by Jules Verne
"More or less true, I suppose. "
"Altogether true, my son. We have followed the tendency of the last century, in which people sought to have as few children as possible, mothers apparently vexed to see their daughters too promptly pregnant, and young husbands in despair at having committed such a piece of clumsiness. Hence, in our day and age, the number of legitimate children has singularly diminished to the advantage of the bastards; these already form an impressive majority; they will soon become the masters in France, and will revive the law which forbids any inquiry into paternity. "
"Obvious enough. "
"Now, the problem, if it is a problem, exists in every class of society; note that an old egotist like me does not blame this state of affairs, he takes advantage of it; but I insist on my point that marriage is no longer the menage, and that Hymen's torch no longer serves, as once it did, to warm the soup on the stove. "
"Therefore, " Michel summed up, "if for some improbable, let us say impossible reason you were to decide to take a wife—"
"My dear fellow, I should first of all attempt to make myself a millionaire like everyone else; it requires a great deal of money to lead an existence-times- two; a girl no longer marries unless she has her weight in gold in the paternal coffers, and a Marie-Louise with her wretched dowry of two hundred fifty thousand francs wouldn't find a single banker's son who would have her. "
"But a Napoleon?"
"Napoleons are rare, my boy. "
"So I see you have no enthusiasm for marrying. "
"Not exactly. "
"Would you have any for mine?"
"Now we're getting there, " the pianist mused, and made no reply.
"Well, what do you say?"
"I'm looking at you, " Quinsonnas replied solemnly.
"And..."
"And I wonder where to begin tying you up. "
"Me!"
"Yes: madman, lunatic—what's happening to you?"
"I'm happy, " breathed Michel.
"Reason it out: either you have genius or you don't. The word offends you, so we'll say talent. If you have no talent, you die in poverty a deux. If you have talent, it's a different matter. "
"Different how?"
"My boy, don't you know that genius, and even talent, is a disease, and that an artist's wife must resign herself to the role of a practical nurse!"
"Well, I've found-"
"A sister of charity, " interrupted Quinsonnas. "There are none. Only cousins of charity now, and cousins once removed!"
Michel persisted. "I've found, I tell you—"
"A woman?"
"Yes!"
"A young woman? A girl?"
"Yes!"
"An angel!"
"Yes!"
"Then let me tell you, my son, pluck her feathers and put her in a cage, otherwise your angel will fly away. "
"Listen, Quinsonnas, I'm talking about a young person who happens to be sweet, kind, loving—"
"And rich?"
"Poor! On the brink of poverty. I've only seen her once—"
"That's a good deal! It might be better to have seen her often. "
"Don't joke with me, Quinsonnas; she's my old professor's granddaughter; I love her... completely; we've talked like friends who've known each other twenty years; I'm sure she'll love me—she's an angel!"
"You're repeating yourself, my son; Pascal says that man is never entirely an angel or a beast! Well, between the two of you, you and your beauty, you provide a furious contradiction!"
"Oh, Quinsonnas!"
"Calm down! You're not the angel! Can it be possible—this fellow's in love! Planning at sixteen to do what is still a piece of stupidity at forty!"
"What is still a piece of happiness, if one is loved, " the young man replied.
"Enough. Shut up now!" exclaimed the pianist. "Shut up! You're annoying me! Don't add another word or I—"
And Quinsonnas, annoyed indeed, violently slapped the immaculate pages of the Ledger.
It is apparent that a discussion of women and love can have no end, and this one would doubtless have continued till nightfall had there not occurred a terrible accident whose consequences were to be incalculable. By gesticulating so passionately, Quinsonnas happened to knock over the large siphoniform apparatus which provided his multicolored inks. Floods of red, yellow, green, and blue ran like torrents of lava over the pages of the Ledger. Quinsonnas could not restrain a terrible cry; the offices echoed with it. People supposed that the Ledger was falling. "We're lost, " whispered Michel.
"You said it, my son, " Quinsonnas replied. "The flood is upon us. Sauve qui peut!"
