Money (Oxford World’s Classics)

by Emile Zola

  Indeed, that very day, Saccard, sensing danger with his natural flair, went to see Daigremont. He was in a fever, he felt that this must surely be the time for striking hard at the bears, if he didn’t want to be definitively beaten by them. And his gigantic idea was tormenting him, that colossal army of six hundred million still to be raised in order to conquer the world. Daigremont greeted him with his usual amiability, in his princely mansion, surrounded by valuable pictures, and all the dazzling luxury paid for by his fortnightly profits from the Bourse, though no one really knew what actual substance lay behind the lavish decor, always liable to be whisked away by some whim of fortune. So far, Daigremont had not betrayed the Universal, refusing to sell and affecting an air of absolute confidence, enjoying his stance as a good gambler, betting on a rise, out of which he was anyway making a considerable profit; and he had been pleased with himself for not flinching, even after the bad settlement of the 15th, convinced, as he kept telling everyone, that the rise would restart, but keeping his eyes open, ready to go over to the enemy at the first serious sign of trouble. Saccard’s visit, the extraordinary energy he displayed, and the enormous idea he outlined, of scooping up everything on the market, filled him with real admiration. It was mad, but then the great men in war and finance, aren’t they often just madmen who succeed? And Daigremont formally promised to come to his aid the very next day at the Bourse. He had already taken up strong positions, and he would see his agent Delarocque, to take up some more; not to mention the friends he would visit, a whole syndicate, as it were, that he would bring in as reinforcements. This new army corps could be estimated, he thought, at about a hundred million, immediately available. That would be enough. Saccard, radiant, certain of victory, at once drew up the battle plan, a flanking movement of rare audacity, a strategy borrowed from the most celebrated captains; first, at the opening of the Bourse, a simple skirmish to attract the short-sellers and give them confidence; then, when they had obtained a first success and the prices were falling, Daigremont and his friends would arrive with their heavy artillery, all those unexpected millions suddenly appearing from behind a ridge, attacking the short-sellers in the rear and overwhelming them. They would be crushed, massacred. The two men left each other after much handshaking and triumphant laughter.

  An hour later, as Daigremont, who was dining out, was about to get dressed, he received another visit, from Baroness Sandorff. In her consternation, she had suddenly had the idea of consulting him. At one time she had been thought to be his mistress, but in fact there had never been anything between them except a very free man–woman comradeship. They were both too feline, and understood each other too well to manage the deception involved in a liaison. She told him her fears, her visit to Gundermann, and his response, but she lied about the surge of treachery that had inspired her conduct. Daigremont was most amused, and enjoyed frightening her even more, pretending to be quite shaken, and almost believing that Gundermann was telling the truth when he swore he was not short-selling, for indeed, can one ever tell? The Bourse is a real forest, a forest on a dark night, in which people can only grope their way along. In all that darkness, if you’re foolish enough to take heed of everything, however inept and contradictory, that you’re told, then you’re sure to break your neck.

  ‘So,’ she asked anxiously, ‘I ought not to sell?’

  ‘Sell? Why would you? What madness! Tomorrow we shall be the masters, Universals will go up to three thousand one hundred: just hold on, whatever happens: you will be happy with the closing price… I can’t say any more.’

  The Baroness had just left, and Daigremont was at last getting dressed, when a ring at the doorbell announced a third visit. Ah! Not another! He would not receive this one. But when he was handed the card of Delarocque, he at once called out to let him in, and as the broker, looking very disturbed, seemed to hesitate to speak to him, Daigremont sent away his valet, himself putting the finishing touches to his white tie in front of a tall mirror.

  ‘My dear chap!’ said Delarocque with the easy familiarity of a man of the same social circle. ‘Look, I’m counting on your friendship, all right? This is rather delicate… Just imagine, Jacoby, my brother-in-law, has just been kind enough to warn me of an attack that is being prepared. Gundermann and the others have decided to break the Universal at tomorrow’s Bourse. They are going to throw the whole lot on to the market… Jacoby has his orders… he came running to tell me…’

  ‘Heavens!’ cried Daigremont, turning pale.

