Conclusion
Five years after this, one afternoon in November, the Comte Paul de Manerville, wrapped in a cloak, with a bowed head, mysteriously arrived at the house of Monsieur Mathias at Bordeaux. The worthy man, too old now to attend to business, had sold his connection, and was peacefully ending his days in one of his houses.
Important business had taken him out at the time when his visitor called; but his old housekeeper, warned of Paul’s advent, showed him into the room that had belonged to Madame Mathias, who had died a year since.
Paul, tired out by a hurried journey, slept till late. The old man, on his return, came to look at his erewhile client, and was satisfied to look at him lying asleep, as a mother looks at her child. Josette, the housekeeper, came in with her master, and stood by the bedside, her hands on her hips.
“This day twelvemonth, Josette, when my dear wife breathed her last in this bed, I little thought of seeing Monsieur le Comte here looking like death.”
“Poor gentleman! he groans in his sleep,” said Josette.
The old lawyer made no reply but “Sac à papier!”—an innocent oath, which, from him, always represented the despair of a man of business in the face of some insuperable dilemma.
“At any rate,” thought he, “I have saved the freehold of Lanstrac, Auzac, Saint-Froult, and his town house here.”
Mathias counted on his fingers and exclaimed, “Five years!—Yes, it is five years this very month since his old aunt, now deceased, the venerable Madame de Maulincour, asked on his behalf for the hand of that little crocodile in woman’s skirt’s who has managed to ruin him—as I knew she would!”
After looking at the young man for some time, the good old man, now very gouty, went away, leaning on his stick, to walk slowly up and down his little garden. At nine o’clock supper was served, for the old man supped; and he was not a little surprised to see Paul come in with a calm brow and an unruffled expression, though perceptibly altered. Though at three-and-thirty the Comte de Manerville looked forty, the change was due solely to mental shocks; physically he was in good health. He went up to his old friend, took his hands, and pressed them affectionately, saying:
“Dear, good Maître Mathias! And you have had your troubles!”
“Mine were in the course of nature, Monsieur le Comte, but yours—”
“We will talk over mine presently at supper.”
“If I had not a son high up in the law, and a married daughter,” said the worthy man, “believe me, Monsieur le Comte, you would have found something more than bare hospitality from old Mathias.—How is it that you have come to Bordeaux just at the time when you may read on every wall bills announcing the seizure and sale of the farms of le Grassol and le Guadet, of the vine land of Bellerose and your house here? I cannot possibly express my grief on seeing those huge posters—I, who for forty years took as much care of your estates as if they were my own; I, who, when I was third clerk under Monsieur Chesneau, my predecessor, transacted the purchase for your mother, and in my young clerk’s hand engrossed the deed of sale on parchment; I, who have the title-deeds safe in my successor’s office; I, who made out all the accounts. Why, I remember you so high—” and the old man held his hand two feet from the floor.
“After being a notary for more than forty years, to see my name printed as large as life in the face of Israel, in the announcement of the seizure and the disposal of the property—you cannot imagine the pain it gives me. As I go along the street and see the folks all reading those horrible yellow bills, I am as much ashamed as if my own ruin and honor were involved. And there are a pack of idiots who spell it all out at the top of their voices on purpose to attract idlers, and they add the most ridiculous comments.
“Are you not master of your own? Your father ran through two fortunes before making the one he left you, and you would not be a Manerville if you did not tread in his steps.
“And besides, the seizure of real property is foreseen in the Code, and provided for under a special capitulum; you are in a position recognized by law. If I were not a white-headed old man, only waiting for a nudge to push me into the grave, I would thrash the men who stand staring at such abominations—‘At the suit of Madame Natalie Evangelista, wife of Paul François Joseph Comte de Manerville, of separate estate by the ruling of the lower Court of the Department of the Seine,’ and so forth.”
“Yes,” said Paul, “and now separate in bed and board—”
“Indeed!” said the old man.
“Oh! against Natalie’s will,” said the Count quickly. “I had to deceive her. She does not know that I am going away.”
“Going away?”
“My passage is taken; I sail on the Belle-Amélie for Calcutta.”
“In two days!” said Mathias. “Then we meet no more, Monsieur le Comte.”
“You are but seventy-three, my dear Mathias, and you have the gout, an assurance of old age. When I come back I shall find you just where you are. Your sound brain and heart will be as good as ever; you will help me to rebuild the ruined home. I mean to make a fine fortune in seven years. On my return I shall only be forty. At that age everything is still possible.”
“You, Monsieur le Comte!” exclaimed Mathias, with a gesture of amazement. “You are going into trade!—What are you thinking of?”
“I am no longer
