“That would be worth Heaven to me, mon maître,” he said, “and it’s rather like the other place having to say ‘No!’ But to tell the truth I’m in what’s called a difficult position. I hadn’t meant to consult you about it yet, but I can’t let you think I give up your offer lightly. I’ve discovered that Flaubert is a thief and a fraud! He’s worse. Mon Dieu! it’s like touching dirt to speak of him! And Madame trusts him! Torialli too. I’ve got my proofs, but I’m hesitating. When he comes back I shall confront him with them and ask him to resign; if he will not, I suppose I must expose him. But it will be a shock I should like to spare them.”
Cartier looked up quickly at Jean and puffed cautiously at his pipe for a moment; then he said in a tone Jean had never heard him use before: “Sit down, my boy. Now what is it exactly you propose to tell the Toriallis?”
Jean flushed a little; then he sat down and poured out in a quick, flashing stream of indignation the pent-up suspicions of six months, with the sequel of Margot’s preposterous account.
“You’d better not tell Madame Torialli that,” said Cartier quietly, when Jean had finished. “Part of it wouldn’t be any news to Madame, the part about the accounts. They make them up together. Of course I never knew to what length they carried it, but every one has known for some time that there was something a little sharp and backstairs about the business—only what will you—it’s the best method in Paris? I don’t say Torialli knows, probably not, but he must have to make an effort to remain ignorant! Au reste——” Cartier shut his eyes, opened them and shrugged his shoulders. “You won’t break Madame’s heart by pointing out the treachery of ce beau garçon of hers, but you’ll annoy her pretty considerably, and I shouldn’t choose to be the one who annoyed le petit ange Gabriel—she likes to be left to make her own annunciations!”
“What do you mean, Cartier?” asked Jean. He leaned forward; his eyes flickered like a trapped animal’s—they seemed almost to grow into Cartier’s face.
“Mais—c’est connu,” answered his companion. “Surely you are not ignorant that Torialli’s secretary is—en général—the lover of Madame? She doesn’t lose her heart, you understand, but she finds it works better. She has a great deal of discretion, but Flaubert doesn’t happen to be of the right genre. So it’s leaked out. Don’t take it too hard, my boy—all Paris knows it—except Torialli. There again he opens his mouth and shuts his eyes—and Madame fills it with what she thinks good for him. I think we may agree that it usually is good for him, though many men would prefer a more meagre diet, administered with a little less discretion.”
Then Cartier got up and walked away from Jean; he could not bear to see the boy’s face.
“It is not true,” muttered Jean, “it is not true!” but he did not get up and go after Cartier.
For a long while neither of the two men spoke. Then Cartier said:
“I wish you’d come with me to Russia, Jean; it’s the best place for you to get the taste of Paris out of your mouth! Paris is like this! You won’t get on here. You don’t understand her little ways. You think of things as if they were made of jewels; they’re not: they’re made, for the most part, of paste. When one knows that one pays the price for paste, but to pay as you do is to be ruined.”