Complete Works of Emile Zola (60 page)

“Well, good-bye. Come to me at the opening of the shooting season. It’ll amuse me.”

When the count had gone, Marius remained in a painful state of perplexity. He must certainly have misunderstood. Yet, M. de Girousse’s statements were clear and decisive: M. Authier was not known at Lambesc, and, therefore, Douglas had lied for some reason or other.

The young man did not dare fathom the consequences of this falsehood: he divined the existence of several pitfalls beneath his feet, and could account for the uneasiness he had experienced when with the notary. Having at present nothing more than suspicions, he promised himself that he would discover the whole truth, before engaging further in the matter and giving his signature. He understood how serious the least accusation would be, and he decided to act with extreme prudence, without haste and without showing his mistrust.

The morrow was a Sunday, and Marius, having a free day before him, went the first thing in the morning to the Rue de Rome where the property Authier was supposed to have purchased was situated. It was a large, handsome house let out in flats to different persons. Armed with his power of attorney, Marius skilfully questioned each of these tenants, and was soon convinced that not one of them knew M. Authier, nor had even ever seen him, and that all of them had up till then dealt directly with Douglas, the notary.

The young man’s suspicions were being confirmed. He thought he would put them to a final test and went to see the former owner of the building whose address one of the tenants gave him. His name was Landrol and he lived in an adjoining street.

“Sir,” said Marius, “I am instructed by M. Authier to administer the property you sold him and I wish you to give me some information concerning the leases you granted and the rent you charged.”

M. Landrol obligingly placed himself at his disposal and answered all his inquiries. Marius was very circumspect, and when he had spoken of one thing and another, he cleverly broached the real object of his visit.

“Very many thanks,” he said, “and I regret to have taken up so much of your time. My excuse is that I have not been able to see M. Authier, who is at present away. It occurred to me that as you have had dealings with him, you could tell me something about him and give me some idea as to what his intentions were.”

“But I never treated directly with M. Authier,” Landrol replied simply. “I have never even seen the gentleman. The affair was carried through by M. Douglas who furnished me with all the necessary signatures.”

“Ah! I thought M. Authier had inspected the building, which is the usual custom.”

“Not at all. Don’t you know that he has been in America for the last six months? M. Douglas inspected the house himself and bought it for his client, whose instructions he had received.”

Marius bit his lip. He had almost allowed his terrible secret to escape him. The day before, the notary had told him that Authier had come from Lambesc to seek and purchase a house. The falsehood was now an absolute certainty. Authier could not be at the same time away in America — where he had been for the past six months — and also awaiting money at Cherbourg. No doubt the individual was no more known at Cherbourg or New York then he was at Lambesc. He was a pure fiction, an imaginary puppet whom Douglas had conjured up for some criminal design of his own. And Marius suddenly thought that the power of attorney filled up with his name was in reality a forgery which rendered the forger liable to a sentence of penal servitude. He blushed as though he were himself the culprit, and muttered some further thanks to Landrol who was eyeing him curiously, surprised to find him so badly informed as to the affairs of the person he was representing.

When Marius found himself alone in the street, he was obliged to submit to the evidence of his senses: only Douglas could have forged the document he had in his pocket. Yet the young man could not exactly understand the reason of the crime. The purchase-money of the building had been paid, so the only explanation he could hit upon was that the notary had acquired the property for himself under an assumed name in order to disguise the amount of his fortune. But even then, the crime was still there: Douglas, the pious and upright man, was a forger.

Marius feared for a time that Mouttet, the retired Toulon merchant, was also a dummy. He hastened to call on one of his friends, who had resided a long time at Toulon, and breathed more freely when, on questioning him, he learnt that Mouttet really existed and was one of Douglas’ clients. After this, still prompted by his suspicions, he decided to see the property upon which Mouttet held a mortgage. He had spent his morning in uselessly seeking a man, and he employed his afternoon in hunting for a house.

