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“Yes,” he answered; “a victory like that of Charles XII.”
On taking leave of him, I asked where he had been during the representation. “Why,” he answered, with a smile, “I was in a box with those ladies. They were greatly interested in the play. At the moment when Pauline poisons herself, that her stepmother may be accused of assassinating her, the young girl screamed with terror; the tears were in her eyes, and she looked reproachfully at me. Then she grasped her stepmother’s hand, and raised it to her lips with a movement” —
“Of sincerity?”
“Ah, yes, indeed.”
“You see, then, that your play may serve as a lesson.”
Balzac’s last play, “Le Faiseur,” was produced for the first time at the Gymnase, a year after his death, under the title of “Mercadet.” Its success was immediate, and its hundredth performance was the occasion of an article by Albéric Second in “Le Constitutionnel,” 18 June, 1852, which is at once so graceful and fantastic that its reproduction here cannot fail to afford some pleasure to the readers of the “Comédie Humaine:” —
The hundredth performance of “Mercadet” was given the other evening at the Gymnase-Dramatique. “Mercadet” is, it will be remembered, the posthumous piece of M. de Balzac, which at the time of its production excited such great curiosity. Without any previous agreement, but none the less certain of meeting, a dozen of us, all passionate admirers of the illustrious deceased, found ourselves, that evening, intermingled with the line which from six o’clock in the evening had been undulating from the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle to the door of the theatre. We had all assisted ten months before at the first representation of the play, and we piously reassembled at this jubilee of glory and genius in the same manner as we had gone the year before, and in the same manner that each year we shall go, on the 18th of August, to wreathe with immortelles the tomb of the great writer.
M. de Balzac was not one of those who inspire lukewarm affection, and they who have had the honor of knowing him preserve his memory religiously in their hearts. That life of his, full of struggles incessantly renewed, the hourly and truceless combat which he waged, sum up so completely the existence of the literary men of the nineteenth century that it is impossible for us to consider his grand and mournful figure otherwise than as the personification of an entire class. It is for this reason that God, who is sovereignly just, will accord to him hereafter a glory as great and incontestable as his life was tormented and sad. It is for this reason that it behooves us, who are the humble sacristans of the temple in which he was the radiant high priest, to see that his altars are ever adorned with fresh flowers and that the incense ceaselessly burns in the censers.
When we entered the theatre, it was, with the exception of a few boxes and a number of orchestra stalls which had been sold in advance, entirely filled. My seat was next to that of a gentleman apparently about forty-five years old. His bearing was exceedingly aristocratic; he was dressed with the most exquisite elegance, and his buttonhole bloomed with a rosette in which were intermingled in harmonious confusion all the orders of Europe and every shade of the rainbow. My neighbor was carelessly turning the pages of the “Entr’acte,” and I took great pleasure in studying his well-poised head; wondering the while whether I had not met him somewhere before, and what his name might be. When he had finished reading he rose, turned his back to the stage, drew an opera-glass from his pocket, and began to examine the house; an E and an R, surmounted by a count’s coronet, were engraved in letters of gold on the case which he placed on his seat. From time to time he bowed and waved his hand. My eyes mechanically followed the direction of his own, and I was not a little surprised at noticing that his smiles and salutations were addressed exclusively to the unoccupied boxes. When he passed all the boxes in review he turned his attention to the orchestra stalls, and the strange phenomenon was repeated. His opera-glass, flitting from stall to stall, stopped only at the empty ones; he would then bow, or make an almost imperceptible sign with the ends of his delicately gloved fingers. Dominated by that detestable pride which causes us to consider as insane all those whose actions or remarks are unintelligible to us, I murmured to myself, He is crazy. Then, as though he wished to remove the slightest doubt which I might have retained on this point, my neighbor bent over toward the seat at his left, and appeared to exchange a few words with an imaginary spectator. This seat was one of those which had been let in advance, and it was probable that its tenant, who was still absent, was interested only in the great play. I have omitted to state that the performance began with a little vaudeville.
At this moment one of my friends entered the orchestra, passed before me, shook my hand, and called me by name. My neighbor immediately turned around, gazed attentively at me for a moment or two, and then said, —
“Why, my dear fellow countryman, – for you are from La Charente, I believe, – I am delighted to see you.”
“To whom have I the honor of speaking?” I asked, in great surprise.
