Kitabı oku: «Rise and Fall of Cesar Birotteau», sayfa 5

The fate of Charles Claparon would be, if du Tillet’s scheme ended in bankruptcy, a swift deliverance to the tender mercies of Jews and Pharisees; and he well knew it. But to a poor devil who was despondently roaming the boulevard with a future of forty sous in his pocket when his old comrade du Tillet chanced to meet him, the little gains that he was to get out of the affair seemed an Eldorado. His friendship, his devotion, to du Tillet, increased by unreflecting gratitude and stimulated by the wants of a libertine and vagabond life, led him to say amen to everything. Having sold his honor, he saw it risked with so much caution that he ended by attaching himself to his old comrade as a dog to his master. Claparon was an ugly poodle, but as ready to jump as Curtius. In the present affair he was to represent half the purchasers of the land, while Cesar Birotteau represented the other half. The notes which Claparon was to receive from Birotteau were to be discounted by one of the usurers whose name du Tillet was authorized to use, and this would send Cesar headlong into bankruptcy so soon as Roguin had drawn from him his last funds. The assignees of the failure would, as du Tillet felt certain, follow his cue; and he, already possessed of the property paid over by the perfumer and his associates, could sell the lands at auction and buy them in at half their value with the funds of Roguin and the assets of the failure. The notary went into this scheme believing that he should enrich himself by the spoliation of Birotteau and his copartners; but the man in whose power he had placed himself intended to take, and eventually did take, the lion’s share. Roguin, unable to sue du Tillet in any of the courts, was glad of the bone flung to him, month by month, in the recesses of Switzerland, where he found nymphs at a reduction. Circumstances, actual facts, and not the imagination of a tragic author inventing a catastrophe, gave birth to this horrible scheme. Hatred without a thirst for vengeance is like a seed falling on stony ground; but vengeance vowed to a Cesar by a du Tillet is a natural movement of the soul. If it were not, then we must deny the warfare between the angels of light and the spirits of darkness.

Du Tillet could not very easily assassinate the man who knew him to be guilty of a petty theft, but he could fling him into the mire and annihilate him so completely that his word and testimony would count for nothing. For a long time revenge had germinated in his heart without budding; for the men who hate most are usually those who have little time in Paris to make plans; life is too fast, too full, too much at the mercy of unexpected events. But such perpetual changes, though they hinder premeditation, nevertheless offer opportunity to thoughts lurking in the depths of a purpose which is strong enough to lie in wait for their tidal chances. When Roguin first confided his troubles to du Tillet, the latter had vaguely foreseen the possibility of destroying Cesar, and he was not mistaken. Forced at last to give up his mistress, the notary drank the dregs of his philter from a broken chalice. He went every day to the Champs Elysees returning home early in the morning. The suspicions of Madame Cesar were justified.

From the moment when a man consents to play the part which du Tillet had allotted to Roguin, he develops the talents of a comedian; he has the eye of a lynx and the penetration of a seer; he magnetizes his dupe. The notary had seen Birotteau some time before Birotteau had caught sight of him; when the perfumer did see him, Roguin held out his hand before they met.

“I have just been to make the will of a great personage who has only eight days to live,” he said, with an easy manner. “They have treated me like a country doctor, – fetched me in a carriage, and let me walk home on foot.”

These words chased away the slight shade of suspicion which clouded the face of the perfumer, and which Roguin had been quick to perceive. The notary was careful not to be the first to mention the land speculation; his part was to deal the last blow.

“After wills come marriage contracts,” said Birotteau. “Such is life. Apropos, when do we marry the Madeleine? Hey! hey! papa Roguin,” he added, tapping the notary on the stomach.

Among men the most chaste of bourgeois have the ambition to appear rakish.

“Well, if it is not to-day,” said the notary, with a diplomatic air, “then never. We are afraid that the affair may get wind. I am much urged by two of my wealthiest clients, who want a share in this speculation. There it is, to take or leave. This morning I shall draw the deeds. You have till one o’clock to make up your mind. Adieu; I am just on my way to read over the rough draft which Xandrot has been making out during the night.”

“Well, my mind is made up. I pass my word,” said Birotteau, running after the notary and seizing his hand. “Take the hundred thousand francs which were laid by for my daughter’s portion.”

“Very good,” said Roguin, leaving him.

