The Money Master, Complete - Gilbert Parker
"Oh, monsieur, dear monsieur!" protested the Clerk of the Court, "you
always make me your butt."
"My friend," said the Judge, squeezing his arm, "if I could have you no
other way, I would make you my butler!"
Then they both laughed at the inexpensive joke, and the Clerk of the
Court was in high spirits, for on either side of the street were people
with whom he lived every day, and they could see the doyen of the Bench,
the great Judge Carcasson, who had refused to be knighted, arm in arm
with him. Aye, and better than all, and more than all, here was Zoe
Barbille drawing her mother's attention to him almost in the embrace of
the magnificent jurist.
The Judge, with his small, round, quizzical eyes which missed nothing,
saw too; and his attention was strangely arrested by the faces of both
the mother and the child. His first glance at the woman's face made him
flash an inward light on the memory of Jean Jacques' face in the
witness-box, and a look of reflective irony came into his own. The face
of Carmen Dolores, wife of the philosophic miller and money-master, did
not belong to the world where she was placed--not because she was so
unlike the habitant women, or even the wives of the big farmers, or the
sister of the Cure, or the ladies of the military and commercial exiles
who lived in that portion of the province; but because of an alien
something in her look--a lonely, distant sense of isolation, a something
which might hide a companionship and sympathy of a rare kind, or might be
but the mask of a furtive, soulless nature. In the child's face was
nothing of this. It was open as the day, bright with the cheerfulness of
her father's countenance, alive with a humour which that countenance did
not possess. The contour was like that of Jean Jacques, but with a
fineness and delicacy to its fulness absent from his own; and her eyes
were a deep and lustrous brown, under a forehead which had a boldness of
gentle dignity possessed by neither father nor mother. Her hair was
thick, brown and very full, like that of her father, and in all respects,
save one, she had an advantage over both her parents. Her mouth had a
sweetness which might not unfairly be called weakness, though that was
balanced by a chin of commendable strength.
But the Judge's eyes found at once this vulnerable point in her character
as he had found that of her mother. Delightful the child was, and alert
and companionable, with no remarkable gifts, but with a rare charm and
sympathy. Her face was the mirror of her mind, and it had no ulterior
thought. Her mother's face, the Judge had noted, was the foreground of a
landscape which had lonely shadows. It was a face of some distinction and
suited to surroundings more notable, though the rural life Carmen had led
since the Antoine went down and her fortunes came up, had coarsened her
beauty a very little.
"There's something stirring in the coverts," said the Judge to himself as
he was introduced to the mother and child. By a hasty gesture Zoe gave a
command to M. Fille to help her down. With a hand on his shoulder she
dropped to the ground. Her object was at once apparent. She made a pretty
old-fashioned curtsey to the Judge, then held out her hand, as though to
reassert her democratic equality.
As the Judge looked at Madame Barbille, he was involuntarily, but none
the less industriously, noting her characteristics; and the sum of his
reflections, after a few moments' talk, was that dangers he had seen
ahead of Jean Jacques, would not be averted by his wife, indeed might
easily have their origin in her.
"I wonder it has gone on as long as it has," he said to himself; though
it seemed unreasonable that his few moments with her, and the story told
him by the Clerk of the Court, should enable him to come to any definite
conclusion. But at eighty-odd Judge Carcasson was a Solon and a Solomon
in one. He had seen life from all angles, and he was not prepared to give
any virtue or the possession of any virtue too much rope; while nothing
in life surprised him.
"How would you like to be a judge?" he asked of Zoe, suddenly taking her
hand in his. A kinship had been at once established between them, so
little has age, position, and intellect to do with the natural
gravitations of human nature.
She did not answer direct, and that pleased him. "If I were a judge I
should have no jails," she said. "What would you do with the bad people?"
he asked.
"I would put them alone on a desert island, or out at sea in a little
boat, or out on the prairies without a horse, so that they'd have to work
for their lives."
"Oh, I see! If M. Fille here set fire to a house, you would drop him on
the prairie far away from everything and everybody and let him 'root hog
or die'?"
"Don't you think it would kill him or cure him?" she asked whimsically.
The Judge laughed, his eyes twinkling. "That's what they did when the
world was young, dear ma'm'selle. There was no time to build jails. Alone
on the prairie--a separate prairie for every criminal--that would take a
lot of space; but the idea is all right. It mightn't provide the proper
degree of punishment, however. But that is being too particular. Alone on
the prairie for punishment--well, I should like to see it tried."
