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Tellson’s Bank, established in the Saint Germain Quarter of Paris, was in a
wing of a large house, approached by a courtyard and shut off from the street by
a high wall and a strong gate. The house belonged to a great nobleman who had
lived in it until he made a flight from the troubles, in his own cook’s dress,
and got across the borders. A mere beast of the chase flying from hunters, he
was still in his metempsychosis no other than the same Monseigneur, the
preparation of whose chocolate for whose lips had once occupied three strong men
besides the cook in question.
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The branch of Tellson’s Bank in the Saint Germaine Quarter of Paris was in one
wing of a large house. It was accessible by a courtyard and closed off from the
street by a high wall and strong gate. The house had belonged to a wealthy
nobleman, who had lived in it until he fled Paris in his cook’s clothes and
snuck across the border. This man, who fled like an animal being chased by
hunters, was the same monseigneur who had needed three strong servants plus his
cook to serve him his chocolate.
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Monseigneur gone, and the three strong men absolving themselves from the sin
of having drawn his high wages, by being more than ready and willing to cut his
throat on the altar of the dawning Republic one and indivisible of Liberty,
Equality, Fraternity, or Death, Monseigneur’s house had been first sequestrated,
and then confiscated. For, all things moved so fast, and decree followed decree
with that fierce precipitation, that now upon the third night of the autumn
month of September, patriot emissaries of the law were in possession of
Monseigneur’s house, and had marked it with the tri-colour, and were drinking
brandy in its state apartments.
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Now the monseigneur was gone. The three former servants had made up for having
worked for him by being more than ready and willing to cut his throat in the
name of the Republic. The people had first taken control of the monseigneur’s
house, then took it away from him entirely. Things were changing so fast and
decrees were announced so quickly that now, on September third, representatives
of the new government had possession of monseigneur’s house. They had marked it
with the flag of the Republic and were drinking brandy inside.
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A place of business in London like Tellson’s place of business in Paris, would
soon have driven the House out of its mind and into the Gazette. For, what would
staid British responsibility and respectability have said to orange-trees in
boxes in a Bank courtyard, and even to a Cupid over the counter? Yet such things
were. Tellson’s had whitewashed the Cupid, but he was still to be seen on the
ceiling, in the coolest linen, aiming (as he very often does) at money from
morning to night. Bankruptcy must inevitably have come of this young Pagan, in
Lombard-street, London, and also of a curtained alcove in the rear of the
immortal boy, and also of a looking-glass let into the wall, and also of clerks
not at all old, who danced in public on the slightest provocation. Yet, a French
Tellson’s could get on with these things exceedingly well, and, as long as the
times held together, no man had taken fright at them, and drawn out his
money.
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If Tellson’s Bank in London had been like Tellson’s Bank in Paris, it would
have driven the head of the bank crazy. What would the serious, respectable,
responsible British men at Tellson’s have thought of the orange trees in boxes
in the bank’s courtyard, or the sculpture of Cupid that hung over the counter?
But such things were in the Paris bank. Tellson’s had painted the Cupid white,
but you could still see him on the ceiling. The figure was wearing linen and
aiming his arrows at money, as love often does. In London, this Cupid, the
mirror on the wall, and the young clerks who danced in public every chance they
got would surely lead to the bank’s failure. Yet, Tellson’s Bank in France
prospered under these conditions. As long as things didn’t get too out of hand
in France, no one was concerned enough to withdraw his money.
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What money would be drawn out of Tellson’s henceforth, and what would lie
there, lost and forgotten; what plate and jewels would tarnish in Tellson’s
hiding-places, while the depositors rusted in prisons, and when they should have
violently perished; how many accounts with Tellson’s never to be balanced in
this world, must be carried over into the next; no man could have said, that
night, any more than Mr. Jarvis Lorry could, though he thought heavily of these
questions. He sat by a newly-lighted wood fire (the blighted and unfruitful year
was prematurely cold), and on his honest and courageous face there was a deeper
shade than the pendent lamp could throw, or any object in the room distortedly
reflect—a shade of horror.
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That night, no man could say how much money would be drawn out of Tellson’s
Bank in Paris, or how much would stay there, lost and forgotten. No man could
say what plates and jewels would stay hidden in the bank’s vaults while the
owners of those items grew old in prison, or when those owners would die
violently. No man could say how many accounts with Tellson’s would never be
settled in this world, but carried into the next by their deceased owners. No
man could answer these questions any more than Mr. Jarvis Lorry could, though he
thought seriously about these things. He sat by a newly lit wood fire (it had
turned cold early this year), and on his honest and brave face was a dark look
of horror.
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