The Begum's Millions. Jules Verne

Verne’s readers, perhaps put off by the negative images of science in the later novels, would also long for those initial “happy days” of Axel, the children of Captain Grant, and Phileas Fogg (the all-time Vernian champion who made Around the World in Eighty Days an international best seller). Although Stahlstadt was ultimately defeated by the forces of good, its somber vision would nonetheless grow more persistent in the latter half of Verne’s oeuvre as the late nineteenth century gave way to a more serious and starker twentieth.

      Peter Schulman

      Old Dominion University

      1 Mr. Sharp Makes His Entrance

      “These English newspapers are really quite well written!” the good doctor murmured to himself as he settled into a large leather armchair.¹

      All his life Dr. Sarrasin had indulged in such soliloquies, no doubt a sign of a certain absentmindedness.²

      He was a man in his fifties with refined features, sparkling and clear eyes behind their steel-framed glasses, and a face which was both serious and friendly. He was one of those individuals who, at first glance, prompts people to say: “Now there’s a fine fellow.” Despite the early hour, the doctor had already shaved, and although his attire did not suggest excessive fussiness, he was sporting a white cravat.

      Spread out over the rug and the furniture of his Brighton hotel room were the Times, the Daily Telegraph, and the Daily News. It was barely ten o’clock in the morning yet the doctor had already walked around the town, visited a hospital, returned to his hotel, and managed to read all the major London papers covering the detailed report he had presented the night before at the International Hygiene Association Conference on a “blood-cell counter,” an instrument which he had invented.

      He sat before a breakfast tray covered with a white napkin, on which were placed a cutlet, cooked medium rare, a steaming cup of tea, and a few buttered slices of toast that English cooks prepare so wonderfully, thanks to the special little rolls that bakers prepare for them.

      “Yes,” he repeated, “these British newspapers are really quite well done, there is no doubt about it! The vice president’s speech, the reply of Dr. Cicogna of Naples, the full text of my own paper — everything was caught on the fly, captured just as it occurred, as though it were photographed.”

      “‘Our honorable associate Dr. Sarrasin from Douai³ took the floor. Speaking in French, he began by saying: ‘My listeners will excuse me if I take this liberty, but they surely understand my language better than I could ever speak theirs …’”

      “Five columns of small print followed! I don’t know which is better, the article in the Times or the one in the Telegraph … Neither could be more exact, or more precise!”

      Dr. Sarrasin had reached that point in his musings when the master of ceremonies himself — one would scarcely presume to give a lesser title to a person so formally attired in black — knocked on the door and asked if “monsiou” would accept a visitor.

       Dr. Sarrasin

      “Monsiou” is the usual term that the English feel obliged to apply to all Frenchmen, without distinction, just as they would designate an Italian as “Signor” and a German as “Herr.” Perhaps they are right to do so. This common custom at least has the advantage of immediately identifying a person’s nationality.⁴

      Dr. Sarrasin took the card that had been presented to him and was quite surprised to receive a visitor in a country where he knew no one. He was even more perplexed when he read on the minuscule calling card:

      “Mr. Sharp, solicitor, 93 Southampton Row, London.”

      He knew that a “solicitor” was the English term for a lawyer, or rather a hybrid attorney-at-law, intermediate between a notary, an attorney, and a lawyer — what used to be called a public prosecutor.

      “What possible business could Mr. Sharp have with me?” he wondered. “Have I gotten into some kind of trouble without my being aware of it?”

      “You’re quite sure this is for me?” he asked.

      “Oh! Yes, monsiou.”

      “Well! Please let him in.”

      The master of ceremonies let a youthful-looking man into the room, whom the doctor, at first sight, classified as being in the rather large family of “death-heads.”⁵ His thin, dried-up lips, his long white teeth, his hollow temples beneath skin like parchment, his mummy-like complexion, and his little gray eyes with their piercing stare fully qualified him for this classification. The remainder of his skeletal form, from his heels to his occiput, was hidden beneath a great, checkered “Ulster coat,” and in his hand he clenched the handle of a polished leather briefcase.

      This personage entered, quickly bowed, placed his briefcase with his hat upon the floor, sat down without asking permission, and immediately said:

      “William Henry Sharp, Jr., associate of the firm of Billows, Green, Sharp and Co. This is really Dr. Sarrasin that I have the honor … ?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “François Sarrasin?”

      “That is indeed my name.”

      “From Douai?”

      “Douai is my hometown.”

      “Your father was named Isidore Sarrasin?”

      “Exactly.”

      “We can assume then that he was Isidore Sarrasin.”

      Mr. Sharp drew a notebook from his pocket, consulted it, and said:

      “Isidore Sarrasin died in Paris in 1857, in the 6th arrondissement, 54 rue Taranne, Hôtel des Ecoles, since demolished.”

      “That is correct,” said the doctor, more and more surprised. “But would you kindly explain to me … ?”

      “The name of his mother was Julie Langévol,” continued Mr. Sharp, unperturbed. “She was born in Bar-le-Duc,⁶ a daughter of Benedict Langévol, the latter residing at Loriol cul-de-sac, and deceased in 1812,⁷ as it appears on the register of the municipality of that city — those registers are a precious institution, sir, a very precious one indeed. Ahem! … ahem! — and also the sister of Jean-Jacques Langévol, drum major in the 36th light infantry …”

      “I must confess,” Dr. Sarrasin declared at this point, amazed by such a detailed knowledge of his family genealogy, “that you seem better informed than I am on certain points. It is true that the family name of my grandmother was Langévol, but that is all I know about her.”

      “She left the city of Bar-le-Duc around 1807 with your grandfather Jean Sarrasin, whom she had married in 1799. Both settled in Melun⁸ as dealers in tin ware and remained there until 1811, date of the death of Julie Langévol, Sarrasin’s wife. Their marriage gave but one child, Isidore Sarrasin, your father. From that moment on, the thread is lost, except for the date of the death of the latter, discovered in Paris …”

      “I can pick up the thread,” said the doctor, carried along despite himself by this quite mathematical precision. “My grandfather settled in Paris for the education of his son, who was destined for a career in medicine. He died in 1832, at Palaiseau, near Versailles, where my father exercised his profession and where I was born in 1822.”

      “You’re my man,” continued Mr. Sharp. “No brothers or sisters?”

      “No.