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The Count's Millions

by Emile Gaboriau · English · Gutenberg #305 · 667,869 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Count's Millions

Author: Emile Gaboriau


        
Release date: July 2, 2008 [eBook #305]
                Most recently updated: September 24, 2016

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/305

Credits: Produced by John Hamm and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COUNT'S MILLIONS ***




Produced by John Hamm









THE COUNT’S MILLIONS

By Emile Gaboriau

Translated from the French


A novel in two parts. Part Two of this novel is found in the volume:
Baron Trigault’s Vengeance





PASCAL AND MARGUERITE.




I.


It was a Thursday evening, the fifteenth of October; and although only
half-past six o’clock, it had been dark for some time already. The
weather was cold, and the sky was as black as ink, while the wind blew
tempestuously, and the rain fell in torrents.

The servants at the Hotel de Chalusse, one of the most magnificent
mansions in the Rue de Courcelles in Paris, were assembled in the
porter’s lodge, a little building comprising a couple of rooms standing
on the right hand side of the great gateway. Here, as in all large
mansions, the “concierge” or porter, M. Bourigeau, was a person of
immense importance, always able and disposed to make any one who was
inclined to doubt his authority, feel it in cruel fashion. As could be
easily seen, he held all the other servants in his power. He could
let them absent themselves without leave, if he chose, and conceal all
returns late at night after the closing of public balls and wine-shops.
Thus, it is needless to say that M. Bourigeau and his wife were treated
by their fellow-servants with the most servile adulation.

The owner of the house was not at home that evening, so that M. Casimir,
the count’s head valet, was serving coffee for the benefit of all the
retainers. And while the company sipped the fragrant beverage which had
been generously tinctured with cognac, provided by the butler, they all
united in abusing their common enemy, the master of the house. For the
time being, a pert little waiting-maid, with an odious turn-up nose, had
the floor. She was addressing her remarks to a big, burly, and rather
insolent-looking fellow, who had been added only the evening before to
the corps of footmen. “The place is really intolerable,” she was saying.
“The wages are high, the food of the very best, the livery just such
as would show off a good-looking man to the best advantage, and Madame
Leon, the housekeeper, who has entire charge of everything, is not too
lynx-eyed.”

“And the work?”

“A mere nothing. Think, there are eighteen of us to serve only two
persons, the count and Mademoiselle Marguerite. But then there is never
any pleasure, never any amusement here.”

“What! is one bored then?”

“Bored to death. This grand house is worse than a tomb. No receptions,
no dinners--nothing. Would you believe it, I have never seen the
reception-rooms! They are always closed; and the furniture is dropping
to pieces under its coverings. There are not three visitors in the
course of a month.”

She was evidently incensed, and the new footman seemed to share her
indignation. “Why, how is it?” he exclaimed. “Is the count an owl? A
man who’s not yet fifty years old, and who’s said to be worth several
millions.”

“Yes, millions; you may safely say it--and perhaps ten, perhaps twenty
millions too.”

“Then all the more reason why there should be something going on here.
What does he do with himself alone, all the blessed day?”

“Nothing. He reads in the library, or wanders about the garden.
Sometimes, in the evening, he drives with Mademoiselle Marguerite to the
Bois de Boulogne in a closed carriage; but that seldom happens. Besides,
there is no such thing as teasing the poor man. I’ve been in the house
for six months, and I’ve never heard him say anything but: ‘yes’; ‘no’;
‘do this’; ‘very well’; ‘retire.’ You would think these are the only
words he knows. Ask M. Casimir if I’m not right.”

“Our guv’nor isn’t very gay, that’s a fact,” responded the valet.

The footman was listening with a serious air, as if greatly interested
in the character of the people whom he was to serve. “And mademoiselle,”
 he asked, “what does she say to such an existence?”

“Bless me! during the six months she has been here, she has never once
complained.”

“If she is bored,” added M. Casimir, “she conceals it bravely.”

“Naturally enough,” sneered the waiting-maid, with an ironical gesture;
“each month that mademoiselle remains here, brings her too much money
for her to complain.”

By the laugh that greeted this reply, and by the looks the older
servants exchanged, the new-comer must have realized that he had
discovered the secret skeleton hidden in every house. “What! what!” he
exclaimed, on fire with curiosity; “is there really anything in that? To
tell the truth, I was inclined to doubt it.”

His companions were evidently about to tell him all they knew, or rather
all they thought they knew, when the front-door bell rang vigorously.

