“Oh, my good Biffon,” said la Pouraille, “our boss is more powerful than God Almighty.”
“What is your password for her?” asked Jacques Collin, with the assurance of a master to whom nothing can be refused.
“Sorgue a Pantin (night in Paris).
If you say that she knows you have come from me, and if you want her to do as you bid her, show her a five-franc piece and say Tondif.”
“She will be involved in the sentence on la Pouraille, and let off with a year in quod for snitching,” said Jacques Collin, looking at la Pouraille.
La Pouraille understood his boss’ scheme, and by a single look promised to persuade le Biffon to promote it by inducing la Biffe to take upon herself this complicity in the crime la Pouraille was prepared to confess.
“Farewell, my children.
You will presently hear that I have saved my boy from Jack Ketch,” said Trompe-la-Mort.
“Yes, Jack Ketch and his hairdresser were waiting in the office to get Madeleine ready.
— There,” he added, “they have come to fetch me to go to the public prosecutor.”
And, in fact, a warder came out of the gate and beckoned to this extraordinary man, who, in face of the young Corsican’s danger, had recovered his own against his own society.
It is worthy of note that at the moment when Lucien’s body was taken away from him, Jacques Collin had, with a crowning effort, made up his mind to attempt a last incarnation, not as a human being, but as a thing.
He had at last taken the fateful step that Napoleon took on board the boat which conveyed him to the Bellerophon.
And a strange concurrence of events aided this genius of evil and corruption in his undertaking.
But though the unlooked-for conclusion of this life of crime may perhaps be deprived of some of the marvelous effect which, in our day, can be given to a narrative only by incredible improbabilities, it is necessary, before we accompany Jacques Collin to the public prosecutor’s room, that we should follow Madame Camusot in her visits during the time we have spent in the Conciergerie.
One of the obligations which the historian of manners must unfailingly observe is that of never marring the truth for the sake of dramatic arrangement, especially when the truth is so kind as to be in itself romantic.
Social nature, particularly in Paris, allows of such freaks of chance, such complications of whimsical entanglements, that it constantly outdoes the most inventive imagination.
The audacity of facts, by sheer improbability or indecorum, rises to heights of “situation” forbidden to art, unless they are softened, cleansed, and purified by the writer.
Madame Camusot did her utmost to dress herself for the morning almost in good taste — a difficult task for the wife of a judge who for six years has lived in a provincial town.
Her object was to give no hold for criticism to the Marquise d’Espard or the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, in a call so early as between eight and nine in the morning.
Amelie Cecile Camusot, nee Thirion, it must be said, only half succeeded; and in a matter of dress is this not a twofold blunder? Few people can imagine how useful the women of Paris are to ambitious men of every class; they are equally necessary in the world of fashion and the world of thieves, where, as we have seen, they fill a most important part.
For instance, suppose that a man, not to find himself left in the lurch, must absolutely get speech within a given time with the high functionary who was of such immense importance under the Restoration, and who is to this day called the Keeper of the Seals — a man, let us say, in the most favorable position, a judge, that is to say, a man familiar with the way of things.
He is compelled to seek out the presiding judge of a circuit, or some private or official secretary, and prove to him his need of an immediate interview.
But is a Keeper of the Seals ever visible “that very minute”?
In the middle of the day, if he is not at the Chamber, he is at the Privy Council, or signing papers, or hearing a case.
In the early morning he is out, no one knows where.
In the evening he has public and private engagements.
If every magistrate could claim a moment’s interview under any pretext that might occur to him, the Supreme Judge would be besieged.
The purpose of a private and immediate interview is therefore submitted to the judgment of one of those mediatory potentates who are but an obstacle to be removed, a door that can be unlocked, so long as it is not held by a rival.
A woman at once goes to another woman; she can get straight into her bedroom if she can arouse the curiosity of mistress or maid, especially if the mistress is under the stress of a strong interest or pressing necessity.
Call this female potentate Madame la Marquise d’Espard, with whom a Minister has to come to terms; this woman writes a little scented note, which her man-servant carries to the Minister’s man-servant.
The note greets the Minister on his waking, and he reads it at once.
Though the Minister has business to attend to, the man is enchanted to have a reason for calling on one of the Queens of Paris, one of the Powers of the Faubourg Saint–Germain, one of the favorites of the Dauphiness, of MADAME, or of the King.
Casimir Perier, the only real statesman of the Revolution of July, would leave anything to call on a retired Gentleman of the bed-chamber to King Charles X.
This theory accounts for the magical effect of the words: “Madame — Madame Camusot, on very important business, which she says you know of,” spoken in Madame d’Espard’s ear by her maid, who thought she was awake.
And the Marquise desired that Amelie should be shown in at once.
The magistrate’s wife was attentively heard when she began with these words:
“Madame la Marquise, we have ruined ourselves by trying to avenge you ——”
“How is that, my dear?” replied the Marquise, looking at Madame Camusot in the dim light that fell through the half-open door. “You are vastly sweet this morning in that little bonnet.
Where do you get that shape?”
“You are very kind, madame. — Well, you know that Camusot’s way of examining Lucien de Rubempre drove the young man to despair, and he hanged himself in prison.”
“Oh, what will become of Madame de Serizy?” cried the Marquise, affecting ignorance, that she might hear the whole story once more.
“Alas! they say she is quite mad,” said Amelie. “If you could persuade the Lord Keeper to send for my husband this minute, by special messenger, to meet him at the Palais, the Minister would hear some strange mysteries, and report them, no doubt, to the King. . . .
Then Camusot’s enemies would be reduced to silence.”
“But who are Camusot’s enemies?” asked Madame d’Espard.
“The public prosecutor, and now Monsieur de Serizy.”
“Very good, my dear,” replied Madame d’Espard, who owed to Monsieur de Granville and the Comte de Serizy her defeat in the disgraceful proceedings by which she had tried to have her husband treated as a lunatic,
“I will protect you; I never forget either my foes or my friends.”
She rang; the maid drew open the curtains, and daylight flooded the room; she asked for her desk, and the maid brought it in.
The Marquise hastily scrawled a few lines.