalled to the Cabinet… This statesman, this political genius – I refer to the Comte Popinot – has married his son to the daughter of the Président de Marville, one of the most respectable and respected members of the higher judiciary, a luminary of the Palais de Justice – you know what that signifies. Well, he is the heir of his cousin, Sylvain Pons, our former conductor, whose obsequies you attended this morning. Be it far from me to blame you for going to pay your last respects to that unfortunate man… But you would certainly lose your post here if you meddled in the concerns of the worthy Monsieur Schmucke, to whom I am very well disposed, but who is about to find himself in a ticklish situation with regards to Pons’s heirs… And since this German means very little to me, while the Président and the Comte Popinot mean a great deal to me, I urge you to leave this worthy German to muddle along by himself. Germans have their own special deity, and you would cut a poor figure as a deputy-deity. So just stick to your own job!… That’s the best you can do!’

  ‘I understand, Monsieur le Directeur,’ said the woe-begone Topinard.

  Thus it came about that Schmucke, who was expecting a visit from this humble odd-job man, the one person who had mourned for Pons, lost the protector that chance had sent him. When he awoke the next morning the unfortunate man, finding the flat completely empty, realized the tremendous loss he had sustained. On the two previous days the activities and worries which death entails had surrounded him with enough commotion and bustle to provide some distraction. But the silence which follows the departure of a friend, a father, a son, or a beloved wife to the tomb, the cold grey silence of the morrow is terrible and strikes a chill to the heart. He was irresistibly drawn to Pons’s bedroom, but he could not bear to look at it. He retreated and regained the dining-room, where Madame Sauvage served him breakfast. He sat down in front of it but was unable to eat.

  *

  Suddenly there was a loud ring of the bell, and three men in black appeared, to whom Madame Cantinet and Madame Sauvage allowed free passage. The first was Monsieur Vitel, the justice of the peace; the second was his clerk of the c
ourt; the third was Fraisier, more rasping, more harsh than ever because he was smarting from the disappointing discovery that there existed a properly drawn-up will, cancelling the previous one, which he had so audaciously stolen to use as a powerful weapon.

  ‘We have come, Monsieur,’ said the justice of the peace, in a kindly voice to Schmucke, ‘to affix the seals in this habitation.’

  Such words had no meaning for Schmucke, and he gazed at the three men with a startled air.

  ‘We have come, at the request of Monsieur Fraisier, barrister-at-law, attorney for Monsieur Camusot de Marville, heir of his cousin the late Sieur Pons…’ added the clerk of the court.

  ‘The collections are there, in that spacious salon, and in the bedroom of the deceased,’ said Fraisier.

  ‘Very well, let us proceed… Excuse us, sir, pray continue your breakfast,’ said the justice of the peace.

  The irruption of these three men in black had struck terror into the poor German’s heart.

  ‘This gentleman,’ said Fraisier, casting at Schmucke the sort of venomous glare which hypnotizes its recipient as a spider hypnotizes a fly, ‘this gentleman has caused a will advantageous to himself to be drawn up before a notary, and he must certainly have expected some opposition on the part of the family. No family allows itself to be despoiled by an outsider without offering some resistance, and we shall see, Monsieur, whether fraud and corrupt dealing or family claims will prevail!… We have the right, as natural heirs, to ask for seals to be affixed. They will be affixed, and I intend to see that these precautionary measures are applied with the utmost rigour. So it shall be!’

  ‘Mein Gott! Mein Gott! Vat sin haf I committet?’ said the naïve German.

  ‘There’s a lot of chatter going on about you in the building,’ said La Sauvage. ‘While you were asleep a young chap all in black, a little dandy who said he was Monsieur Hannequin’s senior clerk, came up and was bent on talking to you. But you were asleep and so done up after the funeral yesterday, I told him you had given power of proxy to Monsieur Villemot, Tabareau’s head clerk. I told him if he had come on business he should go and see him. Don’t you worry, Monsieur Schmucke, you’ll have people to defend you. Nobody’s going to strip the shirt off your back. You’re going to have somebody to fight for you tooth and nail. Monsieur Villemot’s going to show them what’s what. Speaking for myself, I’ve already had a row with that dirty slut Madame Cibot. Fancy a concierge taking it on herself to criticize her tenants and make out you’re twisting the heirs out of a fortune, that you made Monsieur Pons’s life a misery and got him in such a stew that he went stark staring mad! I tell you, I made mincemeat ot her, the wicked baggage. ‘You’re a thief and a bit of dirt,” I told her. ‘You’ll find yourself up before the beaks for all you’ve pinched from these gentlemen.” And she shut her trap.’

  The clerk of the court came to fetch Schmucke.

  ‘Perhaps, Monsieur, you would like to be present at the affixing of seals in the mortuary chamber.’

  ‘Get on viz it!’ said Schmucke. ‘Vy vill you not leaf me to tie in peace?’

  ‘The right to die is indefeasible,’ replied the clerk with a laugh. ‘Death and inheritances are our main business. But I have seldom seen sole legatees follow their benefactors into the grave!’

  ‘Zat iss vat I vill to!’ said Schmucke. After suffering so many shocks, his heart was racked with intolerable pain.

  ‘Look, here comes Monsieur Villemot!’ cried La Sauvage.

  ‘Monsieur Fillemot,’ said the unhappy German. ‘Vill you act for me?’

  ‘At your service, Monsieur,’ said the senior clerk. ‘I have come to assure you that the will is perfectly in order, that probate will certainly be granted by the court, and that it will give you a writ of possession. A fine fortune will be yours.’

  ‘Vat shoult I to viz a fine fortune?’ exclaimed Schmucke, in despair at being suspected of covetousness.