He remembered that saying of his long after, while yet he was alive, and
a tale came to him from the prairies which made his eyes turn more
intently towards a land that is far off, where the miserable
miscalculations and mistakes of this world are readjusted. Now he was
only conscious of a primitive imagination looking out of a young girl's
face, and making a bridge between her understanding and his own.
"What else would you do if you were a judge?" he asked presently.
"I would make my father be a miller," she replied. "But he is a miller, I
hear."
"But he is so many other things--so many. If he was only a miller we
should have more of him. He is at home only a little. If I get up early
enough in the morning, or if I am let stay up at night late enough, I see
him; but that is not enough--is it, mother?" she added with a sudden
sense that she had gone too far, that she ought not to say this perhaps.
The woman's face had darkened for an instant, and irritation showed in
her eyes, but by an effort of the will she controlled herself.
"Your father knows best what he can do and can't do," she said evenly.
"But you would not let a man judge for himself, would you, ma'm'selle?"
asked the old inquisitor. "You would judge for the man what was best for
him to do?"
"I would judge for my father," she replied. "He is too good a man to
judge for himself."
"Well, there's a lot of sense in that, ma'm'selle philosophe," answered
Judge Carcasson. "You would make the good idle, and make the bad work.
The good you would put in a mill to watch the stones grind, and the bad
you would put on a prairie alone to make the grist for the grinding.
Ma'm'selle, we must be friends--is it not so?"
"Haven't we always been friends?" the young girl asked with the look of a
visionary suddenly springing up in her eyes.
Here was temperament indeed. She pleased Judge Carcasson greatly. "But
yes, always, and always, and always," he replied. Inwardly he said to
himself, "I did not see that at first. It is her father in her.
"Zoe!" said her mother reprovingly.
CHAPTER V
THE CLERK OF THE COURT ENDS HIS STORY
A moment afterwards the Judge, as he walked down the street still arm in
arm with the Clerk of the Court, said: "That child must have good luck,
or she will not have her share of happiness. She has depths that are not
deep enough." Presently he added, "Tell me, my Clerk, the man--Jean
Jacques--he is so much away--has there never been any talk about--about."
"About--monsieur le juge?" asked M. Fille rather stiffly. "For
instance--about what?"
"For instance, about a man--not Jean Jacques."
The lips of the Clerk of the Court tightened. "Never at any time--till
now, monsieur le juge."
"Ah--till now!"
The Clerk of the Court blushed. What he was about to say was difficult,
but he alone of all the world guessed at the tragedy which was hovering
over Jean Jacques' home. By chance he had seen something on an afternoon
of three days before, and he had fled from it as a child would fly from a
demon. He was a purist at law, but he was a purist in life also, and not
because the flush of youth had gone and his feet were on the path which
leads into the autumn of a man's days. The thing he had seen had been
terribly on his mind, and he had felt that his own judgment was not
sufficient for the situation, that he ought to tell someone.
The Cure was the only person who had come to his mind when he became
troubled to the point of actual mental agony. But the new curb, M. Savry,
was not like the Old Cure, and, besides, was it not stepping between the
woman and her confessional? Yet he felt that something ought to be done.
It never occurred to him to speak to Jean Jacques. That would have seemed
so brutal to the woman. It came to him to speak to Carmen, but he knew
that he dared not do so. He could not say to a woman that which must
shame her before him, she who had kept her head so arrogantly high--not
so much to him, however, as to the rest of the world. He had not the
courage; and yet he had fear lest some awful thing would at any moment
now befall the Manor Cartier. If it did, he would feel himself to blame
had he done nothing to stay the peril. So far he was the only person who
could do so, for he was the only person who knew!
The Judge could feel his friend's arm tremble with emotion, and he said:
"Come, now, my Plato, what is it? A man has come to disturb the peace of
Jean Jacques, our philosophe, eh?"
"That is it, monsieur--a man of a kind."
"Oh, of course, my bambino, of course, a man 'of a kind,' or there would
be no peace disturbed. You want to tell me, I see. Proceed then; there is
no reason why you should not. I am secret. I have seen much. I have no
prejudices. As you will, however; but I can see it would relieve your
mind to tell me. In truth I felt there was something when I saw you look
at her first, when you spoke to her, when she talked with me. She is a
fine figure of a woman, and Jean Jacques, as you say, is much away from
home. In fact he neglects her--is it not so?"
