‘Since death may call us at any moment, I am taking the precaution, in anticipation of its summons, of writing my will, which I shall deposit in the office of Maître Lamaneur.
‘Having no immediate heirs, I bequeath my entire fortune, composed of stock worth 600,000 francs, and real estate valued at approximately 500,000 francs, to Mme Claire-Madeleine Du Roy, free of all encumbrances. I beg her to accept this gift from a departed friend, in token of his devoted, profound and respectful affection.’
The notary added: ‘That’s all. This document is dated last August and replaced a similar document, in the name of Mme Claire-Madeleine Forestier. I have that first will which could prove, were the will to be contested by the family, that the intentions of M. le Comte de Vaudrec never varied.’
Madeleine, very pale, sat gazing at her feet. Georges was nervously twisting the ends of his moustache with his fingers. The notary went on, after a brief silence: ‘It goes without saying, Monsieur, that Madame may not accept this legacy without your consent.’*
Du Roy rose, and said curtly: ‘I need time to reflect.’
The notary, who was smiling, bowed, and said amiably: ‘I understand the concern that makes you hesitate, Monsieur. I should add that M. de Vaudrec’s nephew, who was informed this very morning of his uncle’s last wishes, declares himself prepared to respect them if he is granted a sum of a hundred thousand francs. In my opinion, the will cannot be contested, but a lawsuit would cause a stir that you may perhaps prefer to avoid. The world is prone to malice. In any event, would you let me have your answer on every point before Saturday?’
Georges nodded: ‘Yes, Monsieur.’ Then he bowed ceremoniously, ushered out his wife who had still said nothing, and departed, his air so aloof that the notary was no longer smiling.
As soon as they were in their room, Du Roy quickly shut the door and, flinging his hat onto the bed, said: ‘So you were Vaudrec’s mistress?’
Madeleine, who was removing her veil, turned round sharply: ‘Me? Oh, Georges!’
‘Yes, you. People don’t leave their entire fortune to a woman, unless…’
She had started trembling, and could not take out the pins that secured the transparent fabric.
After reflecting for a moment, she stammered, her voice agitated: ‘Look… look… you’re mad… you’re… you’re… Weren’t you yourself, just now, weren’t you hoping… that he’d leave you something?’
Georges was still standing close to her, observing all her reactions, like a magistrate bent on noting the tiniest slips a suspect might make. He declared, stressing every word:
‘Yes… he could leave something to me… me, your husband… me, his friend… but not to you, a woman friend… you, my wife. The distinction is a vital one, an essential one, from the point of view of propriety, of public opinion.’
Madeleine in her turn stared at him steadily, straight into his eyes, in a profound, strange way, as if seeking to read something there, as if seeking to discover there that hidden part of a human being which can never be fathomed but may perhaps be glimpsed for a fleeting instant, in those moments of unguardedness or surrender or inattention, that are like doors left ajar onto the mysterious depths of the spirit. And she said slowly:
‘Still, it seems to me that if… that people would have thought at least as strange a legacy of such significance from him… to you.’
He asked sharply: ‘Why?’
She said: ‘Because…’ She hesitated, then continued: ‘Because you’re my husband… because, after all, you’ve only known him a short time… because I’m the one who’s been his friend for a very long time… because the first will he made, while Forestier was still alive, was already in my favour.’
Georges had begun to stride up and down. He announced: ‘You can’t accept this.’
She replied with indifference: ‘Fine; in that case, there’s no point in waiting till Saturday; we can let M. Lamaneur know straight away.’
He stopped and faced her; and once again they stood for a few seconds, each gazing into the other’s eyes, each striving to reach the impenetrable secret of the other’s heart, to probe each other’s thoughts to the quick. They tried, in a mute and passionate questioning, to see the other’s conscience in its essential truth: the intimate struggle of two beings who, living side by side, never really know one another, who suspect and sniff round and spy on one another, but cannot plumb the miry depths of one another’s soul.
