The Conqueror of Death, page 29
“Yes, I’ve heard mention of that events,” murmured the engineer, “and now I know all that I wanted to know. But to get back to our nuggets, who gave these worthy people the idea of digging for gold in their gardens?”
Borichevski understood that he ought not to tell the whole truth, and he attributed the initiative to what he called a hoax: a hoax that had been more successful than he had anticipated.
Cowley reflected for a few moments, and finally said: “And what does your master, the young scientist Roret mentioned to me, think about all this?”
“My master, discontented with me, has thrown me out.”
“Oh, really? And how are you making a living?”
“I render a few services to the people looking for gold.”
“Well, I like you, and I too want to do something for you. I know where to find you, and when I need your services, I’ll pay you well.”
Cowley immediately went back to Monsieur Roret’s house.
“Well,” said the latter, “how is your investigation going?”
“It’s concluded. It wasn’t Borichevski who fabricated the nuggets. They weren’t even fabricated intentionally.”
“What is their origin, then?”
“They simply come from the Versailles railway disaster of 1842.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will. You’re not unaware that the majority of the bodies of the victims of the catastrophe were entirely burned up, and that the jewelry they were wearing was melted. It’s that melted jewelry that constitutes the nuggets found in the vicinity of the Chapelle de Notre-Dame-des-Flames, on the location of the catastrophe. There’s no other plausible explanation.”
“So,” said Roret, with a expression of disappointment, “if all the gold that can be found in Meudon is there, there’s no reason to take the affair any further.”
“You’re mistaken, my dear Monsieur!” said the engineer, swiftly.
“What do you mean? Is there or is there not exploitable gold in Meudon? That’s the whole question.”
“I don’t believe there’s exploitable gold in Meudon—but that isn’t the whole question.”
“Explain yourself!”
“It’s quite simple. At this moment, almost all the inhabitants of Meudon are convinced that there’s gold in their commune. They haven’t found any before because they haven’t taken the trouble to look for it, but they’ll do so a lot more now that they’ve found some, without being aware of the true origin of these nuggets. Now, it isn’t you or me who will disabuse them on that subject.”
“What are you getting at?”
“This: you’ve made a speculation in Meudon land; you’ve shown me the plans; you have an enormous quantity of it to hand. It’s necessary for you to dispose of those plots of land as fruitfully as possible. If they were auriferous, that would be extremely easy.”
“But since they aren’t.”
“Although they aren’t…as everyone believes that they are, it comes to the same thing, and remains extremely easy…oh, my dear Monsieur Roret, do you believe that in the Transvaal, in Australia, all the plots of land—all the ‘claims,’ to employ the technical expression—are auriferous? Not in the least! There are good ones, there are passable ones, and there are bad ones. When claims have been celebrated for their production one sells them on again, even after they’ve been exhausted. There are superb speculations to be made in that fashion. It’s not the prospectors who get rich—it’s the people who speculate on the land, on the entitlements, on shares in gold mines.”
Talking about speculation to Roret was placing oneself on his favorite terrain. “You’re right!” he exclaimed. “Here, near Paris, the situation is magnificent. The incontestable discovery of nuggets whose true origin no one suspects has set the whole area seething. People are already asking me about buying land...”
“Well, to speak in proverbial terms, it’s necessary to strike while the iron’s hot. It’s necessary to create and launch, without losing a moment, the Societé des Mines d’or de Bas-Meudon—and you’ll see your land take off. If you care to give me carte blanche, I’ll commit myself to your affair.”
“Gladly. But first, a piece of advice? I’ve passed on a considerable number of my options to my neighbor, Monsieur Dumortier, but I’ve reserved the possibility of getting them back by paying a forfeit of a hundred thousand francs. What should I do? Let Dumortier benefit from the increased value of the land, or pay the forfeit and take back my options?”
“Don’t hesitate—pay the forfeit. Take back the options for yourself. You’re sure to make an enormous profit.”
