The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 3 of 6

Jacques Ferrand was a twofold exception. Usually these adventurous, energetic spirits, which do not recoil before any crime that will procure gold, are beset by turbulent passions – gaming, dissipation, gluttony, or other pleasures. Jacques Ferrand knew none of these violent and stormy desires; cunning and patient as a forger, cruel and resolute as an assassin, he was as sober and regular as Harpagon. One passion alone was active within him, and this we have seen too fatally exhibited in his early conduct to Louise. The loan of thirteen hundred francs to Morel at high interest was, in Ferrand's hands, a snare – a means of oppression and a source of profit. Sure of the lapidary's honesty, he was certain of being repaid in full some day or other. Still Louise's beauty must have made a deep impression on him to have made him lay out of a sum of money so advantageously placed.

Except this weakness, Jacques Ferrand loved gold only. He loved gold for gold's sake; not for the enjoyments it procured, – he was a stoic; not for the enjoyments it might procure, – he was not sufficiently poetical to enjoy speculatively, like some misers. With regard to what belonged to himself, he loved possession for possession's sake; with regard to what belonged to others, if it concerned a large deposit, for instance, liberally confided to his probity only, he experienced in returning this deposit the same agony, the same despair, as the goldsmith, Cardillac, did in separating himself from a casket of jewels which his own exquisite taste had fashioned into a chef-d'œuvre of art. With the notary, his character for extreme probity was his chef-d'œuvre of art; a deposit was to him a jewel, which he could not surrender but with poignant regrets. What care, what cunning, what stratagems, what skill, in a word, what art, did he use to attract this sum into his own strong box, still maintaining that extreme character for honour, which was beset with the most precious marks of confidence, like the pearls and diamonds in the golden diadems of Cardillac. The more this celebrated goldsmith approached perfection, they say, the more value did he attach to his ornaments, always considering the last as his chef-d'œuvre, and being utterly distressed at giving it up. The more Jacques Ferrand grew perfect in crime, the more he clung to the open and constant marks of confidence which were showered upon him, always considering his last deceit as his chef-d'œuvre.

We shall see in the sequel of this history that, by the aid of certain means really prodigious in plan and carrying out, he contrived to appropriate to himself, with impunity, several very considerable sums. His secret and mysterious life gave him incessant and terrible emotions, such as gaming gives to the gambler. Against all other men's fortunes Jacques Ferrand staked his hypocrisy, his boldness, his head; and he played on velvet, as it is called, far out of the reach of human justice, which he vulgarly and energetically characterised as a chimney which might fall on one's head; for him to lose was only not to gain; and, moreover, he was so criminally gifted that, in his bitter irony, he saw a continued gain in boundless esteem, the unlimited confidence which he inspired, not only in a multitude of rich clients, but also in the smaller tradespeople and workmen of his district. A great many of these placed their money with him, saying, "He is not charitable, it is true; he is a devotee, and that's a pity; but he is much safer than the government or the savings-banks." In spite of his uncommon ability, this man had committed two of those mistakes from which the most skilful rogues do not always escape; forced by circumstances, it is true, he had associated with himself two accomplices. This immense fault, as he called it, had been in part repaired; neither of his two associates could destroy him without destroying themselves, and neither would have reaped from denunciation any other profit but of drawing down justice on themselves as well as on the notary; on this score he was quite easy. Besides, he was not at the end of his crimes, and the disadvantages of accompliceship were balanced by the criminal aid which at times he still obtained.

A few words as to the personal appearance of M. Ferrand, and we will introduce the reader into the notary's study, where we shall encounter some of the principal personages in this recital.

M. Ferrand was fifty years of age, but did not appear forty; he was of middle height, with broad and stooping shoulders, powerful, thickset, strong-limbed, red-haired, and naturally as hirsute as a bear. His hair was flat on his temples, his forehead bald, his eyebrows scarcely perceptible; his bilious complexion was almost concealed by innumerable red spots, and, when strong emotion agitated him, his yellow and murky countenance was injected with blood, and became a livid red. His face was as flat as a death's head, as is vulgarly said; his nose thick and flat; his lips so thin, so imperceptible, that his mouth seemed incised in his face, and, when he smiled with his villainous and revolting air, his teeth seemed as though supplied by black and rotten fangs. His pallid face had an expression at once austere and devout, impassible and inflexible, cold and reflective; whilst his small, black, animated, peering, and restless eyes were lost behind large green spectacles.

