CHAPTER LXXXI.

MR. COHENLUPE LEAVES LONDON.

Dolly Longestaffe had found himself compelled to go to Fetter Lane

immediately after that meeting in Bruton Street at which he had

consented to wait two days longer for the payment of his money. This

was on a Wednesday, the day appointed for the payment being Friday.

He had undertaken that, on his part, Squercum should be made to

desist from further immediate proceedings, and he could only carry

out his word by visiting Squercum. The trouble to him was very

great, but he began to feel that he almost liked it. The excitement

was nearly as good as that of loo. Of course it was a "horrid

bore,"--this having to go about in cabs under the sweltering sun of a

London July day. Of course it was a "horrid bore,"--this doubt about

his money. And it went altogether against the grain with him that

he should be engaged in any matter respecting the family property

in agreement with his father and Mr. Bideawhile. But there was an

importance in it that sustained him amidst his troubles. It is said

that if you were to take a man of moderate parts and make him Prime

Minister out of hand, he might probably do as well as other Prime

Ministers, the greatness of the work elevating the man to its own

level. In that way Dolly was elevated to the level of a man of

business, and felt and enjoyed his own capacity. "By George!" It

depended chiefly upon him whether such a man as Melmotte should or

should not be charged before the Lord Mayor. "Perhaps I oughtn't to

have promised," he said to Squercum, sitting in the lawyer's office

on a high-legged stool with a cigar in his mouth. He preferred

Squercum to any other lawyer he had met because Squercum's room was

untidy and homely, because there was nothing awful about it, and

because he could sit in what position he pleased, and smoke all the

time.

"Well; I don't think you ought, if you ask me," said Squercum.

"You weren't there to be asked, old fellow."

"Bideawhile shouldn't have asked you to agree to anything in my

absence," said Squercum indignantly. "It was a very unprofessional

thing on his part, and so I shall take an opportunity of telling

him."

"It was you told me to go."

"Well;--yes. I wanted you to see what they were at in that room; but

I told you to look on and say nothing."

"I didn't speak half-a-dozen words."

"You shouldn't have spoken those words. Your father then is quite

clear that you did not sign the letter?"

"Oh, yes;--the governor is pig-headed, you know, but he's honest."

"That's a matter of course," said the lawyer. "All men are

honest; but they are generally specially honest to their own side.

Bideawhile's honest; but you've got to fight him deuced close to

prevent his getting the better of you. Melmotte has promised to pay

the money on Friday, has he?"

"He's to bring it with him to Bruton Street."

"I don't believe a word of it;--and I'm sure Bideawhile doesn't. In

what shape will he bring it? He'll give you a cheque dated on Monday,

and that'll give him two days more, and then on Monday there'll be a

note to say the money can't be lodged till Wednesday. There should

be no compromising with such a man. You only get from one mess into

another. I told you neither to do anything or to say anything."

"I suppose we can't help ourselves now. You're to be there on Friday.

I particularly bargained for that. If you're there, there won't be

any more compromising."

Squercum made one or two further remarks to his client, not at all

flattering to Dolly's vanity,--which might have caused offence had

not there been such perfectly good feeling between the attorney and

the young man. As it was Dolly replied to everything that was said

with increased flattery. "If I was a sharp fellow like you, you

know," said Dolly, "of course I should get along better; but I ain't,

you know." It was then settled that they should meet each other, and

also meet Mr. Longestaffe senior, Bideawhile, and Melmotte, at twelve

o'clock on Friday morning in Bruton Street.

Squercum was by no means satisfied. He had busied himself in this

matter, and had ferreted things out, till he had pretty nearly got

to the bottom of that affair about the houses in the East, and had

managed to induce the heirs of the old man who had died to employ

him. As to the Pickering property he had not a doubt on the subject.

