CHAPTER LXXVII.

ANOTHER SCENE IN BRUTON STREET.

When Mr. Melmotte made his promise to Mr. Longestaffe and to Dolly,

in the presence of Mr. Bideawhile, that he would, on the next day but

one, pay to them a sum of fifty thousand pounds, thereby completing,

satisfactorily as far as they were concerned, the purchase of the

Pickering property, he intended to be as good as his word. The reader

knows that he had resolved to face the Longestaffe difficulty,--that

he had resolved that at any rate he would not get out of it by

sacrificing the property to which he had looked forward as a safe

haven when storms should come. But, day by day, every resolution

that he made was forced to undergo some change. Latterly he had been

intent on purchasing a noble son-in-law with this money,--still

trusting to the chapter of chances for his future escape from the

Longestaffe and other difficulties. But Squercum had been very hard

upon him; and in connexion with this accusation as to the Pickering

property, there was another, which he would be forced to face also,

respecting certain property in the East of London, with which the

reader need not much trouble himself specially, but in reference to

which it was stated that he had induced a foolish old gentleman to

consent to accept railway shares in lieu of money. The old gentleman

had died during the transaction, and it was asserted that the old

gentleman's letter was hardly genuine. Melmotte had certainly raised

between twenty and thirty thousand pounds on the property, and had

made payments for it in stock which was now worth--almost nothing at

all. Melmotte thought that he might face this matter successfully

if the matter came upon him single-handed;--but in regard to the

Longestaffes he considered that now, at this last moment, he had

better pay for Pickering.

The property from which he intended to raise the necessary funds was

really his own. There could be no doubt about that. It had never been

his intention to make it over to his daughter. When he had placed it

in her name, he had done so simply for security,--feeling that his

control over his only daughter would be perfect and free from danger.

No girl apparently less likely to take it into her head to defraud

her father could have crept quietly about a father's house. Nor did

he now think that she would disobey him when the matter was explained

to her. Heavens and earth! That he should be robbed by his own

child,--robbed openly, shamefully, with brazen audacity! It was

impossible. But still he had felt the necessity of going about this

business with some little care. It might be that she would disobey

him if he simply sent for her and bade her to affix her signature

here and there. He thought much about it and considered that it would

be wise that his wife should be present on the occasion, and that

a full explanation should be given to Marie, by which she might be

made to understand that the money had in no sense become her own. So

he gave instructions to his wife when he started into the city that

morning; and when he returned, for the sake of making his offer to

the Longestaffes, he brought with him the deeds which it would be

necessary that Marie should sign, and he brought also Mr. Croll, his

clerk, that Mr. Croll might witness the signature.

When he left the Longestaffes and Mr. Bideawhile he went at once to

his wife's room. "Is she here?" he asked.

"I will send for her. I have told her."

"You haven't frightened her?"

"Why should I frighten her? It is not very easy to frighten her,

Melmotte. She is changed since these young men have been so much

about her."

"I shall frighten her if she does not do as I bid her. Bid her come

now." This was said in French. Then Madame Melmotte left the room,

and Melmotte arranged a lot of papers in order upon a table. Having

done so, he called to Croll, who was standing on the landing-place,

and told him to seat himself in the back drawing-room till he should

be called. Melmotte then stood with his back to the fire-place in his

wife's sitting-room, with his hands in his pockets, contemplating

what might be the incidents of the coming interview. He would be very

gracious,--affectionate if it were possible,--and, above all things,

explanatory. But, by heavens, if there were continued opposition

to his demand,--to his just demand,--if this girl should dare to

insist upon exercising her power to rob him, he would not then be

affectionate,--nor gracious! There was some little delay in the

coming of the two women, and he was already beginning to lose his

temper when Marie followed Madame Melmotte into the room. He at once

swallowed his rising anger--with an effort. He would put a constraint

upon himself. The affection and the graciousness should be all

there,--as long as they might secure the purpose in hand.

"Marie," he began, "I spoke to you the other day about some property

which for certain purposes was placed in your name just as we were

leaving Paris."

"Yes, papa."

"You were such a child then,--I mean when we left Paris,--that I

could hardly explain to you the purpose of what I did." "I understood

it, papa."