  ‘All the same,’ said La Sauvage, ‘what’s the magistrate up to with his candles and little strips of tape?’

  ‘He is applying the seals… Come, Monsieur Schmucke, you have the right to be present.’

  ‘No, you go zere…’

  ‘But why are they putting tapes on, if Monsieur Schmucke is in his own house and everything in it belongs to him?’ asked La Sauvage, expounding the law as all women do, by applying the Code in the light of their own whims.

  ‘This gentleman is not in his own house, Madame. He is in Monsieur Pons’s house. No doubt it will all come to him, but when one is a legatee one can only take possession of the goods and chattels composing the inheritance after obtaining what we call “livery of seisin”. The writ for this is issued by the court. Now if the natural heirs dispossessed by the will of the testator enter an objection to the livery of seisin, a law-suit ensures. And then, since it is uncertain to whom the inheritance will accrue, every article is put under seal, and the notaries appointed by the natural heirs and the legatee proceed to an inventory within a period prescribed by the law… That is the position.’

  Hearing such jargon for the first time in his life, Schmucke was completely flustered. He let his head fall on to the back of his chair, and it was so heavy that he was unable to hold it up. Villemot went off to chat with the clerk of the court and the justice of the peace and, with the composure usual among legal practitioners, he witnessed the affixing of the seals. When no heir is present, this is not unaccompanied by pleasantries and comments on the articles thus preserved intact until the time comes for apportionment.

  Finally the four lawyers locked up the salon; the clerk of the court repaired to the dining-room, followed by the others. Automatically Schmucke watched this operation, which consists either of affixing the magistrate’s seal on a cotton tape applied to each leaf of folding doors, or of closing up wardrobes and single doors by running the tapes along both sides.

  ‘This room next,’ said Fraisier, pointing to Schmucke’s bedroom, the door of which opened into the dining-room.

  ‘But that’s Monsieur Schmucke’s bedroom!’ said La Sauvage, rushing forward and standing between the door and the legal officials.

  ‘Here is the contract of lease,’ said the remorseless Fraisier. ‘We found it among the papers. It is not under the joint name of Messieurs Pons and Schmucke, but under the sole name of Monsieur Pons. The whole flat forms part of the inheritance. And besides,’ he added, opening Schmucke’s bedroom door and addressing the magistrate, ‘look, Monsieur, it is full of pictures.’

  ‘That is so,’ said the magistrate, immediately conceding Fraisier’s point.

  30. The Fraisier bears fruit*

  ‘ONE moment, gentlemen,’ said Villemot. ‘Are you thinking of evicting the sole heir, whose right to succeed has not so far been contested?’

  ‘Indeed it has!’ said Fraisier. ‘We are opposing the application for possession.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘That you will soon discover, dear colleague,’ said Fraisier mockingly. ‘At present we do not object to the legatee withdrawing what he claims to be his in this room. But the seals will be affixed to it, and this gentleman will find lodging where he pleases.’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Villemot. ‘This gentleman will remain in occupation of his bedroom.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I shall take out an injunction against you,’ continued Villemot, ‘claiming that we are joint tenants of this flat; and you will not be able to evict us. Take out the pictures, put a mark on whatever belonged to the deceased, and my client’s chattels will remain here… dear colleague!’

  ‘No. I vill leaf ze house,’ said the musician, regaining energy as he listened to this appalling debate.

  ‘That’s the best thing to do,’ said Fraisier. ‘Such a decision will save you a lot of expense, for the law is against you on this point. The lease expressly states…’

  ‘The lease! The lease!’ said Villemot. ‘It’s a question of good faith.’

  ‘Good faith can
not be proved, as in criminal cases, by witnesses… Are you going to get yourself involved in valuations, verifications, interlocutory judgements and full-scale litigation?’

  ‘No! No!’ cried the terrified Schmucke. ‘I vill mofe house. I vill go avay.’

  Schmucke’s way of life had been that of a philosopher, an unwitting Diogenes, so reduced was it to the bare necessities. He only possessed two pairs of shoes, a pair of boots, two suits of clothes, a dozen shirts, a dozen mufflers, a dozen handkerchiefs, four waistcoats and a superb pipe that Pons had given him together with an embroidered tobacco-pouch. He went into the bedroom shaking and seething with indignation, gathered up all his wearing apparel and put it on a chair.

  ‘Zis iss all mine,’ he said with a simplicity worthy of Cincinnatus. ‘So iss ze piano.’

  ‘Madame,’ said Fraisier to La Sauvage, ‘get some help, move this piano and put it out into the street.’

  ‘You are much too hard,’ said Villemot to Fraisier. ‘His Honour the justice of the peace is entitled to state his orders. He is the sole authority in such matters.’

  ‘But there are articles of value in there,’ said the clerk, pointing to the bedroom.

  ‘In any case,’ observed the magistrate, ‘Monsieur Schmucke is leaving of his own free will.’

  ‘Did anyone ever see such a client!’ said Villemot indignantly, now turning once more against Schmucke. ‘You’re as limp as a rag!’ he said to him.

  ‘Vot toess it matter vere von tiess?’ said Schmucke as he went out. ‘Zese men haf ze facess of tigerss… I vill sent for my poor pelonkinks,’ he added.

  ‘Where will you go, Monsieur?’

  ‘Verefer Gott sents me,’ replied the sole heir, with a sublime gesture of indifference.

  ‘Please let me know,’ said Villemot.

  ‘Follow him,’ Fraisier whispered to the clerk.

  ‘So far so good,’ said Fraisier to Monsieur Vitel when Schmucke had gone. ‘If you intend to send in your resignation in my favour, go and see Madame la Présidente de Marville. You’ll get on together all right.’