And that is why, the following morning, Monsieur Dumortier was informed that Monsieur Roret, in accordance with the clause in their contract, was taking back the options he had ceded, and was placing at the disposition of his neighbor the stipulated forfeit comprising the sum of a hundred thousand francs.
On reading the letter that brought the good news, Dumortier leapt for joy. To be free of his engagements and make a hundred thousand francs without opening his purse! He had never expected so much happiness. He decided that he had definitely made a good speculation, precisely because it had not been carried through to its conclusion.
“Lauriane! Lauriane!” he cried. “Not only are we not ruined, but our fortune has increased by a hundred thousand francs.”
“Should we accept them?” asked the young woman, brought running by these enthusiastic exclamations.
“But of course, my dear! With pleasure and without the slightest scruple. It will be your dowry. Sapristi! What disagreeable emotions I had before this joy—we’ve certainly earned them! Besides which, if Roret is offering them in breaking our contract, it’s because he’s expecting to make a profit thereby. So I’m going to put them in the bank right away, and invest them in nice safe bonds…and no one will ever tempt me to speculate in land again!”
That was what he did, and when Christian came to visit his friends, he was told the good news.
The young scientist smiled in satisfaction, for he felt that he was the original artisan of that joy, and simply murmured: “You see that it’s necessary never to despair.”
“But what is Roret hoping to do?”
“Don’t worry about that. He’s glimpsed a means of making a big profit on his land; otherwise, he’d never have taken that thorn out of your foot.”
“What if they’re auriferous?”
Christian smiled again, and said: “They already have been, for you, my dear hosts—that’s the main thing. As for Monsieur Roret, time will tell. Don’t forget that it’s the house-warming tomorrow. You’ll be able, my dear Lauriane, to inaugurate your future home.”
XII. Christian Norval’s Villa
The next day was Sunday.
Since he had taken possession on the villa in Meudon Christian Norval had not wasted a minute in fitting it out in accordance with his tastes and Lauriane’s, which scarcely differed from his own.
He had used Monsieur Dumortier’s villa as a model, to such an extent that when Lauriane entered his home for the first time that evening, on her father’s arm, she could not repress an exclamation of astonishment. Everything, down to the slightest detail, reminded her of the paternal house.
Christian, estimating that he had produced the desired effect, bowed and said: “This way, you’ll hardly noticed that you’ve changed residence; all the more so as Monsieur Dumortier will want to spend as much time here as possible. I know his habits; he’ll feel quite at home here.
“Indeed,” said Monsieur Dumortier, who found objects familiar to him in the same places as in his own house. “You’re a skillful sorcerer, my dear Christian. You know how to capture people by means of their weaknesses…their cherished habits. Look! Here’s the latest issue of the Orchidophile, on a lacquered side-table, next to a low armchair, by the window, just like home…oh, Christian, Christian!”
The young scientist showed them around the house. Monsieur Dumortier and is daughter went through the various rooms, moving from one astonishment to another, so great was the resemblance between the arrangements and fittings of the two villas. They ended up in the greenhouse, where Christian had accumulated veritable treasures, as many in the form of plants as birds, which he had collected in the course of his various voyages, placed in the care of his friends and finally reassembled in the definitive abode that he had chosen.
The young man’s guests, passionate about such beautiful things themselves, appreciated them for their full worth, and listened delightedly to the details the traveler gave them regarding the circumstances in which he had discovered them.
It was there, in the midst of those marvels of nature, which they never wearied of admiring, that they spent much of the day, finding that the hours passed too rapidly. So, when Marthe, who had come to lend a hand to his housekeeper, announced that the meal was served, Christian exclaimed regretfully: “Already! I thought I was in paradise, and no longer had any need to eat or drink!”
“Well, for myself,” said Monsieur Dumortier, “I confess that I have a great appetite.”
“Me too!” said Lauriane, gaily, leaning on the arm that Christian offered her in order to escort her to the dining room.