Brought up in the Saint Just district, in his mother’s country-house, Marius knew all the residences of the neighbourhood. The property upon which Douglas professed to hold a mortgage in Mouttet’s name belonged to a M. Giraud, in whose house the young man had often played when a child. He went at once to Giraud’s and paid a friendly call, as though he had been strolling in the neighbourhood, and wished merely to shake hands with his old friend.

It was about mid-September. At the horizon the sea was slumbering, heavy and motionless, looking like an immense carpet of blue velvet. The country-side extended yellow with sunshine, hot and sweltering. A gentle breeze rose at times from the shore and went lightly through the branches of the quivering pine-trees. When Marius passed before the country-house where his mother had nursed him, a poignant emotion brought big tears to his eyes. Amidst the silence of this scorched and mournful desert, he fancied he could hear the beloved voice of the saintly woman whose memory sustained him in his task of deliverance which was weighing him down.

Giraud received him like the prodigal son.

“One never sees you now,” he said. “Come here sometimes and try and forget all your troubles. You will find none but devoted friends here, who will help you to pass a few more pleasant hours.”

Marius was touched at this reception. He had often despaired of humanity since he had found himself face to face with the wickedness of life. During an hour he quite forgot the reason of his visit. It was Giraud himself who gave an opening for the delicate inquiry the young man wished to institute.

“You see,” said the master of the house, “we live happily here. We’re certainly not over rich, but the few acres of land we possess suffice for our needs.”

“I thought you were in straitened circumstances,” replied Marius. “The harvests have not been good.”

Giraud looked at the young man with surprise.

“Straitened circumstances,” he said, “not a bit of it. Why do you say that?”

Marius felt himself changing colour.

“Excuse me,” he stammered, “I don’t wish to appear indiscreet. I was told that after the last harvest, you had been obliged to mortgage your property.”

On hearing this, Giraud laughed aloud.

“Whoever told you that told you wrong,” he resumed. “Thank heavens, I’ve never mortgaged a single inch of land.”

“Yet,” said Marius further, wishing to be quite sure, “I was told the notary’s name. It’s M. Douglas who is stated to have taken the mortgage.”

Giraud continued laughing with his broad frank laugh.

“M. Douglas is a worthy man,” he replied, “but whatever property he’s got a mortgage on, it’s certainly not mine.”

The day before, Marius had seen the document in which Giraud’s property was distinctly named and it, moreover, bore the owner’s signature. The notary had, therefore, committed a second forgery, and this one could not be so easily explained as the first. He had evidently kept the money which Mouttet had intended to be invested for himself.

Marius withdrew, desirous of thinking everything over before acting. Authier did not exist, and the property on which Mouttet was supposed to have a mortgage was also a fiction, since Giraud declared it was not his. All this was a mystery which the young man dreaded to investigate.

On the Monday morning after a feverish night, he decided to call on the notary.

CHAPTER VII

THE COWL DOES NOT MAKE THE FRIAR

ON arriving at Douglas’, Marius was surprised at the religious calm reigning in the large cold rooms which he knew to be the abode of crime. He could not accustom himself to such hypocrisy, and would have liked the very walls to have proclaimed aloud the notary’s infamy. The quiet activity of the clerks, the respectable appearance of the house exasperated him and filled his mind with painful doubts. Pale and agitated, he had seated himself in the ante-room, when Douglas caught sight of him from his office, the door of which was open.

“Come in, come in,” he cried; “you won’t be in my way, and I’ll attend to you in a minute.”

Marius walked in, and found five or six priests there, among them Abbé Donadéi. This abbé, ever graceful and smiling, was cajoling the notary both by word and look. He had come to ask for alms.

“You are one of our friends,” he was saying, “and we come to you every time the poor-boxes of our parishes are empty.”

“You do well, sir,” replied Douglas, rising, and taking some gold from a drawer. “How much do you want?” he asked the priest.

“Well,” resumed Donadéi, in a soft tone of voice, “I think that five hundred francs will suffice. We are much in need of the assistance of pious and honourable persons — “

“Here are five hundred francs,” said Douglas, interrupting him. And he added in a slightly trembling voice: “Pray for me, my father.”