Old Longestaffe had been induced by promises of wonderful aid and by

the bribe of a seat at the Board of the South Central Pacific and

Mexican Railway to give up the title-deeds of the property,--as far

as it was in his power to give them up; and had endeavoured to induce

Dolly to do so also. As he had failed, Melmotte had supplemented his

work by ingenuity, with which the reader is acquainted. All this was

perfectly clear to Squercum, who thought that he saw before him a

most attractive course of proceeding against the Great Financier. It

was pure ambition rather than any hope of lucre that urged him on. He

regarded Melmotte as a grand swindler,--perhaps the grandest that the

world had ever known,--and he could conceive no greater honour than

the detection, successful prosecution, and ultimate destroying of

so great a man. To have hunted down Melmotte would make Squercum as

great almost as Melmotte himself. But he felt himself to have been

unfairly hampered by his own client. He did not believe that the

money would be paid; but delay might rob him of his Melmotte. He had

heard a good many things in the City, and believed it to be quite out

of the question that Melmotte should raise the money,--but there were

various ways in which a man might escape.

It may be remembered that Croll, the German clerk, preceded Melmotte

into the City on Wednesday after Marie's refusal to sign the deeds.

He, too, had his eyes open, and had perceived that things were not

looking as well as they used to look. Croll had for many years been

true to his patron, having been, upon the whole, very well paid for

such truth. There had been times when things had gone badly with him,

but he had believed in Melmotte, and, when Melmotte rose, had been

rewarded for his faith. Mr. Croll at the present time had little

investments of his own, not made under his employer's auspices, which

would leave him not absolutely without bread for his family should

the Melmotte affairs at any time take an awkward turn. Melmotte had

never required from him service that was actually fraudulent,--had

at any rate never required it by spoken words. Mr. Croll had not

been over-scrupulous, and had occasionally been very useful to Mr.

Melmotte. But there must be a limit to all things; and why should any

man sacrifice himself beneath the ruins of a falling house,--when

convinced that nothing he can do can prevent the fall? Mr. Croll

would have been of course happy to witness Miss Melmotte's signature;

but as for that other kind of witnessing,--this clearly to his

thinking was not the time for such good-nature on his part.

"You know what's up now;--don't you?" said one of the junior clerks

to Mr. Croll when he entered the office in Abchurch Lane.

"A good deal will be up soon," said the German.

"Cohenlupe has gone!"

"And to vere has Mr. Cohenlupe gone?"

"He hasn't been civil enough to leave his address. I fancy he don't

want his friends to have to trouble themselves by writing to him.

Nobody seems to know what's become of him."

"New York," suggested Mr. Croll.

"They seem to think not. They're too hospitable in New York for Mr.

Cohenlupe just at present. He's travelling private. He's on the

continent somewhere,--half across France by this time; but nobody

knows what route he has taken. That'll be a poke in the ribs for the

old boy;--eh, Croll?" Croll merely shook his head. "I wonder what has

become of Miles Grendall," continued the clerk.

"Ven de rats is going avay it is bad for de house. I like de rats to

stay."

"There seems to have been a regular manufactory of Mexican Railway

scrip."

"Our governor knew noding about dat," said Croll.

"He has a hat full of them at any rate. If they could have been kept

up another fortnight they say Cohenlupe would have been worth nearly

a million of money, and the governor would have been as good as the

bank. Is it true they are going to have him before the Lord Mayor

about the Pickering title-deeds?" Croll declared that he knew nothing

about the matter, and settled himself down to his work.

In little more than two hours he was followed by Melmotte, who thus

reached the City late in the afternoon. It was he knew too late to

raise the money on that day, but he hoped that he might pave the way

for getting it on the next day, which would be Thursday. Of course

the first news which he heard was of the defection of Mr. Cohenlupe.

It was Croll who told him. He turned back, and his jaw fell, but at

first he said nothing. "It's a bad thing," said Mr. Croll.

"Yes;--it is bad. He had a vast amount of my property in his hands.

Where has he gone?" Croll shook his head. "It never rains but it

pours," said Melmotte. "Well; I'll weather it all yet. I've been

worse than I am now, Croll, as you know, and have had a hundred

thousand pounds at my banker's,--loose cash,--before the month was

out."

"Yes, indeed," said Croll.

"But the worst of it is that every one around me is so damnably

jealous. It isn't what I've lost that will crush me, but what men

will say that I've lost. Ever since I began to stand for Westminster

there has been a dead set against me in the City. The whole of that

affair of the dinner was planned,--planned by G----, that it might

ruin me. It was all laid out just as you would lay the foundation of

a building. It is hard for one man to stand against all that when he

has dealings so large as mine."