My neighbor drew from his pocket a card, which he gallantly presented to me. My astonishment was so great that I almost screamed aloud; fortunately, however, I preserved my presence of mind. On the card, I read these words: —
“Le Comte Eugène de Rastignac.”
“M. de Rastignac?” I repeated, incredulously.
“In person.”
“The one who was born at Ruffec?”
“Precisely.”
“The cousin of Madame de Beauséant?”
“Himself.”
“Is it you who lived at the boarding-house kept by Madame Vauquer, née De Conflans?”
“Exactly.”
“And who knew the Père Goriot and Vautrin?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“You exist, then?” I stupidly inquired.
M. de Rastignac began to smile.
“Do you think that I present the appearance of a phantom?” he asked, as he gracefully twirled his moustache.
“Sir,” I said, “I can readily understand that M. de Balzac should have borrowed your personality and extracted a great deal therefrom for the edification of his readers; but that he should have taken your name! – that, indeed, is something that I cannot believe.”
“I had authorized him so to do.”
“You?”
“Not only I did so, but all my friends did the same.”
“All, you say?”
“Certainly.”
“Of whom do you speak?”
“Of those who are in the theatre and to whom I have just bowed.”
“But where are they?”
“Ah, yes; I forgot you cannot see them.”
M. de Rastignac lightly touched my forehead with the forefinger of his right hand, and, light as was his touch, I immediately felt a violent electric shock, and it seemed as though I had undergone an operation similar to that of removing a cataract.
“Now look about you,” said M. de Rastignac, and he pointed to the boxes and stalls which I had thought were empty. They were occupied by ladies and gentlemen, laughing and talking together in a most unghostlike fashion.
“They are almost all there,” said Madame Vauquer’s former lodger. “The principal personages of the ‘Comédie Humaine’ have, like you, come to salute the hundredth representation of ‘Mercadet,’ and their applause is so loud, so loud, that the echo of their bravos will rejoice Balzac in his tomb.”
“Am I losing my reason?” I asked myself.
“I see that you are skeptical, my dear fellow,” M. de Rastignac continued, “but let me give you a few proofs. Here is one which will satisfy you, I imagine;” and, turning about, he called to one of the spectators: —
“Nathan!”
“Well, my dear count?”
“Where and when is your next drama?”
“It will be given at the opening of the Ambigu-Comique.”
“Will you send me a box?”
“Your name is already on the list.”
“Du Bruel!”
“What is it?”
“You are becoming lazy, now that you are a member of the Académie.”
“I? I have five acts in rehearsal at the Vaudeville and two at the Variétés.”
“That is not so bad, then. But where is your wife?”
“Tullia? She is in the third box to the left.”
“Alone?”
“With La Palférine.”
“Bixion, your last caricatures were infamous.”
“Bah! I would like to see you try your hand at them, with the censure at your heels.”
“How are you, Lou de Lora? How are you, Stedman? Your exposition is superb. Ah, my friends, you are the princes of the Musée. But I say, Stedman, Pradier has just died: there is a fine place open.”
“Yes; but then, alas, there are men who can never be replaced.”
All these questions and answers bounded like the balls which two clever players serve and receive in a well-played game of tennis.
M. de Rastignac turned to me. “Are you as incredulous as before?” he smilingly inquired.
“I? God forbid, sir, that I should doubt your word.”
In reality, however, I knew neither what to think nor what to believe, for I had curiously examined all these people whom my celebrated compatriot had addressed, and who, through M. de Balzac, as well as through their own achievements, were known and liked throughout civilized Europe. With the exception of Bixion, who was thin, poorly dressed, and not decorated, all the others appeared to be in the most flourishing state of health and fortune. Madame Tullia du Bruel was as appetizing as ever, and La Palférine, familiarly leaning on the back of her chair, exposed an ideal shirt and an impossible vest.
“Does M. de la Palférine no longer visit Madame de Rochegude?” I inquired.
“He is now entirely devoted to Tullia, and asserts that, after all, Du Bruel’s cook is the finest artist in Paris.”
“Is Madame de Rochegude still living?”
“She sits in that second box to the right.”
“Who is with her?”
“Conti.”
“The celebrated musician?”
“Yes, indeed. You remember the song, —
‘Et l’on revient toujours,
A ses premiers amours.’”