And, suddenly, he whispered softly into her face: ‘Come on, admit that you were Vaudrec’s mistress.’
She shrugged her shoulders: ‘You’re being stupid… Vaudrec was very fond of me, very fond… but nothing more, ever.’
He stamped his foot: ‘You’re lying. It’s not possible.’ She calmly replied: ‘Still, that’s the truth.’
He began striding about again, then, stopping once more: ‘So then explain to me why he’s left you his entire fortune…’
She did so, her manner unconcerned, detached. ‘It’s very simple. As you were just saying, we were his only friends, or rather I was, because he knew me when I was a child. My mother was employed as companion by some relatives of his. He was always coming here, and as he had no natural heirs, he thought of me. He may have loved me a little, it’s possible. But what woman has never been loved in that way? This hidden, secret affection may have guided his pen when he was thinking about making his will, well why not? He used to bring me flowers every Monday. You didn’t find that at all surprising, and he didn’t give you any, did he? Today he’s giving me his fortune for the same reason, and because he had no one else to leave it to. It would, on the contrary, be extremely surprising if he had left it to you. Why should he? Who are you to him?’
She spoke so naturally and calmly that Georges hesitated.
He continued: ‘All the same, we can’t accept the inheritance under these conditions. It would make a terrible impression. Everyone would believe the worst, everyone would gossip about it and laugh at my expense. My colleagues are already only too inclined to envy me, to attack me. I, more than anyone, must be concerned about my honour and careful of my reputation. It’s impossible for me to allow, to permit my wife to accept a legacy of this kind from a man who the grapevine already declares was her lover. Forestier, now, might perhaps have put up with it, but not me.’
She murmured gently: ‘Oh well, my dear, don’t let’s accept, we’ll be a million worse off, that’s all.’
Still pacing up and down, he started thinking aloud, speaking to his wife without actually addressing her:
‘Well, yes! A million… too bad… He didn’t understand what a want of tact, what a disregard of convention he was displaying. He didn’t see in what a false and ridiculous position he would put me. Life’s entirely a matter of fine distinctions… He should have left me half, that would have solved everything.’
He sat down, crossed his legs, and began twisting the ends of his moustache, as was his habit in moments of boredom, anxiety, or perplexity.
Madeleine took up a piece of tapestry she worked on from time to time, and declared, as she picked out her wools:
‘I’m not going to say anything. You must do the thinking.’
For a long time he made no reply, then said hesitantly: ‘People will never accept either that Vaudrec picked you as his sole heir or that I myself agreed to it. To obtain this fortune in this manner would be tantamount to admitting… Admitting that there was, on your part, an illicit relationship, and on mine, a shameful acquiescence. Do you understand how our acceptance would be viewed? We must find some roundabout means, some clever way of justifying it. For example, we’d have to let it be known that he divided the legacy between us, leaving half to the husband and half to the wife.’
She asked: ‘I don’t understand how that could be done, since the will is quite specific’
‘Oh! It’s perfectly simple. You could give me half of the legacy as a donation inter vivos. We’ve no children, so it’s possible. In that way, we
’d silence people’s malicious tongues.’
She said, a trifle impatiently: ‘I still don’t see how that would silence malicious tongues, since the will is there, signed by Vaudrec’
He replied angrily: ‘Do we have to show it, to display it on our walls? You really are being stupid. We’ll say that the Comte de Vaudrec left us each half his fortune… That’s it… Now, you can’t accept this legacy without my permission. I’ll give you it, but only on condition that the legacy’s divided, so I won’t become a laughingstock.’
She gave him another piercing look.
‘As you wish. I agree.’
Then he stood up and started striding about again. He seemed to be hesitating once more, avoiding his wife’s penetrating eye. He said: ‘No… absolutely not… perhaps it would be better to refuse it outright… it’s more dignified… more correct… more honourable… And yet, this way, there’d be no room for speculation, no room at all. Even the most scrupulous would have to accept it.’