"Very hard, Mr. Melmotte."

"But they'll find they're mistaken yet. There's too much of the real

stuff, Croll, for them to crush me. Property's a kind of thing that

comes out right at last. It's cut and come again, you know, if the

stuff is really there. But I mustn't stop talking here. I suppose I

shall find Brehgert in Cuthbert's Court."

"I should say so, Mr. Melmotte. Mr. Brehgert never leaves much before

six."

Then Mr. Melmotte took his hat and gloves, and the stick that he

usually carried, and went out with his face carefully dressed in its

usually jaunty air. But Croll as he went heard him mutter the name of

Cohenlupe between his teeth. The part which he had to act is one very

difficult to any actor. The carrying an external look of indifference

when the heart is sinking within,--or has sunk almost to the very

ground,--is more than difficult; it is an agonizing task. In all

mental suffering the sufferer longs for solitude,--for permission to

cast himself loose along the ground, so that every limb and every

feature of his person may faint in sympathy with his heart. A grandly

urbane deportment over a crushed spirit and ruined hopes is beyond

the physical strength of most men;--but there have been men so

strong. Melmotte very nearly accomplished it. It was only to the eyes

of such a one as Herr Croll that the failure was perceptible.

Melmotte did find Mr. Brehgert. At this time Mr. Brehgert had

completed his correspondence with Miss Longestaffe, in which he

had mentioned the probability of great losses from the anticipated

commercial failure in Mr. Melmotte's affairs. He had now heard that

Mr. Cohenlupe had gone upon his travels, and was therefore nearly

sure that his anticipation would be correct. Nevertheless, he

received his old friend with a smile. When large sums of money are

concerned there is seldom much of personal indignation between man

and man. The loss of fifty pounds or of a few hundreds may create

personal wrath;--but fifty thousand require equanimity. "So Cohenlupe

hasn't been seen in the City to-day," said Brehgert.

"He has gone," said Melmotte hoarsely.

"I think I once told you that Cohenlupe was not the man for large

dealings."

"Yes, you did," said Melmotte.

"Well;--it can't be helped; can it? And what is it now?" Then

Melmotte explained to Mr. Brehgert what it was that he wanted then,

taking the various documents out of the bag which throughout the

afternoon he had carried in his hand. Mr. Brehgert understood enough

of his friend's affairs, and enough of affairs in general, to

understand readily all that was required. He examined the documents,

declaring as he did so that he did not know how the thing could be

arranged by Friday. Melmotte replied that £50,000 was not a very

large sum of money, that the security offered was worth twice as much

as that. "You will leave them with me this evening," said Brehgert.

Melmotte paused for a moment, and said that he would of course do so.

He would have given much, very much, to have been sufficiently master

of himself to have assented without hesitation;--but then the weight

within was so very heavy!

Having left the papers and the bag with Mr. Brehgert, he walked

westwards to the House of Commons. He was accustomed to remain in the

City later than this, often not leaving it till seven,--though during

the last week or ten days he had occasionally gone down to the House

in the afternoon. It was now Wednesday, and there was no evening

sitting;--but his mind was too full of other things to allow him to

remember this. As he walked along the Embankment, his thoughts were

very heavy. How would things go with him?--What would be the end of

it? Ruin;--yes, but there were worse things than ruin. And a short

time since he had been so fortunate;--had made himself so safe! As

he looked back at it, he could hardly say how it had come to pass

that he had been driven out of the track that he had laid down for

himself. He had known that ruin would come, and had made himself so

comfortably safe, so brilliantly safe, in spite of ruin. But insane

ambition had driven him away from his anchorage. He told himself over

and over again that the fault had been not in circumstances,--not

in that which men call Fortune,--but in his own incapacity to bear

his position. He saw it now. He felt it now. If he could only begin

again, how different would his conduct be!

