Thus we see that all Jews are not in Israel.
“You are not laughing at me, Remonencq, are you?” asked the portress. “Is it possible that M. Pons has such a fortune, living as he does? There is not a hundred francs in the place — ”
“Amateursh are all like that,” Remonencq remarked sententiously.
“Then do you think that my gentleman has worth of seven hundred thousand francs, eh? — ”
“In pictures alone,” continued Remonencq (it is needless, for the sake of clearness in the story, to give any further specimens of his frightful dialect). “If he would take fifty thousand francs for one up there that I know of, I would find the money if I had to hang myself. Do you remember those little frames full of enameled copper on crimson velvet, hanging among the portraits?... Well, those are Petitot’s enamels; and there is a cabinet minister as used to be a druggist that will give three thousand francs apiece for them.”
La Cibot’s eyes opened wide. “There are thirty of them in the pair of frames!” she said.
“Very well, you can judge for yourself how much he is worth.”
Mme. Cibot’s head was swimming; she wheeled round. In a moment came the thought that she would have a legacy, she would sleep sound on old Pons’ will, like the other servant-mistresses whose annuities had aroused such envy in the Marais. Her thoughts flew to some commune in the neighborhood of Paris; she saw herself strutting proudly about her house in the country, looking after her garden and poultry yard, ending her days, served like a queen, along with her poor dear Cibot, who deserved such good fortune, like all angelic creatures whom nobody knows nor appreciates.
Her abrupt, unthinking movement told Remonencq that success was sure. In the chineur’s way of business — the chineur, be it explained, goes about the country picking up bargains at the expense of the ignorant — in the chineur’s way of business, the one real difficulty is the problem of gaining an entrance to a house. No one can imagine the Scapin’s roguery, the tricks of a Sganarelle, the wiles of a Dorine by which the chineur contrives to make a footing for himself. These comedies are as good as a play, and founded indeed on the old stock theme of the dishonesty of servants. For thirty francs in money or goods, servants, and especially country servants, will sometimes conclude a bargain on which the chineur makes a profit of a thousand or two thousand francs. If we could but know the history of such and such a service of Sevres porcelain, pate tendre, we should find that all the intellect, all the diplomatic subtlety displayed at Munster, Nimeguen, Utrecht, Ryswick, and Vienna was surpassed by the chineur. His is the more frank comedy; his methods of action fathom depths of personal interest quite as profound as any that plenipotentiaries can explore in their difficult search for any means of breaking up the best cemented alliances.
“I have set La Cibot nicely on fire,” Remonencq told his sister, when she came to take up her position again on the ramshackle chair. “And now,” he continued, “I shall go to consult the only man that knows, our Jew, a good sort of Jew that did not ask more than fifteen per cent of us for his money.”
Remonencq had read La Cibot’s heart. To will is to act with women of her stamp. Let them see the end in view; they will stick at nothing to gain it, and pass from scrupulous honesty to the last degree of scoundrelism in the twinkling of an eye. Honesty, like most dispositions of mind, is divided into two classes — negative and positive. La Cibot’s honesty was of the negative order; she and her like are honest until they see their way clear to gain money belonging to somebody else. Positive honesty, the honesty of the bank collector, can wade knee-deep through temptations.
A torrent of evil thoughts invaded La Cibot’s heart and brain so soon as Remonencq’s diabolical suggestion opened the flood-gates of self-interest. La Cibot climbed, or, to be more accurate, fled up the stairs, opened the door on the landing, and showed a face disguised in false solicitude in the doorway of the room where Pons and Schmucke were bemoaning themselves. As soon as she came in, Schmucke made her a warning sign; for, true friend and sublime German that he was, he too had read the doctor’s eyes, and he was afraid that Mme. Cibot might repeat the verdict. Mme. Cibot answered by a shake of the head indicative of deep woe.
“Well, my dear monsieur,” asked she, “how are you feeling?” She sat down on the foot of the bed, hands on hips, and fixed her eyes lovingly upon the patient; but what a glitter of metal there was in them, a terrible, tiger-like gleam if any one had watched her.
