The Conqueror of Death, page 24
Monsieur Dumortier grimaced emphatically, and murmured: “The news is very disagreeable. I like Meudon a lot, because it’s such a tranquil abode. If it’s transformed into an international fair and invaded by crowds, it will become uninhabitable.”
Monsieur Roret smiled and said: “Well, my friend, you’re only considering the matter from the particular viewpoint of your tranquility. Personally, I see the circumstance as an opportunity for a superb speculation.”
“Naturally.”
“Yes, naturally! You know that I’ve recently acquired a good deal of land, especially in Bas-Meudon. Now, by virtue of the choice of Meudon as the location for the future Exposition, that land will soon increase in value tenfold, and I’ll be able to make a huge profit.”
“Then do so, my friend, do so. I wish you success with all my heart.”
“But don’t you, my dear Dumortier, want to take advantage of the opportunity to...”
“To do what, my God! You know how modest my tastes are. I’d rather not increase my small income than run the slightest risk.”
“But there is no risk! It’s mathematics. You buy a hundred thousand square meters of land at one franc apiece, you sell them at ten. It’s a simple multiplication by ten.”
“Indeed—and the product of the multiplication is tempting, but...”
“And then, my dear egotist, think about Lauriane. She’s now at an age to marry. Think about the magnificent dowry you’d be able to give her!”
“Yes, but...”
“Besides which, it’s not a matter for you of immediately disbursements. Look, I hold options on land. Their due dates are staged over various dates. I’ll cede some of those options to you, on conditions we’ll stipulate by agreement. That will permit me to extend my operations—and you’ll gradually become a major landowner, without even noticing…I’ll show you the land.”
And Roret unrolled a large-scale map on which he pointed out to his friend the areas susceptible of being advantageously acquired. He accumulated certainties, juggled with figures, to such an extent and so cleverly, that Monsieur Dumortier, absolutely new to that sort of business, was completely dazzled and won over.
As for the reason alleged by the speculator to convince Monsieur Dumortier of the increased value that the land was certain to acquire—which is to say, the siting of the Exposition at Meudon—that had far less value than Monsieur Roret claimed. There had certainly been some talk, as our readers will remember, of installing the Exposition at Meudon, but the plan was far less advanced than Monsieur Roret had claimed.
Nevertheless, as it was in the order of possible eventualities, and as, if it came about, it would indeed give land in Meudon a massive increase in value, the speculator had conceived an ingenious plan permitting him to reserve those terrains and their increased value for himself in case of success, while leaving them to Monsieur Dumortier in the more probable event that their value did not increase.
To that effect, he had his friend sign a contract according to which Monsieur Dumortier would take an option on a certain quantity of land situated in Bas-Meudon, payable at a determined price at the end of a year, but Roret reserved the right not to deliver that land, in return for a payment of a forfeit of a hundred thousand francs. That clause permitted him to retain the land in case of a significant increase in value and to realize, even after paying the forfeit, a considerable profit.
In a year, in fact, the location of the future Exposition would be conclusively settled.
That scheme was, one might say, not entirely honest—and yet, Monsieur Roret was not, strictly speaking, a dishonest man. He was a speculator! Now, speculators—or certain speculators, at least—have granted themselves, in business matters, a very broad morality, which permits them to maneuver at their ease, by means of schemes that would shock contemporary ideas of delicacy, but which do not appear in any way incorrect to them.
Monsieur Roret did not want to ruin Monsieur Dumortier. He even had his interests at heart, and was very sincere in calling him his friend. But he did not see anything inappropriate in using that friend for the realization of his speculative schemes. Thanks to that friend, he could get over his temporary difficulties, safeguard the future, and perhaps bring off an excellent business deal.
Even if the speculation went seriously awry, looking at the worst possible case, the land could still be sold, little by little, without too great a loss, and no one would be ruined.
