Other People's Money

  Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer

  OTHER PEOPLE'S MONEY

  By Emile Gaboriau

  PART I

  I

  There is not, perhaps, in all Paris, a quieter street than the RueSt. Gilles in the Marais, within a step of the Place Royale. Nocarriages there; never a crowd. Hardly is the silence broken bythe regulation drums of the Minims Barracks near by, by the chimesof the Church of St. Louis, or by the joyous clamors of the pupilsof the Massin School during the hours of recreation.

  At night, long before ten o'clock, and when the BoulevardBeaumarchais is still full of life, activity, and noise, every thingbegins to close. One by one the lights go out, and the great windowswith diminutive panes become dark. And if, after midnight, somebelated citizen passes on his way home, he quickens his step, feelinglonely and uneasy, and apprehensive of the reproaches of hisconcierge, who is likely to ask him whence he may be coming at solate an hour.

  In such a street, every one knows each other: houses have no mystery;families, no secrets,--a small town, where idle curiosity has alwaysa corner of the veil slyly raised, where gossip flourishes as ranklyas the grass on the street.

  Thus on the afternoon of the 27th of April, 1872 (a Saturday), a factwhich anywhere else might have passed unnoticed was attractingparticular attention.

  A man some thirty years of age, wearing the working livery ofservants of the upper class,--the long striped waistcoat withsleeves, and the white linen apron,--was going from door to door.

  "Who can the man be looking for?" wondered the idle neighbors,closely watching his evolutions.

  He was not looking for any one. To such as he spoke to, he statedthat he had been sent by a cousin of his, an excellent cook, who,before taking a place in the neighborhood, was anxious to have allpossible information on the subject of her prospective masters. Andthen, "Do you know M. Vincent Favoral?" he would ask.

  Concierges and shop-keepers knew no one better; for it was more thana quarter of a century before, that M. Vincent Favoral, the day afterhis wedding, had come to settle in the Rue St. Gilles; and therehis two children were born,--his son M. Maxence, his daughter Mlle.Gilberte.

  He occupied the second story of the house. No. 38,--one of thoseold-fashioned dwellings, such as they build no more, since ground issold at twelve hundred francs the square metre; in which there is nostinting of space. The stairs, with wrought iron balusters, are wideand easy, and the ceilings twelve feet high.

  "Of course, we know M. Favoral," answered every one to the servant'squestions; "and, if there ever was an honest man, why, he iscertainly the one. There is a man whom you could trust with yourfunds, if you had any, without fear of his ever running off toBelgium with them." And it was further explained, that M. Favoralwas chief cashier, and probably, also, one of the principalstockholders, of the Mutual Credit Society, one of those admirablefinancial institutions which have sprung up with the second empire,and which had won at the bourse the first installment of theircapital, the very day that the game of the Coup d'Etat was beingplayed in the street.

  "I know well enough the gentleman's business," remarked the servant;"but what sort of a man is he? That's what my cousin would like toknow."

  The wine-man at No. 43, the oldest shop-keeper in the street, couldbest answer. A couple of petits-verres politely offered soon startedhis tongue; and, whilst sipping his Cognac:

  "M. Vincent Favoral," he began, "is a man some fifty-two or threeyears old, but who looks younger, not having a single gray hair. Heis tall and thin, with neatly-trimmed whiskers, thin lips, and smallyellow eyes; not talkative. It takes more ceremony to get a wordfrom his throat than a dollar from his pocket. 'Yes,' 'no,''good-morning,' 'good-evening;' that's about the extent of hisconversation. Summer and winter, he wears gray pantaloons, a longfrock-coat, laced shoes, and lisle-thread gloves. 'Pon my word, Ishould say that he is still wearing the very same clothes I saw uponhis back for the first time in 1845, did I not know that he has twofull suits made every year by the concierge at No. 29, who is also atailor."

  "Why, he must be an old miser," muttered the servant.

  "He is above all peculiar," continued the shop-keeper, "like mostmen of figures, it seems. His own life is ruled and regulated likethe pages of his ledger. In the neighborhood they call him OldPunctuality; and, when he passes through the Rue Turenne, themerchants set their watches by him. Rain or shine, every morning ofthe year, on the stroke of nine, he appears at the door on the wayto his office. When he returns, you may be sure it is between twentyand twenty-five minutes past five. At six he dines; at seven he goesto play a game of dominoes at the Cafe Turc; at ten he comes homeand goes to bed; and, at the first stroke of eleven at the Church ofSt. Louis, out goes his candle."

  "Hem!" grumbled the servant with a look of contempt, "the questionis, will my cousin be willing to live with a man who is a sort ofwalking clock?"

