The Talleyrand Maxim

Linford Pratt, senior clerk to Eldrick & Pascoe, solicitors, of Barford, a young man who earnestly desired to get on in life, by hook or by crook, with no objection whatever to crookedness, so long as it could be performed in safety and secrecy, had once during one of his periodical visits to the town Reference Library, lighted on a maxim of that other unscrupulous person, Prince Talleyrand, which had pleased him greatly. “With time and patience,” said Talleyrand, “the mulberry leaf is turned into satin.” This seemed to Linford Pratt one of the finest and soundest pieces of wisdom which he had ever known put into words.

A mulberry leaf is a very insignificant thing, but a piece of satin is a highly marketable commodity, with money in it. Henceforth, he regarded himself as a mulberry leaf which his own wit and skill must transform into satin: at the same time he knew that there is another thing, in addition to time and patience, which is valuable to young men of his peculiar qualities, a thing also much beloved by Talleyrand⁠—opportunity. He could find the patience, and he had the time⁠—but it would give him great happiness if opportunity came along to help in the work. In everyday language, Linford Pratt wanted a chance⁠—he waited the arrival of the tide in his affairs which would lead him on to fortune.

Leave him alone⁠—he said to himself⁠—to be sure to take it at the flood.

But⁠—he was not desirable⁠ ⁠… and Pratt never desired him less than on this occasion.

“What are you after⁠—coming on a man like that!” growled Pratt.

“You,” replied Parrawhite. “I knew you’d got to come up this lane, so I waited for you. I’ve something to say.”

“Get it said, then!” retorted Pratt.

“Not here,” answered Parrawhite. “Come down by the quarry⁠—nobody about there.”

“And suppose I don’t?” asked Pratt.

“Then you’ll be very sorry for yourself⁠—tomorrow,” replied Parrawhite. “That’s all!”

Pratt had already realized that this fellow knew something. Parrawhite’s manner was not only threatening but confident. He spoke as a man speaks who has got the whip hand. And so, still growling, and inwardly raging and anxious, he turned off with his companion into a track which lay amongst the stone quarries. It was a desolate, lonely place; no house was near; they were as much alone as if they had been in the middle of one of the great moors outside the town, the lights of which they could see in the valley below them. In the grey sky above, a waning moon gave them just sufficient light to see their immediate surroundings⁠—a grass-covered track, no longer used, and the yawning mouths of the old quarries, no longer worked, the edges of which were thick with gorse and bramble. It was the very place for secret work, and Pratt was certain that secret work was at hand.

“Now then!” he said, when they had walked well into the wilderness. “What is it? And no nonsense!”

He turned away at that⁠—and as he turned, Parrawhite, with a queer cry of rage that might have come from some animal which saw its prey escaping, struck out at him with the heavy stick. The blow missed Pratt’s head, but it grazed the tip of his ear, and fell slantingly on his left shoulder. And then the anger that had been boiling in Pratt ever since the touch on his arm in the dark lane, burst out in activity, and he turned on his assailant, gripped him by the throat before Parrawhite could move, and after choking and shaking him until his teeth rattled and his breath came in jerking sobs, flung him violently against the masses of stone by which they had been standing.

Pratt was of considerable physical strength. He played cricket and football; he visited a gymnasium thrice a week. His hands had the grip of a blacksmith; his muscles were those of a prizefighter. He had put more strength than he was aware of into his fierce grip on Parrawhite’s throat; he had exerted far more force than he knew he was exerting, when he flung him away. He heard a queer cracking sound as the man struck something, and for the moment he took no notice of it⁠—the pain of that glancing blow on his shoulder was growing acute, and he began to rub it with his free hand and to curse its giver.

“Get up, you fool, and I’ll give you some more!” he growled. “I’ll teach you to⁠—”

“I wish to speak to you⁠—plainly!” she said, as Pratt, who now regarded her somewhat doubtfully, realizing that he was in for business of a serious nature, sat down at his desk. “I want to ask you a plain question⁠—and I expect a plain answer. Why are you blackmailing my mother?”

Pratt shook his head⁠—as if he felt more sorrow than anger. He glanced deprecatingly at his visitor.

“I think you’ll be sorry⁠—on reflection⁠—that you said that, Miss Mallathorpe,” he answered. “You’re a little⁠—shall we say⁠—upset? A little⁠—shall we say⁠—angry? If you were calmer, you wouldn’t say such things⁠—you wouldn’t use such a term as⁠—blackmailing. It’s⁠—dear me, I dare say you don’t know it!⁠—it’s actionable. If I were that sort of man, Miss Mallathorpe, and you said that of me before witnesses⁠—ah! I don’t know what mightn’t happen. However⁠—I’m not that sort of man. But⁠—don’t say it again, if you please!”

“If you don’t answer my question⁠—and at once,” said Nesta, whose cheeks were pale with angry determination, “I shall say it again in a fashion you won’t like⁠—not to you, but to the police!”

Pratt smiled⁠—a quiet, strange smile which made his visitor feel a sudden sense of fear. And again he shook his head, slowly and deprecatingly.

“Oh, no!” he said gently. “That’s a bigger mistake than the other, Miss Mallathorpe! The police! Oh, not the police, I think, Miss Mallathorpe. You see⁠—other people than you might go to the police⁠—about something else.”