Rise and Fall of Cesar Birotteau Part 31

"Ah! my uncle, if you have found a way my honor is saved!"

"Advance Birotteau fifty thousand on his share in your oil, which has now become a species of property, reserving to yourself the right of buying it back. I will draw up the deed."

Anselme embraced his uncle and rushed home, made notes to the amount of fifty thousand francs, and ran from the Rue des Cinq-Diamants to the Place Vendome, so that just as Cesarine, her mother, and Pillerault were gazing at Cesar, amazed at the sepulchural tone in which he had uttered the word "Ungrateful!" the door of the salon opened and Popinot appeared.

"My dear and beloved master!" he cried, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, "here is what you asked of me!" He held out the notes. "Yes, I have carefully examined my situation; you need have no fear, I shall be able to pay them. Save--save your honor!"

"I was sure of him!" cried Cesarine, seizing Popinot's hand, and pressing it with convulsive force.

Madame Cesar embraced him; Birotteau rose up like the righteous at the sound of the last trumpet, and issued, as it were, from the tomb. Then he stretched out a frenzied hand to seize the fifty stamped papers.

"Stop!" said the terrible uncle, Pillerault, s.n.a.t.c.hing the papers from Popinot, "one moment!"

The four individuals present,--Cesar, his wife, Cesarine, and Popinot,--bewildered by the action of the old man and by the tone of his voice, saw him tear the papers and fling them in the fire, without attempting to interfere.

"Uncle!"

"Uncle!"

"Uncle!"

"Monsieur!"

Four voices and but one heart; a startling unanimity! Uncle Pillerault pa.s.sed his arm round Popinot's neck, held him to his breast, and kissed him.

"You are worthy of the love of those who have hearts," he said. "If you loved a daughter of mine, had she a million and you had nothing but that [pointing to the black ashes of the notes], you should marry her in a fortnight, if she loved you. Your master," he said, pointing to Cesar, "is beside himself. My nephew," resumed Pillerault, gravely, addressing the poor man,--"my nephew, away with illusions! We must do business with francs, not feelings. All this is n.o.ble, but useless. I spent two hours at the Bourse this afternoon. You have not one farthing's credit; every one is talking of your disaster, of your attempts to renew, of your appeals to various bankers, of their refusals, of your follies,--going up six flights of stairs to beg a gossiping landlord, who chatters like a magpie, to renew a note of twelve hundred francs!--your ball, given to conceal your embarra.s.sments. They have gone so far as to say you had no property in Roguin's hands; according to your enemies, Roguin is only a blind. A friend of mine, whom I sent about to learn what is going on, confirms what I tell you. Every one foresees that Popinot will issue notes, and believes that you set him up in business expressly as a last resource. In short, every calumny or slander which a man brings upon himself when he tries to mount a rung of the social ladder, is going the rounds among business men to-day. You might hawk about those notes of Popinot in vain; you would meet humiliating refusals; no one would take them; no one could be sure how many such notes you are issuing; every one expects you to sacrifice the poor lad to your own safety. You would destroy to no purpose the credit of the house of Popinot. Do you know how much the boldest money-lender would give you for those fifty thousand francs? Twenty thousand at the most; twenty thousand, do you hear me? There are crises in business when we must stand up three days before the world without eating, as if we had indigestion, and on the fourth day we may be admitted to the larder of credit. You cannot live through those three days; and the whole matter lies there. My poor nephew, take courage! file your schedule, make an a.s.signment. Here is Popinot, here am I; we will go to work as soon as the clerks have gone to bed, and spare you the agony of it."

"My uncle!" said Cesar, clasping his hands.

"Cesar, would you choose a shameful failure, in which there are no a.s.sets? Your share in the house of Popinot is all that saves your honor."

Cesar, awakened by this last and fatal stream of light, saw at length the frightful truth in its full extent; he fell back upon the sofa, from thence to his knees, and his mind seemed to wander; he became like a little child. His wife thought he was dying. She knelt down to raise him, but joined her voice to his when she saw him clasp his hands and lift his eyes, and recite, with resigned contrition, in the hearing of his uncle, his daughter, and Popinot, the sublime catholic prayer:--

"Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven; GIVE US THIS DAY OUR DAILY BREAD; and forgive us our offences, as we forgive those who have offended against us. So be it!"

Tears came into the eyes of the stoic Pillerault; Cesarine, overcome and weeping, leaned her head upon Popinot's shoulder, as he stood pale and rigid as a statue.

"Let us go below," said the old merchant, taking the arm of the young man.