“And now we’ve descended from the clouds,” Monsieur Dumortier said, as they sat down at table, “I’ll tell you something that you doubtless don’t know yet, my dear Christian, since I only learned it myself this morning.”
“What’s that?”
“This is it! This morning, when I got up—I’d scarcely finished getting dressed—I hear my doorbell ring, and Marthe comes to tell me that Monsieur Pommeret wanted to talk to me.”
“Oh, yes: Monsieur Pommeret—the man with the nugget.”
“Exactly. I go down to the drawing room and Monsieur Pommeret tells me that, not having found anything more in his garden, he wants to buy one of the plots of land that I own in Bas-Meudon, which have been recognized as auriferous. I reply to him that, in the first place, I no longer possess a singly inch of land in Bas-Meudon, having reverted everything to Monsieur Roret, and that, in the second place, I don’t know whether the land has been recognized as auriferous. Then Monsieur Pommeret tells me that Roret has brought an English engineer from London, named Cowley, an expert proven in the Transvaal and Australia, and that the aforesaid Cowley has recognized the auriferous nature of the land in Bas-Meudon.”
“Cowley!” murmured Christian. “Where have I heard that name before?”
“That explains, my dear Christian, Roret’s sudden change of mind and repossession of my land. The land is auriferous, and he expects to make a big profit on their sale.”
“Are you regretting their loss?” asked the young man, smiling.
“Oh, not in the least. I’ve had too much worry. If I learned that they were shifting gold from them by the spadeful, it wouldn’t bother me in the least. For once in my life I had a crazy fit of ambition, but that’s over now.”
“You’re right. Besides which, I can guarantee that they’ll never be digging up gold by the spadeful in Bas-Meudon.”
“You have no confidence in the engineer Cowley, then? But you, yourself...”
“Oh, my dear Monsieur Dumortier, I’ve told you in what proportion I believe that there’s gold everywhere.”
“But I haven’t finished my story. Monsieur Pommeret goes away, saying that he’ll address himself to Roret in order to get a ‘claim’—that’s the technical expression he used—and I escort him back to the threshold of my abode. What do I see? Your Borichevski, at the corner of the Pavé-des-Gardes, talking in a low voice, but animatedly, to an unknown man of foreign appearance. And Pommeret says, as he leaves me: ‘There’s Mr. Cowley now!’”
“Aha!” Christian exclaimed. “I’ve got it. It was Borichevski who mentioned this Cowley to me, as an exceptional engineer.”
“You see!”
“And what’s become of your domestic,” Lauriane put in. “He’s no longer to be seen in your house.”
“Oh, for some time he’s been doing the same as the other inhabitants of Meudon: looking for gold. Anyway, I don’t need him. As for Mr. Cowley, whom Borichevski had mentioned to me as a good engineer, I have reason to suppose that in the gold mining business, he acts first and foremost as a speculator. For the gold mines of Bas-Meudon, that’s entirely the case.”
“So you don’t believe in them?”
“Not in the least—and today, I can admit to you frankly, just between us, that if I pretended to believe in them, just a little, or if I wanted to let them be believed, it was precisely because I hoped that Roret would let himself be caught up in the affair and buy back your land.”
“My dear Christian!”
“My little scheme having succeeded, I no longer have to conceal my true opinion, and I’d even be annoyed if worthy people are about to risk their money in this bad business. With Roret, it was fair tactics, but I don’t want anyone to make use of my opinion to make honest people chase after a chimera...”
“Are you going to disabuse Monsieur Pommeret, then?” asked Lauriane.
“Oh, Monsieur Pommeret has the means to pay for a little claim in Bas-Meudon. He really is too credulous. He won’t find anything, and it will all end there…it’s only if things take a serious turn that I’ll think it my duty to intervene, since I’m the original cause of all this fuss. Ha ha! What a curious example of public credulity! But let’s talk about something else. It’s today that I’ve resolved to ask you to specify precisely a point on which we’re all in agreement...
