“That he should become the tool of unscrupulous men was the one thing lacking to him,” replied the Count.
Félix, with the keen insight of a politician and a man of the world, had thoroughly gauged Raoul’s position. He calmly explained to his wife how the attempt of Fieschi had resulted in rallying many lukewarm people round the interests threatened in the person of Louis-Philippe. The comparatively neutral papers would go down in circulation as journalism, along with politics, fell into more definite lines. If Nathan had put his capital into his paper, he would soon be done for. This summary of the situation, so clear and accurate in spite of its brevity and the purely abstract point of view from which it was made, and coming from a man well used to calculate the chances of party, frightened Mme. de Vandenesse.
“Do you take much interest in him then?” asked Félix of his wife.
“Oh! I like his humor, and he talks well.”
The reply came so naturally that it did not rouse the Count’s suspicions.
At four o’clock next day at Mme. d’Espard’s, Marie and Raoul held a long whispered conversation. The Countess gave expression to fears which Raoul dissipated, only too glad of this opportunity to damage the husband’s authority under a battery of epigrams. He had his revenge to take. The Count, thus handled, appeared a man of narrow mind and behind the day, who judged the Revolution of July by the standard of the Restoration, and shut his eyes to the triumph of the middle-class, that new and substantial factor to be reckoned with, for a time at least if not permanently, in every society. The great feudal lords of the past were impossible now, the reign of true merit had begun. Instead of weighing well the indirect and impartial warning he had received from an experienced politician in the expression of his deliberate opinion, Raoul made it an occasion for display, mounted his stilts, and draped himself in the purple of success. Where is the woman who would not believe her lover rather than her husband?
Mme. de Vandenesse, reassured, plunged once more into that life of repressed irritation, of little stolen pleasures, and of covert hand-pressings which had carried her through the preceding winter; but which can have no other end than to drag a woman over the boundary line if the man she loves has any spirit and chafes against the curb. Happily for her, Raoul, kept in check by Florine, was not dangerous. He was engrossed, too, in business which did not allow him to turn his good fortune to account. Nevertheless, some sudden disaster, a renewal of difficulties, an outburst of impatience, might at any moment precipitate the Countess into the abyss.
Raoul was becoming conscious of this disposition in Marie when, towards the end of December, du Tillet asked for his money. The wealthy banker told Raoul he was hard up, and advised him to borrow the amount for a fortnight from a moneylender called Gigonnet—a twenty-five percent Providence for all young men in difficulties. In a few days the paper would make a fresh financial start with the new year, there would be cash in the countinghouse, and then du Tillet would see what he could do. Besides, why should not Nathan write another play? Nathan was too proud not to resolve on paying at any cost. Du Tillet gave him a letter for the moneylender, in response to which Gigonnet handed him the amount required and took bills payable in twenty days. Raoul, instead of having his suspicions roused by this accommodating reception, was only vexed that he had not asked for more. This is the way with men of the greatest intellectual power; they see only matter for pleasantry in a grave predicament, and reserve their wits for writing books, as though afraid there might not be enough of them to go round if applied to daily life. Raoul told Florine and Blondet how he had spent his morning; he drew a faithful picture of Gigonnet and his surroundings, his cheap fleur-de-lys wallpaper, his staircase, his asthmatic bell, his stag-foot knocker, his worn little door mat, his hearth as devoid of fire as his eye; he made them laugh at his new “uncle,” and neither du Tillet’s professed need of money nor the facility of the usurer caused them the least uneasiness.—One can’t account for every whim!
“He has only taken fifteen percent from you,” said Blondet; “he deserves your thanks. At twenty-five they cease to be gentlemen; at fifty, usury begins; at this figure they are only contemptible!”
“Contemptible!” cried Florine. “I should like to know which of your friends would lend you money at this rate without posing as a benefactor?”
“She is quite right; I am heartily glad to be quit of du Tillet’s debt,” said Raoul.
Most mysterious is this lack of penetration in regard to their private affairs on the part of men generally so keen-sighted! It may be that it is impossible for the mind to be fully equipped on every side; it may be that artists live too entirely in the present to trouble about the future; or it may be that, always on the lookout for the ridiculous, they are blind to traps, and cannot believe in anyone daring to fool them.
The end did not tarry. Twenty days later the bills were protested; but in the court Florine had a respite of twenty-five days applied for and granted. Raoul made an effort to see where he stood; he sent for the books; and from these it appeared that the receipts of the paper covered two-thirds of the cost, and that the circulation was going down. The great man became uneasy and gloomy, but only in the