It was half-past eleven when they left Cesar to the care of his wife and daughter. Just at that moment Celestin, the head-clerk, to whom the management of the house had been left during this secret tumult, came up to the appartement and entered the salon. Hearing his step, Cesarine ran to meet him, that he might not see the prostration of his master.

"Among the letters this evening there was one from Tours, which was misdirected and therefore delayed. I thought it might be from monsieur's brother, so I did not open it."

"Father!" cried Cesarine; "a letter from my uncle at Tours!"

"Ah, I am saved!" cried Cesar. "My brother! oh, my brother!" He kissed the letter, as he broke the seal, and read it aloud to his wife and daughter in a trembling voice:--

Answer of Francois to Cesar Birotteau.

Tours, 10th.

My beloved Brother,--Your letter gave me the deepest pain. As soon as I had read it, I went at once and offered to G.o.d the holy sacrifice of the Ma.s.s, imploring Him by the blood which His Son, our divine Redeemer, shed for us, to look with mercy upon your afflictions. At the moment when I offered the prayer _Pro meo fratre Caesare_, my eyes were filled with tears as I thought of you,--from whom, unfortunately, I am separated in these days when you must sorely need the support of fraternal friendship. I have thought that the worthy and venerable Monsieur Pillerault would doubtless replace me. My dear Cesar, never forget, in the midst of your troubles, that this life is a scene of trial, and is pa.s.sing away; that one day we shall be rewarded for having suffered for the holy name of G.o.d, for His holy Church, for having followed the teachings of His Gospel and practised virtue. If it were otherwise, this world would have no meaning. I repeat to you these maxims, though I know how good and pious you are, because it may happen that those who, like you, are flung into the storms of life upon the perilous waves of human interests might be tempted to utter blasphemies in the midst of their adversity,--carried away as they are by anguish. Curse neither the men who injure you nor the G.o.d who mingles, at His will, your joy with bitterness. Look not on life, but lift your eyes to heaven; there is comfort for the weak, there are riches for the poor, there are terrors for the--

"But, Birotteau," said his wife, "skip all that, and see what he sends us."

"We will read it over and over hereafter," said Cesar, wiping his eyes and turning over the page,--letting fall, as he did so, a Treasury note.

"I was sure of him, poor brother!" said Birotteau, picking up the note and continuing to read, in a voice broken by tears.

I went to Madame de Listomere, and without telling her the reason of my request I asked her to lend me all she could dispose of, so as to swell the amount of my savings. Her generosity has enabled me to make up a thousand francs; which I send herewith, in a note of the Receiver-General of Tours on the Treasury.

"A fine sum!" said Constance, looking at Cesarine.

By retrenching a few superfluities in my life, I can return the four hundred francs Madame de Listomere has lent me in three years; so do not make yourself uneasy about them, my dear Cesar. I send you all I have in the world; hoping that this sum may help you to a happy conclusion of your financial difficulties, which doubtless are only momentary. I well know your delicacy, and I wish to forestall your objections. Do not dream of paying me any interest for this money, nor of paying it back at all in the day of prosperity which ere long will dawn for you if G.o.d deigns to hear the prayers I offer to Him daily. After I received your last letter, two years ago, I thought you so rich that I felt at liberty to spend my savings upon the poor; but now, all that I have is yours. When you have overcome this little commercial difficulty, keep the sum I now send for my niece Cesarine; so that when she marries she may buy some trifle to remind her of her old uncle, who daily lifts his hands to heaven to implore the blessing of G.o.d upon her and all who are dear to her. And also, my dear Cesar, recollect I am a poor priest who dwells, by the grace of G.o.d, like the larks in the meadow, in quiet places, trying to obey the commandment of our divine Saviour, and who consequently needs but little money. Therefore, do not have the least scruple in the trying circ.u.mstances in which you find yourself; and think of me as one who loves you tenderly.

Our excellent Abbe Chapeloud, to whom I have not revealed your situation, desires me to convey his friendly regards to every member of your family, and his wishes for the continuance of your prosperity. Adieu, dear and well-beloved brother; I pray that at this painful juncture G.o.d will be pleased to preserve your health, and also that of your wife and daughter. I wish you, one and all, patience and courage under your afflictions.

Francois Birotteau, Priest, Vicar of the Cathedral and Parochial Church of Saint-Gatien de Tours.

"A thousand francs!" cried Madame Birotteau.

"Put them away," said Cesar gravely; "they are all he had. Besides, they belong to our daughter, and will enable us to live; so that we need ask nothing of our creditors."