"He means it not, but it is so. His life is full of--"
"Yes, yes, of stores and ash-factories and debtors and lightning-rods and
lime-kilns, and mortgaged farms, and the price of wheat--but certainly, I
understand it all, my Fille. She is too much alone, and if she has
travelled by the compass all these thirteen years without losing the
track, it is something to the credit of human nature."
"Ah, monsieur, a vow before the good God--!" The Judge interrupted
sharply. "Tut, tut--these vows! Do you not know that a vow may be a thing
that ruins past redemption? A vow is sacred. Well, a poor mortal in one
moment of weakness breaks it. Then there is a sense of awful shame of
being lost, of never being able to put right the breaking of the vow,
though the rest can be put right by sorrow and repentance! I would have
no vows. They haunt like ghosts when they are broken, they torture like
fire then. Don't talk to me of vows. It is not vows that keep the world
right, but the prayer of a man's soul from day to day."
The Judge's words sounded almost blasphemous to M. Fille. A vow not keep
the world right! Then why the vows of the Church at baptism, at
confirmation, at marriage? Why the vows of the priests, of the nuns, of
those who had given themselves to eternal service? Monsieur had spoken
terrible things. And yet he had said at the last: "It is not vows that
keep the world right, but the prayer of a man's soul from day to day."
That was not heretical, or atheistic, or blasphemous. It sounded logical
and true and good.
He was about to say that, to some people, vows were the only way of
keeping them to their duty--and especially women--but the Judge added
gently: "I would not for the world hurt your sensibilities, my little
Clerk, and we are not nearly so far apart as you think at the minute.
Thank God, I keep the faith that is behind all faith--the speech of a
man's soul with God. . . . But there, if you can, let us hear what man it
is who disturbs the home of the philosopher. It is not my Fille, that's
sure."
He could not resist teasing, this judge who had a mind of the most rare
uprightness; and he was not always sorry when his teasing hurt; for, to
his mind, men should be lashed into strength, when they drooped over the
tasks of life; and what so sharp a lash as ridicule or satire!
"Proceed, my friend," he urged brusquely, not waiting for the gasp of
pained surprise of the little Clerk to end. He was glad to see the figure
beside him presently straighten itself, as though to be braced for a task
of difficulty. Indignation and resentment were good things to stiffen a
man's back.
"It was three days ago," said M. Fille. "I saw it with my own eyes. I had
come to the Manor Cartier by the road, down the hill--Mont Violet--behind
the house. I could see into the windows of the house. There was no reason
why I should not see--there never has been a reason," he added, as though
to justify himself.
"Of course, of course, my friend. One's eyes are open, and one sees what
one sees, without looking for it. Proceed."
"As I looked down I saw Madame with a man's arms round her, and his lips
to hers. It was not Jean Jacques."
"Of course, of course. Proceed. What did you do?"
"I stopped. I fell back--"
"Of course. Behind a tree?"
"Behind some elderberry bushes."
"Of course. Elderberry bushes--that's better than a tree. I am very fond
of elderberry wine when it is new. Proceed."
The Clerk of the Court shrank. What did it matter whether or no the Judge
liked elderberry wine, when the world was falling down for Jean Jacques
and his Zoe--and his wife. But with a sigh he continued: "There is
nothing more. I stayed there for awhile, and then crept up the hill
again, and came back to my home and locked myself in."
"What had you done that you should lock yourself in?"
"Ah, monsieur, how can I explain such things? Perhaps I was ashamed that
I had seen things I should not have seen. I do not blush that I wept for
the child, who is--but you saw her, monsieur le juge."
"Yes, yes, the little Zoe, and the little philosopher. Proceed."
"What more is there to tell!"
"A trifle perhaps, as you will think," remarked the Judge ironically, but
as one who, finding a crime, must needs find the criminal too. "I must
ask you to inform the Court who was the too polite friend of Madame."
"Monsieur, pardon me. I forgot. It is essential, of course. You must know
that there is a flume, a great wooden channel--"
"Yes, yes. I comprehend. Once I had a case of a flume. It was fifteen
feet deep and it let in the water of the river to the mill-wheels. A
flume regulates, concentrates, and controls the water power. I comprehend
perfectly. Well?"
"So. This flume for Jean Jacques' mill was also fifteen feet deep or
more. It was out of repair, and Jean Jacques called in a master-carpenter
from Laplatte, Masson by name--George Masson--to put the flume right."
