The Begum's Millions

1. Mr. Sharp Makes His Entrance

 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 1  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 Dr. Sarrasin  a lesser title to a person so formally attired in black—knocked on the door and asked if “monsiou” would accept a visitor. “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,  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...