But at this moment Monsieur Casmodage and Cousin Athanase appeared in the accounting offices. The banker headed for the scene of the disaster; in his astonishment he opened and closed his mouth, but no words emerged; rage had stifled him!
And with good cause! That marvelous book in which the enormous operations of the banking house were inscribed—stained! That precious treasure of financial affairs, soiled! That veritable atlas which contained an entire world, contaminated! That gigantic monument which on holidays the concierge would show to visitors, ruined! spattered! lost! And its guardian, the man to whom such a task had been entrusted, had betrayed his mandate! The priest had dishonored the altar with his own hands!
Monsieur Casmodage thought all these horrible things, but he could not utter a word. A dreadful silence reigned in the offices.
Suddenly Monsieur Casmodage gestured at the unfortunate copyist; this gesture consisted of an arm extended toward the door with a force, a resolve, a conviction such that no mistake was possible! This eloquent gesture so clearly meant "Get out!" in every human language that Quinsonnas descended from the hospitable summit where his youth had been spent. Michel followed and advanced toward the banker. "Monsieur, " he said, "I am the cause—"
A second gesture made by the same arm extended even more emphatically, if possible, sent the reader after the copyist.
Then Quinsonnas carefully removed his canvas cuffs, took up his hat, dusted it with his elbow, put it on his head, and walked straight up to the banker. The latter's eyes were speaking daggers, but he still could not manage to emit a sound. "Monsieur Casmodage and Co., " Quinsonnas remarked in his friendliest tone, "you may think I am the author of this crime, for it is indeed a crime to have dishonored your Ledger. I must not allow you to remain in this error. Like all the evils of this world, it is women who have caused this irreparable misfortune; therefore address your reproaches to our mother Eve and to her stupid husband; all our pain or suffering proceeds from them, and when we have a stomachache, it is because Adam has eaten raw apples. On which note, Good evening. "
And the artist left, followed by Michel, while Athanase propped up the banker's arm, even as Aaron did that of Moses during the battle of the Amalekites[62].
Chapter XIII: Concerning the Ease with Which an Artist Can Starve to Death in the Twentieth Century
The young man's position was singularly altered. How many would have despaired in his place, who would scarcely have envisaged the question from his point of view! If he could no longer count on his uncle's family, he felt free at last; he was dismissed, rejected, and he believed he had escaped from prison; "thanked" for his services, it was he who had a thousand thanks to give. His preoccupations did not permit him to know what would become of him. He felt capable of everything, of anything, once he breathed the open air.
Quinsonnas had some difficulty calming Michel down, but he was careful to let such effervescence diminish. "Come to my place, " he said to Michel. "You must get some rest. "
"Rest? When day is breaking?" Michel objected, making extravagant gestures.
"Metaphorically, day is breaking, I agree, " Quinsonnas replied, "but physically, it is growing dark; night has fallen; now we don't want to sleep by starlight—in fact, there is no starlight. Our astronomers are interested only in the stars we cannot see. Come with me, we'll discuss the situation. "
&
nbsp; "Not today, " Michel answered. "You'd only say boring things—I know them all! What can you say that I don't know? Would you tell a slave drunk on his first hours of freedom: 'Friend, now you're going to starve to death'?"
"Right you are; today I won't say anything; but tomorrow... !"
"Tomorrow's Sunday! You're not going to spoil my holiday!"
"All right, we're not going to be able to talk at all then. "
"Oh yes we will—one of these days. "
"Now here's an idea, " said the pianist. "Since tomorrow is Sunday, suppose we visit your uncle Huguenin! I'd like to make that good man's acquaintance!"
"As good as done!"
"Yes, and surely you'll allow the three of us to find a solution to the present situation?"
"All right, all right, if all three of us can't find an answer, there isn't one to be found!"
Quinsonnas merely shook his head, without saying another word.
The next day, he took a gas cab early in the morning and called for Michel, who was waiting for him on the curb. He leaped into the vehicle, and the driver started up his motor; it was wonderful to see this machine move so swiftly without any apparent cause; Quinsonnas greatly preferred this mode of locomotion to trains.
