Cloudless May by Storm Jameson Read Free Book Online

silent. He did not want to upset the banker’s idea of him as a man of ruthlessness and energy. But he did not want to start suppressions. He saw a way out by accusing Mathieu and leaped at it.
    â€œMy dear Robert, I know all about Louis Mathieu. He’s discontented, ambitious, a Jew. I have my eye on him. But don’t ask me to put him on his guard at this moment.”
    Thiviers opened his eyes.
    â€œYou know something about him?”
    â€œI’m keeping him under observation.” Bergeot felt uncomfortable. He went on recklessly, “You can be sure I shall know when to cut him off. Just now it’s useful to have him at large. . . .” He saw Mathieu on the day some of his schoolfellows decided to punish him mildly for having been born a Jew. They were content to knock him into the gutter. Mud from head to foot, he limped away, only saying to Bergeot, who had been watching it with disgust and fear, “You could have stopped them. . . .”
    â€œVery well, I leave it to your judgement.” Thiviers smiled. “There was something else I had to say to you. About your investments——”
    â€œOh, that I leave to your judgement,” Bergeot cried. “Do what you like with my money. If it weren’t for you I shouldn’t have any. I don’t pretend to be able to make fifty francs into a thousand.”
    Mme de Freppel’s voice made them both jump. She had come into the room through the second door, at their back. There was no keeping her out of the Prefect’s room when she wanted to see him; his clerks had given up trying. If she chose, she could reach it by a second staircase.
    â€œNo, you’re an idiot about money, my dear Émile!”
    She came forward quickly. She had bare arms, as delicate as a girl’s, and a light dress. Standing in front of him, her hands behind her back, body thrust forward, she repeated sharply,
    â€œYes, an idiot. I believe you would really rather be poor. Youthink it’s a sign of honesty. It’s nothing of the kind, it’s stupidity and conceit.”
    Bergeot pointed at his desk.
    â€œLook at my work waiting for me.” . . .
    But as soon as he was alone he felt restless. He had failed—he would always fail—to be simple and dignified. He had had to exert himself, to tell lies, to be familiar. He was always straining to cover the gap between himself and what people expected of him. I should like to know no one, he thought, discouraged.
    It was a lie. Already his confidence was pouring back. He looked round the room—at the Renaissance fireplace with the arms of the Duc de Seuilly, at the panelled cupboards. I’m here, he thought, stretching his arms. I, Jean-Émile Bergeot. He felt ruthless and gentle, serious and gay. One of Marguerite’s gloves was lying under the window. He picked it up, small, a little shabby. She had a habit of putting new things away for a year or two before taking them into wear. It was ridiculous and miserly. It belonged to her past, which he knew to have been difficult. Poor child, he thought, folding the glove.
    The door opened softly. Lucien Sugny poked his head round. When he saw that the Prefect was alone he came in, carrying a pile of opened letters.
    â€œWhat, more of them?” Bergeot said joyfully.

Chapter 6
    When Mme de Freppel went shopping, if it were only for a reel of cotton, she felt all the anxieties of a peasant. She tried to see everything at once, every ambush. Caught at the right moment, even her enemy, the manageress of the fur department at Caillemer’s, could be outwitted. This morning when she went in, she knew, from the sight of a curtain twitched aside and the reddened eyelids of the younger saleswoman, that it was a bad day. But she had half an hour to put in. A fox cape lying across a roll of black foulard delighted her; she waspinching it when her enemy came up. “Good morning, Madame.”
    â€œGood-morning.