He stopped in front of Madeleine. ‘Well, if you like, sweetheart, I’ll return on my own to Maître Lamaneur to ask his advice and explain everything to him. I’ll tell him my concerns, and add that we’ve settled on the idea of sharing the legacy, for the sake of the proprieties, and so there won’t be any talk. Obviously, from the moment I accept half this legacy, no one will be able to laugh at me. It’s as if I declared: “My wife accepts because I accept, I, her husband, who am the judge of what she can do without compromising herself. Anything else would have been scandalous.”’
Madeleine simply murmured: ‘As you wish.’
Again he began talking volubly: ‘Yes, it’s all as clear as day with this arrangement of dividing it equally. We’re inheriting from a friend who didn’t want to treat us differently or make any distinction between us, who didn’t want to seem to say: “I prefer one of them now I’m dead, just as I did when I was alive.” He did prefer the wife, of course, but in leaving his fortune equally to them both he wished to show clearly that his preference was entirely platonic. You may be sure that, had he thought of it, it’s what he would have done. He didn’t reflect, he didn’t foresee the consequences. As you so truly remarked just now, it’s you to whom he gave flowers each week, it’s you who occupied his final thoughts although he didn’t realize…’
She interrupted him, a little irritated: ‘It’s agreed. I understand. There’s no need for all these explanations. Go straight away to see the notary.’
Blushing, he stammered: ‘You’re right, I’ll go.’
He picked up his hat and then, as he was leaving: ‘I’ll try to settle the difficulty with the nephew for fifty thousand francs, all right?’
Her reply was contemptuous: ‘No. Give him the hundred thousand he’s asking for. Take them from my share, if you want.’
Suddenly ashamed, he muttered: ‘Oh, no, we’ll share it. Leaving out fifty thousand each we’ll still have a clear million.’ Then he added: ‘I won’t be long, my pet.’
And off he went to explain the arrangement to the notary, claiming it was his wife who had thought of it.
The following day they signed a donation inter vivos of five hundred thousand francs that Madeleine Du Roy was turning over to her husband.
On leaving the office, as the weather was fine, Georges suggested walking down as far as the boulevards. He was making himself agreeable, being very attentive and considerate and affectionate. He was full of smiles, happy about everything, while her manner remained thoughtful and rather stiff.
It was a fairly chilly autumn day. The crowds seemed in a hurry, walking along briskly. Du Roy led his wife to the shop where he had so often admired the coveted watch.
‘Would you like me to buy you a piece of jewellery?’
She murmured indifferently: ‘If you want to.’
They went in. He enquired: ‘What would you prefer, a necklace, a bracelet, or earrings?’
The sight of the golden baubles and the fine stones dispelled her studied impassivity, and she examined the jewel-filled showcases with an eager and searching eye. Suddenly, seeing something she fancied: ‘That’s a very pretty bracelet.’
It was a chain of a strange design, with a different stone set in every link.
Georges asked: ‘How much is that bracelet?’
The jeweller replied: ‘Three thousand francs, Monsieur.’
‘If you let me have it for two-and-a-half thousand, it’s a deal.’
The man hesitated then said: ‘No, Monsieur, that’s not possible.’
Du Roy went on: ‘Look, throw in this watch for fifteen hundred francs, that makes four thousand, and I’ll pay in cash. All right? If you don’t want to, I’ll go elsewhere.’
The jeweller, confused, finally agreed. ‘Very well, Monsieur.’
And the journalist, after giving his address, added: ‘Have the watch engraved with my initials, G.R.C., intertwined and surmounted by a baron’s coronet.’
Surprised, Madeleine began to smile. When they left, she took his arm with a certain tenderness. She thought him really clever, really capable. Now that he had a private income, he needed a title, it was only right.
The jeweller bowed them out: ‘You can count on me, it will be ready Thursday, Monsieur le Baron.’
They passed the Vaudeville theatre. It was showing a new play. ‘If you like,’ he said, ‘we can go to the theatre this evening, let’s try to get a box.’