For a moment, as Birotteau turned to rejoin little Popinot, he felt a fierce heat in his entrails, the muscles of his stomach contracted, his ears buzzed.

“What is the matter, monsieur?” asked the clerk, when he saw his master’s pale face.

“Ah, my lad! I have just with one word decided on a great undertaking; no man is master of himself at such a moment. You are a party to it. In fact, I brought you here that we might talk of it at our ease; no one can overhear us. Your aunt is in trouble; how did she lose her money? Tell me.”

“Monsieur, my uncle and aunt put all their property into the hands of Monsieur de Nucingen, and they were forced to accept as security certain shares in the mines at Wortschin, which as yet pay no dividends; and it is hard at their age to live on hope.”

“How do they live, then?”

“They do me the great pleasure of accepting my salary.”

“Right, right, Anselme!” said the perfumer, as a tear rolled down his cheek. “You are worthy of the regard I feel for you. You are about to receive a great recompense for your fidelity to my interests.”

As he said these words the worthy man swelled in his own eyes as much as he did in those of Popinot, and he uttered them with a plebeian and naive emphasis which was the genuine expression of his counterfeit superiority.

“Ah, monsieur! have you guessed my love for – ”

“For whom?” asked his master.

“For Mademoiselle Cesarine.”

“Ah, boy, you are bold indeed!” exclaimed Birotteau. “Keep your secret. I promise to forget it. You leave my house to-morrow. I am not angry with you; in your place – the devil! the devil! – I should have done the same. She is so lovely!”

“Oh, monsieur!” said the clerk, who felt his shirt getting wet with perspiration.

“My boy, this matter is not one to be settled in a day. Cesarine is her own mistress, and her mother has fixed ideas. Control yourself, wipe your eyes, hold your heart in hand, and don’t let us talk any more about it. I should not blush to have you for my son-in-law. The nephew of Monsieur Popinot, a judge of the civil courts, nephew of the Ragons, you have the right to make your way as well as anybody; but there are buts and ifs and hows and whys. What a devil of a dog you have let loose upon me, in the midst of a business conversation! Here, sit down on that chair, and let the lover give place to the clerk. Popinot, are you a loyal man?” he said, looking fixedly at the youth. “Do you feel within you the nerve to struggle with something stronger than yourself, and fight hand to hand?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“To maintain a long and dangerous battle?”

“What for?”

“To destroy Macassar Oil!” said Birotteau, rising on his toes like a hero in Plutarch. “Let us not mistake; the enemy is strong, well entrenched, formidable! Macassar Oil has been vigorously launched. The conception was strong. The square bottles were original; I have thought of making ours triangular. Yet on the whole I prefer, after ripe reflection, smaller bottles of thin glass, encased in wicker; they would have a mysterious look, and customers like things which puzzle them.”

“They would be expensive,” said Popinot. “We must get things out as cheap as we can, so as to make a good reduction at wholesale.”

“Good, my lad! That’s the right principle. But now, think of it. Macassar Oil will defend itself; it is specious; the name is seductive. It is offered as a foreign importation; and we have the ill-luck to belong to our own country. Come, Popinot, have you the courage to kill Macassar? Then begin the fight in foreign lands. It seems that Macassar is really in the Indies. Now, isn’t it much better to supply a French product to the Indians than to send them back what they are supposed to send to us? Make the venture. Begin the fight in India, in foreign countries, in the departments. Macassar Oil has been thoroughly advertised; we must not underrate its power, it has been pushed everywhere, the public knows it.”

“I’ll kill it!” cried Popinot, with fire in his eyes.

“What with?” said Birotteau. “That’s the way with ardent young people. Listen till I’ve done.”

Anselme fell into position like a soldier presenting arms to a marshal of France.

“Popinot, I have invented an oil to stimulate the growth of hair, to titillate the scalp, to revive the color of male and female tresses. This cosmetic will not be less successful than my Paste or my Lotion. But I don’t intend to work it myself. I think of retiring from business. It is you, my boy, who are to launch my Oil Comagene, – from the latin word coma, which signifies ‘hair,’ as Monsieur Alibert, the King’s physician, says. The word is found in the tragedy of Berenice, where Racine introduces a king of Comagene, lover of the queen so celebrated for the beauty of her hair; the king – no doubt as a delicate flattery – gave the name to his country. What wit and intellect there is in genius! it condescends to the minutest details.”

