And in France the man who shouts loudest is almost certain to have the largest following. In England the same does not yet hold good, but the day seems to be approaching when it will.
In France, ever since the great Revolution, men have leapt up from the gutter to grasp the reins3 of power. Some, indeed, have sprung from the gutter of a palace, which is no more wholesome4, it would appear, than the drain of any street, or a ditch that carries off the refuse of a cheap Press.
There are certain rooms in the north wing of the Louvre, in Paris, rooms having windows facing across the Rue5 de Rivoli toward the Palais Royal, where men must have sat in the comfortable leather-covered chair of the High Official and laughed at the astounding6 simplicity7 of the French people. But he laughs best who laughs last, and the People will assuredly be amused in a few months, or a few years, at the very sudden and very humiliating discomfiture8 of a gentleman falling face-foremost into the street or hanging forlornly from a lamp-post at the corner of it. For some have quitted these comfortable chairs, in these quiet double-windowed rooms overlooking the Rue de Rivoli, for no better fate.
It was in the August of 1850 that a stout9 gentleman, seated in one of these comfortable chairs, succumbed10 so far to the warmth of the palace corridors as to fall asleep. He was not in the room of a high official, but in the waiting-room attached to it.
He knew, moreover, that the High Official himself was scarcely likely to dismiss a previous visitor or a present occupation any the earlier for being importuned11; for he was aware of the official's antecedents, and knew that a Jack-in-office, who has shouted himself into office, is nearly always careful to be deaf to other voices than his own.
Moreover, Mr. John Turner was never pressed for time.
“Yes,” he had been known to say, “I was in Paris in '48. Never missed a meal.”
Whereas others, with much less at stake than this great banker, had omitted not only meals, but their night's rest—night after night—in those stirring times.
John Turner was still asleep when the door leading to the Minister's room was cautiously opened, showing an inner darkness such as prevails in an alcove12 between double doors. The door opened a little wider. No doubt the peeping eye had made sure that the occupant of the waiting-room was asleep. On the threshold stood a man of middle height, who carried himself with a certain grace and quiet dignity. He was pale almost to sallowness, a broad face with a kind mouth and melancholy13 eyes, without any light in them. The melancholy must have been expressed rather by the lines of the brows than by the eye itself, for this was without life or expression—the eye of a man who is either very short-sighted or is engaged in looking through that which he actually sees, to something he fancies he perceives beyond it.
His lips smiled, but the smile died beneath a neatly14 waxed moustache and reached no higher on the mask-like face. Then he disappeared in the outer darkness between the two doors, and the handle made no noise in turning.
In a few minutes an attendant, in a gay uniform, came in by the same door, without seeking to suppress the clatter15 of his boots on the oak floor.
“Hola! monsieur,” he said, in a loud voice. And Mr. John Turner crossed his legs and leant farther back in the chair, preparatory to opening his eyes, which he did directly on the new-comer's face, without any of that vague flitting hither and thither16 of glance which usually denotes the sleeper17 surprised.
The eyes were of a clear blue, and Mr. Turner looked five years younger with them open than with them shut. But he was immensely stout.
“Well, my friend,” he said, soothingly18; for the Minister's attendant had a truculent19 ministerial manner. “Why so much noise?”
“The Minister will see you.”
John Turner yawned and reached for his hat.
“The Minister is pressed for time.”
“So was I,” replied the Englishman, who spoke20 perfect French, “when I first sat down here, half an hour ago. But even haste will pass in time.”
He rose, and followed the servant into the inner room, where he returned the bow of a little white-bearded gentleman seated at a huge desk.
“Well, sir,” said this gentleman, with the abrupt21 manner which has come to be considered Napoleonic on the stage or in the political world to-day. “Your business?”
The servant had withdrawn22, closing the door behind him with an emphasis of the self-accusatory sort.
“I am a banker,” replied John Turner, looking with an obese23 deliberation toward one of the deep windows, where, half-concealed by the heavy curtain, a third person stood gazing down into the street.
The Minister smiled involuntarily, forgetting his dignity of a two-years' growth.
“Oh, you may speak before Monsieur,” he said.
The gentleman leaning against the window-breast did not accept this somewhat obvious invitation to show his face. He must have heard it, however, despite an absorption which was probably chronic25; for he made a movement to follow with his glance the passage of some object of interest in the street below. And the movement seemed to supply John Turner with the information he desired.
The Minister gave a short laugh.
“Monsieur,” he said, “every one in Europe knows that. Proceed.”
“Already made—that honest penny—if one may believe the gossip—of Europe,” said the Minister. “So many pence that it is whispered that you do not know what to do with them.”
“It is unfortunate,” admitted Turner, “that one can only dine once a day.”
The little gentleman in office had more than once invited his visitor to be seated, indicating by a gesture the chair placed ready for him. After a slow inspection28 of its legs, Mr. John Turner now seated himself. It would seem that he, at the same time, tacitly accepted the invitation to ignore the presence of a third person.
“Since you seem to know all about me,” he said, “I will not waste any more of your time, or mine, by trying to make you believe that I am eminently29 respectable. The business that brought me here, however, is of a political nature. A plain man, like myself, only touches politics when he sees his gain clearly. There are others who enter that field from purer motives30, I am told. I have not met them.”
The Minister smiled on one side of his face, and all of it went white. He glanced uncomfortably at that third person, whom he had suggested ignoring.
“And yet,” went on John Turner, very dense31 or greatly daring, “I have lived many years in France, Monsieur le Ministre.”
The Minister frowned at him, and made a quick gesture of one hand toward the window.