Jacques Ferrand saw admirably well; but, sheltered by his glasses, he had an immense advantage; he could observe without being observed; and well he knew how often a glance is unwittingly full of meaning. In spite of his imperturbable audacity, he had met twice or thrice in his life certain potent and magnetic looks, before which his own had compulsorily been lowered; and in some important circumstances it is fatal to lower the eyes before the man who interrogates, accuses, or judges you. The large spectacles of M. Ferrand were thus a kind of covert retrenchment, whence he could reconnoitre and observe every movement of the enemy; and all the world was the notary's enemy, because all the world was, more or less, his dupe; and accusers are but enlightened or disgusted dupes. He affected a negligence in his dress almost amounting to dirtiness, or rather, he was naturally so; his chin shaven only every two or three days, his grimy and wrinkled head, his broad nails encircled in black, his unpleasant odour, his threadbare coat, his greasy hat, his coarse neckcloth, his black-worsted stockings, his clumsy shoes, all curiously betokened his worthiness with his clients, by giving him an air of disregard of the world, and an air of practical philosophy, which delighted them.

They said: "What tastes, what passions, what feelings, what weaknesses, must the notary sacrifice to obtain the confidence he inspires! He gains, perhaps, sixty thousand francs (2,400l.) a year, and his household consists of a servant and an old housekeeper. His only pleasure is to go on Sundays to mass and vespers, and he knows no opera comparable to the grave chanting of the organ, no worldly society which is worth an evening quietly passed at his fireside corner with the curé of the parish after a frugal dinner; in fine, he places his enjoyment in probity, his pride in honour, his happiness in religion."

Such was the opinion of the contemporaries of M. Jacques Ferrand.

CHAPTER IV

THE OFFICE

The office of M. Ferrand resembled all other offices, and his clerks all other clerks. It was approached through an antechamber, furnished with four old chairs. In the office, properly so-called, surrounded by rows of shelves, ornamented with pasteboard boxes, containing the papers of the clients of M. Ferrand, five young men, stooping over black wooden desks, were laughing, gossiping, or scribbling perpetually. A waiting-room, also filled with pasteboard boxes, and in which the chief clerk was constantly stationed, and another room, which, for greater secrecy, was kept unoccupied, between the notary's private room and the waiting-room, completed the total of this laboratory of deeds of every description.

An old cuckoo-clock, placed between the two windows of the office, had just struck two o'clock, and a certain bustle prevailed amongst the clerks; a part of their conversation will inform the reader as to the cause of this excitement.

"Well, if any one had told me that François Germain was a thief," said one of the young men, "I should have said, 'That's a lie!'"

"So should I."

"And I."

"And I. It really quite affected me to see him arrested and led away by the police. I could not eat any breakfast; but I have been rewarded by not having to eat the daily mess doled out by Mother Séraphin, for, as the song goes:

'To eat the allowance of old Séraphin,
One must have a twist indeed.'"

"Capital! why, Chalamel, you are beginning your poetry already."

"I demand Chalamel's head!"

"Folly apart, it is very terrible for poor Germain."

"Seventeen thousand francs (680l.) is a lump of money!"

"I believe you!"

"And yet, for the fifteen months that Germain has been cashier, he was never a farthing deficient in making up his books."

"I think the governor was wrong to arrest Germain, for the poor fellow swore that he had only taken thirteen hundred francs (52l.) in gold, and that, moreover, he brought back the thirteen hundred francs this morning, to return them to the money-chest, at the very moment when our master sent for the police."

"Ah, that's the bore of people of such ferocious honesty as our governor, they have no pity!"

"But they ought to think twice before they ruin a poor young fellow, who, up to this time, has behaved with strict honesty."

"M. Ferrand said he did it for an example."

"Example? What? It is none to the honest, and the dishonest know well enough what they expose themselves to if they are found out in any delinquencies."

"Our house seems to produce lots of jobs for the police officers."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, this morning there was poor little Louise, and now poor Germain."

"I confess that Germain's affair was not quite clear to me."

"But he confessed?"

"He confessed that he had taken thirteen hundred francs, certainly; but he declared most vehemently that he had not taken the other fifteen thousand francs in bank-notes, and the other seven hundred francs which are short in the strong box."

"True; and, if he confessed one thing, why shouldn't he confess another?"

"Exactly so; for a man is as much punished for five hundred francs as he is for fifteen thousand francs."

"Yes; only they retain the fifteen thousand francs, and, when they leave prison, this forms a little fund to start upon; and, as the swan of Cambrai sings:

'To get a jolly lot of "swag"
A cove must dip deep in the lucky-bag.'"

"I demand Chalamel's head!"

"Can't you talk sense for five minutes?"

"Ah, here's Jabulot! won't he be astonished?"

"What at, my boys? what at? Anything fresh about poor Louise?"

"You would have known, roving blade, if you had not been so long in your rounds."

"What, you think it is but a step from here to the Rue de Chaillot?"

"I never said so."

"Well, what about that gallant don, the famous Viscount de Saint-Rémy?"

"Has he not been here yet?"

"No."

"Well, his horses were harnessed, and he sent me word by his valet de chambre, that he would come here directly. But he didn't seem best pleased, the servant said. Oh, my boys! such a lovely little house, furnished most magnificently, like one of the dwellings of the olden time that Faublas writes about. Oh, Faublas! he is my hero – my model!" said the clerk, putting down his umbrella and taking off his clogs.