“You’ve been kind enough, Monsieur, to grant me the hand of your daughter, and Lauriane has told me that the union in question is her dearest wish—so, when will the marriage take place? There’s no reason for any further delay. The future spouses’ dwelling is ready...”
“And Roret has furnished the dowry,” Monsieur Dumortier concluded, laughing. “Well, my children, you can marry whenever you wish. No prevarications, now! Let’s fix the date for a month from today. That will leave the time necessary for the formalities, the dress, and so on.”
“That’s it—next month!” exclaimed Christian, joyfully. “Is that agreeable to you, my dear Lauriane?”
“I have too much respect for my father’s wise advice not to accept it,” she replied, smiling.
“And then,” said the young scientist, “we’ll take a little trip to Switzerland, or Italy, and we’ll come back to Meudon to cultivate our orchids.”
“Admit,” concluded Monsieur Dumortier, “that there’s no more agreeable occupation, and that it’s far better than speculating or searching for gold.”
“I admit it,” said Christian. “But if I hadn’t started out by finding gold in Guiana, I wouldn’t have been able to cultivate orchids tranquilly with you and Lauriane.”
XIII. Gold Fever
The month went by rapidly, and Christian and Lauriane were married in Meudon, without any ostentation, among an intimate circle of relatives and friends. Then the newlyweds departed for Italy, leaving Monsieur Dumortier to look after the two greenhouses and the two aviaries. That excess of occupation did not prevent the excellent man from sighing as he thought about the absentees, but he consoled himself with the thought that they would soon return and that nothing would separate them from him in future.
While these happy events were taking place, Monsieur Roret and his collaborator, Mr. Cowley, entirely devoted to their speculation, had not wasted any time.
Borichevski, duly schooled by the engineer, had channeled the enthusiasm of the gold-seekers toward the terrains of Bas-Meudon. As it was necessary to deceive the analyses that certain acquirers if claims might have been tempted to carry out, however, Mr. Cowley had proceeded to “salt” the land.
Monsieur Roret, after having protested against this operation, which was both costly and compromising, had finally allowed himself to be convinced by the engineer’s arguments.
“Remember,” said the latter, “that it’s common practice everywhere—Transvaal, Australia, etc. Gold seams are extremely capricious, and some rich claims are surrounded by other plots that don’t contain an atom of gold. Do you think people resign themselves to taking a loss on that land? Do you think that anyone admits it when a claim is exhausted? Not at all. One can always find buyers for land that’s supposedly auriferous, and when there isn’t any gold, one puts some in. One salts them with gold dust, so that the analysis of specimens taken from them aren’t too discouraging. That’s what it’s necessary to do here.”
“But it’s horribly expensive!”
“Not as much as all that. A few grams of gold dust, intelligently distributed, will suffice for each claim. Let me take care of it.”
“But who’ll do the work? If anyone found out...”
“Have no fear. I have the very man.”
“Who? A local man?”
“No, on the contrary—a foreigner: Stanislas Borichevski.”
“But that’s the faithful factotum of Christian Norval, whom I have no reason to number among my friends...”
“He was, yes, but not anymore. They parted on bad terms. Besides which, I met Borichevski in the placers a long time before he made Monsieur Norval’s acquaintance, and he trusts me completely…just as I trust him. I repeat, he’s the very man we need. Remember that, consciously or not, he was the one who started this whole business. Here in Meudon, they swear by him, they consult him about everything; he renders the naïve gold-seekers continual services. He knows their weaknesses, their passions. He can make them do whatever he wants. Furthermore, he really is an expert in all matters pertaining to gold mining. He’ll apply that expertise to the salting.”
“Without anyone seeing him?”
“He’ll operate by night, in good places, taking all the necessary precautions.”
And that is how Stanislas Borichevski, equipped with a lather satchel full of gold dust that the engineer had procured for him, came to be given the job of salting the claims that had been sold the previous day.