It was with the greatest eagerness that I had turned to look at this artificial blonde, who had been so greatly beloved by the young Baron Calyste du Guénic. (Vide Béatrix.) A lace scarf was twisted about her neck in such a way as to diminish its length. She appeared worn and fatigued; but her figure was a masterpiece of composition, and she offered that compound of light and brilliant drapery, of gauze and crimped hair, of vivacity and calm, which is termed the je ne sais quoi.
Conti was also an object of great interest to me. He looked vexed, out of sorts, and bored, and seemed to be meditating on the eternal truth of that aphorism, profound and sombre as an abyss, which teaches that a cigar once out should never be relighted, and an affection once buried should never be exhumed.
“Is the Baron de Nucingen here?” I asked.
“Nucingen is confined to his bed with the gout; he has not two good months out of the twelve.”
“And his wife?”
“The baroness no longer goes to the theatre. Religion, charity, and sermons occupy every instant of her time. Her father, Père Goriot, has now a white marble tomb and a perpetual resting-place in the cemetery of Père La Chaise.”
“Where is her sister, Madame de Restaud?”
“She died a few years ago, legally separated from her husband.”
“Pardon my insatiable curiosity,” I said, “but ever since I was old enough to read and think I have not ceased to live with the personages of the ‘Comédie Humaine.’”
“I am glad indeed,” he courteously replied, “to be able to answer your questions. Is there anything that you still care to know?”
“What has become of the ex-minister of agriculture and commerce, the Comte Popinot, whom we called the little Anselme Popinot, in the days of the greatness and decadence of César Birotteau?”
“He followed the exiled princes to England.”
“And Du Tillet?”
“Du Tillet is no longer in France.”
“Did he leave for political reasons?”
“Is it possible that you did not hear of his failure! He absconded one day, with the till, ruined by Jenny Cadine and Suzanne du Val-Noble.”
“Where are the children of Madame de Montsauf, that celestial creature, so justly called le Lys dans la Vallée?”
“Jacques died of consumption, leaving Madeleine sole mistress of an enormous fortune. In spite of what M. de Balzac said, I always supposed that she was secretly in love with Félix de Vandernesse. She is in that first avant-scène. She is an old maid now, but is none the less an adorable woman, and the true daughter of her mother.”
“Do you know the name of that individual who has just entered her box?”
“That is Canalis.”
“Canalis, the great poet, who played such an important part in the life of Modeste Mignon?”
“Precisely.”
“I had thought that he was younger.”
“He has grown quite old during these last few years. He has turned his attention to politics, and you may notice how politics hollows the cheeks and silvers the hair of poetry. He would bankrupt Golconda, however, and he is now attempting to win Mlle. de Montsauf and her millions. But look to the left, in that first box from the door of the gallery, and see whether you do not recognize one of the most curious physiognomies of the ‘Comédie Humaine.’”
“Do you mean that stout woman?”
“Yes; it is Madame Nourrisau.”
“Vautrin’s aunt?”
“In flesh and blood, especially in flesh. There is the formidable hag who went one day to the son of the Baron Hulot and proposed, for fifty thousand francs, to rid him of Madame Marneffe. You must have read about it in ‘La Cousine Bette.’”
“She is not alone, I see.”
“She is with her husband.”
“Her husband? Is it possible that she found one?”
“You forget that she is five or six times millionaire, and also the general rule that where it rains millions husbands sprout. Her name is now Madame Gaudessart, née Vautrin.”
“Is it the illustrious Gaudessart who is the husband of that horrible creature?”
“Legally so, I beg you to believe.”
“Speaking of the ‘Cousine Bette,’ can you tell me anything of Wencelas Steinbock and his wife?”
“They are perfectly happy. It is young Hulot who misbehaves; his wife is in that box over there, with the Steinbocks. Hulot has told them that he will join them later, and has probably stated that he had some urgent law business to attend to; but the truth is that he is behind the scenes at the opera. Hulot is not his father’s son for nothing.”
At this point M. de Rastignac smiled affectionately at a white-haired musician, who was tuning his violin.
“Is that the Cousin Pons?” I asked.
“You forget two things: first, that the Cousin Pons is dead; and secondly, that in his lifetime he always wore a green velvet coat. But though Orestes is no more, Pylades still lives. Damon has survived Pythias. It is Schmucke who sits before you. He is very poor; he has nothing but the fifty francs a month which he earns here, and the payment of a few piano lessons at seventy-five centimes each; but he will not accept any assistance, and, for my part, I have never seen tatters more proudly worn.”
“Can you not,” I asked, “show me M. Maxime de Trailles?”