“So long,” pursued the Englishman, placidly32, “as the trains start punctually, and there is not actually grape-shot in the streets, and one may count upon one's dinner at the hour, one form of government in this country seems to me to be as good as another, Monsieur le Ministre. A Bourbon Monarchy33 or an Orleans Monarchy, or a Republic, or—well, an Empire, Monsieur le Ministre.”
“Mon Dieu! have you come here to tell me this?” cried the Minister, impatiently, glancing over his shoulder toward the window, and with one hand already stretched out toward the little bell standing34 on his desk.
“Yes,” answered Turner, leaning forward to draw the bell out of reach. He nodded his head with a friendly smile, and his fat cheeks shook. “Yes, and other things as well. Some of those other matters are perhaps even more worthy35 of your earnest attention. It is worth your while to listen. More especially, as you are paid for it—by the hour.”
He laughed inside himself, with a hollow sound, and placidly crossed his legs.
“Yes; I came to tell you, firstly, that the present form of government, and, er—any other form which may evolve from it—”
“Oh!—proceed, monsieur!” exclaimed the Minister, hastily, while the man in the recess36 of the window turned and looked over his shoulder at John Turner's profile with a smile, not unkind, on his sphinx-like face.
“—has the inestimable advantage of my passive approval. That is why I am here, in fact. I should be sorry to see it upset.”
He broke off, and turned laboriously37 in his chair to look toward the window, as if the gaze of the expressionless eyes there had tickled38 the back of his neck like a fly. But by the time the heavy banker had got round, the curtain had fallen again in its original folds.
“—by a serious Royalist plot,” concluded Turner, in his thick, deliberate way.
“So, assuredly, would any patriot39 or any true friend of France,” said the Minister, in his best declamatory manner.
“Um—m. That is out of my depth,” returned the Englishman, bluntly. “I paddle about in the shallow water at the edge and pick up what I can, you understand. I am too fat for a voyant bathing-costume, and the deep waters beyond, Monsieur le Ministre.”
The Minister drummed impatiently on his desk with his five fingers, and looked at Turner sideways beneath his brows.
“Royalist plots are common enough,” he said, tentatively, after a pause.
“Not a Royalist plot with money in it,” was the retort. “I dare say an honest politician, like yourself, is aware that in France it is always safe to ignore the conspirator40 who has no money, and always dangerous to treat with contempt him who jingles41 a purse. There is only a certain amount of money in the world, Monsieur le Ministre, and we bankers usually know where it is. I do not mean the money that the world pours into its own stomach. That is always afloat—changing hands daily. I mean the Great Reserves. We watch those, you understand. And if one of the Great Reserves, or even one of the smaller reserves, moves, we wonder why it is being moved and we nearly always find out.”
“One supposes,” said the Minister, hazarding an opinion for the first time, and he gave it with a sidelong glance toward the window, “that it is passing from the hands of a financier possessing money into those of one who has none.”
“Precisely. And if a financier possessing money is persuaded to part with it in such a quarter as you suggest, one may conclude that he has good reason to anticipate a substantial return for the loan. You, who are a brilliant collaborateur in the present government, should know that, if any one does, Monsieur le Ministre.”
The Minister glanced toward the window, and then gave a good-natured and encouraging laugh, quite unexpectedly, just as if he had been told to do so by the silent man looking down into the street, who may, indeed, have had time to make a gesture.
“And,” pursued the banker, “if a financier possessing money parts with it—or, to state the case more particularly, if a financier possessing no money, to my certain knowledge, suddenly raises it from nowhere definite, for the purposes of a Royalist conspiracy42, the natural conclusion is that the Royalists have got hold of something good.”
John Turner leant back in his chair and suppressed a yawn.
“This room is very warm,” he said, producing a pocket-handkerchief. Which was tantamount to a refusal to say more.
The Minister twisted the end of his moustache in reflection. It was at this time the fashion in France to wear the moustache waxed. Indeed, men displayed thus their political bias43 to all whom it might concern.
“There remains44 nothing,” said the official at length, with a gracious smile, “but to ask your terms.”
For he who was afterward45 Napoleon the Third had introduced into French political and social life a plain-spoken cynicism which characterises both to this day.
“Easy,” replied Turner. “You will find them easy. Firstly, I would ask that your stupid secret police keeps its fingers out; secondly46, that leniency47 be assured to one person, a client of mine—the woman who supplies the money—who is under the influence—well, that influence which makes women do nobler and more foolish things, monsieur, than men are capable of.”
He rose as he spoke, collected his hat and stick, and walked slowly to the door. With his hand on the handle, he paused.
“You can think about it,” he said, “and let me know at your leisure. By the way, there is one more point, Monsieur le Ministre. I would ask you to let this matter remain a secret, known only to our two selves and—the Prince President.”
And John Turner went out, without so much as a glance toward the window.
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1
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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6
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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7
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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8
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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10
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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11
importuned
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| v.纠缠，向（某人）不断要求( importune的过去式和过去分词 )；（妓女）拉（客） | |
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12
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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13
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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14
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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15
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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16
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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18
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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19
truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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20
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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21
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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22
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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obese
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| adj.过度肥胖的，肥大的 | |
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24
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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25
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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30
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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31
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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32
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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35
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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38
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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40
conspirator
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| n.阴谋者，谋叛者 | |
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41
jingles
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| 叮当声( jingle的名词复数 )； 节拍十分规则的简单诗歌 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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43
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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44
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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45
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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46
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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47
leniency
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| n.宽大（不严厉） | |
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