Finally, Monsieur Roret had a hidden agenda, which he scarcely dared admit to himself, but which was not, however, completely unconnected with the scheme into which he had drawn Monsieur Dumortier. Monsieur Roret, remaining a bachelor, had watched Lauriane grow up from infancy, and the entirely paternal amity that he had initially bestowed on her had been transformed some time ago, without him perceiving it, into a much more tender sentiment. The thought had occurred to him, very vaguely at first, of making her his wife, and as he saw more of her, the thought had taken on substance in his mind.
These things happen, even to speculators.
The first time that he took account of the phenomenon he was both astonished and frightened—astonished, because he had not believed himself capable of such a sentiment, which he considered as a weakness, and frightened because, being twenty-five years older than Lauriane, he could not believe in the possibility of the sentiment being returned.
Gradually, however, he had got used to the idea, had found it less and less baroque, and although he did not dare to manifest it overtly, his tenderness had given his behavior a gloss that Lauriane, a very sensitive person, had not taken long to notice. When the neighbor’s tender gazes, long handclasps and sighs had revealed a very different state of mind in him, she had immediately observed an increasingly strict reserve, under the pretext that, having now become a “big girl,” she could no longer indulge in childish games—and the familiarities of old had ceased completely.
Monsieur Roret, although smitten, was too intelligent to get carried away by stupidity. He no longer manifested his sentiments except in the form of an affectionate solicitude and waited for time and circumstance to provide him with an opportunity to please Lauriane. You can easily imagine the displeasure with which he saw young Christian Norval introduce himself into Monsieur Dumortier’s home, and immediately conquer the manifest affection of the father and the daughter.
The scientist having gone away, however, the neighbor resumed hoping. Guiana is such an unhealthy country!
And in the speculation in which he had just proposed to Monsieur Dumortier, Monsieur Roret hoped, almost unconsciously, that he might find an opportunity to render himself useful, perhaps even indispensable, to such an extent that Lauriane, out of gratitude, might be led to accept him—a psychological phenomenon that occurs frequently enough for the speculator to have a definite chance of seeing his calculation justified by events.
At any rate, by virtue of these various considerations, Monsieur Roret thought it the most natural thing in the world, and even the most praiseworthy, to associate the fortune of his friend Dumortier with his speculations, even though they were causing him serious anxieties for the moment.
And that is how actions that are apparently villainous are, if not justified, at least susceptible to attenuating circumstances, when one takes account of the particular state of mind of those who commit them—that being said not to exonerate Monsieur Roret, but to establish more accurately the true character of the individual in question.
III. Monsieur Roret Declares Himself
So, Monsieur Dumortier had let himself be drawn in. For the first time in his life, he had allowed himself to be tempted by the demon of speculation. It is true that it was, above all, out of consideration for his daughter.
The latter heard the news without enthusiasm. The prospect of a fortune left her absolutely cold. She was happy as she was, and since she had divined Monsieur Roret’s secret thought, she did not trust the speculator. The operation in which he had just involved her father, although she did not understand it at all, inspired her with dread, and if there had still been time...
But it was too late. Roret had rushed the matter through. Everything was signed, countersigned and registered. There was no longer anything to do than await developments.
Developments were in no hurry.
Monsieur Dumortier, until then more assiduous in reading the Orchidophile than the political newspapers, sometimes surprised himself now by awaiting with impatience the arrival of Le Temps, to which he was a subscriber. But Le Temps remained obstinately mute in respect of the plan to install the 1900 Exposition Universelle at Meudon.
One day, however, a rather unclear article seemed to indicate that the question of the location of “the great international manifestation of the century’s end” was on the brink of being definitively resolved. From then on, it was almost feverishly—and not without a certain anxiety—that Monsieur Dumortier waited for the appearance of the newspaper, for nothing seemed to indicate that the plan for the Meudon exhibition was in the offing. On the contrary, serious objections had been raised to that solution.