“De Trailles no longer lives in Paris. When the devil grows stout he turns hermit. This retired condottiere is now a married man, the father of a family, and resides in the country. He makes speeches at the agricultural fairs, takes great interest in cattle, and represents his county at the general assembly of his department, —the late Maxime de Trailles, as he is now pleased to call himself.”
“And Des Lupeaulx?”
“Des Lupeaulx is a prefect of the first class. But in place of these gentlemen, you have before you, in that box, the Count Félix de Vandernesse and the Countess Nathalie de Manerville; a little beyond, the Grandvilles and the Grandlieux; then, the Duke de Rhétoré, Laginski, D’Esgrignon Montreveau, Rochefide, and D’Ajuda-Ponto. Moreover, there are the Cheffrevilles; but then what a pity it is that our poor Camille Maupin is not present at this solemnity!”
“Is it of Mlle. des Touches that you speak?”
“Yes.”
“Is she still religiously inclined?”
“She died like a saint, two years ago, in a convent near Nantes. She retired from the world, you remember, after accomplishing the marriage of Calyste du Guénic and Sabine de Grandlieu. What a woman she was! There are none like her now.”
These last words of M. de Rastignac were covered by the three traditional knocks which precede the rise of the curtain.
“‘Mercadet’ is about to commence,” he said.
“After the first act I will continue my gossip; provided, of course, that I do not weary you with it.”
“Oh, my dear sir!” I cried. “My” —
I had not time to complete my phrase; a friendly but vigorous hand grasped my arm.
“So you come to ‘Mercadet’ to sleep, do you?” said a well-known voice.
“I? Am I asleep?”
“You are not asleep now, but you were.”
I turned quickly around.
My neighbor was a fat-faced gentleman, with blue spectacles, who was peeling an orange with the most ridiculous gravity.
In the boxes and orchestra stalls, wherever I had thought to see the personages of the “Comédie Humaine,” I found only insignificant faces, of the ordinary and graceless type, – a collection of obliterated medals.
At this moment the curtain rose, the actors appeared, and the great comedy of “Mercadet” was revealed, amid the applause and delight of the crowd.
I had been dreaming, therefore, and if I had been dreaming I must have been asleep. But what had provoked my somnolence? Was it the approach of a storm, the heat of the theatre, or the vaudeville with which the performance commenced?
Perhaps all three.
CHAPTER IV.
THE CHASE FOR GOLD
“Nullum magnum ingenium sine mixtura dementiæ est.” – Seneca, De Tranquillitate Animi, c. 15.
From Balzac’s early manhood his entire existence was consumed in a feverish pursuit of wealth; and had the mines of California been discovered at an earlier date, there is little doubt that he would have exchanged his pen for a pick, and sought, in a red shirt, to realize the millions with which he dowered his characters.
At the outset of his career, he was, as has been seen, unsuccessful in a business enterprise, and became, in consequence, heavily involved in debt. This spectre of the past haunted him so continually that it not only found frequent expression in his writings, in which money became a hymn, but it brought to him illusions and projects of fortune which were at once curious and fantastic.
At one time, shortly after the publication of “Facino Cane,” – who, it will be remembered, was imprisoned in the dungeons of Venice, and, in making his escape, discovered the hidden treasures of the Doges, which he proposed to seek and share with his biographer, – Balzac became fairly intoxicated with the delusions of his hero, and his dreams of secreted wealth assumed such a semblance of reality that he at last imagined, or pretended that he had learned, the exact spot where Toussaint Louverture had buried his famous booty.
“‘The Gold Bug’ of Edgar Poe,” Gautier writes, “did not equal in delicacy of induction and clearness of detail his feverish recital of the proposed expedition by which we were to become masters of a treasure far richer than Kidd’s.”
“Sandeau was as easily seduced as myself. It was necessary that Balzac should have two robust and devoted accomplices, and, in exchange for our assistance, he was good enough to offer to each of us a quarter of the prodigious fortune. Half was to be his, by right of conquest. It was arranged that we were to purchase spades and picks, place them secretly in a ship, and, to avoid suspicion, reach the designated spot by different roads, and then, after having disinterred the treasure, we were to embark with it on a brig freighted in advance. In short, it was a real romance, which would have been admirable had it been written instead of recited. It is of course unnecessary to add that the booty was not unearthed. We discovered that we had no money to pay our traveling expenses, and our united capital was insufficient to purchase even the spades.”