"How long ago was that?"
"A month ago. But Masson was not here all the time. It was his workmen
who did the repairs, but he came over to see--to superintend. At first he
came twice in the week. Then he came every day."
"Ah, then he came every day! How do you know that?"
"It was my custom to walk to the mill every day--to watch the work on the
flume. It was only four miles away across the fields and through the
woods, making a walk of much charm--especially in the autumn, when the
colours of the foliage are so fine, and the air has a touch of
pensiveness, so that one is induced to reflection."
There was the slightest tinge of impatience in the Judge's response.
"Yes, yes, I understand. You walked to study life and to reflect and to
enjoy your intimacy with nature, but also to see our friend Zoe and her
home. And I do not wonder. She has a charm which makes me sad--for her."
"So I have felt, so I have felt for her, monsieur. When she is gayest,
and when, as it might seem, I am quite happy, talking to her, or
picnicking, or idling on the river, or helping her with her lessons, I
have sadness, I know not why."
The Judge pressed his friend's arm firmly. His voice grew more insistent.
"Now, Maitre Fille, I think I understand the story, but there are lacunee
which you must fill. You say the thing happened three days ago--now, when
will the work be finished?"
"The work will be finished to-morrow, monsieur. Only one workman is left,
and he will be quit of his task to-night."
"So the thing--the comedy or tragedy will come to an end to-morrow?"
remarked the Judge seriously. "How did you find out that the workmen go
tomorrow, maitre?"
"Jean Jacques--he told me yesterday."
"Then it all ends to-morrow," responded the Judge.
The puzzled subordinate stood almost still, and looked at the Judge in
wonder. Why should it all end to-morrow simply because the work was
finished at the flume? At last he spoke.
"It is only twelve miles to Laplatte where George Masson lives, and he
has, besides, another contract near here, but three miles from the Manor
Cartier. Also besides, how can we know what she will do--Jean Jacques'
wife. How can we tell but that she will perhaps go and leave the beloved
Zoe alone!"
"And leave our little philosopher--miller also alone?" remarked the Judge
quizzically, yet with solemnity. M. Fille was agitated; he made a
protesting gesture. "Jean Jacques can find comfort, but the child--ah,
no, it is too terrible! Someone should speak. I tried to do it--to Madame
Carmen, to Jean Jacques; but it was no use. How could I betray her to
him, how could I tell her that I knew her shame!"
The Judge turned brusquely and caught his friend by the shoulders,
fastening him with the eyes which had made many a witness forget to lie.
"If you were an avocat in practice I would ruin your reputation, Fille,"
he said. "A fool would tell Jean Jacques, or speak to the woman, and
spoil all; for women go mad when they are in danger, and they do the
impossible things. But did it not occur to you that the one person to
have in a quiet room with the doors shut, with the light of the sun in
his face, with the book of the law open on your desk and the damages to
be got by an injured husband, in a Catholic province with a Catholic
Judge, written down on a piece of paper, to hand over at the right
moment--did it not strike you that that person was your George Masson?"
M. Fille's head dropped before the disdainful eyes of M. Carcasson. He
who prided himself in keeping the court right on points of procedure, who
was looked upon almost with the respect given the position of the Judge
himself, that he should fail in thinking of the obvious thing was
humiliating, and alas! so disconcerting.
"I am a fool, an imbecile," he responded, in great dejection.
"This much must be said, my imbecile, that every man some time or other
makes just such a fool of his intelligence," was the soft reply.
A thin hand made a gesture of dissent. "Not you, monsieur. Never!"
"If it is any comfort to you, know then, my Solon, that I have done so
publicly in my time, while you have only done it privately. But let us
see. That Masson must be struck of a heap. What sort of a man is he to
look at? Apart from his morals, what class of creature is he?"
"He is a man of strength, of force in his way, monsieur. He made himself
from an apprentice without a cent, and he has now thirty men at work."
"Then he does not drink or gamble?"
"Neither, monsieur."
"Has he a family?"
"No, monsieur."
"How old is he?"
"Forty or thereabouts, monsieur."
The Judge cogitated for a moment, then said: "Ah, that's bad--unmarried
and forty, and no vices except this. It gives him few escape-valves. Is
he good-looking? What is his appearance?"
"Nor short, nor tall, and square shoulders. His face like the yellow
brown of a peach, hair that curls close to his head, blue eyes that see
everything, and a big hand that knows what it is doing."
