The Paris Sketch Book of Mr. M. A. Titmarsh; and the Irish Sketch Book. William Makepeace Thackeray

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      The effects of conscience are dreadful indeed. Oh! how fearful is retribution, how deep is despair, how bitter is remorse for crime—when crime is found out!—otherwise, conscience takes matters much more easily. Gambouge cursed his fate, and swore henceforth to be virtuous.

      ‘But, hark ye, my friend,’ continued the honest broker, ‘there is no reason why, because I cannot lend upon these things, I should not buy them: they will do to melt, if for no other purpose. Will you have half the money?—speak, or I peach.’

      Simon’s resolves about virtue were dissipated instantaneously. ‘Give me half,’ he said, ‘and let me go.—What scoundrels are these pawnbrokers!’ ejaculated he, as he passed out of the accursed shop, ‘seeking every wicked pretext to rob the poor man of his hard-won gain.’

      When he had marched forwards for a street or two, Gambouge counted the money which he had received, and found that he was in possession of no less than a hundred francs. It was night, as he reckoned out his equivocal gains, and he counted them at the light of a lamp. He looked up at the lamp, in doubt as to the course he should next pursue: upon it was inscribed the simple number, 152. ‘A gambling-house,’ thought Gambouge. ‘I wish I had half the money that is now on the table upstairs.’

      He mounted, as many a rogue has done before him, and found half a hundred persons busy at a table of rouge et noir. Gambouge’s five napoleons looked insignificant by the side of the heaps which were around him; but the effects of the wine, of the theft, and of the detection by the pawnbroker, were upon him, and he threw down his capital stoutly upon the 0 0.

      It is a dangerous spot that 0 0, or double zero; but to Simon it was more lucky than to the rest of the world. The ball went spinning round—in ‘its predestined circle rolled,’ as Shelley has it, after Goethe—and plumped down at last in the double zero. One hundred and thirty-five gold napoleons (louis they were then) were counted out to the delighted painter. ‘Oh, Diabolus!’ cried he, ‘now it is that I begin to believe in thee! Don’t talk about merit,’ he cried; ‘talk about fortune. Tell me not about heroes for the future—tell me of zeroes.’ And down went twenty napoleons more upon the 0.

      The Devil was certainly in the ball: round it twirled, and dropped into zero as naturally as a duck pops its head into a pond. Our friend received five hundred pounds for his stake; and the croupiers and lookers-on began to stare at him.

      There were twelve thousand pounds on the table. Suffice it to say, that Simon won half, and retired from the Palais Royal with a thick bundle of bank-notes crammed into his dirty three-cornered hat. He had been but half an hour in the place, and he had won the revenues of a prince for half a year!

      Gambouge, as soon as he felt that he was a capitalist, and that he had a stake in the country, discovered that he was an altered man. He repented of his foul deed, and his base purloining of the restaurateur’s plate. ‘O honesty!’ he cried, ‘how unworthy is an action like this of a man who has a property like mine!’ So he went back to the pawnbroker with the gloomiest face imaginable. ‘My friend,’ said he, ‘I have sinned against all that I hold most sacred: I have forgotten my family and my religion. Here is thy money. In the name of Heaven, restore me the plate which I have wrongfully sold thee!’

      But the pawnbroker grinned, and said, ‘Nay, Mr. Gambouge, I will sell that plate for a thousand francs to you, or I never will sell it at all.’

      ‘Well,’ cried Gambouge, ‘thou art an inexorable ruffian, Trois-boules; but I will give thee all I am worth.’ And here he produced a billet of five hundred francs. ‘Look,’ said he, ‘this money is all I own; it is the payment of two years’ lodging. To raise it, I have toiled for many months; and, failing, I have been a criminal. O Heaven! I stole that plate that I might pay my debt, and keep my dear wife from wandering houseless. But I cannot bear this load of ignominy—I cannot suffer the thought of this crime. I will go to the person to whom I did wrong. I will starve, I will confess; but I will, I will do right!’

      The broker was alarmed. ‘Give me thy note,’ he cried; ‘here is the plate.’

      ‘Give me an acquittal first,’ cried Simon, almost broken-hearted; ‘sign me a paper, and the money is yours.’ So Trois-boules wrote according to Gambouge’s dictation: ‘Received, for thirteen ounces of plate, twenty pounds.’

      ‘Monster of iniquity!’ cried the painter, ‘fiend of wickedness! thou art caught in thine own snares. Hast thou not sold me five pounds’ worth of plate for twenty? Have I it not in my pocket? Art thou not a convicted dealer in stolen goods? Yield, scoundrel, yield thy money, or I will bring thee to justice!’

      The frightened pawnbroker bullied and battled for a while; but he gave up his money at last, and the dispute ended. Thus it will be seen that Diabolus had rather a hard bargain in the wily Gambouge. He had taken a victim prisoner, but he had assuredly caught a tartar. Simon now returned home, and, to do him justice, paid the bill for his dinner, and restored the plate.

      . … .

      And now I may add (and the reader should ponder upon this, as a profound picture of human life) that Gambouge, since he had grown rich, grew likewise abundantly moral. He was a most exemplary father. He fed the poor, and was loved by them. He scorned a base action. And I have no doubt that Mr. Thurtell, or the late lamented Mr. Greenacre, in similar circumstances, would have acted like the worthy Simon Gambouge.

      There was but one blot upon his character—he hated Mrs. Gam. worse than ever. As he grew more benevolent, she grew more virulent: when he went to plays, she went to Bible societies, and vice versâ: in fact, she led him such a life as Xantippe led Socrates, or as a dog leads a cat in the same kitchen. With all his fortune—for, as may be supposed, Simon prospered in all worldly things—he was the most miserable dog in the whole city of Paris. Only on the point of drinking did he and Mrs. Simon agree: and for many years, and during a considerable number of hours in each day, he thus dissipated, partially, his domestic chagrin. O philosophy! we may talk of thee: but, except at the bottom of the wine-cup, where thou liest like truth in a well, where shall we find thee?

      He lived so long, and in his worldly matters prospered so much, there was so little sign of devilment in the accomplishment of his wishes, and the increase of his prosperity, that Simon, at the end of six years, began to doubt whether he had made any such bargain at all as that which we have described at the commencement of this history. He had grown, as we said, very pious and moral. He went regularly to mass, and had a confessor into the bargain. He resolved, therefore, to consult that reverend gentleman, and to lay before him the whole matter.

      ‘I am inclined to think, holy sir,’ said Gambouge, after he had concluded his history, and shown how, in some miraculous way, all his desires were accomplished, ‘that, after all, this demon was no other than the creation of my own brain, heated by the effects of that bottle of wine, the cause of my crime and my prosperity.’

      The confessor agreed with him, and they walked out of church comfortably together, and entered afterwards a café, where they sat down to refresh themselves after the fatigues of their devotion.

      A respectable old gentleman, with a number of orders at his button-hole, presently entered the room, and sauntered up to the marble table, before which reposed Simon and his clerical friend. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said, as he took a place opposite them, and began reading the papers of the day.

      ‘Bah!’ said he, at last—‘sont-ils grands ces journaux Anglais? Look, sir,’ he said, handing over an immense sheet of the Times to Mr. Gambouge, ‘was ever anything so monstrous?’

      Gambouge СКАЧАТЬ