Moralists will never succeed in making us comprehend the full extent of the influence of sentiment upon self-interest, an influence every whit as strong as the action of interest upon our sentiments; for every law of our nature works in two ways, and acts and reacts upon us.
David, on his side, understood his father, and in his sublime charity forgave him. Kolb and David reached Marsac at eight o’clock, and suddenly came in upon the old man as he was finishing his dinner, which, by force of circumstances, came very near bedtime.
“I see you because there is no help for it,” said old Séchard with a sour smile.
“Und how should you and mein master meet? He soars in der shkies, and you are always mit your vines! You bay for him, that’s vot you are a fader for—”
“Come, Kolb, off with you. Put up the horse at Mme. Courtois’ so as to save inconvenience here; fathers are always in the right, remember that.”
Kolb went off, growling like a chidden dog, obedient but protesting; and David proposed to give his father indisputable proof of his discovery, while reserving his secret. He offered to give him an interest in the affair in return for money paid down; a sufficient sum to release him from his present difficulties, with or without a further amount of capital to be employed in developing the invention.
“And how are you going to prove to me that you can make good paper that costs nothing out of nothing, eh?” asked the ex-printer, giving his son a glance, vinous, it may be, but keen, inquisitive, and covetous; a look like a flash of lightning from a sodden cloud; for the old “bear,” faithful to his traditions, never went to bed without a nightcap, consisting of a couple of bottles of excellent old wine, which he “tippled down” of an evening, to use his own expression.
“Nothing simpler,” said David; “I have none of the paper about me, for I came here to be out of Doublon’s way; and having come so far, I thought I might as well come to you at Marsac as borrow of a moneylender. I have nothing on me but my clothes. Shut me up somewhere on the premises, so that nobody can come in and see me at work, and—”
“What? you will not let me see you at your work then?” asked the old man, with an ugly look at his son.
“You have given me to understand plainly, father, that in matters of business there is no question of father and son—”
“Ah! you distrust the father that gave you life!”
“No; the other father who took away the means of earning a livelihood.”
“Each for himself, you are right!” said the old man. “Very good, I will put you in the cellar.”
“I will go down there with Kolb. You must let me have a large pot for my pulp,” said David; then he continued, without noticing the quick look his father gave him—“and you must find artichoke and asparagus stalks for me, and nettles, and the reeds that you cut by the stream side, and tomorrow morning I will come out of your cellar with some splendid paper.”
“If you can do that,” hiccuped the “bear,” “I will let you have, perhaps—I will see, that is, if I can let you have—pshaw! twenty-five thousand francs. On condition, mind, that you make as much for me every year.”
“Put me to the proof, I am quite willing,” cried David. “Kolb! take the horse and go to Mansle, quick, buy a large hair sieve for me of a cooper, and some glue of the grocer, and come back again as soon as you can.”
“There! drink,” said old Séchard, putting down a bottle of wine, a loaf, and the cold remains of the dinner. “You will need your strength. I will go and look for your bits of green stuff; green rags you use for your pulp, and a trifle too green, I am afraid.”
Two hours later, towards eleven o’clock that night, David and Kolb took up their quarters in a little outhouse against the cellar wall; they found the floor paved with runnel tiles, and all the apparatus used in Angoumois for the manufacture of Cognac brandy.
“Pans and firewood! Why, it is as good as a factory made on purpose!” cried David.
“Very well, good night,” said old Séchard; “I shall lock you in, and let both the dogs loose; nobody will bring you any paper, I am sure. You show me those sheets tomorrow, and I give you my word I will be your partner and the business will be straightforward and properly managed.”
David and Kolb, locked into the distillery, spent nearly two hours in macerating the stems, using a couple of logs for mallets. The fire blazed up, the water boiled. About two o’clock in the morning, Kolb heard a sound which David was too busy to notice, a kind of deep breath like a suppressed hiccup. Snatching up one of the two lighted dips, he looked round the walls, and beheld old Séchard’s empurpled countenance filling up a square opening above a door hitherto hidden by a pile of empty casks in the cellar itself. The cunning old man had brought David and Kolb into his underground distillery by the outer door, through which the casks were rolled when full. The inner door had been made so that he could roll his puncheons straight from the cellar into the distillery, instead of taking them round through the yard.
“Aha! thees eies not fair blay, you vant to shvindle your son!” cried the Alsacien. “Do you kow vot you do ven you trink ein pottle of vine? You gif goot trink to ein bad scountrel.”
“Oh, father!” cried David.
“I came to see if you wanted anything,” said old Séchard, half sobered by this time.
“Und it was for de inderest vot you take in