“There he comes!” exclaimed the concierge; “but he’s in too much of a
hurry; hell have to wait awhile.”

He sullenly pulled the cord, however; the heavy door swayed on its
hinges, and a cab-driver, breathless and hatless, burst into the room,
crying, “Help! help!”

The servants sprang to their feet.

“Make haste!” continued the driver. “I was bringing a gentleman
here--you must know him. He’s outside, in my vehicle----”

Without pausing to listen any longer, the servants rushed out, and the
driver’s incoherent explanation at once became intelligible. At the
bottom of the cab, a roomy four-wheeler, a man was lying all of a heap,
speechless and motionless. He must have fallen forward, face downward,
and owing to the jolting of the vehicle his head had slipped under the
front seat.

“Poor devil!” muttered M. Casimir, “he must have had a stroke of
apoplexy.” The valet was peering into the vehicle as he spoke, and his
comrades were approaching, when suddenly he drew back, uttering a cry of
horror. “Ah, my God! it is the count!”

Whenever there is an accident in Paris, a throng of inquisitive
spectators seems to spring up from the very pavement, and indeed more
than fifty persons had already congregated round about the vehicle. This
circumstance restored M. Casimir’s composure; or, at least, some portion
of it. “You must drive into the courtyard,” he said, addressing the
cabman. “M. Bourigeau, open the gate, if you please.” And then, turning
to another servant, he added:

“And you must make haste and fetch a physician--no matter who. Run to
the nearest doctor, and don’t return until you bring one with you.”

The concierge had opened the gate, but the driver had disappeared; they
called him, and on receiving no reply the valet seized the reins and
skilfully guided the cab through the gateway.

Having escaped the scrutiny of the crowd, it now remained to remove the
count from the vehicle, and this was a difficult task, on account of the
singular position of his body; still, they succeeded at last, by opening
both doors of the cab, the three strongest men uniting in their efforts.
Then they placed him in a large arm-chair, carried him to his own room,
and speedily had him undressed and in bed.

He had so far given no sign of life; and as he lay there with his head
weighing heavily on the pillow, you might have thought that all was
over. His most intimate friend would scarcely have recognized him. His
features were swollen and discolored; his eyes were closed, and a dark
purple circle, looking almost like a terrible bruise, extended round
them. A spasm had twisted his lips, and his distorted mouth, which was
drawn on one side and hung half open imparted a most sinister expression
to his face. In spite of every precaution, he had been wounded as he was
removed from the cab. His forehead had been grazed by a piece of iron,
and a tiny stream of blood was trickling down upon his face. However,
he still breathed; and by listening attentively, one could distinguish a
faint rattling in his throat.

The servants, who had been so garrulous a few moments before, were
silent now. They lingered in the room, exchanging glances of mute
consternation. Their faces were pale and sad, and there were tears in
the eyes of some of them. What was passing in their minds? Perhaps they
were overcome by that unconquerable fear which sudden and unexpected
death always provokes. Perhaps they unconsciously loved this master,
whose bread they ate. Perhaps their grief was only selfishness, and they
were merely wondering what would become of them, where they should find
another situation, and if it would prove a good one. Not knowing what to
do, they talked together in subdued voices, each suggesting some remedy
he had heard spoken of for such cases. The more sensible among them were
proposing to go and inform mademoiselle or Madame Leon, whose rooms
were on the floor above, when the rustling of a skirt against the door
suddenly made them turn. The person whom they called “mademoiselle” was
standing on the threshold.

Mademoiselle Marguerite was a beautiful young girl, about twenty years
of age. She was a brunette of medium height, with big gloomy eyes shaded
by thick eyebrows. Heavy masses of jet-black hair wreathed her lofty but
rather sad and thoughtful forehead. There was something peculiar in
her face--an expression of concentrated suffering, and a sort of proud
resignation, mingled with timidity.

“What has happened?” she asked, gently. “What is the cause of all
the noise I have heard? I have rung three times and the bell was not
answered.”

No one ventured to reply, and in her surprise she cast a hasty glance
around. From where she stood, she could not see the bed stationed in an
alcove; but she instantly noted the dejected attitude of the servants,
the clothing scattered about the floor, and the disorder that pervaded
this magnificent but severely furnished chamber, which was only lighted
by the lamp which M. Bourigeau, the concierge, carried. A sudden dread
seized her; she shuddered, and in a faltering voice she added: “Why are
you all here? Speak, tell me what has happened.”

M. Casimir stepped forward. “A great misfortune, mademoiselle, a
terrible misfortune. The count----”

And he paused, frightened by what he was about to say.

