When I got back to Djibouti, I found Floquet very busy on the beach at Boulaos, digging out of the sand immense heaps of trocas which had been abandoned there some time before by an unlucky speculator. This poor devil had put all his own money and that of several others into the purchase of enormous stocks, which he was to hold until the price went up. But he waited too long; prices fell, and he ruined himself and was put in prison by his creditors when he returned to Europe. Later on, the unfortunate fellow blew his brains out, and his trocas were left where they were, on the beach at Boulaos. The sand drifted over them, the years passed by, and they were forgotten.
When Floquet saw that after so many years of inactivity there was a fresh demand for trocas in the market, he exulted. Nobody fished them any more, so there would be a scarcity. He proposed to the representatives of the dead man’s family to buy these old shells which, he said, were only good for making lime. Secretly he hoped that the mother-of-pearl, buried away from the sun, had remained in good condition, and sure enough, he found three hundred tons of trocas perfectly preserved, which he was able to send off as freshly gathered.
He sold them at an enormous price. The suicide’s speculation had turned out all right after all, but another reaped the benefit, and his children in their poverty never guessed that they had sold their fortune for a song.
This is only a very commonplace incident in that jungle of treachery and ugliness known as ‘business’. Foquet, according to its laws, was quite justified in acting as he did. I should probably have done the same if I had been in his place. I might have had a little trouble with my conscience, when I thought of those four children living in poverty, and I might have thought of sending them some compensation. Half of the profits really belonged to them… then I should have reflected that a quarter would be ample… and in the end I should have kept the lot. Only, in the bottom of my heart there would have remained a drop of bitterness which would have poisoned the rest of my life. Lucky are those who can act in such a way that they will not afterwards despise themselves, and who can live satisfied to receive admiration for virtues they do not possess. These are the only people who should go into business – they will get on all right; but the others should abstain, for they will be victims in one way or another, either of the jungle or of their consciences.
For these only the pursuit of science or the arts is possible, unless they simply till the soil, which is one form of the struggle with nature. But most of them form part of the vast herd of human creatures resigned, envious or rebellious, who don’t realize the great happiness they possess in having no wrongs on their consciences and being able to look every man straight in the face.
At this time I did not utter these fine sentiments to myself, for everything in me was subconscious; I acted on impulses which I did not seek to analyse, and only much later did I formulate the motives which had directed my life.
At the moment, I was lost in admiration at Floquet’s cleverness, and was delighted at the magnificent deal he had pulled off.
The price of trocas was still rising. Those I had shipped from Massawa on the Roma must have reached their destination long ago, and I insisted that Floquet should sell at once.
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he said, ‘my agent is a prudent and clever fellow, you can be sure that all that is needful has been done, and we shall soon be getting the statements.’
I kept in touch with the quotations for trocas by almost daily telegrams; suddenly the prices began to fall.
‘Are our goods sold?’ I asked Floquet.
‘Sure to be,’ he answered, ‘for they have been at Le Havre for over three weeks.’
Two days later, the market crashed, and from seven thousand francs a ton trocas fell to fifteen hundred.
Still no statements from Le Havre.
At last, by the following mail, they arrived. Floquet, colourless as usual, announced to me in his listless voice that our cargo had been sold the day after the crash. He stood up to the blow without wincing, like a good sport. Sold at this rate, he lost two hundred thousand francs on our cargo. As for me, I lost all the capital I had engaged in the enterprise.
I could not admit that such a catastrophe was possible. Why had this famous agent waited for three weeks, in spite of orders to sell at once, and then sold the day after the fall in prices? I hinted that there was something not square about this, but Floquet protested vehemently. Besides, the agent gave most detailed and solid explanations, as they always do in such cases. He had sold the merchandise as soon as it arrived, but as he had been told to sell ‘in the best conditions’, he had thought he was doing right in fixing the payment thirty days later ‘at market price’, so sure was he of the rise. And indeed, the demand increased steadily, and no fishing expedition had yet been organized.
Yes… but… the three hundred tons of trocas from Boulaos which Floquet had thrown on the market and which were supposed to be fresh goods had stampeded the speculators; there had been a panic and the fall had been terrific.
A week later the prices rose again, and the man who had bought our trocas cleared over a million francs.
Floquet took all this with disconcerting calm, which I admired unreservedly at this moment. All the same, I wanted to set out for Le Havre to lodge a complaint, or start an inquiry. Floquet did all he could to dissuade me, and finally informed me curtly that he would not be a party to any such course of action.
Just think, attack so powerful a man! He had the Legion of Honour, was President of the Chamber of Commerce, had an immense fortune, the finest house in Le Havre, rich properties and shootings, a magnificent Hispano and a marvellous collection of pictures. He enjoyed the esteem and consideration of the entire town, and his word was law in the Chamber of Commerce. He was the respectable man, the business man of stainless reputation, the accomplished gentleman, and if they did not raise a statue to his memory when he died, the town would certainly one day give his name to a street which was tired of bearing that of Pasteur or Joan of Arc.
The idea that I had been swindled flitted for a moment through my head, but my friendship for Floquet was too great, and my confidence in him too absolute not to banish it at once. I hastily brushed aside such a horrible thought. We are always a little cowardly in facing ideas that will trouble our hearts; we shrink before moral suffering as we do before the surgeon’s knife which will cure our ill. We prefer the torture of doubt to the ghastly pain of certainty.
But all the same, this deal left me sick and disgusted for ever with business men and their methods, these pitiless games in which those who know the rules can ruin with impunity the poor innocents who believe in the value of justice, honour, integrity and conscience.
It had been a good lesson to me, and it would be the last. Henceforth, I should conduct my affairs alone, far from the beaten track in which the practised hands had set snares.
I certainly believe that there may be honest men in business, but as swindlers so skilfully disguise themselves as honest men, I am afraid of making mistakes. So I prefer to leave the whole business alone, like a basket of mushrooms of doubtful purity.