“I feel very ill,” answered poor Pons. “I have not the slightest appetite left. — Oh! the world, the world!” he groaned, squeezing Schmucke’s hand. Schmucke was sitting by his bedside, and doubtless the sick man was talking of the causes of his illness. — ”I should have done far better to follow your advice, my good Schmucke, and dined here every day, and given up going into this society, that has fallen on me with all its weight, like a tumbril cart crushing an egg! And why?”
“Come, come, don’t complain, M. Pons,” said La Cibot; “the doctor told me just how it is — ”
Schmucke tugged at her gown. — ”And you will pull through,” she continued, “only we must take great care of you. Be easy, you have a good friend beside you, and without boasting, a woman as will nurse you like a mother nurses her first child. I nursed Cibot round once when Dr. Poulain had given him over; he had the shroud up to his eyes, as the saying is, and they gave him up for dead. Well, well, you have not come to that yet, God be thanked, ill though you may be. Count on me; I would pull you through all by myself, I would! Keep still, don’t you fidget like that.”
She pulled the coverlet over the patient’s hands as she spoke.
“There, sonny! M. Schmucke and I will sit up with you of nights. A prince won’t be no better nursed... and besides, you needn’t refuse yourself nothing that’s necessary, you can afford it. — I have just been talking things over with Cibot, for what would he do without me, poor dear? — Well, and I talked him round; we are both so fond of you, that he will let me stop up with you of a night. And that is a good deal to ask of a man like him, for he is as fond of me as ever he was the day we were married. I don’t know how it is. It is the lodge, you see; we are always there together! Don’t you throw off the things like that!” she cried, making a dash for the bedhead to draw the coverlet over Pons’ chest. “If you are not good, and don’t do just as Dr. Poulain says — and Dr. Poulain is the image of Providence on earth — I will have no more to do with you. You must do as I tell you — ”
“Yes, Montame Zipod, he vill do vat you dell him,” put in Schmucke; “he vants to lif for his boor friend Schmucke’s sake, I’ll pe pound.”
“And of all things, don’t fidget yourself,” continued La Cibot, “for your illness makes you quite bad enough without your making it worse for want of patience. God sends us our troubles, my dear good gentlemen; He punishes us for our sins. Haven’t you nothing to reproach yourself with? some poor little bit of a fault or other?”
The invalid shook his head.
“Oh! go on! You were young once, you had your fling, there is some love-child of yours somewhere — cold, and starving, and homeless.... What monsters men are! Their love doesn’t last only for a day, and then in a jiffy they forget, they don’t so much as think of the child at the breast for months.... Poor women!”
“But no one has ever loved me except Schmucke and my mother,” poor Pons broke in sadly.
“Oh! come, you aren’t no saint! You were young in your time, and a fine-looking young fellow you must have been at twenty. I should have fallen in love with you myself, so nice as you are — ”
“I always was as ugly as a toad,” Pons put in desperately.
“You say that because you are modest; nobody can’t say that you aren’t modest.”
“My dear Mme. Cibot, no, I tell you. I always was ugly, and I never was loved in my life.”
“You, indeed!” cried the portress. “You want to make me believe at this time of day that you are as innocent as a young maid at your t
ime of life. Tell that to your granny! A musician at a theatre too! Why, if a woman told me that, I wouldn’t believe her.”
“Montame Zipod, you irritate him!” cried Schmucke, seeing that Pons was writhing under the bedclothes.
“You hold your tongue too! You are a pair of old libertines. If you were ugly, it don’t make no difference; there was never so ugly a saucepan-lid but it found a pot to match, as the saying is. There is Cibot, he got one of the handsomest oyster-women in Paris to fall in love with him, and you are infinitely better looking than him! You are a nice pair, you are! Come, now, you have sown your wild oats, and God will punish you for deserting your children, like Abraham — ”
Exhausted though he was, the invalid gathered up all his strength to make a vehement gesture of denial.