  ‘You understand, I’m holding some very strong positions, betting on a rise, yes, up to about fifteen millions, enough to wipe me out entirely… So, do you see? I’ve hired a cab and I’m doing the round of my main clients. It’s not at all correct, but the intention is good…’

  ‘Heavens!’ Daigremont repeated.

  ‘So, my good friend, as you are speculating without cover, I came to ask you to cover me, or else to abandon your position.’

  ‘Abandon it, yes, abandon it, my dear chap… Oh, no, I don’t stay with companies that are crumbling, that’s just useless heroism… Don’t buy, sell! I have about three millions’ worth with you, sell, sell it all!’

  And as Delarocque was hurrying away, saying he had other clients to see, Daigremont seized his hands and pressed them vigorously.

  ‘Thank you, I shall never forget this. Sell, sell everything.’

  Once more alone, he called his valet back to attend to his hair and beard. Ah, what a lesson! This time he had almost let himself be bamboozled, like a child. That’s what came from associating with a madman!

  That evening, at the eight o’clock kerb market, the panic began. That market was held at that time on the pavement of the Boulevard des Italiens, at the entrance of the Passage de l’Opéra; it was only the kerb market, operating in the midst of a shady throng of option-dealers, jobbers, and seedy speculators. Street-hawkers were going round, and collectors of cigar-ends were crawling about among the tramping feet of the different groups. The Boulevard was quite blocked by this obstinate herd, packed together, sometimes carried along by the flow of passers-by, sometimes split up, but always forming again. That evening nearly two thousand people were standing there, thanks to the mildness of the weather, with the cloudy, misty sky now promising rain, after the earlier dreadful cold. The market was very busy, Universals were being offered on all sides, and prices were falling rapidly. Soon, of course, rumours began circulating, and a new anxiety set in. What was happening? With voices lowered, people named the likely sellers, according to the jobber who gave the order, or the broker who executed it. Since the big players were selling like this, something really serious must be in the wind. And from eight o’clock until ten, there was a mad rush; all the canny speculators abandoned their positions, there were even some who just had time to change from buyers into sellers. All went off to bed in a fever of unease, as on the eve of great disasters.

  Next day, the weather was appalling. It had rained all night, a fine icy rain was swamping the city, now transformed by the thaw into a cesspit of yellow, liquid mud. By half-past twelve, the Bourse was already clamouring under this downpour. The crowd sheltering under the peristyle, and in the hall, was enormous; and the hall, with all the umbrellas dripping on to the floor, soon found itself turned into a vast puddle of muddy water. The walls exuded black filth, and from the glass roof there came only a dim and reddish light, of desperate melancholy.

  With all the ugly rumours going around, extraordinary stories that were seriously disturbing, the eyes of all, from the moment they entered the room, searched out Saccard and stared at him. He was at his post, standing by the usual pillar; and he looked the same as on other days, the days of triumph, with his air of pleasant good humour and absolute confidence. He was well aware that Universals had dropped by three hundred francs the day before at the evening kerb market; he could sense a huge danger, he was expecting a furious assault from the short-sellers; but his battle-plan seemed to him unbeatable; Daigremont’s flan
king movement, the unexpected arrival of a fresh army of millions, must surely sweep everything before it, and once again assure him of victory. He had no further resources; the coffers of the Universal Bank were empty, he had scraped out everything, down to the last centime—but he was not despairing; he had been carried over by Mazaud yet again, he had won him over to such an extent, telling him of the support of Daigremont’s syndicate, that the broker had again accepted his purchase orders for several millions without any cover. The strategy they had agreed on was not to let the prices fall too far at the opening of the Bourse, but to fight to support them pending the arrival of the reinforcements. So great was the excitement that Massias and Sabatani, abandoning useless pretences, now that the true situation was on everyone’s lips, went quite openly to talk to Saccard, then both ran to take his new orders, one to Nathansohn under the peristyle, and the other to Mazaud, who was still in the brokers’ room.