There was a box, which they took. He added: ‘Shall we dine at a restaurant?’ ‘Oh, yes, I’d like that.’
He felt as happy as a king, and thought about what else they might do.
‘How about seeing if Mme de Marelle can spend the evening with us? Her husband’s home, someone told me. I’d be so pleased to see him.’
They went there. Georges, who felt a little apprehensive about meeting his mistress again, was not sorry that his wife’s presence made any explanation impossible. But Clotilde appeared not to remember anything, and even forced her husband to accept the invitation.
The dinner was lively and the evening delightful.
Georges and Madeleine returned home late. The gas lights were out. To light the stairs, the journalist struck a wax vesta every now and again.
When they reached the first-floor landing, the match suddenly flared up as it was being struck, illuminating their two faces as they loomed out of the mirror amid the shadows of the stairwell.
They looked like ghosts that had materialized and were about to vanish into the night.
Du Roy lifted his hand to light up their images properly, and said, with a triumphant laugh: ‘There go a couple of millionaires.’
CHAPTER 7
Two months had passed since the conquest of Morocco had been completed. France, mistress of Tangiers, controlled the entire Mediterranean coast of Africa as far as the Regency of Tripoli, and had underwritten the debt of the newly annexed country.
According to rumour, two ministers had pocketed some twenty million in this affair, the name of Laroche-Mathieu being mentioned almost openly.
As for Walter, everybody in Paris knew that he had won twice over, collecting between thirty and forty million on the debt, and between eight and ten million on the copper and iron ore mines, as well as on vast tracts of land bought up for a song before the conquest, and resold on the day after the French occupation to companies that dealt in colonial property exploitation.
In a few days he had become one of the masters of the world, one of those omnipotent financiers more powerful than kings, in whose presence heads bow low, tongues are loosened and all the basest, most envy-ridden, and cowardly qualities of the human heart rise to the surface.
No longer was he ‘Walter the Jew’, head of a shady bank, editor of a questionable newspaper, a deputy suspected of dubious dealings. He was M. Walter, the wealthy Israelite.
This he intended to prove.
Learning of the financial straits of the Prince de Carlsbourg, who owned one of the finest mansions in the Rue du Faubourg-Saint
-Honoré,* with a garden giving onto the Champs-Élysées, that very same day he made him an offer for the house, complete with all its furnishings, exactly as it stood. He offered three million for it. Tempted by the sum, the Prince accepted.
The following day, Walter moved into his new home.
Then he had another idea, an idea worthy of a conqueror bent on subjugating Paris, an idea worthy of a Bonaparte.
The entire city, at that time, was flocking to see a vast canvas by the Hungarian painter Karl Marcowitch,* which was on exhibition in the salon of the art connoisseur Jacques Lenoble,* and depicted Christ walking on the water. The art critics, wildly enthusiastic, declared this picture the most magnificent masterpiece of the century.
Walter bought it for five hundred thousand francs and took it home, thereby suspending, from one day to the next, the established flow of public curiosity, and forcing the whole of Paris to talk about him in terms of envy, blame, or approval.
Then he made an announcement in the newspapers, inviting all the well-known figures of Paris society to come to his home one evening and view the masterpiece by this great foreign painter, so that nobody could say that he had hidden away a work of art.
His home would be open to all. Whoever wished to, might come. All you had to do was show the announcement at the door. This was worded as follows: ‘Monsieur and Madame Walter request the honour of your presence at their home on the 30th of December, between nine p.m. and midnight, to view, by electric light,* the painting by Karl Marcowitch entitled Jesus Walking on the Water.’ Then, as a postscript, in very small letters, it said: ‘Dancing from midnight.’
Consequently, those who wanted to stay would do so, and from among that group the Walters would recruit their future acquaintances. The others would gaze at the picture, at the house, and at its owners, with worldly, insolent, or indifferent curiosity, then would leave as they had come. And old man Walter knew perfectly well that they would be back, later, just as they had gone to the homes of his brother Israelites who, like him, had become wealthy.
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