Monsieur Dumortier sighed, regretting his former quietude, anxiously interrogating Monsieur Roret regarding the chances of success in their speculation, becoming more impatient as the days went by with the menacing uncertainty in which he found himself and against which he struggled in vain.
Finally, the uncertainly was abruptly ended. The government had made a definitive decision. The Exposition of 1900 would be held on the Champ-de-Mars, with its usual annexes slightly enlarged, and a section at Vincennes. Meudon was completely abandoned and passed over in silence.
It was a rude blow for the two friends, but especially for Monsieur Dumortier, less used to the risks of speculation. Full of confidence in the knowledge of business that Roret possessed, he had conserved a tenacious hope along with his illusions, until the last moment.
He measured at a glance the consequences of the situation in which he found himself engaged with regard to Roret, and took account of the inevitable catastrophe that menaced him if his friend demanded the execution of the contract that linked them together.
On the expiration date of the options, it would be necessary to pay, to exchange his income bonds for land that was now devoid of any income, and difficult to sell. It meant ruination, embarrassment and poverty or himself and Lauriane; it meant the forced sale of his villa, his collections of flowers...
At that thought, a flood of tears rose to the eyes of the unhappy orchid-lover. He cursed his stupid ambition, his insane greed, his blind confidence in Roret, who called himself his friend...
In fact, though, if he really was a friend, he would not be so cruel as to cause his neighbor’s ruination. He would doubtless consent to take on a part of the contract’s burden...
Monsieur Dumortier clutched at that hope and, in order to transform it into a certainty, he wiped his eyes and immediately went, with his newspaper in his hand, to knock on Monsieur Roret’s door.
“I’ve heard the news!” said the latter, with a dejected expression, as soon as he had let his neighbor in and before Dumortier could say a word. “I was deceived...cruelly deceived!” He passed his hand over his brow and added: “In fact, though, a speculation is a lottery. To have the chance of winning, it’s necessary to risk losing.”
“Yes,” murmured Monsieur Dumortier. “But look what terrible consequences that loss will have for me. I’m not rich, you know, and once I’ve honored my engagements, what will I have left—or, rather, what will my poor Lauriane have left?”
At that name, Monsieur Roret got up and shook his neighbor’s hand, saying, emotionally: “Lauriane! Have no fear—she won’t have to suffer from these events. Oh, you don’t know how much I love her!”
“Yes, my friend, I know that you’ve always had a veritably paternal affection for her, and you’ve spoiled her a great deal.”
“You don’t understand,” Roret interjected, who was still holding Dumortier’s hand in his. “Yes, to begin with, I loved Lauriane like the child she was. An old bachelor, incapable of understanding the tender emotions of the family, I was, however, attached to her, and watched her grow up with the eyes of a father. Then, insensibly, I don’t know how the transformation took place, but Lauriane caused me to experience very different feelings. Her beauty made an impression on me; the qualities of her mind and heart charmed me. She’ll be an accomplished housekeeper; she’s the ideal woman; she alone is capable and worthy of completing my happiness. I love your daughter Lauriane, my friend, and I’m asking for her hand in marriage!”
Astounded by this revelation, which he was far from expecting—because Lauriane had carefully kept Monsieur Roret’s attentions in her regard secret from him—Monsieur Dumortier, thinking that he was dreaming, could only murmur: “You love Lauriane!”
And he fell silent, plunged in an abyss of reflections.
Monsieur Roret, who was watching him anxiously, went on, excitedly: “Well, yes, I love Lauriane. What’s extraordinary about that? Isn’t she adorable? How would I have been able to live constantly in her presence, so to speak, without falling in love with her? It was fated!”
“But no, my friend,” Monsieur Dumortier was finally able to say. “There’s such a disproportion of age between the two of you that I could never have imagined that such an affection might be born. Anyway, you love Lauriane, but does Lauriane love you? She’s never said anything about it to me.”