But Mademoiselle Marguerite had understood him. She clasped both hands
to her heart, as if she had received a fatal wound, and uttered the
single word: “Lost!”

The next moment she turned as pale as death, her head drooped, her eyes
closed, and she staggered as if about to fall. Two maids sprang forward
to support her, but she gently repulsed them, murmuring, “Thanks!
thanks! I am strong now.”

She was, in fact, sufficiently strong to conquer her weakness. She
summoned all her resolution, and, paler than a statue, with set teeth
and dry, glittering eyes, she approached the alcove. She stood there for
a moment perfectly motionless, murmuring a few unintelligible words; but
at last, crushed by her sorrow, she sank upon her knees beside the bed,
buried her face in the counterpane and wept.

Deeply moved by the sight of this despair, the servants held their
breath, wondering how it would all end. It ended suddenly. The girl
sprang from her knees, as if a gleam of hope had darted through her
heart. “A physician!” she said, eagerly.

“I have sent for one, mademoiselle,” replied M. Casimir. And hearing
a voice and a sound of footsteps on the staircase, he added: “And
fortunately, here he comes.”

The doctor entered. He was a young man, although his head was almost
quite bald. He was short, very thin, clean-shaven, and clad in black
from head to foot. Without a word, without a bow, he walked straight to
the bedside, lifted the unconscious man’s eyelids, felt his pulse, and
uncovered his chest, applying his ear to it. “This is a serious case,”
 he said at the close of his examination.

Mademoiselle Marguerite, who had followed his movements with the most
poignant anxiety, could not repress a sob. “But all hope is not lost,
is it, monsieur?” she asked in a beseeching voice, with hands clasped
in passionate entreaty. “You will save him, will you not--you will save
him?”

“One may always hope for the best.”

This was the doctor’s only answer. He had drawn his case of instruments
from his pocket, and was testing the points of his lancets on the tip
of his finger. When he had found one to his liking: “I must ask you,
mademoiselle,” said he, “to order these women to retire, and to retire
yourself. The men will remain to assist me, if I require help.”

She obeyed submissively, but instead of returning to her own room,
she remained in the hall, seating herself upon the lower step of the
staircase near the door, counting the seconds, and drawing a thousand
conjectures from the slightest sound.

Meanwhile, inside the room, the physician was proceeding slowly, not
from temperament however, but from principle. Dr. Jodon--for such was
his name--was an ambitious man who played a part. Educated by a “prince
of science,” more celebrated for the money he gained than for the cures
he effected, he copied his master’s method, his gestures, and even the
inflections of his voice. By casting in people’s eyes the same powder as
his teacher had employed, he hoped to obtain the same results: a large
practice and an immense fortune. In his secret heart he was by no means
disconcerted by his patient’s condition; on the contrary, he did not
consider the count’s state nearly as precarious as it really was.

But bleeding and cupping alike failed to bring the sick man to
consciousness. He remained speechless and motionless; the only result
obtained, was that his breathing became a trifle easier. Finding his
endeavors fruitless, the doctor at last declared that all immediate
remedies were exhausted, that “the women” might be allowed to return,
and that nothing now remained but to wait for the effect of the remedies
he was about to prescribe, and which they must procure from the nearest
chemist.

Any other man would have been touched by the agony of entreaty contained
in the glance that Mademoiselle Marguerite cast upon the physician as
she returned into the room; but it did not affect him in the least. He
calmly said, “I cannot give my decision as yet.”

“My God!” murmured the unhappy girl; “oh, my God, have mercy upon me!”

But the doctor, copying his model, had stationed himself near the
fireplace, with his elbow leaning on the mantel-shelf, in a graceful,
though rather pompous attitude. “Now,” he said, addressing his remarks
to M. Casimir, “I desire to make a few inquiries. Is this the first time
the Count de Chalusse has had such an attack?”

“Yes, sir--at least since I have been in attendance upon him.”

“Very good. That is a chance in our favor. Tell me--have you ever heard
him complain of vertigo, or of a buzzing in his ears?”

“Never.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite seemed inclined to volunteer some remark, but
the doctor imposed silence upon her by a gesture, and continued his
examination. “Is the count a great eater?” he inquired. “Does he drink
heavily?”

“The count is moderation itself, monsieur, and he always takes a great
deal of water with his wine.”

