The Way We Live Now, Anthony Trollope [good story books to read .txt] 📗

excitement of an election could not justify, and as to these things he must have recourse to the law. Then he made some allusion to the Princes and the Emperor, and concluded by observing that it was the proudest boast of his life to be an Englishman and a Londoner.

It was asserted afterwards that this was the only good speech he had ever been known to make; and it was certainly successful, as he was applauded throughout Covent Garden. A reporter for the Breakfast Table who was on duty at the place, looking for paragraphs as to the conduct of electors, gave an account of the speech in that paper, and made more of it, perhaps, than it deserved. It was asserted afterwards, and given as a great proof of Melmotte’s cleverness, that he had planned the thing and gone to Covent Garden all alone having considered that in that way could he best regain a step in reputation; but in truth the affair had not been preconcerted. It was while in Whitehall Place that he had first thought of going to Covent Garden, and he had had no idea of making a speech till the people had gathered round him.

It was then noon, and he had to determine what he should do next. He was half inclined to go round to all the booths and make speeches. His success at Covent Garden had been very pleasant to him. But he feared that he might not be so successful elsewhere. He had shown that he was not afraid of the electors. Then an idea struck him that he would go boldly into the City⁠—to his own offices in Abchurch Lane. He had determined to be absent on this day, and would not be expected. But his appearance there could not on that account be taken amiss. Whatever enmities there might be, or whatever perils, he would face them. He got a cab therefore and had himself driven to Abchurch Lane.

The clerks were hanging about doing nothing, as though it were a holiday. The dinner, the election, and the rumour together had altogether demoralized them. But some of them at least were there, and they showed no signs of absolute insubordination. “Mr. Grendall has not been here?” he asked. No; Mr. Grendall had not been there; but Mr. Cohenlupe was in Mr. Grendall’s room. At this moment he hardly desired to see Mr. Cohenlupe. That gentleman was privy to many of his transactions, but was by no means privy to them all. Mr. Cohenlupe knew that the estate at Pickering had been purchased, and knew that it had been mortgaged. He knew also what had become of the money which had so been raised. But he knew nothing of the circumstances of the purchase, although he probably surmised that Melmotte had succeeded in getting the title-deeds on credit, without paying the money. He was afraid that he could hardly see Cohenlupe and hold his tongue, and that he could not speak to him without danger. He and Cohenlupe might have to stand in a dock together; and Cohenlupe had none of his spirit. But the clerks would think, and would talk, were he to leave the office without seeing his old friend. He went therefore into his own room, and called to Cohenlupe as he did so.

“Ve didn’t expect you here today,” said the member for Staines.

“Nor did I expect to come. But there isn’t much to do at Westminster while the ballot is going on; so I came up, just to look at the letters. The dinner went off pretty well yesterday, eh?”

“Uncommon;⁠—nothing better. Vy did the Lord Mayor stay away, Melmotte?”

“Because he’s an ass and a cur,” said Mr. Melmotte with an assumed air of indignation. “Alf and his people had got hold of him. There was ever so much fuss about it at first⁠—whether he would accept the invitation. I say it was an insult to the City to take it and not to come. I shall be even with him some of these days.”

“Things will go on just the same as usual, Melmotte?”

“Go on. Of course they’ll go. What’s to hinder them?”

“There’s ever so much been said,” whispered Cohenlupe.

“Said;⁠—yes,” ejaculated Melmotte very loudly. “You’re not such a fool, I hope, as to believe every word you hear. You’ll have enough to believe, if you do.”

“There’s no knowing vat anybody does know, and vat anybody does not know,” said Cohenlupe.

“Look you here, Cohenlupe,”⁠—and now Melmotte also sank his voice to a whisper⁠—“keep your tongue in your mouth; go about just as usual, and say nothing. It’s all right. There has been some heavy pulls upon us.”

“Oh dear, there has indeed!”

“But any paper with my name to it will come right.”

“That’s nothing;⁠—nothing at all,” said Cohenlupe.

“And there is nothing;⁠—nothing at all! I’ve bought some property and have paid for it; and I have bought some, and have not yet paid for it. There’s no fraud in that.”

“No, no⁠—nothing in that.”

“You hold your tongue, and go about your business. I’m going to the bank now.” Cohenlupe had been very low in spirits, and was still low in spirits; but he was somewhat better after the visit of the great man to the City.

Mr. Melmotte was as good as his word and walked straight to the bank. He kept two accounts at different banks, one for his business, and one for his private affairs. The one he now entered was that which kept what we may call his domestic account. He walked straight through, after his old fashion, to the room behind the bank in which sat the manager and the manager’s one clerk, and stood upon the rug before the fireplace just as though nothing had happened⁠—or as nearly as though nothing had happened as was within the compass of his powers. He could not quite do it. In keeping up an appearance intended to be natural he was obliged to be somewhat milder than his wont. The manager did not behave nearly as well as he