The Patron
He would never have dared to hope that such good fortune would be his! The son of a provincial Sheriff, Jean Marin had come to Paris, like so many others, to study law in the Latin Quarter. In the various cafés which he had successively patronized, he had made friends with a number of talkative students, who chattered about politics as they drank their beer. He developed great admiration for them and became their follower, even paying for their drinks when he happened to have any money.
Afterwards, he practised law and handled some suits, which he lost, when, one morning, he read in the papers that a friend of his student days had become a deputy. Again he became his faithful servant, the friend who discharges all the troublesome errands, whom one sends for when he is wanted, and with whom one stands on no ceremony.
But it so happened, by the chance of politics, that the deputy became a minister, and six months afterwards, Jean Marin was appointed State Councillor.
At first, he was so puffed up with pride that he almost lost his head. He would take walks just to show himself off, as if the people he met in the street could guess his position just by looking at him. He always managed to say to the various tradespeople he dealt with, as well as to the newsdealers and even the cabmen:
“I, who am a State Councillor …”
He naturally experienced, as the direct result of his profession and his newly acquired dignity, an imperative desire to patronize. He would offer his influence to everyone he met, at all times, and with inexhaustible generosity.
When he ran up against a man he knew on the boulevard, he would rush up to him in a delighted manner, shake hands, inquire after his health and then, without waiting for any inquiry, would blurt out:
“You know I am State Councillor, and I am absolutely at your service. If there is anything I can do for you, I hope you will call on me unhesitatingly. In my position, a man can do a lot for his friends.”
Then he would go into some café with this friend and ask for some writing-paper and a pen and ink—“just one sheet, waiter, I want to write a letter of introduction.”
He wrote quantities of these letters, sometimes twenty, thirty, and fifty a day. He wrote them at the Café Américain, at Bignon’s, at Tortoni’s, at the Maison-Dorée, at the Café Riche, at the Helder, at the Café Anglais, at the Napolitain, everywhere. He addressed them to every official in the Republic, from magistrates to ministers. And he was happy, thoroughly happy.
One morning, as he was leaving his rooms to go to the State Council it began to rain. He was inclined to take a cab, but did not, finally deciding that he would walk.
The shower became very heavy, soaking the pavements, and inundating the streets. M. Marin was compelled to seek shelter in a doorway. An old priest had already taken refuge there, an old, white-haired priest. Before he had been appointed State Councillor, M. Marin did not care much for the clergy. But now, ever since a Cardinal had consulted him regarding some delicate matter, he treated the clergy with consideration. The downpour was so heavy that the two men were forced to take refuge in the concierge’s box, to avoid getting splashed. M. Marin, who was constantly impelled to brag about himself, declared:
“A very bad day, monsieur l’abbé.”
The old priest bowed:
“Ah! yes, monsieur, and it is all the more disagreeable when one is in Paris for a few days only.”
“Ah! so you live in the provinces?”
“Yes, monsieur, I am only passing through Paris.”
“Indeed, it is most annoying to have rain when one is spending a day or so in the capital. We officials, who live here all the year round, do not mind it.”
The abbé made no reply and looked into the street, where the rain was beginning to stop a little. And suddenly clutching his gown in both hands, he resolved to brave the elements.
M. Marin, seeing him depart, shouted:
“You will get drenched, monsieur l’abbé. Wait a few minutes more, the rain will stop.”
The old man wavered and then said:
“Well, I’m in a great hurry. I have a very urgent engagement.”
M. Marin appeared very much concerned.
“But you will certainly be wet through. May I ask where you are going?”
The priest seemed to hesitate a moment, but then he said:
“I am going in the direction of the Palais-Royal.”
“Well then, if you will allow me, monsieur l’abbé, I will offer you the shelter of my umbrella. I am going to the State Council. I am a State Councillor.”
The old priest raised his eyes, looked at the speaker and exclaimed:
“I am greatly obliged to you, monsieur, and accept your offer with pleasure.”