“Do lie quiet; if you have, it won’t prevent you from living as long as Methuselah.”
“Then, pray let me be quiet!” groaned Pons. “I have never known what it is to be loved. I have had no child; I am alone in the world.”
“Really, eh?” returned the portress. “You are so kind, and that is what women like, you see — it draws them — and it looked to me impossible that when you were in your prime — ”
“Take her away,” Pons whispered to Schmucke; “she sets my nerves on edge.”
“Then there’s M. Schmucke, he has children. You old bachelors are not all like that — ”
“I!” cried Schmucke, springing to his feet, “vy! — ”
“Come, then, you have none to come after you either, eh? You both sprung up out of the earth like mushrooms — ”
“Look here, komm mit me,” said Schmucke. The good German manfully took Mme. Cibot by the waist and carried her off into the next room, in spite of her exclamations.
“At your age, you would not take advantage of a defenceless woman!” cried La Cibot, struggling in his arms.
“Don’t make a noise!”
“You too, the better one of the two!” returned La Cibot. “Ah! it is my fault for talking about love to two old men who have never had nothing to do with women. I have roused your passions,” cried she, as Schmucke’s eyes glittered with wrath. “Help! help! police!”
“You are a stoopid!” said the German. “Look here, vat tid de toctor say?”
“You are a ruffian to treat me so,” wept La Cibot, now released, — ”me that would go through fire and water for you both! Ah! well, well, they say that that is the way with men — and true it is! There is my poor Cibot, he would not be rough with me like this.... And I treated you like my children, for I have none of my own; and yesterday, yes, only yesterday I said to Cibot, ‘God knew well what He was doing, dear,’ I said, ‘when He refused us children, for I have two children there upstairs.’ By the holy crucifix and the soul of my mother, that was what I said to him — ”
“Eh! but vat did der doctor say?” Schmucke demanded furiously, stamping on the floor for the first time in his life.
“Well,” said Mme. Cibot, drawing Schmucke into the dining-room, “he just said this — that our dear, darling love lying ill there would die if he wasn’t carefully nursed; but I am here, in spite of all your brutality, for brutal you were, you that I thought so gentle. And you are one of that sort! Ah! now, you would not abuse a woman at your age, great blackguard — ”
“Placard? I? Vill you not oonderstand that I lof nopody but Bons?”
“Well and good, you will let me alone, won’t you?” said she, smiling at Schmucke. “You had better; for if Cibot knew that anybody had attempted his honor, he would break every bone in his skin.”
“Take crate care of him, dear Montame Zipod,” answered Schmucke, and he tried to take the portress’ hand.
“Oh! look here now, again.”
“Chust listen to me. You shall haf all dot I haf, gif ve safe him.”
“Very well; I will go round to the chemist’s to get the things that are wanted; this illness is going to cost a lot, you see, sir, and what will you do?”
“I shall vork; Bons shall be nursed like ein brince.”
“So he shall, M. Schmucke; and look here, don’t you trouble about nothing. Cibot and I, between us, have saved a couple of thousand francs; they are yours; I have been spending money on you this long time, I have.”
“Goot voman!” cried Schmucke, brushing the tears from his eyes. “Vat ein heart!”
“Wipe your tears; they do me honor; this is my reward,” said La Cibot, melodramatically. “There isn’t no more disinterested creature on earth than me; but don’t you go into the room with tears in your eyes, or M. Pons will be thinking himself worse than he is.”
Schmucke was touched by this delicate feeling. He took La Cibot’s hand and gave it a final squeeze.
“Spare me!” cried the ex-oysterseller, leering at Schmucke.
“Bons,” the good German said when he returned “Montame Zipod is an anchel; ‘tis an anchel dat brattles, but an anchel all der same.”
“Do you think so? I have grown suspicious in the past month,” said the invalid, shaking his head. “After all I have been through, one comes to believe in nothing but God and my friend — ”
“Get bedder, and ve vill lif like kings, all tree of us,” exclaimed Schmucke.
