Mr. John Turner had none of the outward signs of the discreet adviser in his person or surroundings. He had, it was currently whispered, inherited from his father an enormous clientele of noble names. And to such as have studied the history of Paris during the whole of the nineteenth century, it will appear readily comprehensible that the careful or the penniless should give preference to an English banker. Mr. Turner's appearance suggested solidity, and the carpet of his private room was a good one. The room smelt of cigar smoke, while the office, through which the client must pass to reach it, was odoriferous of ancient ledgers.
Half a dozen clerks were seated in the office, which was simply furnished and innocent of iron safes. If a client entered, one of the six, whose business it was, looked up, while the other five continued to give their attention to the books before them.
One cold morning, toward the end of the year, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence was admitted by the concierge. She noted that only one clerk gave heed to her entry, and, it is to be presumed, the quiet perfection of her furs.
“Of the six young men in your office,” she observed, when she was seated in the bare wooden chair placed invitingly by the side of John Turner's writing-table, “only one appears to be in full possession of his senses.”
Turner, sitting—if the expression be allowed—in a heap in an armchair before a table provided with pens, ink, and a blotting-pad, but otherwise bare, looked at his client with a bovine smile.
“I don't pay them to admire my clients,” he replied.
“If Mademoiselle de Montijo came in, I suppose the other five would not look up.”
John Turner settled himself a little lower into his chair, so that he appeared to be in some danger of slipping under the table.
“If the Archangel Gabriel came in, they would still attend to their business,” he replied, in his thick, slow voice. “But he won't. He is not one of my clients. Quite the contrary.”
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence smoothed the fur that bordered her neat jacket and glanced sideways at her banker. Then she looked round the room. It was bare enough. A single picture hung on the wall—a portrait of an old lady. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence raised her eyebrows, and continued her scrutiny. Here, again, was no iron safe. There were no ledgers, no diaries, no note-books, no paraphernalia of business. Nothing but a bare table and John Turner seated at it, in a much more comfortable chair than that provided for the client, staring apathetically at a date-case which stood on a bare mantelpiece.
The lady's eyes returned to the portrait on the wall.
“You used to have a portrait of Louis Philippe there,” she said.
“When Louis Philippe was on the throne,” admitted the banker.
“And now?” inquired this daughter of Eve, looking at the portrait.
“My maternal aunt,” replied Turner, making a gesture with two fingers, as if introducing his client to the portrait.
“You keep her, one may suppose, as a stop-gap—between the dynasties. It is so safe—a maternal aunt!”
“One cannot hang a republic on the wall, however much one may want to.”
“Then you are a Royalist?” inquired Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence.
“No; I am only a banker,” replied Turner, with his chin sinking lower on his bulging waistcoat and his eyes scarcely visible beneath the heavy lids.
The remark, coupled with a thought that Turner was going to sleep, seemed to remind the client of her business.
“Will you kindly ask one of your clerks to let me know how much money I have?” she said, casting a glance not wholly innocent of scornful reproach at the table, so glaringly devoid of the bare necessities of a banking business.
“Only eleven thousand francs and fourteen sous,” replied Turner, with a promptness which seemed to suggest that he kept no diary or note-book on the table before him because he had need of neither.
“I feel sure I must have more than that,” said Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, with some spirit. “I quite thought I had.”
But John Turner only moistened his lips and sat patiently gazing at the date. His attitude dimly suggested—quite in a nice way—that the chair upon which Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence sat was polished bright by the garments of persons who had found themselves labouring under the same error.
“Well, I must have a hundred thousand francs to-morrow; that is all. Simply must. And in notes, too. I told you I should want it when you came to see me at Royan. You must remember. I told you at luncheon.”
“When we were eating a sweetbread aux champignons. I remember perfectly. We do not get sweetbreads like that in Paris.”
And John Turner shook his head sadly.
“Well, will you let me have the money to-morrow morning—in notes?”
“I remember I advised you not to sell just now; after we had finished the sweetbread and had gone on to a creme renversee—very good one, too. Yes, it is a bad time to sell. Things are uncertain in France just now. One cannot even get one's meals properly served. Cook's head is full of politics, I suppose.”
“To-morrow morning—in notes,” repeated Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence.
“Now, your man at Royan was excellent—kept his head all through—and a light hand, too. Got him with you in Paris?”
“No, I have not. To-morrow morning, about ten o'clock—in notes.”
And Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence tapped a neat gloved finger on the corner of the table with some determination.
“I remember&mdas............