"You had better listen to me, my dear. I don't think you did quite

understand it. It would have been very odd if you had, as I never

explained it to you."

"You wanted to keep it from going away if you got into trouble."

This was so true that Melmotte did not know how at the moment to

contradict the assertion. And yet he had not intended to talk of the

possibility of trouble. "I wanted to lay aside a large sum of money

which should not be liable to the ordinary fluctuations of commercial

enterprise."

"So that nobody could get at it."

"You are a little too quick, my dear."

"Marie, why can't you let your papa speak?" said Madame Melmotte.

"But of course, my dear," continued Melmotte, "I had no idea of

putting the money beyond my own reach. Such a transaction is very

common; and in such cases a man naturally uses the name of some one

who is very near and dear to him, and in whom he is sure that he can

put full confidence. And it is customary to choose a young person, as

there will then be less danger of the accident of death. It was for

these reasons, which I am sure that you will understand, that I chose

you. Of course the property remained exclusively my own."

"But it is really mine," said Marie.

"No, miss; it was never yours," said Melmotte, almost bursting out

into anger, but restraining himself. "How could it become yours,

Marie? Did I ever make you a gift of it?"

"But I know that it did become mine,--legally."

"By a quibble of law,--yes; but not so as to give you any right to

it. I always draw the income."

"But I could stop that, papa,--and if I were married, of course it

would be stopped."

Then, quick as a flash of lightning, another idea occurred to

Melmotte, who feared that he already began to see that this child of

his might be stiff-necked. "As we are thinking of your marriage," he

said, "it is necessary that a change should be made. Settlements must

be drawn for the satisfaction of Lord Nidderdale and his father. The

old Marquis is rather hard upon me, but the marriage is so splendid

that I have consented. You must now sign these papers in four or

five places. Mr. Croll is here, in the next room, to witness your

signature, and I will call him."

"Wait a moment, papa."

"Why should we wait?"

"I don't think I will sign them."

"Why not sign them? You can't really suppose that the property is

your own. You could not even get it if you did think so."

"I don't know how that may be; but I had rather not sign them. If I

am to be married, I ought not to sign anything except what he tells

me."

"He has no authority over you yet. I have authority over you. Marie,

do not give more trouble. I am very much pressed for time. Let me

call in Mr. Croll."

"No, papa," she said.

Then came across his brow that look which had probably first induced

Marie to declare that she would endure to be "cut to pieces," rather

than to yield in this or that direction. The lower jaw squared

itself, and the teeth became set, and the nostrils of his nose became

extended,--and Marie began to prepare herself to be "cut to pieces."

But he reminded himself that there was another game which he had

proposed to play before he resorted to anger and violence. He would

tell her how much depended on her compliance. Therefore he relaxed

the frown,--as well as he knew how, and softened his face towards

her, and turned again to his work. "I am sure, Marie, that you will

not refuse to do this when I explain to you its importance to me. I

must have that property for use in the city to-morrow, or--I shall

be ruined." The statement was very short, but the manner in which he

made it was not without effect.

"Oh!" shrieked his wife.

"It is true. These harpies have so beset me about the election that

they have lowered the price of every stock in which I am concerned,

and have brought the Mexican Railway so low that they cannot be sold

at all. I don't like bringing my troubles home from the city; but on

this occasion I cannot help it. The sum locked up here is very large,

and I am compelled to use it. In point of fact it is necessary to

save us from destruction." This he said, very slowly, and with the

utmost solemnity.

"But you told me just now you wanted it because I was going to be

married," rejoined Marie.

A liar has many points in his favour,--but he has this against him,

that unless he devote more time to the management of his lies than

life will generally allow, he cannot make them tally. Melmotte was

thrown back for a moment, and almost felt that the time for violence

had come. He longed to be at her that he might shake the wickedness

and the folly, and the ingratitude out of her. But he once more

condescended to argue and to explain. "I think you misunderstood me,

Marie. I meant you to understand that settlements must be made, and

that of course I must get my own property back into my own hands

before anything of that kind can be done. I tell you once more, my

dear, that if you do not do as I bid you, so that I may use that

property the first thing to-morrow, we are all ruined. Everything

will be gone."

"This can't be gone," said Marie, nodding her head at the papers.

