14Van Klopen, the man-milliner, knew Paris and its people thoroughlylike all tradesmen who are in the habit of giving large credit. Heknew all about the business of his customers, and never forgot an itemof information when he received one. Thus, when Mascarin spoke to himabout the father of the lovely Flavia, whose charms had set thesusceptible heart of Paul Violaine in a blaze, the arbiter of fashionhad replied,--"Martin Rigal; yes, I know him; he is a banker." And a banker, indeed,Martin Rigal was, dwelling in a magnificent house in the RueMontmartre. The bank was on the ground floor, while his private roomswere in the story above. Though he did not do business in a very largeway, yet he was a most respectable man, and his connection was chieflywith the smaller trades-people, who seem to live a strange kind ofhand-to-mouth existence, and who might be happy were it not for theconstant reappearance of that grim phantom--bills to be met. Nearlyall these persons were in the banker's hands entirely. Martin Rigalused his power despotically and permitted no arguments, and speedilyquelled rebellion on the part of any new customer who ventured toobject to his arbitrary rules. In the morning the banker was never tobe seen, being engaged in his private office, and not a clerk wouldventure to knock at his door. Even had one done so, no reply wouldhave been returned; for the experiment had been tried, and it wasbelieved that nothing short of an alarm of fire would have brought himout.
The banker was a big man, quite bald, his face was clean shaved, andhis little gray eyes twinkled incessantly. His manner was charminglycourteous, and he said the most cruel things in the most honiedaccents, and invariably escorted to the door the man whom he wouldsell up the next day. In his dress he affected a fashionable style,much used by the modern school of Shylocks. When not in business, hewas a pleasant, and, as some say, a witty companion. He was not lookedon as an ascetic, and did not despise those little pleasures whichenable us to sustain life's tortuous journey. He liked a good dinner,and had always a smile ready for a young and attractive face. He was awidower, and all his love was concentrated on his daughter. He did notkeep a very extravagant establishment, but the report in theneighborhood was that Mademoiselle Flavia, the daughter of the eminentbanker, would one day come into millions. The banker always did hisbusiness on foot, for the sake of his health, as he said; but Flaviahad a sweet little Victoria, drawn by two thoroughbred horses, todrive in the Bois de Boulogne, under the protection of an old woman,half companion and half servant, who was driven half mad by hercharge's caprices. As yet her father has never denied her anything. Heworked harder than all his clerks put together, for, after havingspent the morning in his counting house over his papers, he receivedall business clients.
On the day after Flavia and Paul Violaine had met at Van Klopen's, M.
Martin Rigal was, at about half-past five, closeted with one of hisfemale clients. She was young, very pretty, and dressed with simpleelegance, but the expression of her face was profoundly melancholy.
Her eyes were overflowing with tears, which she made vain efforts torestrain.
"If you refuse to renew our bill, sir, we are ruined," said she. "Icould meet it in January. I have sold all my trinkets, and we areexisting on credit.""Poor little thing!" interrupted the banker.
Her hopes grew under these words of pity.
"And yet," continued she, "business has never been so brisk. Newcustomers are constantly coming in, and though our profits are small,the returns are rapid."As Martin Rigal heard her exposition of the state of affairs, henodded gravely.
"That is all very well," said he at last, "but this does not make thesecurity you offer me of any more value. I have more confidence inyou.""But remember, sir, that we have thirty thousand francs' worth ofstock.""That is not what I was alluding to," and the banker accompanied thesewords with so meaning a look, that the poor woman blushed scarlet andalmost lost her nerve. "Your stock," said he, "is of no more value inmy eyes than the bill you offer me. Suppose, for instance, you were tobecome bankrupt, the landlord might come down upon everything, for hehas great power."He broke off abruptly, for Flavia's maid, as a privileged person,entered the room without knocking.
"Sir," said she, "my mistress wishes to see you at once."The banker got up directly. "I am coming," said he; then, taking thehand of his client, he led her to the door, repeating: "Do not worryyourself; all the difficulties shall be got through. Come again, andwe will talk them over;" and before she could thank him he was halfway to his daughter's apartment. Flavia had summoned her father toshow him a new costume which had just been sent home by Van Klopen,and which pleased her greatly. Flavia's costume was a masterpiece offashionable bad taste, which makes women look all alike and destroysall appearance of individuality. It was a mass of frills, furbelows,fringes, and flutings of rare hue and form, making a series ofwonderful contrasts. Standing in the middle of the room, with everyavailable candle alight, for the day was fading away, she was sodainty and pretty that even the /bizarre/ dress of Van Klopen's wasunable to spoil her appearance. As she turned round, she caught sightof her father in a mirror, panting with the haste he had made inrunning upstairs.
"What a time you have been!" said she pettishly.
"I was with a client," returned he apologetically.
"You ought to have got rid of him at once. But never mind that; lookat me and tell me plainly what you think of me."She had no need to put the question, for the most intense admirationbeamed in his face.
"Exquisite, delicious, heavenly!" answered he.
Flavia, accustomed as she was to her father's compliments, was highlydelighted. "Then you think that he will like me?" asked she.
She alluded to Paul Violaine, and the banker heaved a deep sigh as hereplied,--"Is it possible that any human being exists that you cannot please?""Ah!" mused she, "if it were any one but he, I should have no doubtsor misgivings."Martin Rigal took a seat near the fire, and, drawing his daughter tohim, pressed a fond kiss upon her brow, while she with the grace andactivity of a cat, nestled upon his knee. "Suppose, after all, that heshould not like me," murmured she; "I should die of grief."The banker turned away his face to hide the gloom that overspread it.
"Do you love him, then, even now?" asked he.
She paused for a moment, and he added, "More than you do me?"Flavia pressed her father's hand between both her palms and answeredwith a musical laugh, "How silly you are, papa! Why, of course I loveyou. Are you not my father? I love you too because you are kind and doall I wish, and because you are always telling me that you love me.
Because you are like the cupids in the fairy stories--dear old peoplewho give their children all their heart's desire; I love you for mycarriage, my horses, and my lovely dresses; for my purse filled withgold, for my beautiful jewelry, and for all the lovely presents youmake me."Every word she spoke betrayed the utter selfishness of her soul, andyet her father listened with a fixed smile of delight on his face.
"And why do you love him?" asked he.
"Because--because," stammered the girl, "first, because he is himself;and then,--well, I can't say, but I /do/ love him."Her accents betrayed such depth of passion that the father uttered agroan of anguish.
Flavia caught the expression of his features, and burst into a fit oflaughter.
"I really believe that you are jealous," said she, as if she werespeaking to a spoiled child. "That is very naughty of you; you oughtto be ashamed of yourself. I tell you that the first time I set eyesupon him at Van Klopen's, I felt a thrill of love pierce through myheart, such love as I never felt for a human being before. Since then,I have known no rest. I cannot sleep, and instead of blood, liquidfire seems to come through my veins."Martin Rigal raised his eyes to the ceiling in mute surprise at thisoutburst of feeling.
"You do not understand me," went on Flavia. "You are the best offathers, but, after all, you are but a man. Had I a mother, she wouldcomprehend me better.""What could your mother have done for you more than I? Have Ineglected anything for your happiness?" asked the banker, with a sigh.
"Perhaps nothing; for there are times when I hardly understand my ownfeelings."In gloomy silence the banker listened to the narrative of hisdaughter's state of mind; then he said,--"All shall be as you desire, and the man you love shall be yourhusband."The girl was almost beside herself with joy, and, throwing her armsaround his neck, pressed kiss upon kiss on his cheeks and forehead.
"Dar............