"They will think you are abstracting large sums."

"Then I will show them the letter."

"They will say that it is a fraud."

"My G.o.d! my G.o.d!" cried Birotteau. "I once thought thus of poor, unhappy people who were doubtless as I am now."

Terribly anxious about Cesar's state, mother and daughter sat plying their needles by his side, in profound silence. At two in the morning Popinot gently opened the door of the salon and made a sign to Madame Cesar to come down. On seeing his niece Pillerault took off his spectacles.

"My child, there is hope," he said; "all is not lost. But your husband could not bear the uncertainty of the negotiations which Anselme and I are about to undertake. Don't leave your shop to-morrow, and take the addresses of all the bills; we have till four o'clock in the afternoon of the 15th. Here is my plan: Neither Ragon nor I am to be considered.

Suppose that your hundred thousand francs deposited with Roguin had been remitted to the purchasers, you would not have them then any more than you have them now. The hundred and forty thousand francs for which notes were given to Claparon, and which must be paid in any state of the case, are what you have to meet. Therefore it is not Roguin's bankruptcy which as ruined you. I find, to meet your obligations, forty thousand francs which you can, sooner or later, borrow on your property in the Faubourg du Temple, and sixty thousand for your share in the house of Popinot.

Thus you can make a struggle, for later you may borrow on the lands about the Madeleine. If your chief creditor agrees to help you, I shall not consider my interests; I shall sell out my Funds and live on dry bread; Popinot will get along between life and death, and as for you, you will be at the mercy of the smallest commercial mischance; but Cephalic Oil will undoubtedly make great returns. Popinot and I have consulted together; we will stand by you in this struggle. Ah! I shall eat my dry bread gaily if I see daylight breaking on the horizon. But everything depends on Gigonnet, who holds the notes, and the a.s.sociates of Claparon. Popinot and I are going to see Gigonnet between seven and eight o'clock in the morning, and then we shall know what their intentions are."

Constance, wholly overcome, threw herself into her uncle's arms, voiceless except through tears and sobs.

Neither Popinot nor Pillerault knew or could know that Bidault, called Gigonnet, and Claparon were du Tillet under two shapes; and that du Tillet was resolved to read in the "Journal des Pet.i.tes Affiches" this terrible article:--

"Judgment of the Court of Commerce, which declares the Sieur Cesar Birotteau, merchant-perfumer, living in Paris, Rue Saint-Honore, no. 397, insolvent, and appoints the preliminary examination on the 17th of January, 1819. Commissioner, Monsieur Gobenheim-Keller. Agent, Monsieur Molineux."

Anselme and Pillerault examined Cesar's affairs until daylight. At eight o'clock in the morning the two brave friends,--one an old soldier, the other a young recruit, who had never known, except by hearsay, the terrible anguish of those who commonly went up the staircase of Bidault called Gigonnet,--wended their way, without a word to each other, towards the Rue Grenetat. Both were suffering; from time to time Pillerault pa.s.sed his hand across his brow.

The Rue Grenetat is a street where all the houses, crowded with trades of every kind, have a repulsive aspect. The buildings are horrible.

The vile uncleanliness of manufactories is their leading feature. Old Gigonnet lived on the third floor of a house whose window-sashes, with small and very dirty panes, swung by the middle, on pivots. The staircase opened directly upon the street. The porter's lodge was on the _entresol_, in a s.p.a.ce which was lighted only from the staircase. All the lodgers, with the exception of Gigonnet, worked at trades. Workmen were continually coming and going. The stairs were caked with a layer of mud, hard or soft according to the state of the atmosphere, and were covered with filth. Each landing of this noisome stairway bore the names of the occupants in gilt letters on a metal plate, painted red and varnished, to which were attached specimens of their craft. As a rule, the doors stood open and gave to view queer combinations of the domestic household and the manufacturing operations. Strange cries and grunts issued therefrom, with songs and whistles and hisses that recalled the hour of four o'clock in the Jardin des Plantes. On the first floor, in an evil-smelling lair, the handsomest braces to be found in the _article-Paris_ were made. On the second floor, the elegant boxes which adorn the shop-windows of the boulevards and the Palais-Royal at the beginning of the new year were manufactured, in the midst of the vilest filth. Gigonnet eventually died, worth eighteen hundred thousand francs, on a third floor of this house, from which no consideration could move him; though his niece, Madame Saillard, offered to give him an appartement in a hotel in the Place Royalle.

"Courage!" said Pillerault, as he pulled the deer's hoof hanging from the bell-rope of Gigonnet's clean gray door.