Then all the priests rose and surrounded the notary, thanking him and calling upon heaven to bless him. Douglas listened to them, erect and very pale, and Marius fancied he could see a slight nervous trembling of his lips and eyelids. Donadéi, with easy elegance, was inexhaustible in praise and flattering professions.

“The Almighty will repay you what you give us,” he said. “He is already doing so by making your business prosper, and by bestowing on you the peace of mind that is only awarded to the righteous. Ah! sir, you are a grand example in this city which is being corrupted by the materialism of the century. I would that the whole of our commercial population imitated your simple life and possessed your piety and kindliness of heart. One would not then see the horrible spectacle which Marseille is presenting to us — “

Douglas seemed uneasy, and wearied by the priest’s praise. He interrupted him a second time, and said as he showed him to the door:

“No, no, I am no saint. Every one is in need of divine mercy. If you think you owe me any thanks, be so good as to pray for me.”

The priests made him a final bow, and at last withdrew.

Marius, seated in a corner of the room, had assisted at this scene in silence. He felt indignant at the comedy that was being played before his eyes. Perhaps Douglas felt that he was purchasing heaven’s forgiveness, and paying well for it, with the money he had stolen. So this godly man, this kind-hearted soul who relieved those in distress, this Christian, who devoted so much of his time to the churches, was but a hypocrite and a scoundrel!

And as Marius thought thus, whilst watching the priests and notary, he fancied he was dreaming with his eyes open: he had come to overwhelm a forger, and he found himself confronted by a charitable man for whom the very Church was offering up prayers.

When the first moment of surprise was over, he felt a still more eager desire to do his duty. As the notary advanced towards him, smiling and with open and extended hand, he drew back slowly, gazing at him intently. Then, he said suddenly:

“Shut the door!”

Douglas, surprised, and as though incapable of resistance, went and closed it.

“Bolt it,” resumed Marius, as harshly as before. “We have to talk together.”

Douglas shot the bolt and came back, looking astonished and displeased.

“What is the matter with you, my dear friend?” he asked.

And as Marius, influenced perhaps by a last feeling of pity, did not answer, he continued:

“But after all, you’re right. It’s best to be alone when talking business. Well! are you ready? I have procured the document that was wanting, and now I only require your signature to complete Mouttet’s mortgage on Authier’s house. You know that we are pressed for time; I received another letter this morning from my client Authier who begs me to send him some money as quickly as possible.”

The notary rose from his table, spread out some papers, and, dipping a pen in the ink, offered it to Marius, saying simply: “Sign.”

Marius had not said a word, but had quietly watched each of the notary’s movements. Instead of taking the pen, he looked him straight in the face and said in a calm tone of voice:

“I went yesterday to see the house in the Rue de Rome. I saw the tenants and the former landlord, and they all tell me that they do not know M. Authier.”

Douglas turned pale, and his lips had again that trembling motion Marius had already observed. He gathered the papers together, laid the pen down, and reseated himself as he stammered:

“Ah! You surprise me very much.”

“The day before yesterday,” continued Marius, “I received a visit from M. de Girousse, a rich landed proprietor of Lambesc, and he assured me that none of his neighbours was named Authier and that that person certainly did not exist. Today, I know that he was not mistaken. What am I to think?”

The notary did not answer. He was gazing vaguely before him, changing colour and shaking, feeling himself lost, seeking no doubt in his despair, a means of explaining matters satisfactorily.

“I then went to the Saint Just district,” resumed Marius pitilessly. “The property upon which you told me you had taken a mortgage on your client Mouttet’s behalf, happens to belong to one of my mother’s old friends, M. Giraud, who assured me that his property was quite free. I ask you again, what am I to think?”

And, as Douglas still remained silent, the young man went on in a louder tone of voice:

“Well! since you refuse to answer, I will tell you myself what I believe and what is indeed true. Your M. Authier never existed; he’s a puppet, whom you invented in order to accomplish some nefarious scheme more easily. In addition to this, you never took any mortgage, and you put Mouttet’s money into your own pocket. To arrive at this fine result you have committed several forgeries, and today you are quite prepared to commit others in order to procure a further supply of cash for your needs.”