At another time Balzac conceived the project of manufacturing paper from a substance which was at once cheap and plentiful. Experiments, however, proved that his plan was impracticable, and a friend who called to console him found that, instead of being dejected, he was even more jovial than ever.
“Never mind about the paper,” he said. “I have a better scheme yet.”
It was this: While reading Tacitus, he had stumbled upon a reference to the mines of Sardinia; his imagination, aided by his scientific knowledge, carried him back to the imperfect mechanical processes of old Rome, and he saw at once a vision of wealth, awaiting only modern appliances to be his own. With the greatest difficulty he collected – partly from his mother, partly from his cousin, and partly from that aunt whom the Anglo-Saxon Bohemian has converted into an uncle – the sum of five hundred francs; and then, having reached Genoa, he embarked for Alghiero, explaining his project to the captain of the vessel with the candor of an infant.
Once in Sardinia, dressed like a beggar, – a terror to brigands and monks, – he sought the mines on foot. They were easily found. With a few specimens of the ore, he returned immediately to Paris, where an analysis showed them to contain a large proportion of silver. Jubilant with success, he would then have applied to the Italian government for a concession of the mines, but unfortunately he was, for the moment, detained by lawsuits and other business, and when he at last set out for Milan it was too late. The perfidious captain had thought the idea so good that, without preliminary examinations, he had lost no time in securing an authorization in due form, and was then quietly proceeding to make a fortune.
“There is a million in the mines,” Balzac wrote to his sister. “A Marseilles firm has assayed the scoriæ, but the delay has been fatal. The Genoese captain has already obtained a contract from the government. However, I have another idea, which is even better; this time there will be no Genoese. I am already consoled.”
After having read “Venice Preserved” and admired the union of Pierre and Jaffier, Balzac says that he began to consider the peculiar virtues of those who are thrown outside of the social order, – the honesty of the galleys, the fidelity of robbers, and the privileges of that enormous power which these men obtain in fusing all ideas into one supreme will, – and concluded that, man being greater than men, society should belong entirely to those whose brilliancy, intelligence, and wealth could be joined in a fanaticism warm enough to melt their different forces into a single jet. An occult power of this description, he argued, would be the master of society; it would reverse obstacles, enchain desires, and give to one the superhuman power of all; it would be a world within a world, admitting none of its ideas, recognizing none of its laws; it would be a league of filibusters in yellow gloves and dogcarts, who could at all times be ready to devote themselves in their entirety to any one among them who should require their united aid.
This novel conception was not only the motif of the “Histoire des Treize,” but no sooner was the book completed than Balzac, in accordance with his mania for living his characters, attempted to reproduce it in real life, – or rather, in the other life, for his true world was the one which he carried in his brain, – and without difficulty recruited for this purpose Jules Sandeau, Léon Gozlan, Laurent Jan, Gérard de Nerval, Merle, Alphonse Karr, and Granier de Cassagnac.
The aim of the association, which he explained with that tumultuous eloquence for which he was famous and which silenced every objection, was simply to grasp the leading-strings of the principal newspapers, invade the theatres, take seats in the Académie, and become millionaires and peers of France. When any one of them produced a book or a play, the others were to write about it, talk about it, and advertise it generally, until its success was assured; and as nothing succeeds like success, a good commencement was all that was needed to insure an easy and glorious ascent.
The project was enthusiastically received and unanimously approved. The society was entitled the “Cheval Rouge,” and Balzac was elected chief.
In order to avoid suspicion, it was agreed that in public the members should not appear to know each other, and Karr relates that for a long time Balzac would pretend, whenever he saw him, that they met for the first time, and would communicate with him only in an actor’s aside. The meetings of the society were pre-arranged by the chief. The notices consisted of a card, on which was painted a red horse, and the words, stable, such a day, such a place; in order to make it still more fantastic, the place was changed each time.
This project, which of course resulted in nothing, and which was soon abandoned, was none the less practicable, and minus the mysterious farce with which it was surrounded has since, in many instances, been put into successful operation.
Through one of those psychical phenomena which generate within us a diversity of sentiment while uniting their contradictory elements, Balzac was tortured by a combined distaste and affection for journalism. It possessed a morbid attraction for him; and while he execrated the entire profession, he longed none the less for an editor’s chair, from which he could bombard his enemies at his ease, and glean at the same time the rich harvest which a successful review invariably produces.
