The baron hesitated for a moment, and then denied it. But Mouret looked him straight in the face and smiled, from that moment beginning to play the part of an open-hearted young man who was always straightforward in business.
"Look here, Monsieur le Baron," said he, "as I have the unexpected honour of meeting you, I must make a confession. Oh, I don't ask you for any of your secrets, but I am going to entrust you with mine, for I'm certain that I couldn't place them in better hands. Besides, I want your advice. I have long wished to call and see you, but dared not do so."
He did make his confession, and related his debut in life, not even concealing the financial crisis through which he was passing in the midst of his triumph. Everything was brought up, the successive enlargements of his premises, the continual reinvestments of all profits in the business, the sums contributed by his employees, the existence of the establishment risked at every fresh sale, in which the entire capital was staked, as it were, on a single throw of the dice. However, it was not money he wanted, for he had a fanatic's faith in his customers; his ambition ran higher; and he proposed to the baron a partnership, in which the Crédit Immobilier should contribute the colossal palace which he pictured in his dreams, whilst for his part he would give his genius and the business he had already created. Everything would be properly valued, nothing appeared to him easier to realise.
"What are you going to do with your land and buildings?" he asked persistently. "You have a plan, no doubt. But I'm quite certain that your idea is not so good as mine. Think of it. We build fresh galleries on the vacant ground, we pull the houses down or re-arrange them and open the most extensive establishment in Paris—a bazaar which will bring in millions." And then he let this fervent, heartfelt exclamation escape him: "Ah! if I could only do without you! But you hold everything now. Besides, I shall never have the necessary capital. Come, we must come to an understanding. It would be a crime not to do so."
"How you go ahead, my dear sir!" Baron Hartmann contented himself with replying. "What an imagination you have!"
He shook his head, and continued to smile, resolved not to return confidence for confidence. In point of fact the idea of the Crédit Immobilier was to found in the Rue du Dix-Décembre a huge rival to the Grand Hôtel, a luxurious hostelry whose central position would attract foreigners. At the same time, however, as the hotel was only to occupy a certain frontage, the baron might also have entertained Mouret's idea, and have treated for the rest of the block of houses, which still represented a vast surface. However, he had already advanced funds to two of Henriette's friends, and he was getting tired of his lavishness. Besides, despite his passion for activity, which prompted him to open his purse to every fellow of intelligence and courage, Mouret's commercial genius astonished rather than captivated him. Was not the founding of such a gigantic shop a fanciful, imprudent scheme? Would he not court certain failure by thus enlarging the drapery trade beyond all reasonable bounds? In short, he didn't believe in the idea and refused his support.
"No doubt the idea is attractive," said he, "but it's a poet's idea. Where would you find the customers to fill such a cathedral?"
Mouret looked at him for a moment in silence, as if stupefied by the refusal which these words implied. Was it possible?—a man of such foresight, who divined the presence of money at no matter what depth! And suddenly, with an extremely eloquent gesture, he pointed to the ladies in the drawing-room and exclaimed: "Customers?—why look there!"
The sun was paling and the golden-red flame was now but a yellowish gleam, dying away on the silk of the hangings and the panels of the furniture. At this approach of twilight, the large room was steeped in warm cosy pleasantness. While Monsieur de Boves and Paul de Vallagnosc stood chatting near one of the windows, their eyes wandering far away into the gardens, the ladies had closed up, forming in the middle of the room a small circle of skirts whence arose bursts of laughter, whispered words, ardent questions and replies, all woman's passion for expenditure and finery. They were talking about dress, and Madame de Boves was describing a gown she had seen at a ball.
"First of all, a mauve silk skirt, covered with flounces of old Alençon lace, twelve inches deep."