L'or by Blaise Cendrars

in the habit of saying when he is setting up some new business venture and anticipating its profits in advance. 'Let them cough up, then it will be they themselves who pay the costs of my case.' Nevertheless, by a strange paradox, this man who has such an insatiable need for money does not pan gold or distil liquor. On the contrary, he is in close contact with the religious sects of Philadelphia and leads an ardent temperance campaign amongst the Indians, the White and the Yellow races (he is dead against brandy, but not wine, of which the enormous quantity consumed in the region comes exclusively from his vineyards). And if any gold-diggers should happen to stray on to his property nowadays, he has them beaten without mercy, for they are the damned. Although he rarely opens it any more, the Book of Revelation is always buried in his pocket for, in spite of his crazy energy, there remains in the depths of his soul a great fear and, before God, he is none too sure of his rights.
    Towards the end of the fourth year, his adversaries strike a first, terrible blow against him. The offices of his son Emile are burned down and all the riff-raff of San Francisco dance round the flames as if it were a celebratory bonfire. The entire country is jubilant when it learns that the principal documents pertaining to the case have been destroyed, notably the original title-deeds to lands granted by Governors Alvarado and Micheltorena. At this news, the new settlers squatting on his lands are ecstatic and the inhabitants of the towns and villages parade the streets shouting: 'We've run the  wolves to earth! We've caught the old wolf by the tail!'
    On the face of things, John Augustus Sutter takes this blow without flinching but, although he redoubles his efforts and gives orders for his case to be prosecuted with even greater vigour, he feels, in his innermost being, that his strength is secretly waning, while his fears wax full.
    He has received yet another blow from the Almighty.
    O, God!
    I no longer have the strength to cry out. I will make no protest. Yet I cannot find it in my heart to submit. Do with me what Thou wilt.
    I shall fight on.

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TWELFTH CHAPTER
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    50
    On the 9th of September, 1854, the entire population of California is in a carvival mood.
    They are celebrating the fourth anniversary of California's entry into the Union and the fifth anniversary of the founding of the city of San Francisco.
    Already, throughout the previous fortnight, crowds have been coming in by every route and from every corner of the state. The capital is adorned with garlands and lit with illuminations; the Star-Spangled Banner flutters from windows, from rooftops and on all the surrounding hills. At night, fireworks shoot upward to burst in a luminous, crackling shower; salvoes of musketry and artillery reverberate incessantly. The theatres - the Jenny Lind Theatre, the first building to boast a stone façade, and the Adelphi, where a company of French actors are strutting the boards - are constantly packed out. At every street corner, demagogues harangue immense crowds, inspiring them with prophecies of the prodigious future that awaits this new country and this new city. This entire young nation unites in a single sense of its own strength and power, in a sentiment of burning patriotism for the Union.
    The bars are besieged and the well-known saloons packed to the doors, and it is in these haunts, the Arcades, the Belle Union, the El Dorado, the Polka and the Diana, that popular enthusiasm wells up and spills over into demonstrations in honour of John Augustus  Sutter. Committees and delegations are formed; colonists, planters, labourers, gold-diggers, women, children, soldiers, sailors and profiteers betake themselves to the Hermitage en masse , and there, under his very windows, they acclaim Sutter, invite him, take him captive, drag him out by force and carry him in triumph to the city.
    Along the way, the old pioneer is saluted on all