“Cibot!” panted the portress as she entered the lodge. “Oh, my dear, our fortune is made. My two gentlemen haven’t nobody to come after them, no natural children, no nothing, in short! Oh, I shall go round to Ma’am Fontaine’s and get her to tell my fortune on the cards, then we shall know how much we are going to have — ”
“Wife,” said the little tailor, “it’s ill counting on dead men’s shoes.”
“Oh, I say, are you going to worry me?” asked she, giving her spouse a playful tap. “I know what I know! Dr. Poulain has given up M. Pons. And we are going to be rich! My name will be down in the will.... I’ll see to that. Draw your needle in and out, and look after the lodge; you will not do it for long now. We will retire, and go into the country, out at Batignolles. A nice house and a fine garden; you will amuse yourself with gardening, and I shall keep a servant!”
“Well, neighbor, and how are things going on upstairs?” The words were spoken with the thick Auvergnat accent, and Remonencq put his head in at the door. “Do you know what the collection is worth?”
“No, no, not yet. One can’t go at that rate, my good man. I have begun, myself, by finding out more important things — ”
“More important!” exclaimed Remonencq; “why, what things can be more important?”
“Come, let me do the steering, ragamuffin,” said La Cibot authoritatively.
“But thirty per cent on seven hundred thousand francs,” persisted the dealer in old iron; “you could be your own mistress for the rest of your days on that.”
“Be easy, Daddy Remonencq; when we want to know the value of the things that the old man has got together, then we will see.”
La Cibot went for the medicine ordered by Dr. Poulain, and put off her consultation with Mme. Fontaine until the morrow; the oracle’s faculties would be fresher and clearer in the morning, she thought; and she would go early, before everybody else came, for there was often a crowd at Mme. Fontaine’s.
Mme. Fontaine was at this time the oracle of the Marais; she had survived the rival of forty years, the celebrated Mlle. Lenormand. No one imagines the part that fortune-tellers play among Parisians of the lower classes, nor the immense influence which they exert over the uneducated; general servants, portresses, kept women, workmen, all the many in Paris who live on hope, consult the privileged beings who possess the mysterious power of reading the future.
The belief of the occult science is far more widely spread than scholars, lawyers, doctors, magistrates, and philosophers imagine. The instincts of the people are ineradicable. One among those instincts, so foolishly styled “superstition,” runs in the blood of the populace, and tinges no less the intellects of better educated folk. More than one French statesman has been known to consult the fortune
-teller’s cards. For sceptical minds, astrology, in French, so oddly termed astrologie judiciare, is nothing more than a cunning device for making a profit out of one of the strongest of all the instincts of human nature — to wit, curiosity. The sceptical mind consequently denies that there is any connection between human destiny and the prognostications obtained by the seven or eight principal methods known to astrology; and the occult sciences, like many natural phenomena, are passed over by the freethinker or the materialist philosopher, id est, by those who believe in nothing but visible and tangible facts, in the results given by the chemist’s retort and the scales of modern physical science. The occult sciences still exist; they are at work, but they make no progress, for the greatest intellects of two centuries have abandoned the field.
If you only look at the practical side of divination, it seems absurd to imagine that events in a man’s past life and secrets known only to himself can be represented on the spur of the moment by a pack of cards which he shuffles and cuts for the fortune-teller to lay out in piles according to certain mysterious rules; but then the steam-engine was condemned as absurd, aerial navigation is still said to be absurd, so in their time were the inventions of gunpowder, printing, spectacles, engraving, and that latest discovery of all — the daguerreotype. If any man had come to Napoleon to tell him that a building or a figure is at all times and in all places represented by an image in the atmosphere, that every existing object has a spectral intangible double which may become visible, the Emperor would have sent his informant to Charenton for a lunatic, just as Richelieu before his day sent that Norman martyr, Salomon de Caux, to the Bicetre for announcing his immense triumph, the idea of navigation by steam. Yet Daguerre’s discovery amounts to nothing more nor less than this.
Works of Honore De Balzac Page 737
