The Kill - Emile Zola [92]
Saccard would gladly have sought out a different partner, but he was still worried about the fake inventory that Larsonneau guarded like a precious possession. He preferred to involve him in the deal in the hope that circumstances might arise that would allow him to reclaim the compromising document. Larsonneau built the music hall out of wood and plaster topped by small tin turrets painted yellow and red. In the populous Charonne neighborhood, the park and amusements proved successful. After two years, the speculation seemed to have prospered, although the profits were really quite small. Thus far Saccard had spoken to his wife of the future of this fine idea only in the most glowing of terms.
Renée, seeing that her husband was making no move to come out of the fireplace and finding it harder and harder to make out his voice, finally said, “I’ll go see Larsonneau today. He’s my only resource.”
At that point he gave up struggling with the log.
“It’s been taken care of, my dear,” he replied with a smile. “Don’t I anticipate all your desires? . . . I saw Larsonneau last night.”
“And he promised to give you the 136,000 francs?” she asked anxiously.
Between the two burning logs he made a small pile of embers, delicately picking up the tiniest pieces of charcoal with the ends of the tongs and contemplating with an air of satisfaction the heap he was constructing with infinite skill.
“Now, hold on a moment!” he murmured. “A hundred and thirty-six thousand francs is quite a large sum. . . . Larsonneau is a fine fellow, but his means are still modest. He’s quite prepared to help you out. . . .
He paused, blinking his eyes and rebuilding a corner of the pile that had just crumbled. This game was beginning to confuse Renée’s thinking. In spite of herself she watched her husband’s increasingly clumsy efforts at the fireplace. She was tempted to offer him advice. Forgetting Worms, the bill, and her shortage of cash, she finally said, “Why don’t you put that big piece underneath? Then the others will stay in place.”
Her husband docilely obeyed. Then he said, “He can only come up with 50,000 francs. That’s still a nice advance. . . . But he doesn’t want to mix this business up with the Charonne arrangement. He’s only a go-between, you understand. Don’t you, my dear? The person who is lending the money is asking for enormous interest. He wants a promissory note for 80,000 francs due in six months.”
And having placed a sharp-pointed ember atop the pile, he folded his hands over the tongs and fixed his wife with a stare.
“Eighty thousand francs!” she exclaimed. “But that’s robbery! . . . Are you advising me to do something that foolish?”
“No,” he said curtly. “But if you’re in dire need of cash, I won’t forbid it.”
He got up as if to leave. Renée, torn by indecision, looked at her husband and at the bill he’d left on the fireplace. Then she took her poor head in her hands and murmured, “Oh, these business matters! . . . My head is splitting this morning. . . . Look, I’m going to sign this note for 80,000 francs. If I didn’t, I would become ill. I know myself. I’d spend the day in dreadful agony, worrying about what to do. . . . If I’m going to be foolish, I’d rather do it right away. It will ease the pain.”
She said she would ring for someone to bring the necessary forms, but he insisted on performing this service himself. He must have had the papers in his pocket, because he was gone for barely two minutes. While she was writing on a small table he had pushed close to the fireplace, he examined her with eyes bright with astonished desire. It was quite hot in the room, and the fragrance of the bedclothes and the young woman’s morning toilette still hung in the air. While talking she had allowed the dressing gown in which she had wrapped herself to fall open, and, as her husband stood in front