  It was ten minutes to one, and Moser, who arrived looking pale after a liverish attack which had kept him awake all the previous night, remarked to Pillerault that everybody, that day, looked jaundiced and sickly. Pillerault, restored by the approach of disasters, began boasting like a knight-errant and gave a loud laugh:

  ‘My dear fellow, you’re the one who’s sick. Everyone is very happy. We are about to give you one of those thrashings that are not easily forgotten.’

  The truth was, however, that in the general anxiety, the whole room remained gloomy, under the reddish light, and this was especially noticeable in the subdued rumble of the voices. No longer was it the tumultuous roar of the days when prices were rising, that agitation, that din of an all-conquering tide, overflowing on all sides. There was no more running, no more shouting—people sidled along and spoke quietly, as if in a house where someone lay ill. Although there was a considerable crowd, and one could hardly breathe when trying to move around, there was only a desolate murmuring, a whispering about the current fears, and some quiet exchanges of appalling news. Many remained silent, their faces drawn and livid, and eyes widened, desperately scanning the faces of others.

  ‘Nothing to say for yourself, Salmon?’ asked Pillerault, full of aggressive irony.

  ‘Of course not!’ muttered Moser. ‘Like all the rest, he has nothing to say, he’s frightened.’

  Indeed, on that day, the silences of Salmon upset no one, for everyone was in the same state of profound and mute anticipation.

  But it was especially around Saccard that a stream of clients had gathered, trembling with anxiety, longing for a word of comfort. It was later noticed that Daigremont had not shown his face, nor had Deputy Huret, doubtless forewarned, since he was once more Rougon’s devoted lackey. Kolb, surrounded by a group of bankers, pretended to be absorbed in a big arbitrage. The Marquis de Bohain, quite above the vicissitudes of fortune, calmly walked around with his pale, aristocratic little head, certain of winning in any event, since he had told Jacoby to buy as many Universals as he had asked Mazaud to sell. And Saccard, besieged by the crowd of others, the devout and the naive, presented an especially amiable and reassuring face to Sédille and Maugendre who, with trembling lips, and tearful, pleading eyes, were looking for hope of triumph. He shook them firmly by the hand, putting into the grip of his hand an absolute promise of victory. Then, like a man who is invariably happy, and beyond the reach of any danger, he began to bewail a triviality.

  ‘You find me quite upset. A camellia got left out in my courtyard in this severe cold, and it died.’

  Word went around, and people lamented the unfortunate camellia. What a man, that Saccard! With his calm assurance, his ever-smiling face, with nobody able to tell if it was only a mask covering frightful worries that would have tortured anyone else.

  ‘What a creature! Isn’t he splendid?’ Jantrou muttered in the ear of Massias, who had just come back.

  Just then Saccard, a memory suddenly coming back to him at this supreme moment, called Jantrou, remembering the afternoon when they had both seen Baroness Sandorff’s coupé drawn up in the Rue Brongniart. Was it there again today, on this day of crisis? And was the coachman, perched on high, keeping stock-still, as the rain pelted down, while the Baroness, behind the closed windows, waited to hear the prices?

  ‘Yes, certainly, she is there,’ Jantrou answered quietly, ‘and heartily with you, determined not to retreat one step… We are all here, stoutly at our posts.’

  Saccard was happy to hear of this fidelity, though he had doubts about the disinterestedness of the lady, and the others. Anyway, in the blindness of his fervour, he still believed he was marching to victory, with his whole nation of shareholders behind him, that nation of humble folk and high society, all intoxicated and fanatical, pretty women and servants, all alike in the same surge of faith.