"Marie,--do you wish to see me disgraced and ruined? I have done a

great deal for you."

"You turned away the only person I ever cared for," said Marie.

"Marie, how can you be so wicked? Do as your papa bids you," said

Madame Melmotte.

"No!" said Melmotte. "She does not care who is ruined, because we

saved her from that reprobate."

"She will sign them now," said Madame Melmotte.

"No;--I will not sign them," said Marie. "If I am to be married to

Lord Nidderdale as you all say, I am sure I ought to sign nothing

without telling him. And if the property was once made to be mine,

I don't think I ought to give it up again because papa says that he

is going to be ruined. I think that's a reason for not giving it up

again."

"It isn't yours to give. It's mine," said Melmotte gnashing his

teeth.

"Then you can do what you like with it without my signing," said

Marie.

He paused a moment, and then laying his hand gently upon her

shoulder, he asked her yet once again. His voice was changed, and was

very hoarse. But he still tried to be gentle with her. "Marie," he

said, "will you do this to save your father from destruction?"

But she did not believe a word that he said to her. How could she

believe him? He had taught her to regard him as her natural enemy,

making her aware that it was his purpose to use her as a chattel for

his own advantage, and never allowing her for a moment to suppose

that aught that he did was to be done for her happiness. And now,

almost in a breath, he had told her that this money was wanted that

it might be settled on her and the man to whom she was to be married,

and then that it might be used to save him from instant ruin. She

believed neither one story nor the other. That she should have done

as she was desired in this matter can hardly be disputed. The father

had used her name because he thought that he could trust her. She

was his daughter and should not have betrayed his trust. But she had

steeled herself to obstinacy against him in all things. Even yet,

after all that had passed, although she had consented to marry Lord

Nidderdale, though she had been forced by what she had learned to

despise Sir Felix Carbury, there was present to her an idea that she

might escape with the man she really loved. But any such hope could

depend only on the possession of the money which she now claimed as

her own. Melmotte had endeavoured to throw a certain supplicatory

pathos into the question he had asked her; but, though he was in some

degree successful with his voice, his eyes and his mouth and his

forehead still threatened her. He was always threatening her. All her

thoughts respecting him reverted to that inward assertion that he

might "cut her to pieces" if he liked. He repeated his question in

the pathetic strain. "Will you do this now,--to save us all from

ruin?" But his eyes still threatened her.

"No;" she said, looking up into his face as though watching for the

personal attack which would be made upon her; "no, I won't."

"Marie!" exclaimed Madame Melmotte.

She glanced round for a moment at her pseudo-mother with contempt.

"No;" she said. "I don't think I ought,--and I won't."

"You won't!" shouted Melmotte. She merely shook her head. "Do you

mean that you, my own child, will attempt to rob your father just at

the moment you can destroy him by your wickedness?" She shook her

head but said no other word.

"Nec pueros coram populo Medea trucidet."

"Let not Medea with unnatural rage

Slaughter her mangled infants on the stage."

Nor will I attempt to harrow my readers by a close description of the

scene which followed. Poor Marie! That cutting her up into pieces was

commenced after a most savage fashion. Marie crouching down hardly

uttered a sound. But Madame Melmotte frightened beyond endurance

screamed at the top of her voice,--"Ah, Melmotte, tu la tueras!"

And then she tried to drag him from his prey. "Will you sign them

now?" said Melmotte, panting. At that moment Croll, frightened by the

screams, burst into the room. It was perhaps not the first time that

he had interfered to save Melmotte from the effects of his own wrath.

"Oh, Mr. Melmotte, vat is de matter?" asked the clerk.

Melmotte was out of breath and could hardly tell his story. Marie

gradually recovered herself, and crouched, cowering, in a corner of

a sofa, by no means vanquished in spirit, but with a feeling that

the very life had been crushed out of her body. Madame Melmotte

was standing weeping copiously, with her handkerchief up to her

eyes. "Will you sign the papers?" Melmotte demanded. Marie, lying

as she was, all in a heap, merely shook her head. "Pig!" said

Melmotte,--"wicked, ungrateful pig."

"Ah, Ma'am-moiselle," said Croll, "you should oblige your fader."

[Illustration: "Ah, Ma'am-moiselle," said Croll, "you should

oblige your fader."]

