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292 pages

English

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pubOne.info present you this new edition. There is not, perhaps, in all Paris, a quieter street than the Rue St. Gilles in the Marais, within a step of the Place Royale. No carriages there; never a crowd. Hardly is the silence broken by the regulation drums of the Minims Barracks near by, by the chimes of the Church of St. Louis, or by the joyous clamors of the pupils of the Massin School during the hours of recreation.

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	06 novembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819934554
Langue	English

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OTHER PEOPLE'S MONEY
by Emile Gaboriau
PART I
I
There is not, perhaps, in all Paris, a quieterstreet than the Rue St. Gilles in the Marais, within a step of thePlace Royale. No carriages there; never a crowd. Hardly is thesilence broken by the regulation drums of the Minims Barracks nearby, by the chimes of the Church of St. Louis, or by the joyousclamors of the pupils of the Massin School during the hours ofrecreation.
At night, long before ten o'clock, and when theBoulevard Beaumarchais is still full of life, activity, and noise,every thing begins to close. One by one the lights go out, and thegreat windows with diminutive panes become dark. And if, aftermidnight, some belated citizen passes on his way home, he quickenshis step, feeling lonely and uneasy, and apprehensive of thereproaches of his concierge, who is likely to ask him whence he maybe coming at so late an hour.
In such a street, every one knows each other: houseshave no mystery; families, no secrets, — a small town, where idlecuriosity has always a corner of the veil slyly raised, wheregossip flourishes as rankly as the grass on the street.
Thus on the afternoon of the 27th of April, 1872 (aSaturday), a fact which anywhere else might have passed unnoticedwas attracting particular attention.
A man some thirty years of age, wearing the workinglivery of servants of the upper class, — the long striped waistcoatwith sleeves, and the white linen apron, — was going from door todoor.
“Who can the man be looking for? ” wondered the idleneighbors, closely watching his evolutions.
He was not looking for any one. To such as he spoketo, he stated that he had been sent by a cousin of his, anexcellent cook, who, before taking a place in the neighborhood, wasanxious to have all possible information on the subject of herprospective masters. And then, “Do you know M. Vincent Favoral? ”he would ask.
Concierges and shop-keepers knew no one better; forit was more than a quarter of a century before, that M. VincentFavoral, the day after his wedding, had come to settle in the RueSt. Gilles; and there his two children were born, — his son M.Maxence, his daughter Mlle. Gilberte.
He occupied the second story of the house. No. 38, —one of those old-fashioned dwellings, such as they build no more,since ground is sold at twelve hundred francs the square metre; inwhich there is no stinting of space. The stairs, with wrought ironbalusters, are wide and easy, and the ceilings twelve feethigh.
“Of course, we know M. Favoral, ” answered every oneto the servant's questions; “and, if there ever was an honest man,why, he is certainly the one. There is a man whom you could trustwith your funds, if you had any, without fear of his ever runningoff to Belgium with them. ” And it was further explained, that M.Favoral was chief cashier, and probably, also, one of the principalstockholders, of the Mutual Credit Society, one of those admirablefinancial institutions which have sprung up with the second empire,and which had won at the bourse the first installment of theircapital, the very day that the game of the Coup d'Etat was beingplayed in the street.
“I know well enough the gentleman's business, ”remarked the servant; “but what sort of a man is he? That's what mycousin would like to know. ”
The wine-man at No. 43, the oldest shop-keeper inthe street, could best answer. A couple of petits-verres politely offered soon started his tongue; and, whilst sipping hisCognac:
“M. Vincent Favoral, ” he began, “is a man somefifty-two or three years old, but who looks younger, not having asingle gray hair. He is tall and thin, with neatly-trimmedwhiskers, thin lips, and small yellow eyes; not talkative. It takesmore ceremony to get a word from his throat than a dollar from hispocket. ‘Yes, ’ ‘no, ’ ‘good-morning, ’ ‘good-evening; ’ that'sabout the extent of his conversation. Summer and winter, he wearsgray pantaloons, a long frock-coat, laced shoes, and lisle-threadgloves. 'Pon my word, I should say that he is still wearing thevery same clothes I saw upon his back for the first time in 1845,did I not know that he has two full suits made every year by theconcierge at No. 29, who is also a tailor. ”
“Why, he must be an old miser, ” muttered theservant.