“Nor to me, and I don’t know he nature of her sentiments in my regard, having never acquainted her clearly with mine. But that’s not the question, for the moment. You fear, with reason, for Lauriane and for yourself, the disastrous consequences of your unfortunate speculation. Well, that disaster won’t happen, since I’m offering Lauriane, along with my hand, my entire fortune. I’ll help you to meet your engagements, and you’ll conserve, along with your income, our villa and your flowers. The land of which we’ll be the owners will eventually be sold, little by little, and perhaps the affair won’t, in the end, be as bad as it seems.”
Monsieur Dumortier remained silent momentarily. It appeared to him now, albeit in a manner that was still vague, that Monsieur Roret might have planned at long range the events that were now permitting him to ask for Lauriane’s hand with some chance of success. Perhaps the speculation into which he had drawn his neighbor had had, in his eyes, the sole aim of driving Monsieur Dumortier and his daughter into a corner with no way out—a situation of which he, Roret, would be the master.
At that thought the honest orchid-lover felt the horror of his situation more profoundly, and in order to gain time and reflect, he murmured: “Listen, I need time to think about all this. It’s worth taking the trouble. The house isn’t in immediate danger. Give me a few days to look at your proposal from all the angles and to talk about it to Lauriane—then I’ll come and tell you what we both think.”
Monsieur Dumortier wanted to appear calmer than he was. It was with death in his soul that he returned to the villa. What was he going to say to Lauriane, who still did not know anything, about the ruination of their hopes and their neighbor’s proposal?
The young woman had not failed to notice, some time ago, her father’s preoccupations, and she had attempted to dissipate them by means of her perennial good humor. That very day, not suspecting anything, she ran to Monsieur Dumortier cheerfully to ask him why he had gone out.
Her father’s grave expression wiped away her smile. “My God, what’s wrong?” she exclaimed.
“Oh,” said Monsieur Dumortier, making a superhuman effort to pull himself together, “I’m annoyed that the Exposition isn’t going to be held at Meudon.”
“But in that case,” said Lauriane, who divined the gravity of that news, “the plots of land that were to increase in value so much, and which you’ve bought, are no longer worth anything...”
“Oh, they’re worth the agreed price.”
“Yes, but it won’t be possible to sell them now.”
“You’re exaggerating. Difficult to sell, perhaps, but...”
“Father! Why won’t you tell me the truth? When you’ve paid or the land—for it will be necessary to pay for it—we’ll have nothing left, will we?”
“Nothing but this villa,” Monsieur Dumortier admitted, dejectedly.
“And in order to live, it will be necessary to sell it?”
The poor man could only nod his head affirmatively, and Lauriane let her arms fall, lowering her eyes toward the ground.
“Oh, that Monsieur Roret!” she cried, in a moment of indignant revolt that she could not suppress.
“Do you know what Roret said to me?”
Lauriane looked up, interrogatively.
“Roret told me not to despair, because he loves you and wants to marry you. Did you know that?”
“I knew it.”
“How? You never said anything about it to me.”
“Monsieur Roret has made his sentiments manifest, but as I was unable to respond to them, I made him understand that; I thought there was no point in informing you of facts that might have troubled your friendship and which I considered, in any case, to be inconsequential.”
“You can see, however, that it’s serious, since Roret has asked me for your hand.”
“And it’s probably in order to do so that he pushed you into buying that land, which he knew to be valueless,” said the young woman, angrily.
“The same suspicion has occurred to me.”
“Well, he’s mistaken if he thinks he’ll get his way by that means. I prefer poverty.”
“But my love…!”
“Yes, I understand, Father. I’m forgetful and ungrateful. At your age it will be hard to leave this villa, to abandon your flowers, to submit to privations…oh, why did you have to listen to that false friend? I had such a beautiful dream…! Alas yes, you’re right. It’s frightful, poverty.”
And in a further surge of resentment, she cried, as she burst into sobs: “Oh, who will save me from this cruel alternative?”