"Wretched, wicked girl!" said Melmotte, collecting the papers

together. Then he left the room, and followed by Croll descended to

the study, whence the Longestaffes and Mr. Bideawhile had long since

taken their departure.

Madame Melmotte came and stood over the girl, but for some minutes

spoke never a word. Marie lay on the sofa, all in a heap, with her

hair dishevelled and her dress disordered, breathing hard, but

uttering no sobs and shedding no tears. The stepmother,--if she might

so be called,--did not think of attempting to persuade where her

husband had failed. She feared Melmotte so thoroughly, and was so

timid in regard to her own person, that she could not understand

the girl's courage. Melmotte was to her an awful being, powerful as

Satan,--whom she never openly disobeyed, though she daily deceived

him, and was constantly detected in her deceptions. Marie seemed to

her to have all her father's stubborn, wicked courage, and very much

of his power. At the present moment she did not dare to tell the girl

that she had been wrong. But she had believed her husband when he had

said that destruction was coming, and had partly believed him when he

declared that the destruction might be averted by Marie's obedience.

Her life had been passed in almost daily fear of destruction. To

Marie the last two years of splendour had been so long that they had

produced a feeling of security. But to the elder woman the two years

had not sufficed to eradicate the remembrance of former reverses, and

never for a moment had she felt herself to be secure. At last she

asked the girl what she would like to have done for her. "I wish he

had killed me," Marie said, slowly dragging herself up from the sofa,

and retreating without another word to her own room.

In the meantime another scene was being acted in the room below.

Melmotte after he reached the room hardly made a reference to his

daughter,--merely saying that nothing would overcome her wicked

obstinacy. He made no allusion to his own violence, nor had Croll the

courage to expostulate with him now that the immediate danger was

over. The Great Financier again arranged the papers, just as they had

been laid out before,--as though he thought that the girl might be

brought down to sign them there. And then he went on to explain to

Croll what he had wanted to have done,--how necessary it was that the

thing should be done, and how terribly cruel it was to him that in

such a crisis of his life he should be hampered, impeded,--he did not

venture to his clerk to say ruined,--by the ill-conditioned obstinacy

of a girl! He explained very fully how absolutely the property was

his own, how totally the girl was without any right to withhold it

from him! How monstrous in its injustice was the present position

of things! In all this Croll fully agreed. Then Melmotte went on

to declare that he would not feel the slightest scruple in writing

Marie's signature to the papers himself. He was the girl's father and

was justified in acting for her. The property was his own property,

and he was justified in doing with it as he pleased. Of course he

would have no scruple in writing his daughter's name. Then he looked

up at the clerk. The clerk again assented,--after a fashion, not by

any means with the comfortable certainty with which he had signified

his accordance with his employer's first propositions. But he did

not, at any rate, hint any disapprobation of the step which Melmotte

proposed to take. Then Melmotte went a step farther, and explained

that the only difficulty in reference to such a transaction would

be that the signature of his daughter would be required to be

corroborated by that of a witness before he could use it. Then he

again looked up at Croll;--but on this occasion Croll did not move a

muscle of his face. There certainly was no assent. Melmotte continued

to look at him; but then came upon the old clerk's countenance a

stern look which amounted to very strong dissent. And yet Croll had

been conversant with some irregular doings in his time, and Melmotte

knew well the extent of Croll's experience. Then Melmotte made a

little remark to himself. "He knows that the game is pretty well

over." "You had better return to the city now," he said aloud. "I

shall follow you in half an hour. It is quite possible that I may

bring my daughter with me. If I can make her understand this thing I

shall do so. In that case I shall want you to be ready." Croll again

smiled, and again assented, and went his way.

But Melmotte made no further attempt upon his daughter. As soon as

Croll was gone he searched among various papers in his desk and

drawers, and having found two signatures, those of his daughter and

of this German clerk, set to work tracing them with some thin tissue

paper. He commenced his present operation by bolting his door and

pulling down the blinds. He practised the two signatures for the best

part of an hour. Then he forged them on the various documents;--and,

having completed the operation, refolded them, placed them in a

little locked bag of which he had always kept the key in his purse,

and then, with the bag in his hand, was taken in his brougham into

the city.