The Count's Millions by Emile Gaboriau (big screen ebook reader .txt) 📖

Still, you know, I don’t force any one to purchase them.” And, in a terribly significant tone, he added: “You can undoubtedly buy similar securities on better terms; but take care you don’t arouse your creditors’ suspicions by applying elsewhere.”

“He would betray me, the scoundrel!” thought the merchant. And, realizing that he had fallen into a trap, “Here are three thousand francs,” he sighed; “but at least, my dear sir, give me good measure, and throw in a few thousand francs more.”

The coal-merchant smiled the ghastly smile of a man who sees no way of escape from imposition, and has, therefore, resolved to submit with the best grace possible. But M. Fortunat’s gravity did not relax. He gave what he had promised—neither more nor less—in exchange for the bank-notes, and even gravely exclaimed: “See if the amount is correct.”

His client pocketed the shares without counting them: but before leaving the room he made his estimable adviser promise to assist him at the decisive moment, and help him to prepare one of those clear financial statements which make creditors say: “This is an honest man who has been extremely unfortunate.”

M. Fortunat was admirably fitted to render this little service; for he devoted such part of his time as was not spent in hunting for missing heirs to difficult liquidations, and he had indeed made bankruptcy a specialty in which he was without a rival. The business was a remunerative one, thanks to the expedient he had revealed to the coal-merchant—an expedient which is common enough nowadays, but of which he might almost be called the inventor. It consisted in compelling the persons who asked for his advice to purchase worthless shares at whatever price he chose to set upon them, and they were forced to submit, under penalty of denunciation and exposure.

The client who followed the coal-merchant proved to be a simple creature, who had called to ask for some advice respecting a slight difficulty between himself and his landlord. M. Fortunat speedily disposed of him, and then, opening the door leading into the outer office, he called: “Cashier!”

A shabbily-dressed man, some thirty-five years of age, at once entered the private sanctum, carrying a money-bag in one hand and a ledger in the other.

“How many debtors were visited yesterday?” inquired M. Fortunat.

“Two hundred and thirty-seven.”

“What was the amount collected?”

“Eighty-nine francs.”

M. Isidore Fortunat’s grimace was expressive of satisfaction. “Not bad,” said he, “not at all bad.”

Then a singular performance began. M. Fortunat called over the names of his debtors, one by one, and the cashier answered each name by reading a memorandum written against it on the margin of a list he held. “Such a one,” said the agent, “and such a one—and such——” Whereupon the cashier replied: “Has paid two francs—was not at home—paid twenty sous—would not pay anything.”

How did it happen that M. Fortunat had so many debtors? This question can be easily answered. In settling bankrupts’ estates it was easy for him to purchase a large number of debts which were considered worthless, at a trifling cost, and he reaped a bountiful harvest on a field which would have yielded nothing to another person. It was not because he was rigorous in his demands; he conquered by patience, gentleness, and politeness, but also by unwearying perseverance and tenacity. When he decided that a debtor was to pay him a certain sum, it was paid. He never relaxed in his efforts. Every other day some one was sent to visit the debtor, to follow him, and harass him; he was surrounded by M. Fortunat’s agents; they pursued him to his office, shop, or cafe—everywhere, continually, incessantly—and always with the most perfect urbanity. At last even the most determined succumbed; to escape this frightful persecution, they, somehow or other, found the money to satisfy M. Fortunat’s claim. Besides Victor Chupin, he had five other agents whose business it was to visit these poor wretches. A list was assigned to each man every morning; and when evening came, he made his report to the cashier, who in turn reported to his employer. This branch of industry added considerably to the profits of M. Fortunat’s other business, and was the third and last string to his bow.

The report proceeded as usual, but it was quite evident that M. Fortunat’s thoughts were elsewhere. He paused each moment to listen eagerly for the slightest sound outside, for before receiving the coal-merchant he had told Victor Chupin to run to the Rue de Courcelles and ask M. Casimir for news of the Count de Chalusse. He had done this more than an hour before; and Victor Chupin, who was usually so prompt, had not yet made his appearance.

At last, however, he returned, whereupon M. Fortunat dismissed the cashier, and addressed his messenger: “Well?” he asked.

“He is no longer living. They think he died without a will, and that the pretty young lady will be turned out of the house.”

This information agreed so perfectly with M. Fortunat’s presentiments that he did not even wince, but calmly asked: “Will Casimir keep his appointment?”

“He told me that he would endeavor to come, and I’d wager a hundred to one that he will be there; he would travel ten leagues to put something good into his stomach.”

M. Fortunat’s opinion coincided with Chupin’s. “Very well,” said he. “Only you were a long time on the road, Victor.”

“That’s true, m’sieur; but I had a little matter of my own to attend to—a matter of a hundred francs, if you please.”

M. Fortunat knit his brows angrily. “It’s only right to attend to business,” said he; “but you think too much of money, Victor—altogether too much. You are insatiable.”

The young man proudly lifted his head, and with an air of importance, replied: “I have so many responsibilities——”

“Responsibilities!—you?”

“Yes, indeed, m’sieur. And why not? My poor, good mother hasn’t been able to work for a year, and who would care for her if I didn’t? Certainly not my father, the good-for-nothing scamp, who squandered all the Duke de Sairmeuse’s money without giving us a sou of it. Besides, I’m like other men, I’m anxious to be rich, and enjoy myself. I should like to ride in my carriage like other people do. And whenever a gamin, such as I was once, opened the door for ME, I should put a five-franc piece in his hand——”

He was interrupted by Madame Dodelin, the worthy housekeeper, who rushed into the room without knocking, in a terrible state of excitement. “Monsieur!” she exclaimed, in the same tone as if she would have called “Fire!” “here is Monsieur de Valorsay.”

M. Fortunat sprang up and turned extremely pale. “What to the devil brings him here?” he anxiously stammered. “Tell him that I’ve gone out—tell him—”

But it was useless, for the marquis at that very moment entered the room, and the agent could only dismiss his housekeeper and Chupin.

M. de Valorsay seemed to be very angry, and it looked as if he meant to