  "It isn't always pleasant," remarked the wine-man; "and the bestevidence is, that the son, M. Maxence, got tired of it."

  "He does not live with his parents any more?"

  "He dines with them; but he has his own lodgings on the Boulevard duTemple. The falling-out made talk enough at the time; and somepeople do say that M. Maxence is a worthless scamp, who leads a verydissipated life; but I say that his father kept him too close. Theboy is twenty-five, quite good looking, and has a very stylishmistress: I have seen her. . . . I would have done just as he did."

  "And what about the daughter, Mlle. Gilberte?"

  "She is not married yet, although she is past twenty, and pretty asa rosebud. After the war, her father tried to make her marry astock-broker, a stylish man who always came in a two-horse carriage;but she refused him outright. I should not be a bit surprised tohear that she has some love-affair of her own. I have noticedlately a young gentleman about here who looks up quite suspiciouslywhen he goes by No. 38." The servant did not seem to find theseparticulars very interesting.

  "It's the lady," he said, "that my cousin would like to know mostabout."

  "Naturally. Well, you can safely tell her that she never will havehad a better mistress. Poor Madame Favoral! She must have had asweet time of it with her maniac of a husband! But she is not youngany more; and people get accustomed to every thing, you know. Thedays when the weather is fine, I see her going by with her daughterto the Place Royale for a walk. That's about their only amusement."

  "The mischief!" said the servant, laughing. "If that is all, shewon't ruin her husband, will she?"

  "That is all," continued the shop-keeper, "or rather, excuse me, no:every Saturday, for many years, M. and Mme. Favoral receive a fewof their friends: M. and Mme. Desclavettes, retired dealers inbronzes, Rue Turenne; M. Chapelain, the old lawyer from the Rue St.Antoine, whose daughter is Mlle. Gilberte's particular friend; M.Desormeaux, head clerk in the Department of Justice; and three orfour others; and as this just happens to be Saturday--"

  But here he stopped short, and pointing towards the street:

  "Quick," said he, "look! Speaking of the--you know--It is twentyminutes past five, there is M. Favoral coming home."

  It was, in fact, the cashier of the Mutual Credit Society, lookingvery much indeed as the shop-keeper had described him. Walking withhis head down, he seemed to be seeking upon the pavement the veryspot upon which he had set his foot in the morning, that he might setit back again there in the evening.

  With the same methodical step, he reached his house, walked up thetwo pairs of stairs, and, taking out his pass-key, opened the doorof his apartment.

  The dwelling was fit for the man; and every thing from the very hall,betrayed his peculiarities. There, evidently, every piece offurniture must have its invariable place, every object it
s irrevocableshelf or hook. All around were evidences, if not exactly of poverty,at least of small means, and of the artifices of a respectableeconomy. Cleanliness was carried to its utmost limits: every thingshone. Not a detail but betrayed the industrious hand of thehousekeeper, struggling to defend her furniture against the ravagesof time. The velvet on the chairs was darned at the angles as withthe needle of a fairy. Stitches of new worsted showed through thefaded designs on the hearth-rugs. The curtains had been turned soas to display their least worn side.

  All the guests enumerated by the shop-keeper, and a few othersbesides, were in the parlor when M. Favoral came in. But, insteadof returning their greeting:

  "Where is Maxence?" he inquired.

  "I am expecting him, my dear," said Mme. Favoral gently.

  "Always behind time," he scolded. "It is too trifling."

  His daughter, Mlle. Gilberte, interrupted him:

  "Where is my bouquet, father?" she asked.

  M. Favoral stopped short, struck his forehead, and with the accentof a man who reveals something incredible, prodigious, unheard of,

  "Forgotten," he answered, scanning the syllables: "I have for-got-tenit."

  It was a fact. Every Saturday, on his way home, he was in the habitof stopping at the old woman's shop in front of the Church of St.Louis, and buying a bouquet for Mlle. Gilberte. And to-day . . .

  "Ah! I catch you this time, father!" exclaimed the girl.

  Meantime, Mme. Favoral, whispering to Mme. Desclavettes:

  "Positively," she said in a troubled voice, "something serious musthave happened to--my husband. He to forget! He to fail in one ofhis habits! It is the first time in twenty-six years."

  The appearance of Maxence at this moment prevented her from going on.M. Favoral was about to administer a sound reprimand to his son, whendinner was announced.

  "Come," exclaimed M. Chapelain, the old lawyer, the conciliating manpar excellence,--"come, let us to the table."

  They sat down. But Mme. Favoral had scarcely helped the soup, whenthe bell rang violently. Almost at the same moment the servantappeared, and announced:

  "The Baron de Thaller!"

  More pale than his napkin, the cashier stood up. "The manager," hestammered, "the director of the Mutual Credit Society."