Other People's Money by Emile Gaboriau (superbooks4u txt) 📖

knew and practised the maxim of the Greek philosopher, which is, perhaps, the true secret of happiness,—hide thy life.  And there were no expedients to which he did not resort to hide it.  At the time of his greatest prosperity, for instance, having need of a carriage, he had applied to the manager of the Petites Voitures Company, and had had built for himself two cabs, outwardly similar in every respect to those used by the company, but within, most luxuriously upholstered, and drawn by horses of common appearance, but who could go their twenty-five miles in two hours any day.  And these he had hired by the year.

Having his carriage, the worthy builder determined to have, also, his house, his own house, built by himself.  But this required infinitely greater precautions still.

“For, as you may imagine,” he explained to his friends, “a man does not make as much money as I have, without also making many cruel, bitter, and irreconcilable enemies.  I have against me all the builders who have not succeeded, all the sub-contractors I employ, and who say that I speculate on their poverty, and the thousands of workmen who work for me, and swear that I grind them down to the dust.  Already they call me brigand, slaver, thief, leech.  What would it be, if they saw me living in a beautiful house of my own?  They’d swear that I could not possibly have got so rich honestly, and that I must have committed some crimes.  Besides, to build me a handsome house on the street would be, in case of a mob, setting up windows for the stones of all the rascals who have been in my employment.”

Such were M. Parcimieux’s thoughts, when, as he expressed it, he resolved to build.

A lot was for sale in the Rue de la Pepiniere.  He bought it, and at the same time purchased the adjoining house, which he immediately caused to be torn down.  This operation placed in his possession a vast piece of ground, not very wide, but of great depth, stretching, as it did, back to the Rue Labaume.  At once work was begun according to a plan which his architect and himself had spent six months in maturing.  On the line of the street arose a house of the most modest appearance, two stories in height only, with a very high and very wide carriage-door for the passage of vehicles.  This was to deceive the vulgar eye,—the outside of the cab, as it were.  Behind this house, between a spacious court and a vast garden was built the residence of which M. Parcimieux had dreamed; and it really was an exceptional building both by the excellence of the materials used, and by the infinite care which presided over the minutest details.  The marbles for the vestibule and the stairs were brought from Africa, Italy, and Corsica.  He sent to Rome for workmen for the mosaics.  The joiner and locksmithing work was intrusted to real artists.

Repeating to every one that he was working for a great foreign lord, whose orders he went to take every morning, he was free to indulge his most extravagant fancies, without fearing jests or unpleasant remarks.

Poor old man!  The day when the last workman had driven in the last nail, an attack of apoplexy carried him off, without giving him time to say, “Oh!”  Two days after, all his relatives from the Limousin were swooping into Paris like a pack of wolves.  Six millions to divide:  what a godsend!  Litigation followed, as a matter of course; and the house was offered for sale under a judgment.

M. de Thaller bought it for two hundred and seventy-five thousand francs,—about one-third what it had cost to build.

A month later he had moved into it; and the expenses which he incurred to furnish it in a style worthy of the building itself was the talk of the town.  And yet he was not fully satisfied with his purchase.

Unlike M. Parcimieux, he had no wish whatever to conceal his wealth.

What! he owned one of those exquisite houses which excite at once the wonder and the envy of passers-by, and that house was hid behind such a common-looking building!

“I must have that shanty pulled down,” he said from time to time.

And then he thought of something else; and the “shanty” was still standing on that evening, when, after leaving Maxence, M. de Tregars presented himself at M. de Thaller’s.

The servants had, doubtless, received their instructions; for, as soon as Marius emerged from the porch of the front-house, the porter advanced from his lodge, bent double, his mouth open to his very ears by the most obsequious smile.

Without waiting for a question,

“The baron has not yet come home—,” he said.  “But he cannot be much longer away; and certainly the baroness is at home for my lord-marquis.  Please, then, give yourself the trouble to pass.”

And, standing aside, he struck upon the enormous gong that stood near his lodge a single sharp blow, intended to wake up the footman on duty in the vestibule, and to announce a visitor of note.  Slowly, but not without quietly observing every thing, M. de Tregars crossed the courtyard, covered with fine sand,—they would have powdered it with golden dust, if they had dared,—and surrounded on all sides with bronze baskets, in which beautiful rhododendrons were blossoming.

It was nearly six o’clock.  The manager of the Mutual Credit dined at seven; and the preparations for this important event were everywhere apparent.  Through the large windows of the dining-room the steward could be seen presiding over the setting of the table.  The butler was coming up from the cellar, loaded with bottles.  Finally, through the apertures of the basement arose the appetizing perfumes of the kitchen.

What enormous business it required to support such a style, to display this luxury, which would shame one of those German princelings, who exchanged the crown of their ancestors for a Prussian livery gilded with French gold!—other people’s money.

Meantime, the blow struck by the porter on the gong had produced the desired effect; and the gates of the vestibule seemed to open of their own accord before M. de Tregars as he ascended the stoop.

This vestibule with the splendor of which Mlle. Lucienne had been so deeply impressed, would, indeed, have been worthy the attention of an artist, had it been allowed to retain the simple grandeur and the severe harmony which M. Parcimieux’s architect had imparted to it.

But M. de Thaller, as he was proud of boasting, had a perfect horror of simplicity; and, wherever he discovered a vacant space as big as his hand, he hung a picture, a bronze, or a piece of china, any thing and anyhow.

The two footmen were standing when M. de Tregars came in.  Without asking any question, “Will M. le Marquis please follow me?” said the youngest.

And, opening the broad glass doors, he began walking in front of M. de Tregars, along a staircase with marble railing, the elegant proportions of which were absolutely ruined by a ridiculous profusion of “objects of art” of all nature, and from all sources.  This staircase led to a vast semicircular landing, upon which, between columns of precious marble, opened three wide doors.  The footman opened the middle one, which led to M. de Thaller’s picture-gallery, a celebrated one