But of what avail were such regrets as these? He must take things as

they were now, and see that, in dealing with them, he allowed himself

to be carried away neither by pride nor cowardice. And if the worst

should come to the worst, then let him face it like a man! There was

a certain manliness about him which showed itself perhaps as strongly

in his own self-condemnation as in any other part of his conduct at

this time. Judging of himself, as though he were standing outside

himself and looking on to another man's work, he pointed out to

himself his own shortcomings. If it were all to be done again he

thought that he could avoid this bump against the rocks on one side,

and that terribly shattering blow on the other. There was much that

he was ashamed of,--many a little act which recurred to him vividly

in this solitary hour as a thing to be repented of with inner

sackcloth and ashes. But never once, not for a moment, did it occur

to him that he should repent of the fraud in which his whole life had

been passed. No idea ever crossed his mind of what might have been

the result had he lived the life of an honest man. Though he was

inquiring into himself as closely as he could, he never even told

himself that he had been dishonest. Fraud and dishonesty had been the

very principle of his life, and had so become a part of his blood and

bones that even in this extremity of his misery he made no question

within himself as to his right judgment in regard to them. Not

to cheat, not to be a scoundrel, not to live more luxuriously

than others by cheating more brilliantly, was a condition of

things to which his mind had never turned itself. In that respect

he accused himself of no want of judgment. But why had he, so

unrighteous himself, not made friends to himself of the Mammon of

unrighteousness? Why had he not conciliated Lord Mayors? Why had

he trod upon all the corns of all his neighbours? Why had he been

insolent at the India Office? Why had he trusted any man as he had

trusted Cohenlupe? Why had he not stuck to Abchurch Lane instead of

going into Parliament? Why had he called down unnecessary notice on

his head by entertaining the Emperor of China? It was too late now,

and he must bear it; but these were the things that had ruined him.

He walked into Palace Yard and across it, to the door of Westminster

Abbey, before he found out that Parliament was not sitting. "Oh,

Wednesday! Of course it is," he said, turning round and directing

his steps towards Grosvenor Square. Then he remembered that in the

morning he had declared his purpose of dining at home, and now he did

not know what better use to make of the present evening. His house

could hardly be very comfortable to him. Marie no doubt would keep

out of his way, and he did not habitually receive much pleasure from

his wife's company. But in his own house he could at least be alone.

Then, as he walked slowly across the park, thinking so intently on

matters as hardly to observe whether he himself were observed or no,

he asked himself whether it still might not be best for him to keep

the money which was settled on his daughter, to tell the Longestaffes

that he could make no payment, and to face the worst that Mr.

Squercum could do to him,--for he knew already how busy Mr. Squercum

was in the matter. Though they should put him on his trial for

forgery, what of that? He had heard of trials in which the accused

criminals had been heroes to the multitude while their cases were in

progress,--who had been fêted from the beginning to the end though

no one had doubted their guilt,--and who had come out unscathed at

the last. What evidence had they against him? It might be that the

Longestaffes and Bideawhiles and Squercums should know that he was

a forger, but their knowledge would not produce a verdict. He, as

member for Westminster, as the man who had entertained the Emperor,

as the owner of one of the most gorgeous houses in London, as the

great Melmotte, could certainly command the best half of the bar.

He already felt what popular support might do for him. Surely there

need be no despondency while so good a hope remained to him! He did

tremble as he remembered Dolly Longestaffe's letter, and the letter

of the old man who was dead. And he knew that it was possible that

other things might be adduced; but would it not be better to face it

all than surrender his money and become a pauper, seeing, as he did

very clearly, that even by such surrender he could not cleanse his

character?

But he had given those forged documents into the hands of Mr.

Brehgert! Again he had acted in a hurry,--without giving sufficient

thought to the matter in hand. He was angry with himself for that

also. But how is a man to give sufficient thought to his affairs

when no step that he takes can be other than ruinous? Yes;--he had

certainly put into Brehgert's hands means of proving him to have

been absolutely guilty of forgery. He did not think that Marie would

disclaim the signatures, even though she had refused to sign the

deeds, when she should understand that her father had written her

name; nor did he think that his clerk would be urgent against him,

as the forgery of Croll's name could not injure Croll. But Brehgert,

should he discover what had been done, would certainly not permit him

to escape. And now he had put these forgeries without any guard into

Brehgert's hands.

