The Begum's Millions. Jules VerneЧитать онлайн книгу.
Rising at five o’clock, Marcel obliged Octave to do the same. He dragged him to his courses and, after class, kept a close eye on him. Returning home, they continued their studies, interrupting them periodically with a pipe and a cup of coffee. At ten o’clock, they went to bed, their hearts satisfied and their brains filled. A game of billiards from time to time, a carefully selected play, a concert at the National Conservatory every now and then, a horseback ride to Verrières, a walk in the woods, twice-a-week lessons in boxing or dueling, such were their diversions. Octave certainly showed an inclination to rebel sometimes, and he cast an envious eye on less praiseworthy distractions. He would talk about going to see Aristide Leroux, who was “reading for the bar” at the Saint-Michel tavern. But Marcel treated these fantasies with such contempt that they most often faded away.
On October 29, 1871, around seven o’clock in the evening, the two friends were seated as usual side by side at the same table under a common lamp they shared. Marcel had thrown himself body and soul into a fascinating problem of descriptive geometry as it applied to the cutting of precious stones. With similar zeal, Octave was devoting himself to an activity that, unfortunately, seemed just as important to him — the brewing of a liter of coffee. It was one of those rare skills in which he was proud to excel — perhaps because he found a daily chance to escape the dreadful necessity of balancing equations, in which, it seemed to him, Marcel spent altogether too much time. So he was pouring his boiling water drop by drop through a thick layer of powdered mocha, and this peaceful contentedness should have satisfied him. But Marcel’s industriousness was weighing upon his conscience, and he felt the irresistible need of troubling him with some small talk.
“We’d do well to buy a percolator,” he said all of a sudden. “This old, slow method of filtering is no longer in step with our modern civilization.”
“Then buy a percolator! Maybe that’ll keep you from wasting an hour every evening on your kitchen work,” Marcel responded.
And he returned to his problem.
“An arch has an ellipsoid of three unequal axes for its intrados. Let ABDE be the ellipse at its base which encloses the maximum axis oA = a, and the central axis oB = b, whereas the minimal axis (o, o'c') is vertical and equal to c, which makes the rise of the arch less than a half of its span …”
At that moment someone knocked at the door.
“A letter for Mr. Octave Sarrasin,” said the hotel employee.
One can imagine how this fortunate diversion was welcomed by the young student.
“It’s my father,” said Octave. “I recognize the writing … This is what is called a real missive!” he added, weighing the sheaf of papers in his hand.
Marcel knew, as did his friend, that the doctor had been in England. Passing through Paris on his way there the week before, he had offered the two young men a lavish gourmet dinner in a restaurant in the Palais-Royal well known in days gone by, now out of fashion, but which Dr. Sarrasin continued to consider the last word in Parisian refinement.
“You’ll let me know if your father mentions his Hygiene Conference to you,” said Marcel. “It’s a good idea he had to go there. French scientists are too inclined to isolate themselves.”
And Marcel returned to his problem:
“… The extrados will be formed by an ellipsoid similar to the first, having its center below o' on the vertical o. After having marked the foci F1, F2, F of the three principal ellipses, we trace the ellipse and the auxiliary hyperbola, whose common axes …”
A cry from Octave caused him to look up.
“What’s the trouble?” he asked, a bit worried by seeing his friend so pale.
“Read this!” said the other, overwhelmed by the news he had just received.
Marcel took the letter, read it through, reread it a second time, cast a glance at the printed documents which accompanied it, and said:
“That’s strange!”
Then he filled his pipe and lit it methodically. Octave waited anxiously for his opinion.
“Do you think it’s true?” he asked him in a strangled voice.
“True? — obviously. Your father has too much good sense and scientific spirit to accept such a conviction blindly. Besides, the proofs are there, and basically it’s quite simple.”
The pipe was well and properly lit; Marcel went back to work. Octave remained, his arms dangling, unable to even finish his coffee, let alone assemble any logical ideas. Yet he had to speak out, to be sure he was not dreaming.
“But … if that’s true, it’s absolutely mind-boggling! … You know, a half billion, that’s an enormous fortune!”
Marcel raised his head and agreed.
“‘Enormous’ is the word. There is perhaps no equal in France, and only a few in the United States, scarcely a half-dozen in England, fifteen or twenty in the world.”
“And a noble title to boot!” continued Octave, “A title of baronet! It’s not that I’ve ever yearned to have one, but since it has happened, you can say anyway that it is more elegant than just calling yourself Sarrasin period.”
Marcel blew a puff of smoke and said nothing. This puff said clearly: “Puff! … Puff!”
“It’s certain,” replied Octave, “that I never would’ve liked to do as so many people do, stick a ‘de’ onto their name, or invent a marquisate out of paper. But having an authentic title, duly listed in the peerage of Great Britain and Ireland, where no doubt or confusion is possible, as can too often be seen …”
The pipe kept saying: “Puff! … Puff!”
“My dear friend, you can say or do what you like,” replied Octave with conviction, “but I can tell you that ‘blood counts,’ as the English say!”
He stopped short, seeing Marcel’s mocking look, and returned to the subject of his millions instead.
“Do you remember,” he continued, “that Mr. Binominal, our math teacher, rattled away every year in his first lesson on numeration that a half billion is too large a number for the strength of human intelligence to have a real concept of it if people did not have the resources of a graphic representation at their disposition? Imagine a man paying a franc a minute — it would take more than a thousand years to pay that sum! Ah! it is quite a … unique experience to consider oneself as heir to half a billion francs!”
“A half a billion francs!” exclaimed Marcel, shaken by the word more than he had been by the thing. “Do you know the best thing you could do with it? Give it to France to pay its ransom! Only it would take ten times as much! …”7
“Just don’t take it into your head to suggest such an idea to my father!” cried Octave with the voice of a frightened man. “He would be quite capable of doing it! I’ve already noticed that he’s ruminating some great project! It would be all right to make an investment in the State, but at least we should keep the revenue!”
“You were no doubt made to be a capitalist!” answered Marcel. “Something tells me, my dear Octave, that it would have been better for you, if not for your father who is an upright and sensible man, if this vast inheritance had been of more modest proportions. I would rather see you get a yearly income of twenty-five thousand pounds to share with your fine little sister than this great mountain of gold!”
And he went back to work again.
As for Octave, he was unable to do anything, and he fussed so much about the room that his friend, who was somewhat irritated, finally said to him:
“You’d better go out and get some fresh air! It’s obvious you’re not good for anything this evening.”
“You’re right,” replied