Little Popinot kept his countenance as he listened to this absurd flourish, evidently said for his benefit as an educated young man.

“Anselme, I have cast my eyes upon you as the one to found a commercial house in the high-class druggist line, Rue des Lombards. I will be your secret partner, and supply the funds to start with. After the Oil Comagene, we will try an essence of vanilla and the spirit of peppermint. We’ll tackle the drug-trade by revolutionizing it, by selling its products concentrated instead of selling them raw. Ambitious young man, are you satisfied?”

Anselme could not answer, his heart was full; but his eyes, filled with tears, answered for him. The offer seemed prompted by indulgent fatherhood, saying to him: “Deserve Cesarine by becoming rich and respected.”

“Monsieur,” he answered at last, “I will succeed!”

“That’s what I said at your age,” cried the perfumer; “that was my motto. If you don’t win my daughter, at least you will win your fortune. Eh, boy! what is it?”

“Let me hope that in acquiring the one I may obtain the other.”

“I can’t prevent you from hoping, my friend,” said Birotteau, touched by Anselme’s tone.

“Well, then, monsieur, can I begin to-day to look for a shop, so as to start at once?”

“Yes, my son. To-morrow we will shut ourselves up in the workshop, you and I. Before you go to the Rue des Lombards, call at Livingston’s and see if my hydraulic press will be ready to use to-morrow morning. To-night we will go, about dinner-time, to the good and illustrious Monsieur Vauquelin and consult him. He has lately been employed in studying the composition of hair; he has discovered the nature of the coloring matter and whence it comes; also the structure of the hair itself. The secret is just there, Popinot, and you shall know it; all we have to do is to work it out cleverly. Before you go to Livingston’s, just stop at Pieri Berard’s. My lad, the disinterested kindness of Monsieur Vauquelin is one of the sorrows of my life. I cannot make him accept any return. Happily, I found out from Chiffreville that he wished for the Dresden Madonna, engraved by a man named Muller. After two years correspondence with Germany, Berard has at last found one on Chinese paper before lettering. It cost fifteen hundred francs, my boy. To-day, my benefactor will see it in his antechamber when he bows us out; it is to be all framed, and I want you to see about it. We – that is, my wife and I – shall thus recall ourselves to his mind; as for gratitude, we have prayed to God for him daily for sixteen years. I can never forget him; but you see, Popinot, men buried in the depths of science do forget everything, – wives, friends, and those they have benefited. As for us plain people, our lack of mind keeps our hearts warm at any rate. That’s the consolation for not being a great man. Look at those gentlemen of the Institute, – all brain; you will never meet one of them in a church. Monsieur Vauquelin is tied to his study or his laboratory; but I like to believe he thinks of God in analyzing the works of His hands. – Now, then, it is understood; I give you the money and put you in possession of my secret; we will go shares, and there’s no need for any papers between us. Hurrah for success! we’ll act in concert. Off with you, my boy! As for me, I’ve got my part to attend to. One minute, Popinot. I give a great ball three weeks hence; get yourself a dress-coat, and look like a merchant already launched.”

This last kindness touched Popinot so deeply that he caught Cesar’s big hand and kissed it; the worthy soul had flattered the lover by this confidence, and people in love are capable of anything.

“Poor boy!” thought Birotteau, as he watched him hurrying across the Tuileries. “Suppose Cesarine should love him? But he is lame, and his hair is the color of a warming-pan. Young girls are queer; still, I don’t think that Cesarine – And then her mother wants to see her the wife of a notary. Alexandre Crottat can make her rich; wealth makes everything bearable, and there is no happiness that won’t give way under poverty. However, I am resolved to leave my daughter mistress of herself, even if it seems a folly.”

IV

Birotteau’s neighbor was a small dealer in umbrellas, parasols, and canes, named Cayron, – a man from Languedoc, doing a poor business, whom Cesar had several times befriended. Cayron wished nothing better than to confine himself to the ground-floor and let the rich perfumer take the floor above it, thus diminishing his rent.

“Well, neighbor,” said Birotteau familiarly, as he entered the man’s shop, “my wife consents to the enlargement of our premises. If you like, we will go and see Monsieur Molineux at eleven o’clock.”

“My dear Monsieur Birotteau,” said the umbrella-man, “I have not asked you any compensation for this cession; but you are aware that a good merchant ought to make money out of everything.”

