"Bertrand," says the disinterested admirer of talent and enterprise, "j'adore l'industrie.Si tu veux nous creons une banque, mais la, une vraie banque: capital cent millions de millions, cent milliards de milliards d'actions.Nous enfoncons la banque de France, les banquiers, les banquistes; nous enfoncons tout le monde." "Oui," says Bertrand, very calm and stupid, "mais les gendarmes?" "Que tu es bete, Bertrand: est-ce qu'on arrete un millionaire?" Such is the key to M.Macaire's philosophy; and a wise creed too, as times go.
Acting on these principles, Robert appears soon after; he has not created a bank, but a journal.He sits in a chair of state, and discourses to a shareholder.Bertrand, calm and stupid as before, stands humbly behind."Sir," says the editor of La Blague, journal quotidienne, "our profits arise from a new combination.The journal costs twenty francs; we sell it for twenty-three and a half.A million subscribers make three millions and a half of profits; there are my figures; contradict me by figures, or I will bring an action for libel." The reader may fancy the scene takes place in England, where many such a swindling prospectus has obtained credit ere now.At Plate 33, Robert is still a journalist;he brings to the editor of a paper an article of his composition, a violent attack on a law."My dear M.Macaire," says the editor, "this must be changed; we must PRAISE this law." "Bon, bon!" says our versatile Macaire."Je vais retoucher ca, et je vous fais en faveur de la loi UN ARTICLE MOUSSEUX."Can such things be? Is it possible that French journalists can so forget themselves? The rogues! they should come to England and learn consistency.The honesty of the Press in England is like the air we breathe, without it we die.No, no! in France, the satire may do very well; but for England it is too monstrous.Call the press stupid, call it vulgar, call it violent,--but honest it is.
Who ever heard of a journal changing its politics? O tempora! Omores! as Robert Macaire says, this would be carrying the joke too far.
When he has done with newspapers, Robert Macaire begins to distinguish himself on 'Change, as a creator of companies, a vender of shares, or a dabbler in foreign stock."Buy my coal-mine shares," shouts Robert; "gold mines, silver mines, diamond mines, 'sont de la pot-bouille de la ratatouille en comparaison de ma houille.'" "Look," says he, on another occasion, to a very timid, open-countenanced client, "you have a property to sell! I have found the very man, a rich capitalist, a fellow whose bills are better than bank-notes." His client sells; the bills are taken in payment, and signed by that respectable capitalist, Monsieur de Saint Bertrand.At Plate 81, we find him inditing a circular letter to all the world, running thus: "Sir,--I regret to say that your application for shares in the Consolidated European Incombustible Blacking Association cannot be complied with, as all the shares of the C.E.I.B.A.were disposed of on the day they were issued.I have, nevertheless, registered your name, and in case a second series should be put forth, I shall have the honor of immediately giving you notice.I am, sir, yours, &c., the Director, Robert Macaire."--"Print 300,000 of these," he says to Bertrand, "and poison all France with them." As usual, the stupid Bertrand remonstrates--"But we have not sold a single share; you have not a penny in your pocket, and"--"Bertrand, you are an ass;do as I bid you."
We have given a description of a genteel Macaire in the account of M.de Bernard's novels.
Will this satire apply anywhere in England? Have we any Consolidated European Blacking Associations amongst us? Have we penniless directors issuing El Dorado prospectuses, and jockeying their shares through the market? For information on this head, we must refer the reader to the newspapers; or if he be connected with the city, and acquainted with commercial men, he will be able to say whether ALL the persons whose names figure at the head of announcements of projected companies are as rich as Rothschild, or quite as honest as heart could desire.
When Macaire has sufficiently exploite the Bourse, whether as a gambler in the public funds or other companies, he sagely perceives that it is time to turn to some other profession, and, providing himself with a black gown, proposes blandly to Bertrand to set up--a new religion."Mon ami," says the repentant sinner, "le temps de la commandite va passer, MAIS LES BADAUDS NE PASSERONT PAS." (Orare sentence! it should be written in letters of gold!) "OCCUPONSNOUS DE CE QUI EST ETERNEL.Si nous fassions une religion?" On which M.Bertrand remarks, "A religion! what the devil--a religion is not an easy thing to make." But Macaire's receipt is easy.
"Get a gown, take a shop," he says, "borrow some chairs, preach about Napoleon, or the discovery of America, or Moliere--and there's a religion for you."We have quoted this sentence more for the contrast it offers with our own manners, than for its merits.After the noble paragraph, "Les badauds ne passeront pas.Occupons nous de ce qui est eternel," one would have expected better satire upon cant than the words that follow.We are not in a condition to say whether the subjects chosen are those that had been selected by Pere Enfantin, or Chatel, or Lacordaire; but the words are curious, we think, for the very reason that the satire is so poor.The fact is, there is no religion in Paris; even clever M.Philipon, who satirizes everything, and must know, therefore, some little about the subject which he ridicules, has nothing to say but, "Preach a sermon, and that makes a religion; anything will do." If ANYTHING will do, it is clear that the religious commodity is not in much demand.