It was fine weather; the gas cab moved through the still-sleeping streets, turning corners sharply, ascending slopes with no difficulty, and sometimes riding with a wonderful speed along the asphalt highways. After some twenty minutes, it stopped at the corner of the Rue du Caillou. Quinsonnas paid the fare, and the two friends had soon climbed up to Uncle Huguenin's apartment. When he opened the door, Michel fell on his neck, then introduced Quinsonnas. Monsieur Huguenin received the pianist cordially, asked his visitors to sit down, and immediately offered them some luncheon.
"Actually, Uncle, I'd made other plans. "
"What plans, my boy?"
"Plans to take you to the country for the day!"
"To the country! But there is no country, Michel!"
"Quite right, " echoed Quinsonnas. "Where would you find country?"
"I see that Monsieur Quinsonnas shares my view. "
"Completely, Monsieur Huguenin. "
"You see, Michel, " continued his uncle, "for me, the country, even before trees, before fields, before streams, is above all fresh air; now, for ten leagues around Paris, there is no longer any such thing! We envied London's atmosphere, and, by means of ten thousand factory chimneys, the manufacture of certain chemical products—of artificial fertilizers, of coal smoke, of deleterious gases, and industrial miasmas— we have made ourselves an air which is quite the equal of the United Kingdom's. Unless we were to travel far—too far for my old legs—there's no hope of breathing something pure! If you'll take my advice, we'll stay where we are, close our windows tight, and have our meal right here, as comfortably as we can. "
Matters turned out as Uncle Huguenin desired; they sat down at the table; they ate; they chatted about one thing and another; Monsieur Huguenin observed Quinsonnas, who could not help saying to him, at dessert: "My word, Monsieur Huguenin, you have a fine countenance! It's a pleasure to look at you, these days of sinister faces; permit me to shake your hand once again!"
"Monsieur Quinsonnas, I feel I've known you some time; this boy has spoken of you so frequently; I know you are one of us, and I thank Michel for your good visit; he's done well to bring you here. "
"Well now, Monsieur Huguenin, if you were to say that it was I who brought Michel, you'd be closer to the truth. "
"What is it that's happened then, that Michel should be brought here?"
"Monsieur Huguenin, brought is not the word— dragged is what I ought to have said. "
"Oh!" exclaimed Michel. "Quinsonnas always exaggerates. "
"But what is it?"
"Monsieur Huguenin, look at us carefully. "
"I am looking at you, gentlemen. "
"All right, Michel, turn around so that your uncle can examine you from every angle. "
"Am I to be told the motive for this exhibition?"
"Monsieur Huguenin, don't you find something about us that resembles men who have lately been kicked out?"
"Kicked out?"
"Yes, kicked out in the worst possible way. "
"You mean some misfortune has befallen you?"
"Good fortune!" Michel broke in.
"Child!" said Quinsonnas, shrugging his shoulders. "Monsieur Huguenin, we are quite simply out on the street, or better still, on the asphalt of Paris!"
"Can it be possible?"
"Yes, Uncle. "
"But what has happened?"
"It was like this, Monsieur Huguenin. " Quinsonnas then began the story of his catastrophe; his way of telling a story and of considering events, and his own part in them, and his exuberant philosophy drew involuntary smiles from Uncle Huguenin.
"Yet there's really nothing to laugh about, " he said.
"Or to cry about, " said Michel.
"What will become of you?"
"Don't concern yourself with me, " said Quinsonnas, "the point is the child. "
"It would be best of all, " the young man retorted, "if you talked as if I weren't here. "
"Here's the situation, " Quinsonnas continued. "Given a boy who can be neither a financier nor a businessman nor an industrialist, how will he manage in a world like ours?"
"That is certainly the question, " said Uncle Huguenin, "and a singularly embarrassing one; you have just named, Monsieur, the only three acknowledged professions; I can think of no others, unless one were to be—"
"A landowner, " said the pianist.
"Exactly. "
"A landowner!" exclaimed Michel, bursting into laughter.