“What the devil!” cried Birotteau. “I’m not made of money. I don’t know that my architect can do the thing at all. He told me that before concluding my arrangements I must know whether the floors were on the same level. Then, supposing Monsieur Molineux does allow me to cut a door in the wall, is it a party-wall? Moreover, I have to turn my staircase, and make a new landing, so as to get a passage-way on the same floor. All that costs money, and I don’t want to ruin myself.”

“Oh, monsieur,” said the southerner. “Before you are ruined, the sun will have married the earth and they’ll have had children.”

Birotteau stroked his chin, rose on the points of his toes, and fell back upon his heels.

“Besides,” resumed Cayron, “all I ask you to do is to cash these securities for me – ”

And he held out sixteen notes amounting in all to five thousand francs.

“Ah!” said the perfumer turning them over. “Small fry, two months, three months – ”

“Take them as low as six per cent,” said the umbrella-man humbly.

“Am I a usurer?” asked the perfumer reproachfully.

“What can I do, monsieur? I went to your old clerk, du Tillet, and he would not take them at any price. No doubt he wanted to find out how much I’d be willing to lose on them.”

“I don’t know those signatures,” said the perfumer.

“We have such queer names in canes and umbrellas; they belong to the peddlers.”

“Well, I won’t say that I will take all; but I’ll manage the short ones.”

“For the want of a thousand francs – sure to be repaid in four months – don’t throw me into the hands of the blood-suckers who get the best of our profits; do take all, monsieur! I do so little in the way of discount that I have no credit; that is what kills us little retailers.”

“Well, I’ll cash your notes; Celestin will make out the account. Be ready at eleven, will you? There’s my architect, Monsieur Grindot,” said the perfumer, catching sight of the young man, with whom he had made an appointment at Monsieur de la Billardiere’s the night before.

“Contrary to the custom of men of talent you are punctual, monsieur,” said Cesar, displaying his finest commercial graces. “If punctuality, in the words of our king, – a man of wit as well as a statesman, – is the politeness of princes, it is also the wealth of merchants. Time, time is gold, especially to you artists. I permit myself to say to you that architecture is the union of all the arts. We will not enter through the shop,” he added, opening the private door of his house.

Four years earlier Monsieur Grindot had carried off the grand prix in architecture, and had lately returned from Rome where he had spent three years at the cost of the State. In Italy the young man had dreamed of art; in Paris he thought of fortune. Government alone can pay the needful millions to raise an architect to glory; it is therefore natural that every ambitious youth of that calling, returning from Rome and thinking himself a Fontaine or a Percier, should bow before the administration. The liberal student became a royalist, and sought to win the favor of influential persons. When a grand prix man behaves thus, his comrades call him a trimmer. The young architect in question had two ways open to him, – either to serve the perfumer well, or put him under contribution. Birotteau the deputy-mayor, Birotteau the future possessor of half the lands about the Madeleine, where he would sooner or later build up a fine neighborhood, was a man to keep on good terms with. Grindot accordingly resolved to sacrifice his immediate gains to his future interests. He listened patiently to the plans, the repetitions, and the ideas of this worthy specimen of the bourgeois class, the constant butt of the witty shafts and ridicule of artists, and the object of their everlasting contempt, nodding his head as if to show the perfumer that he caught his ideas. When Cesar had thoroughly explained everything, the young man proceeded to sum up for him his own plan.

“You have now three front windows on the first floor, besides the window on the staircase which lights the landing; to these four windows you mean to add two on the same level in the next house, by turning the staircase, so as to open a way from one house to the other on the street side.”

“You have understood me perfectly,” said the perfumer, surprised.

“To carry out your plan, you must light the new staircase from above, and manage to get a porter’s lodge beneath it.”

“Beneath it?”

“Yes, the space over which it rests – ”

“I understand, monsieur.”

“As for your own appartement, give me carte-blanche to arrange and decorate it. I wish to make it worthy – ”

“Worthy! You have said the word, monsieur.”

“How much time do you give me to complete the work?”

“Twenty days.”

“What sum do you mean to put in the workmen’s pockets?” asked Grindot.

“How much do you think it will cost?”

