The Nabob [190]
the modern music which no longer contents itself with being an art, but becomes a science, and answers better to our nerves, to our restlessness, than to sentiment.
Daylight flooded the room as a maid brought a card to her mistress; "Heurteux, business agent."
The gentleman was there, he insisted on seeing madame.
"You have told him the doctor is travelling?"
He had been told, but it was to madame he wished to speak.
"To me?"
Disturbed, she examined this rough, crumpled card, this unknown name: "Heurteux." What could it be?
"Well, show him in."
Heurteux, business agent, coming from broad daylight into the semi- obscurity of the room, was blinking with an uncertain air, trying to see. She, on the other hand, saw very distinctly a stiff figure, with iron-gray whiskers and protruding jaw, one of those hangers-on of the law whom one meets round the law courts, born fifty years old, with a bitter mouth, an envious air, and a morocco portfolio under the arm. He sat down on the edge of the chair which she pointed out to him, turned his head to make sure that the servant had gone out, then opened his portfolio methodically to search for a paper. Seeing that he did not speak, she began in a tone of impatience:
"I ought to warn you, sir, that my husband is absent, and that I am not acquainted with his business."
Without any astonishment, his hand in his papers, the man answered: "I know that /M. Jenkins/ is absent, madame"--he emphasized more particularly the two words "M. Jenkins"--"especially as I come on his behalf."
She looked at him frightened. "On his behalf?"
"Alas! yes, madame. The doctor's situation, as you are no doubt aware, is one, for the moment, of very great embarrassment. Unfortunate dealings on the Stock Exchange, the failure of a great financial enterprise in which his money is invested, the /OEuvre de Bethleem/ which weighs heavily on him, all these reverses coming at once have forced him to a grave resolution. He is selling his mansion, his horses, everything that he possesses, and has given me a power of attorney for that purpose."
He had at last found what he was looking for--one of those stamped folded papers, interlined and riddled with references, where the impassible law makes itself responsible for so many lies. Mme. Jenkins was going to say: "But I was here. I would have carried out all his wishes, all his orders--" when she suddenly understood by the coolness of her visitor, his easy, almost insolent attitude, that she was included in this clearing up, in the getting rid of the costly mansion and useless riches, and that her departure would be the signal for the sale.
She rose suddenly. The man, still seated, went on: "What I have still to say, madame"--oh, she knew it, she could have dictated to him, what he had still to say--"is so painful, so delicate. M. Jenkins is leaving Paris for a long time, and in the fear of exposing you to the hazards and adventures of the new life he is undertaking, of taking you away from a son you cherish, and in whose interest perhaps you had better----"
She heard no more, saw no more, and while he was spinning out his gossamer phrases, given over to despair, she heard the song over and over in her mind, as the last image seen pursues a drowning man:
Le temps nous enleve Notre enchantement.
All at once her pride returned. "Let us put a stop to this, sir. All your turns and phrases are only an additional insult. The fact is that I am driven out--turned into the street like a servant."
"Oh, madame, madame! The situation is cruel enough, don't let us make it worse by hard words. In the evolution of his /modus vivendi/ M. Jenkins has to separate from you, but he does so with the greatest pain to himself; and the proposals which I am charged to make are a proof of his sentiments for you. First, as to furniture and clothes, I am authorized to let you take--"
"That will do," said she. She flew to the bell. "I am going out. Quick --my hat, my mantle, anything, never mind what. I am in a hurry."
And while they went to
Daylight flooded the room as a maid brought a card to her mistress; "Heurteux, business agent."
The gentleman was there, he insisted on seeing madame.
"You have told him the doctor is travelling?"
He had been told, but it was to madame he wished to speak.
"To me?"
Disturbed, she examined this rough, crumpled card, this unknown name: "Heurteux." What could it be?
"Well, show him in."
Heurteux, business agent, coming from broad daylight into the semi- obscurity of the room, was blinking with an uncertain air, trying to see. She, on the other hand, saw very distinctly a stiff figure, with iron-gray whiskers and protruding jaw, one of those hangers-on of the law whom one meets round the law courts, born fifty years old, with a bitter mouth, an envious air, and a morocco portfolio under the arm. He sat down on the edge of the chair which she pointed out to him, turned his head to make sure that the servant had gone out, then opened his portfolio methodically to search for a paper. Seeing that he did not speak, she began in a tone of impatience:
"I ought to warn you, sir, that my husband is absent, and that I am not acquainted with his business."
Without any astonishment, his hand in his papers, the man answered: "I know that /M. Jenkins/ is absent, madame"--he emphasized more particularly the two words "M. Jenkins"--"especially as I come on his behalf."
She looked at him frightened. "On his behalf?"
"Alas! yes, madame. The doctor's situation, as you are no doubt aware, is one, for the moment, of very great embarrassment. Unfortunate dealings on the Stock Exchange, the failure of a great financial enterprise in which his money is invested, the /OEuvre de Bethleem/ which weighs heavily on him, all these reverses coming at once have forced him to a grave resolution. He is selling his mansion, his horses, everything that he possesses, and has given me a power of attorney for that purpose."
He had at last found what he was looking for--one of those stamped folded papers, interlined and riddled with references, where the impassible law makes itself responsible for so many lies. Mme. Jenkins was going to say: "But I was here. I would have carried out all his wishes, all his orders--" when she suddenly understood by the coolness of her visitor, his easy, almost insolent attitude, that she was included in this clearing up, in the getting rid of the costly mansion and useless riches, and that her departure would be the signal for the sale.
She rose suddenly. The man, still seated, went on: "What I have still to say, madame"--oh, she knew it, she could have dictated to him, what he had still to say--"is so painful, so delicate. M. Jenkins is leaving Paris for a long time, and in the fear of exposing you to the hazards and adventures of the new life he is undertaking, of taking you away from a son you cherish, and in whose interest perhaps you had better----"
She heard no more, saw no more, and while he was spinning out his gossamer phrases, given over to despair, she heard the song over and over in her mind, as the last image seen pursues a drowning man:
Le temps nous enleve Notre enchantement.
All at once her pride returned. "Let us put a stop to this, sir. All your turns and phrases are only an additional insult. The fact is that I am driven out--turned into the street like a servant."
"Oh, madame, madame! The situation is cruel enough, don't let us make it worse by hard words. In the evolution of his /modus vivendi/ M. Jenkins has to separate from you, but he does so with the greatest pain to himself; and the proposals which I am charged to make are a proof of his sentiments for you. First, as to furniture and clothes, I am authorized to let you take--"
"That will do," said she. She flew to the bell. "I am going out. Quick --my hat, my mantle, anything, never mind what. I am in a hurry."
And while they went to