“He is above all peculiar, ” continued theshop-keeper, “like most men of figures, it seems. His own life isruled and regulated like the pages of his ledger. In theneighborhood they call him Old Punctuality; and, when he passesthrough the Rue Turenne, the merchants set their watches by him.Rain or shine, every morning of the year, on the stroke of nine, heappears at the door on the way to his office. When he returns, youmay be sure it is between twenty and twenty-five minutes past five.At six he dines; at seven he goes to play a game of dominoes at theCafé Turc; at ten he comes home and goes to bed; and, at the firststroke of eleven at the Church of St. Louis, out goes his candle.”
“Hem! ” grumbled the servant with a look ofcontempt, “the question is, will my cousin be willing to live witha man who is a sort of walking clock? ”
“It isn't always pleasant, ” remarked the wine-man;“and the best evidence is, that the son, M. Maxence, got tired ofit. ”
“He does not live with his parents any more? ”
“He dines with them; but he has his own lodgings onthe Boulevard du Temple. The falling-out made talk enough at thetime; and some people do say that M. Maxence is a worthless scamp,who leads a very dissipated life; but I say that his father kepthim too close. The boy is twenty-five, quite good looking, and hasa very stylish mistress: I have seen her. . . . I would have donejust as he did. ”
“And what about the daughter, Mlle. Gilberte? ”
“She is not married yet, although she is pasttwenty, and pretty as a rosebud. After the war, her father tried tomake her marry a stock-broker, a stylish man who always came in atwo-horse carriage; but she refused him outright. I should not be abit surprised to hear that she has some love-affair of her own. Ihave noticed lately a young gentleman about here who looks up quitesuspiciously when he goes by No. 38. ” The servant did not seem tofind these particulars very interesting.
“It's the lady, ” he said, “that my cousin wouldlike to know most about. ”
“Naturally. Well, you can safely tell her that shenever will have had a better mistress. Poor Madame Favoral! Shemust have had a sweet time of it with her maniac of a husband! Butshe is not young any more; and people get accustomed to everything, you know. The days when the weather is fine, I see her goingby with her daughter to the Place Royale for a walk. That's abouttheir only amusement. ”
“The mischief! ” said the servant, laughing. “Ifthat is all, she won't ruin her husband, will she? ”
“That is all, ” continued the shop-keeper, “orrather, excuse me, no: every Saturday, for many years, M. and Mme.Favoral receive a few of their friends: M. and Mme. Desclavettes,retired dealers in bronzes, Rue Turenne; M. Chapelain, the oldlawyer from the Rue St. Antoine, whose daughter is Mlle. Gilberte'sparticular friend; M. Desormeaux, head clerk in the Department ofJustice; and three or four others; and as this just happens to beSaturday— ”
But here he stopped short, and pointing towards thestreet:
“Quick, ” said he, “look! Speaking of the— you know—It is twenty minutes past five, there is M. Favoral coming home.”
It was, in fact, the cashier of the Mutual CreditSociety, looking very much indeed as the shop-keeper had describedhim. Walking with his head down, he seemed to be seeking upon thepavement the very spot upon which he had set his foot in themorning, that he might set it back again there in the evening.
With the same methodical step, he reached his house,walked up the two pairs of stairs, and, taking out his pass-key,opened the door of his apartment.
The dwelling was fit for the man; and every thingfrom the very hall, betrayed his peculiarities. There, evidently,every piece of furniture must have its invariable place, everyobject its irrevocable shelf or hook. All around were evidences, ifnot exactly of poverty, at least of small means, and of theartifices of a respectable economy. Cleanliness was carried to itsutmost limits: every thing shone. Not a detail but betrayed theindustrious hand of the housekeeper, struggling to defend herfurniture against the ravages of time. The velvet on the chairs wasdarned at the angles as with the needle of a fairy. Stitches of newworsted showed through the faded designs on the hearth-rugs. Thecurtains had been turned so as to display their least wornside.
All the guests enumerated by the shop-keeper, and afew others besides, were in the parlor when M. Favoral came in.But, instead of returning their greeting:
“Where is Maxence? ” he inquired.
“I am expecting him, my dear, ” said Mme. Favoralgently.
“Always behind time, ” he scolded. “It is tootrifling. ”
His daughter, Mlle. Gilberte, interrupted him:
“Where is my bouquet, father? ” she asked.
M. Favoral stopped short, struck his forehead, andwith the accent of a man who reveals something incredible,prodigious, unheard of,
“Forgotten, ” he answered, scanning the syllables:“I have for-got-ten it. ”
It was a fact. Every Saturday, on his way home, hewas in the habit of stopping at the old woman's shop in front ofthe Church of St. Louis, and buying a bouquet for Mlle. Gilberte.And to-day . . .
“Ah! I catch you this time, father! ” exclaimed thegirl.
Meantime, Mme. Favoral, whispering to Mme.Desclavettes:
“Positively, ” she said in a troubled voice,“something serious must have happened to— my husband. He to forget!He to fail in one of his habits! It is the first time in twenty-sixyears. ”
The appearance of Maxence at this moment preventedher from going on. M. Favoral was about to administer a soundreprimand to his son, when dinner was announced.
“Come, ” exclaimed M. Chapelain, the old lawyer, theconciliating man par exc