“An architect can estimate on a new building almost to a farthing,” answered the young man; “but as I don’t know how to deal with a bourgeois – ah! excuse me, monsieur, the word slipped out – I must warn you that it is impossible to calculate the costs of tearing down and rebuilding. It will take at least eight days before I can give even an approximate idea of them. Trust yourself to me: you shall have a charming staircase, lighted from above, with a pretty vestibule opening from the street, and in the space under the stairway – ”

“Must that be used?”

“Don’t be worried – I will find room for a little porter’s lodge. Your house shall be studied and remodelled con amore. Yes, monsieur, I look to art and not to fortune. Above all things I do not want fame before I have earned it. To my mind, the best means of winning credit is not to play into the hands of contractors, but to get at good effects cheaply.”

“With such ideas, young man,” said Birotteau in a patronizing tone, “you will succeed.”

“Therefore,” resumed Grindot, “employ the masons, painters, locksmiths, carpenters, and upholsterers yourself. I will simply look over their accounts. Pay me only two thousand francs commission. It will be money well laid out. Give me the premises to-morrow at twelve o’clock, and have your workmen on the spot.”

“How much it will cost, at a rough guess?” said Birotteau.

“From ten to twelve thousand francs,” said Grindot. “That does not count the furniture; of course you will renew that. Give me the address of your cabinet-maker; I shall have to arrange with him about the choice of colors, so as to have everything in keeping.”

“Monsieur Braschon, Rue Saint-Antoine, takes my orders,” said Birotteau, assuming a ducal air.

The architect wrote down the address in one of those pretty note-books which invariably come from women.

“Well,” said Birotteau, “I trust to you, monsieur; only you must wait till the lease of the adjoining house is made over to me, and I will get permission to cut through the wall.”

“Send me a note this evening,” said the architect; “it will take me all night to draw the plans – we would rather work for a bourgeois than for the King of Prussia, that is to say for ourselves. I will now take the dimensions, the pitch, the size of the widows, the pictures – ”

“It must be finished on the appointed day,” said Birotteau. “If not, no pay.”

“It shall be done,” said the architect. “The workmen must do without sleep; we will use drying oil in the paint. But don’t let yourself be taken in by the contractors; always ask their price in advance, and have a written agreement.”

“Paris is the only place in the world where you can wave a magic wand like that,” said Birotteau, with an Asiatic gesture worthy of the Arabian Nights. “You will do me the honor to come to my ball, monsieur? Men of talent are not all disdainful of commerce; and you will meet a scientific man of the first order, Monsieur Vauquelin of the Institute; also Monsieur de la Billardiere, Monsieur le comte de Fontaine, Monsieur Lebas, judge and president of the Court of commerce, various magistrates, Monsieur le comte de Grandville of the royal suite, Monsieur Camusot of the Court of commerce, and Monsieur Cardot, his father-in-law, and, perhaps, Monsieur le duc de Lenoncourt, first gentleman of the bed-chamber to the king. I assemble my friends as much – to celebrate the emancipation of our territory – as to commemorate my – promotion to the order of the Legion of honor,” – here Grindot made a curious gesture. “Possibly I showed myself worthy of that – signal – and royal – favor, by my services on the bench, and by fighting for the Bourbons upon the steps of Saint-Roch on the 13th Vendemiaire, where I was wounded by Napoleon. These claims – ”

Constance, in a morning gown, here came out of her daughter’s bedroom, where she had been dressing; her first glance cut short Cesar’s eloquence just as he was about to formulate in flowing phrase, though modestly, the tale of his merits.

“Tiens, Mimi, this is Monsieur de Grindot, a young man distinguished in his own sphere of life, and the possessor of a great talent. Monsieur is the architect recommended to us by Monsieur de la Billardiere to superintend our little alteration.”

The perfumer slipped behind his wife and made a sign to the architect to take notice of the word little, putting his finger on his lips. Grindot took the cue.

“Will it be very expensive?” said Constance to the architect.

“Oh, no, madame; six thousand francs at a rough guess.”

“A rough guess!” exclaimed Madame Birotteau. “Monsieur, I entreat you, begin nothing without an estimate and the specifications signed. I know the ways of contractors: six thousand francs means twenty thousand. We are not in a position to commit such extravagance. I beg you, monsieur, – though of course my husband is master in his own house, – give him time to reflect.”

“Madame, monsieur the deputy-mayor has ordered me to deliver the premises, all finished, in twenty days. If we delay, you will be likely to incur the expense without obtaining the looked-for result.”

“There are expenses and expenses,” said the handsome mistress of “The Queen of Roses.”