  At last the bell rang out, with the wail of an alarm over that agitated sea of heads. And Mazaud, who was giving orders to Flory, hurried back to the trading-floor, while the young clerk rushed to the telegraph office, very worried on his own account, for, though he had been making a loss for some time, stubbornly following the fortunes of the Universal, he was that day risking a decisive move, based on the expectation of Daigremont’s intervention, which he had heard about from behind a door at the office. The trading-floor was as nervous as the hall; the brokers, ever since the last settlement, had been feeling the ground shaking beneath their feet, amid symptoms of such gravity as to alarm even them with all their experience. Already there had been some partial collapses, the market, exhausted and overburdened, was showing cracks on all sides. Was this then going to be one of those great cataclysms of the sort that happens every ten or fifteen years, one of those crises that hit speculation when it reaches the point of acute fever, when it decimates the Bourse, and sweeps through like a wind of death? In the government stocks and in the cash market, the shouting sounded choked, the jostling was getting rougher, and above it all were the dark and high silhouettes of the quoters, waiting, pen in hand. And at once, Mazaud, his hands gripping the red-velvet balustrade, saw Jacoby on the other side of the circular area, shouting in his deep voice:

  ‘I have Universals… At two thousand eight hundred, I have Universals…’

  That was the closing price on the kerb market of the night before; and to check the fall, Mazaud thought it wise to buy at that price. His shrill voice rose above all the others:

  ‘At two thousand eight hundred, I take… three hundred Universals, deliver!’

  So the first quotation was fixed. But it proved impossible to maintain. Offers flooded in on all sides. He struggled desperately for half-an-hour, with no other result than slightly to slow down the rapid fall. He was surprised to find he was not being supported from the trading-floor. So what was happening to Nathansohn, from whom he was expecting orders to purchase? It was only later that he learned of Nathansohn’s clever tactics; while buying for Saccard, he was selling on his own account, having got wind of the real situation through his Jewish flair. Massias, himself very involved as a buyer, ran up, panting, to give news about the disaster on the trading-floor to Mazaud, who lost his head and decided to shoot his bolt, releasing in one stroke all the orders he had been keeping back to execute one by one, pending the arrival of the reinforcements. That sent the price up a little: from two thousand five hundred it went back to two thousand six hundred and fifty, with the sudden mad leaps that happen on tempestuous days; and once again, for a moment, hope, boundless hope, arose in the minds of Mazaud, Saccard, and all those who were in the secret of the battle-plan. Since the price was already going up, they had won the day, the victory would be crushing when the reserves came out on the flank of the short-sellers, changing their defeat into a devastating rout. There was a movement of intense joy, Sédille and Maugendre looked as if they would kiss Saccard’s hand, and Kolb drew near, while Jantrou disappeared, running off to take the good news to Baroness Sandorff. And at that moment the radiant little Flory was seen searching everywhere for Sabatani, now acting as his intermediary, to
give him new orders to purchase.

  But two o’clock had just struck, and Mazaud, who was bearing the brunt of the attack, was again weakening. He was more and more surprised at the delay of the entry into battle of the reinforcements. It was high time for them to arrive, so what were they waiting for, to release him from the untenable position which was draining him? Although, out of professional pride, he kept his face impassive, he could feel a great chill rising to his cheeks, and feared he might be turning pale. Jacoby, thundering on, went on throwing offers at him in bundles, one after another, but he was no longer picking them up. And it was no longer at Jacoby that he was looking; his eyes were turned now in the direction of Delarocque, Daigremont’s broker, whose silence he could not understand. Stout and stocky, with his russet beard, smiling beatifically after some festivity of the night before, Delarocque seemed quite calm, while waiting so inexplicably. Wasn’t he going to pick up all these orders, and save everything through the purchase orders with which the order-books he was holding must be bulging?

  Suddenly, in his guttural, slightly hoarse voice, Delarocque threw himself into the fight.

  ‘I have Universals… I have Universals…’

  And in a few minutes he offered several millions’ worth. Some voices responded. The share-price was collapsing.

  ‘I have at two thousand four hundred… I have at two thousand three hundred… How many? Five hundred, six hundred… Deliver!’

  What was he saying? What was happening? Instead of the expected help, was this a new enemy army, suddenly appearing out of nearby woods? Just like Waterloo, when Grouchy did not arrive;* and it was treachery that completed the rout. In the face of these deep and new masses of sellers, coming in at the gallop, a fearful panic set in.