He would tell Brehgert in the morning that he had changed his mind.

He would see Brehgert before any action could have been taken on the

documents, and Brehgert would no doubt restore them to him. Then he

would instruct his daughter to hold the money fast, to sign no paper

that should be put before her, and to draw the income herself. Having

done that, he would let his foes do their worst. They might drag him

to gaol. They probably would do so. He had an idea that he could not

be admitted to bail if accused of forgery. But he would bear all

that. If convicted he would bear the punishment, still hoping that

an end might come. But how great was the chance that they might

fail to convict him! As to the dead man's letter, and as to Dolly

Longestaffe's letter, he did not think that any sufficient evidence

could be found. The evidence as to the deeds by which Marie was to

have released the property was indeed conclusive; but he believed

that he might still recover those documents. For the present it

must be his duty to do nothing,--when he should have recovered and

destroyed those documents,--and to live before the eyes of men as

though he feared nothing.

He dined at home alone, in the study, and after dinner carefully

went through various bundles of papers, preparing them for the eyes

of those ministers of the law who would probably before long have

the privilege of searching them. At dinner, and while he was thus

employed, he drank a bottle of champagne,--feeling himself greatly

comforted by the process. If he could only hold up his head and look

men in the face, he thought that he might still live through it all.

How much had he done by his own unassisted powers! He had once been

imprisoned for fraud at Hamburgh, and had come out of gaol a pauper;

friendless, with all his wretched antecedents against him. Now he was

a member of the British House of Parliament, the undoubted owner of

perhaps the most gorgeously furnished house in London, a man with an

established character for high finance,--a commercial giant whose

name was a familiar word on all the exchanges of the two hemispheres.

Even though he should be condemned to penal servitude for life, he

would not all die. He rang the bell and desired that Madame Melmotte

might be sent to him, and bade the servant bring him brandy.

In ten minutes his poor wife came crawling into the room. Every one

connected with Melmotte regarded the man with a certain amount of

awe,--every one except Marie, to whom alone he had at times been

himself almost gentle. The servants all feared him, and his wife

obeyed him implicitly when she could not keep away from him. She came

in now and stood opposite to him, while he spoke to her. She never

sat in his presence in that room. He asked her where she and Marie

kept their jewelry;--for during the last twelvemonths rich trinkets

had been supplied to both of them. Of course she answered by another

question. "Is anything going to happen, Melmotte?"

"A good deal is going to happen. Are they here in this house, or in

Grosvenor Square?"

"They are here."

"Then have them all packed up,--as small as you can; never mind about

wool and cases and all that. Have them close to your hand so that if

you have to move you can take them with you. Do you understand?"

"Yes; I understand."

"Why don't you speak, then?"

"What is going to happen, Melmotte?"

"How can I tell? You ought to know by this time that when a man's

work is such as mine, things will happen. You'll be safe enough.

Nothing can hurt you."

"Can they hurt you, Melmotte?"

"Hurt me! I don't know what you call hurting. Whatever there is to be

borne, I suppose it is I must bear it. I have not had it very soft

all my life hitherto, and I don't think it's going to be very soft

now."

"Shall we have to move?"

"Very likely. Move! What's the harm of moving? You talk of moving as

though that were the worst thing that could happen. How would you

like to be in some place where they wouldn't let you move?"

"Are they going to send you to prison?"

"Hold your tongue."

"Tell me, Melmotte;--are they going to?" Then the poor woman did sit

down, overcome by her feelings.

"I didn't ask you to come here for a scene," said Melmotte. "Do as I

bid you about your own jewels, and Marie's. The thing is to have them

in small compass, and that you should not have it to do at the last

moment, when you will be flurried and incapable. Now you needn't

stay any longer, and it's no good asking any questions because I

shan't answer them." So dismissed, the poor woman crept out again,

and immediately, after her own slow fashion, went to work with her

ornaments.

Melmotte sat up during the greater part of the night, sometimes

sipping brandy and water, and sometimes smoking. But he did no work,

and hardly touched a paper after his wife left him.