The Judge nodded. "Ah, you have watched him, maitre. . . . When? Since
then?"
"No, no, monsieur, not since. If I had watched him since, I should
perhaps have thought of the right thing to do. But I did not. I used to
study him while the work was going on, when he first came, but I have
known him some time from a distance. If a man makes himself what he is,
you look at him, of course."
"Truly. His temper--his disposition, what is it?" M. Fille was very much
alive now. He replied briskly. "Like the snap of a whip. He flies into
anger and flies out. He has a laugh that makes men say, 'How he enjoys
himself!' and his mind is very quick and sure."
The Judge nodded with satisfaction. "Well done! Well done! I have got him
in my eye. He will not be so easy to handle; but, if he has brains, he
will see that you have the right end of the stick; and he will kiss and
ride away. It will not be easy, but the game is in your hands, my Fille.
In a quiet room, with the book of the law open, and figures of damages
given by a Catholic court and Judge--I think that will do it; and then
the course of true philosophy will not long be interrupted in the house
of Jean Jacques Barbille."
"Monsieur--monsieur le juge, you mean that I shall do this, shall see
George Masson and warn him--me?"
"Who else? You are a friend of the family. You are a public officer, to
whom the good name of your parish is dear. As all are aware, no doubt,
you are the trusted ancient comrade of the daughter of the woman--I speak
legally--Carmen Barbille nee Dolores, a name of charm to the ear. Who but
you then to do it?"
"There is yourself, monsieur."
"Dismiss me from your mind. I go to Quebec to-night, as you know, and
there is not time; but even if there were, I should not be the best
person to do this. I am known to few; you are known to all. I have no
locus standi. You have. No, no, it would not be for me."
Suddenly, in his desperation, the Clerk of the Court sought release for
himself from this solemn and frightening duty.
"Monsieur," he said eagerly, "there is another. I had forgotten. It is
Madame Carmen's father, Sebastian Dolores."
"Ah, a father! Yes, I had forgotten to ask about him; so we are one in
our imbecility, my little Aristotle. This Sebastian Dolores, where is
he?"
"In the next parish, Beauharnais, keeping books for a lumber-firm. Ah,
monsieur, that is the way to deal with the matter--through Sebastian
Dolores, her father!"
"What sort is he?"
The other shook his head and did not answer. "Ah, not of the best?
Drinks?"
M. Fille nodded.
"Has a weak character?"
Again M. Fille nodded.
"Has no good reputation hereabouts?"
The nod was repeated. "He has never been steady He goes here and there,
but always he comes back to get Jean Jacques' help. He and his daughter
are not close friends, and yet he likes to be near her. She can endure
him at least. He can command her interest. He is a stranger in a strange
land, and he drifts back to where she is always. But that is all."
"Then he is out of the question, and he would be always out of the
question except as a last resort; for sooner or later he would tell his
daughter, and challenge our George Masson too; and that is what you do
not wish, eh?"
"Precisely so," remarked M. Fille, dropping back again into gloom. "To be
quite honest, monsieur, even though it gives me a task which I abhor, I
do not think that M. Dolores could do what is needed without mistakes
which could not be mended. At least I can--" He stopped.
The Judge interposed at once, well pleased with the way things were going
for this "case." "Assuredly. You can as can no other, my Solon. The
secret of success in such things is a good heart, a right mind, a clear
intelligence and some astuteness, and you have it all. It is your task
and yours only."
The little man's self-respect seemed restored. He preened himself
somewhat and bowed to the Judge. "I take your commands, monsieur, to obey
them as heaven gives me power so to do. Shall it be tomorrow?"
The Judge reflected a moment, then said: "Tonight would be better, but--"
"I can do it better to-morrow morning," interposed M. Fille, "for George
Masson has a meeting here at Vilray with the avocat Prideaux at ten
o'clock to sign a contract, and I can ask him to step into my office on a
little affair of business. He will not guess, and I shall be armed"--the
Judge frowned--"with the book of the law on such misdemeanours, and the
figures of the damages,"--the Judge smiled--"and I think perhaps I can
frighten him as he has never been frightened before."
A courage and confidence had now taken possession of the Clerk in strange
contrast to his timidity and childlike manner of a few minutes before. He
was now as he appeared in court, clothed with an austere authority which
gave him a vicarious strength and dignity. The Judge had done his work
well, and he was of those folk in the world who are not content to do
even the smallest thing ill.