Serge Panine | Page 7

already written the plays Regina Sarpi (1875) and
Marthe (1877), which yet hold a prominent place upon the French
stage.
I have shown in this rapid sketch that a man of the stamp of Georges
Ohnet must have immortal qualities in himself, even though flayed and
roasted alive by the critics. He is most assuredly an artist in form, is
endowed with a brilliant style, and has been named "L'Historiographe

de la bourgeoise contemporaine." Indeed, antagonism to plutocracy and
hatred of aristocracy are the fundamental theses in almost every one of
his books.
His exposition, I repeat, is startlingly neat, the development of his plots
absolutely logical, and the world has acclaimed his ingenuity in
dramatic construction. He is truly, and in all senses, of the Ages.
VICTOR CHERBOULIEZ de l'Academie Francaise

SERGE PANINE

CHAPTER I
THE HOUSE OF DESVARENNES
The firm of Desvarennes has been in an ancient mansion in the Rue
Saint Dominique since 1875; it is one of the best known and most
important in French industry. The counting-houses are in the wings of
the building looking upon the courtyard, which were occupied by the
servants when the family whose coat-of-arms has been effaced from
above the gate-way were still owners of the estate.
Madame Desvarennes inhabits the mansion which she has had
magnificently renovated. A formidable rival of the Darblays, the great
millers of France, the firm of Desvarennes is a commercial and political
power. Inquire in Paris about its solvency, and you will be told that you
may safely advance twenty millions of francs on the signature of the
head of the firm. And this head is a woman.
This woman is remarkable. Gifted with keen understanding and a firm
will, she had in former times vowed to make a large fortune, and she
has kept her word.
She was the daughter of a humble packer of the Rue Neuve-Coquenard.
Toward 1848 she married Michel Desvarennes, who was then a
journeyman baker in a large shop in the Chaussee d'Antin. With the
thousand francs which the packer managed to give his daughter by way
of dowry, the young couple boldly took a shop and started a little
bakery business. The husband kneaded and baked the bread, and the
young wife, seated at the counter, kept watch over the till. Neither on

Sundays nor on holidays was the shop shut.
Through the window, between two pyramids of pink and blue packets
of biscuits, one could always catch sight of the serious-looking
Madame Desvarennes, knitting woollen stockings for her husband
while waiting for customers. With her prominent forehead, and her
eyes always bent on her work, this woman appeared the living image of
perseverance.
At the end of five years of incessant work, and possessing twenty
thousand francs, saved sou by sou, the Desvarennes left the slopes of
Montmartre, and moved to the centre of Paris. They were ambitious
and full of confidence. They set up in the Rue Vivienne, in a shop
resplendent with gilding and ornamented with looking-glasses. The
ceiling was painted in panels with bright hued pictures that caught the
eyes of the passers-by. The window-shelves were of white marble, and
the counter, where Madame Desvarennes was still enthroned, was of a
width worthy of the receipts that were taken every day. Business
increased daily; the Desvarennes continued to be hard and systematic
workers. The class of customers alone had changed; they were more
numerous and richer. The house had a specialty for making small rolls
for the restaurants. Michel had learned from the Viennese bakers how
to make those golden balls which tempt the most rebellious appetite,
and which, when in an artistically folded damask napkin, set off a
dinner-table.
About this time Madame Desvarennes, while calculating how much the
millers must gain on the flour they sell to the bakers, resolved, in order
to lessen expenses, to do without middlemen and grind her own corn.
Michel, naturally timid, was frightened when his wife disclosed to him
the simple project which she had formed. Accustomed to submit to the
will of her whom he respectfully called "the mistress," and of whom he
was but the head clerk, he dared not oppose her. But, a red-tapist by
nature, and hating innovations, owing to weakness of mind, he
trembled inwardly and cried in agony:
"Wife, you'll ruin us."

The mistress calmed the poor man's alarm; she tried to impart to him
some of her confidence, to animate him with her hope, but without
success, so she went on without him. A mill was for sale at Jouy, on the
banks of the Oise; she paid ready money for it, and a few weeks later
the bakery in the Rue Vivienne was independent of every one. She
ground her own flour, and from that time business increased
considerably.