Then M. Marin took him by the arm, and they set out. He led him along, watching over him and giving advice:
“Be careful of this gutter, monsieur l’abbé. Look out for the carriage wheels, they throw mud all over one. Mind the umbrellas! Nothing is more of a danger to the eyes than the sharp ends of an umbrella! The women, especially, are so careless; they never mind anything and thrust their sunshades and their umbrellas right under people’s noses. And they never go out of anyone’s way, either. They seem to think that they own the whole city. I think myself that their education has been sadly neglected.”
And M. Marin chuckled gleefully.
The priest made no reply. He picked his way carefully along the streets, slightly bent, choosing with discrimination the dry spots on the pavement so as not to bespatter his shoes and gown.
M. Marin went on:
“I suppose you are in Paris for a little rest?”
The old man retorted:
“No, I have come on business.”
“Oh! anything important? Might I inquire what it is? If I can be of service to you, I would only be too glad.”
The abbé looked embarrassed. He mumbled:
“Oh! it’s a little personal matter. A little difficulty with—with my bishop. It could hardly interest you. It is something about the adjustment—the adjustment of some ecclesiastical matter.”
M. Marin became eager.
“Why, these matters are always referred to the State Council. In this case I wish you would make use of me.”
“Yes, it is to the State Council I am going. You are most kind. I have an appointment with M. Lerepère and M. Savon, and maybe I will interview M. Petitpas also.”
M. Marin came to a stop.
“Why, they are my friends, monsieur l’abbé, my dearest friends, fine fellows, all of them. I shall warmly recommend you to them. Rely on me.”
The priest thanked him and protested his undying gratitude.
M. Marin was delighted.
“Oh! you can thank your stars, monsieur l’abbé, that you met me. You will see how smoothly everything will go now.”
They finally reached the State Council. M. Marin conducted the priest to his office, installed him before the open fire and then sat down at his desk and wrote:
“My dear colleague, allow me to recommend most heartily to you a very worthy priest, M. l’abbé …”
He paused and inquired: “Your name, please?”
“Abbé Ceinture.”
M. Marin wrote:
“M. l’abbé Ceinture, who needs your intercession in a little matter which he will lay before you.
“I am glad of this opportunity which allows me, my dear colleague …”
And he concluded with the customary compliments.
After he had written the three letters, he handed them to his protégé who departed amid renewed protestations of gratitude.
M. Marin attended to his official duties, went home, spent a quiet day and slept peacefully that night. The next morning he woke up happy, dressed and sat down to read the papers.
The first one he opened was a radical organ. He read:
“Our Clergy and our Officials.
“There seems to be no end to the misdeeds of the clergy. A certain priest named Ceinture, convicted of having conspired against the existing government, accused of infamous acts, that we will not even mention, suspected besides of being a former Jesuit transformed into an ordinary priest, revoked by his bishop for reasons which are said to be unprintable, and summoned to Paris to explain his conduct, has found a warm partisan in the State Councillor, Marin, who did not hesitate to give this cassocked rascal the most enthusiastic letters of recommendation to all his Republican colleagues.
“We wish to call the minister’s attention to the unqualifiable attitude of this State Councillor …”
M. Marin sprang to his feet, slammed down the paper and rushed off to see his colleague Petitpas, who exclaimed:
“Well you must have gone crazy to recommend that old conspirator to me.”
Thoroughly bewildered, M. Marin retorted:
“No … no … you see, I was deceived myself. He looked like such a good man … he tricked me … he tricked me most shamefully. I beg of you to condemn him severely, most severely. I shall go myself to the Attorney General and the Archbishop of Paris, yes, to the Archbishop. …”
And he sat down abruptly at M. Petitpas’ desk and wrote:
My Lord: I have the honour to inform Your Grace that I have been made a victim of the intrigues and lies of a certain abbé Ceinture, who shamefully took advantage of my good faith.
Misled by the protestations of this priest, I was induced …
Then, after he had signed his name to the letter and sealed it, he turned to his colleague and remarked:
“Look here, my dear friend, I hope this will be a lesson to you never to recommend anyone.”