"And he laughs!" exclaimed Quinsonnas. "He treats with unforgivable frivolity a profession as lucrative as it is honorable. Wretch! have you never realized what it is to be a landowner? My boy, it is positively alarming to think of all that this one word contains. When you consider that a man, a person like yourself, made of flesh and blood, born of woman, of a mere mortal, possesses a certain portion of the globe! That this portion of the globe actually belongs to him, that it is one of his properties, like his own head, and frequently even more than that! That no one, not even God, can take from him this portion of the globe which he transmits to his heirs! That he has the right to dig up this portion of the globe, to cultivate it, to build on it as he pleases! That the air which surrounds it, the water which irrigates it—everything is his! That he can burn its trees, drink its streams, and eat its grass, if he chooses! That each day he tells himself: I own my share of this land which the Creator created on the first day of the world; this surface of the hemisphere is mine, all mine, with the six thousand fathoms of breathable air which rise above it, and fifteen hundred leagues of the earth's crust which extend below! For after all, this man is a landowner down to the center of the earth, and is limited only by his co-landowner at the antipodes! But, deplorable child, you can never have realized such things to laugh as you do; you've never calculated that a man possessing a simple acre really and truly owns a plot containing twenty billion cubic meters—his own, all his own, whatever there is that can be all his own!"
Quinsonnas was magnificent: gesture, intonation, figure! He became a veritable presence, created an illusion; there could be no mistake: this was the man who had his place in the sun—a possessor!
"Ah, Monsieur Quinsonnas, " exclaimed Uncle Huguenin, "you are splendid! You make me long to be a landowner to the end of my days!"
"But isn't it all true, Monsieur Huguenin? And this child sits there and laughs!"
"Yes, I'm laughing, " Michel answered, "for I'll never manage to own even a cubic meter of land! Unless chance—"
"What do you mean by chancel" exclaimed the pianist. "You use the word without the slightest comprehension. "
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that chance comes from an Arabic word signifying 'difficult'! Exactly! For in this world there are nothing but difficulties t
o overcome! And with perseverance and intelligence, victory can be yours. "
"Precisely!" replied Uncle Huguenin. "Now what do you say to that, Michel?"
"Uncle, I'm not so ambitious, and Quinsonnas's twenty billion mean nothing to me. "
"But, " Quinsonnas continued, "one hectare of land produces twenty to twenty-five hectoliters of wheat, and a hectoliter of wheat can produce seventy- five kilograms of bread! Half a year's nourishment at a pound per day!"
"Oh, food, food!" Michel exclaimed, "always the same old song. "
"Yes, my son, the song of bread, which is frequently sung to a sad tune. "
"So what is it, Michel, that you propose to do?" asked Uncle Huguenin.
"If I were absolutely free, Uncle, " the young man replied, "I'd like to put into practice that definition of happiness I once read somewhere, and which involves four conditions. "
"And what, without being too inquisitive, might they be?" asked Quinsonnas.
"Life in the open air, " answered Michel, "the love of a woman, detachment from all ambition, and the creation of a new form of beauty. "
"Well then!" exclaimed the pianist with a laugh, "Michel's already achieved half his program. "
"How's that?" asked Uncle Huguenin.
"Life in the open air—he's already been thrown onto the street!"
"Right, " agreed Uncle Huguenin.
"The love of a woman?"
"Let's leave that aside, " said Michel, blushing.
"As you wish, " Monsieur Huguenin teased.
"As for the other two, " Quinsonnas continued, "it's a little more difficult. I believe he's ambitious enough not to be utterly detached from all ambition... "
"But the creation of a new form of beauty, " Michel exclaimed, leaping up with enthusiasm.
"The fellow's quite capable of that, " retorted Quinsonnas.
"Poor child, " his uncle observed in a rather sad tone of voice.
"Uncle... "
"You know nothing about life, yet all your life you must learn how to live, as Seneca says. I implore you, don't yield to fond hopes—you must realize there are obstacles to face!"
"Indeed, " continued the pianist, "nothing happens by itself in this world of ours; as in mechanics, you must consider the milieu, you must bear in mind contacts! Contacts with friends, with enemies, with outsiders, with rivals! The milieu of women, of family, of society! A good engineer has to take everything into account!"