The doctor listened with an air of intent thoughtfulness, his head
slightly inclined forward, his brow contracted, and his under lip puffed
out, while from time to time he stroked his beardless chin. He was
copying his master. “The devil!” he said, sotto voce. “There must
be some cause for such an attack, however. Nothing in the count’s
constitution predisposes him to such an accident----” Then, suddenly
turning toward Mademoiselle Marguerite: “Do you know, mademoiselle,
whether the count has experienced any very violent emotion during the
past few days?”

“Something occurred this very morning, which seemed to annoy him very
much.”

“Ah! now we have it,” said the doctor, with the air of an oracle. “Why
did you not tell me all this at first? It will be necessary for you to
give me the particulars, mademoiselle.”

The young girl hesitated. The servants were dazed by the doctor’s
manner; but Mademoiselle Marguerite was far from sharing their awe
and admiration. She would have given anything to have had the regular
physician of the household there instead of him! As for this coarse
examination in the presence of all these servants, and by the bedside of
a man who, in spite of his apparent unconsciousness, was, perhaps, able
to hear and to comprehend, she looked upon it as a breach of delicacy,
even of propriety.

“It is of the most urgent importance that I should be fully informed of
these particulars,” repeated the physician peremptorily.

After such an assertion, further hesitation was out of the question.
Mademoiselle Marguerite seemed to collect her thoughts, and then she
sadly said: “Just as we sat down to breakfast this morning, a letter
was handed to the count. No sooner had his eyes fallen upon it, than he
turned as white as his napkin. He rose from his seat and began to walk
hastily up and down the dining-room, uttering exclamations of anger and
sorrow. I spoke to him, but he did not seem to hear me. However, after a
few moments, he resumed his seat at the table, and began to eat----”

“As usual?”

“He ate more than usual, monsieur. Only I must tell you that it seemed
to me he was scarcely conscious of what he was doing. Four or five times
he left the table, and then came back again. At last, after quite a
struggle, he seemed to come to some decision. He tore the letter to
pieces, and threw the pieces out of the window that opens upon the
garden.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite expressed herself with the utmost simplicity,
and there was certainly nothing particularly extraordinary in her story.
Still, those around her listened with breathless curiosity, as though
they were expecting some startling revelation, so much does the
human mind abhor that which is natural and incline to that which is
mysterious.

Without seeming to notice the effect she had produced, and addressing
herself to the physician alone, the girl continued: “After the letter
was destroyed, M. de Chalusse seemed himself again. Coffee was served,
and he afterward lighted a cigar as usual. However, he soon let it go
out. I dared not disturb him by any remarks; but suddenly he said to me:
‘It’s strange, but I feel very uncomfortable.’ A moment passed, without
either of us speaking, and then he added: ‘I am certainly not well.
Will you do me the favor to go to my room for me? Here is the key of my
escritoire; open it, and on the upper shelf you will find a small bottle
which please bring to me.’ I noticed with some surprise that M. de
Chalusse, who usually speaks very distinctly, stammered and hesitated
considerably in making this request, but, unfortunately, I did not think
much about it at the time. I did as he requested, and he poured eight
or ten drops of the contents of the vial into a glass of water, and
swallowed it.”

So intense was Dr. Jodon’s interest that he became himself again. He
forgot to attitudinize. “And after that?” he asked, eagerly.

“After that, M. de Chalusse seemed to feel much better, and retired to
his study as usual. I fancied that any annoyance the letter had caused
him was forgotten; but I was wrong, for in the afternoon he sent a
message, through Madame Leon, requesting me to join him in the garden.
I hastened there, very much surprised, for the weather was extremely
disagreeable. ‘Dear Marguerite,’ he said, on seeing me, ‘help me to find
the fragments of that letter which I flung from the window this morning.
I would give half my fortune for an address which it must certainly have
contained, but which I quite overlooked in my anger.’ I helped him as
he asked. He might have reasonably hoped to succeed, for it was raining
when the scraps of paper were thrown out, and instead of flying through
the air, they fell directly on to the ground. We succeeded in finding
a large number of the scraps, but what M. de Chalusse so particularly
wanted was not to be read on any one of them. Several times he spoke of
his regret, and cursed his precipitation.”

M. Bourigeau, the concierge, and M. Casimir exchanged a significant
smile. They had seen the count searching for the remnants of this
letter, and had thought him little better than an idiot. But now
everything was explained.

“I was much grieved at the count’s disappointment,” continued
Mademoiselle Marguerite, “but suddenly he exclaimed, joyfully: ‘That
address--why, such a person will give it to me--what a fool I am!’”