The foundation of a journal, however, is money, more money, always money; and Balzac, who was rich only in unrecognized audacity and unquoted talent, after having tried in every way to acquire the necessary capital, was about to abandon his scheme as hopeless, when Providence in the form of a young man passed the sentries and entered his room.
“M. de Balzac?”
And Balzac, to whom every stranger was a dun, replied, “It is, sir, and it is not; it depends.”
“I am looking for the author of ‘La Peau de Chagrin.’”
“Ah! then, I am he.”
“Sir,” said the youth, “I understand that you are about to edit a journal, and I have come to ask for the position of theatrical critic. I would also like to write the fashion article.”
Balzac, furious at the intrusion and indignant at the youth’s proposition to collaborate in a journal whose appearance was prevented by lack of funds, was about to order the young man out, when he suddenly noticed that he was clothed in the most expensive manner.
“May I ask whom I have the honor of addressing?” inquired the ogre, with his most seductive smile.
“I am the son of M. Chose, the banker.”
Balzac became very fascinating. “I thought so, – I thought so from the first; you look like him. Will you not sit down? As we were saying, I am about to edit the ‘Chronique de Paris,’ whose appearance, so impatiently awaited, I have delayed only that its success might be the better assured. And did I understand you to say that you would like to take charge of the theatrical criticisms?”
“Yes, indeed, sir, if you think me capable.”
“Capable? Do I think you capable? Why, all the more capable, as it is unusual for a banker’s son to wish to enter a purely literary association. The blood of a financier is seldom inclined to”…
“I do not care for letters of credit, M. de Balzac. I care for letters, simply.”
“Adorable witticism!” cried Balzac, illuminated with hope. “And you care, then, for literature, in spite of the immense fortune which you enjoy?”
“I expect ten millions more,” interrupted the youth.
“Ten millions!”
“Rather more than less, M. de Balzac.”
“Nothing could be better or more opportune,” smiled this courtesan of wealth, reduced to adulating an idiot. “I was just wondering whom I should select. The position is yours. No, no; it is for me to thank you. My best regards to your dear father.”
The youth had barely turned the corner when Balzac hastily summoned the members of the “Cheval Rouge.”
“At last I have a capitalist!” he cried. “He has promised nothing, it is true, but I have reason to believe that, properly managed, he will invest anywhere from a hundred thousand up. He is an idiot, the son of Chose the banker. He wants to be dramatic critic, and that means money, simply money, and lots of it. But,” he continued, “the affair cannot be arranged without a subtle preparation and solemn initiation, and preparation and initiation mean dinner. It is at a dinner, not frugal but sumptuous, adorned with a garland of editors and critics, each more seductive than the other, that the alliance of your intelligence and the money of my imbecile will be consummated; and then, with the champagne in his throat, he will tell us how much he proposes to pour into the till of the ‘Chronique de Paris.’ It has not got one yet, to be sure, but we will buy one as soon as he furnishes the money.”
“But there will be about twenty of us,” objected de Nerval, “and the dinner will cost at least four hundred francs. Where are they? Have you got them?”
“No, but I will find them,” Balzac answered, with a magnificent gesture. “It is not a question of a dinner in a restaurant, for that would smack of the adventurer a mile away; and besides, there of course you pay cash. The banquet shall be served here, and on credit. We have only to inspire some caterer with sufficient confidence.”
“Charming,” said Merle, as he looked about the poorly furnished apartment; “but how is that sufficiency of confidence to be inspired?”
After innumerable propositions had been discussed and rejected, Balzac discovered that Granier de Cassagnac had a service of silver in pawn for eight hundred francs, and prevailed on Gautier to borrow a like amount, disengage the silver, which, negligently exposed on Balzac’s table, would inspire confidence in any caterer; promising that after the dinner the silver should be immediately repawned and the loan repaid.
“My plan is triumphant!” he exclaimed; “the money is ours. To-morrow we will liberate the silver. Tuesday, conference with the caterer. Wednesday, invitation on vellum launched at our young capitalist; the same evening, solemn engagement on his part to invest, accompanied on ours by the most hilarious toasts. Thursday, contract drawn by a notary and signed by the delicate hand of our millionaire. Friday, reunion and tea, to read over the prospectus, which I will compose. Saturday, colossal advertisement on every wall, monument, and column; and the week after, brilliant apparition on the Parisian horizon of the first number. Soldiers! to arms!”