“Ah! madame, do you think an architect who seeks to put up public buildings finds it glorious to decorate a mere appartement? I have come down to such details merely to oblige Monsieur de la Billardiere; and if you fear – ”

Here he made a movement to retreat.

“Well, well, monsieur,” said Constance re-entering her daughter’s room, where she threw her head on Cesarine’s shoulder.

“Ah, my daughter!” she cried, “your father will ruin himself! He has engaged an architect with mustachios, who talks about public buildings! He is going to pitch the house out of windows and build us a Louvre. Cesar is never idle about his follies; he only spoke to me about it in the night, and he begins it in the morning!”

“Never mind, mamma; let papa do as he likes. The good God has always taken care of him,” said Cesarine, kissing her mother and sitting down to the piano, to let the architect know that the perfumer’s daughter was not ignorant of the fine arts.

When Grindot came in to measure the bedroom he was surprised and taken aback at the beauty of Cesarine. Just out of her dressing-room and wearing a pretty morning-gown, fresh and rosy as a young girl is fresh and rosy at eighteen, blond and slender, with blue eyes, Cesarine seemed to the young artist a picture of the elasticity, so rare in Paris, that fills and rounds the delicate cheek, and tints with the color adored of painters, the tracery of blue veins throbbing beneath the whiteness of her clear skin. Though she lived in the lymphatic atmosphere of a Parisian shop, where the air stagnates and the sun seldom shines, her habits gave her the same advantages which the open-air life of Rome gives to the Transteverine peasant-woman. Her hair, – which was abundant, and grew, like that of her father, in points upon her forehead, – was caught up in a twist which showed the lines of a well-set neck, and then rippled downward in curls that were scrupulously cared for, after the fashion of young shop-women, whose desire to attract attention inspires the truly English minutiae of their toilet. The beauty of this young girl was not the beauty of an English lady, nor of a French duchess, but the round and glowing beauty of a Flemish Rubens. Cesarine had the turned-up nose of her father, but it was piquant through the delicacy of its modelling, – like those noses, essentially French, which have been so well reproduced by Largilliere. Her skin, of a firm full texture, bespoke the vitality of a virgin; she had the fine brow of her mother, but it was clear with the serenity of a young girl who knows no care. Her liquid blue eyes, bathed in rich fluid, expressed the tender grace of a glowing happiness. If that happiness took from her head the poetry which painters insist on giving to their pictures my making them a shade too pensive, the vague physical languor of a young girl who has never left her mother’s side made up for it, and gave her a species of ideality. Notwithstanding the graceful lines of her figure, she was strongly built. Her feet betrayed the peasant origin of her father and her own defects of race, as did the redness of her hands, the sign of the thoroughly bourgeois life. Sooner or later she would grow stout. She had caught the sentiment of dress from the elegant young women who came to the shop, and had learned from them certain movements of the head, certain ways of speaking and of moving; and she could play the well-bred woman in a way that turned the heads of all the young men, especially the clerks, in whose eyes she appeared truly distinguished. Popinot swore that he would have no other wife than Cesarine. The liquid brightness of that eye, which a look, or a tone of reproach, might cause to overflow in tears, was all that kept him to a sense of masculine superiority. The charming girl inspired love without leaving time to ask whether she had mind enough to make it durable. But of what value is the thing they call in Paris mind to a class whose principal element of happiness is virtue and good sense?

In her moral qualities Cesarine was like her mother, somewhat bettered by the superfluities of education; she loved music, drew the Madonna della Sedia in chalk, and read the works of Mmes. Cottin and Riccoboni, of Bernadin de Saint-Pierre, Fenelon, and Racine. She was never seen behind the counter with her mother except for a few moments before sitting down to dinner, or on some special occasion when she replaced her. Her father and mother, like all persons who have risen from small beginnings, and who cultivate the ingratitude of their children by putting them above themselves, delighted in deifying Cesarine, who happily had the virtues of her class, and took no advantage of their weakness.

Madame Birotteau followed the architect with an anxious and appealing eye, watching with terror, and pointing out to her daughter, the fantastic movements of the four-foot rule, that wand of architects and builders, with which Grindot was measuring. She saw in those mysterious weavings a conjuring spirit that augured evil; she wished the walls were less high, the rooms less large, and dared not question the young man on the effects of his sorcery.