The physician evinced such absorbing interest in this narrative that he
forgot to retain his usual impassive attitude. “Such a person! Who--who
was this person?” he inquired eagerly, without apparently realizing the
impropriety of his question.

But the girl felt indignant. She silenced her indiscreet questioner
with a haughty glance, and in the driest possible tone, replied: “I have
forgotten the name.”

Cut to the quick, the doctor suddenly resumed his master’s pose; but all
the same his imperturbable sang-froid was sensibly impaired. “Believe
me, mademoiselle, that interest alone--a most respectful interest--”

She did not even seem to hear his excuse, but resumed: “I know, however,
monsieur, that M. de Chalusse intended applying to the police if he
failed to obtain this address from the person in question. After this he
appeared to be entirely at ease. At three o’clock he rang for his valet,
and ordered dinner two hours earlier than usual. We sat down to table
at about half-past four. At five he rose, kissed me gayly, and left the
house on foot, telling me that he was confident of success, and that he
did not expect to return before midnight.” The poor child’s firmness now
gave way; her eyes filled with tears, and it was in a voice choked with
sobs that she added, pointing to M. de Chalusse: “But at half-past six
they brought him back as you see him now----”

An interval of silence ensued, so deep that one could hear the faint
breathing of the unconscious man still lying motionless on his bed.
However, the particulars of the attack were yet to be learned; and it
was M. Casimir whom the physician next addressed. “What did the driver
who brought your master home say to you?”

“Oh! almost nothing, sir; not ten words.”

“You must find this man and bring him to me.”

Two servants rushed out in search of him. He could not be far away, for
his vehicle was still standing in the courtyard. They found him in
a wine-shop near by. Some of the inquisitive spectators who had been
disappointed in their curiosity by Casimir’s thoughtfulness had treated
him to some liquor, and in exchange he had told them all he knew about
the affair. He had quite recovered from his fright, and was cheerful,
even gay.

“Come make haste, you are wanted,” said the servants.

He emptied his glass and followed them with very bad grace, muttering
and swearing between his set teeth. The doctor, strange to say, was
considerate enough to go out into the hall to question him; but no
information of value was gained by the man’s answers. He declared that
the gentleman had hired him at twelve o’clock, hoping by this means
to extort pay for five hours’ driving, which, joined to the liberal
gratuity he could not fail to obtain, would remunerate him handsomely
for his day’s work. Living is dear, it should be remembered, and a
fellow makes as much as he can.

When the cabby had gone off, still growling, although a couple of louis
had been placed in his hand, the doctor returned to his patient. He
involuntarily assumed his accustomed attitude, with crossed arms, a
gloomy expression of countenance, and his forehead furrowed as if with
thought and anxiety. But this time he was not acting a part. In spite,
or rather by reason of, the full explanation that had been given him,
he found something suspicious and mysterious in the whole affair. A
thousand vague and undefinable suspicions crossed his mind. Was he in
presence of a crime? Certainly, evidently not. But what was the cause
then of the mystery and reticence he detected? Was he upon the track of
some lamentable family secret--one of those terrible scandals, concealed
for a long time, but which at last burst forth with startling effect?
The prospect of being mixed up in such an affair caused him infinite
pleasure. It would bring him into notice; he would be mentioned in the
papers; and his increased practice would fill his hands with gold.

But what could he do to ingratiate himself with these people, impose
himself upon them if needs be? He reflected for some time, and finally
what he thought an excellent plan occurred to him. He approached
Mademoiselle Marguerite, who was weeping in an arm-chair, and touched
her gently on the shoulder. She sprang to her feet at once. “One more
question, mademoiselle,” said he, imparting as much solemnity to his
tone as he could. “Do you know what liquid it was that M. de Chalusse
took this morning?”

“Alas! no, monsieur.”

“It is very important that I should know. The accuracy of my diagnosis
is dependent upon it. What has become of the vial?”

“I think M. de Chalusse replaced it in his escritoire.”

The physician pointed to an article of furniture to the left of the
fireplace: “There?” he asked.

“Yes, monsieur.”

He deliberated, but at last conquering his hesitation, he said: “Could
we not obtain this vial?”

Mademoiselle Marguerite blushed. “I haven’t the key,” she faltered, in
evident embarrassment.

M. Casimir approached: “It must be in the count’s pocket, and if
mademoiselle will allow me----”

But she stepped back with outstretched arms as if to protect the
escritoire. “No,” she exclaimed, “no--the escritoire shall not be
touched. I will not permit it----”

“But, mademoiselle,” insisted the doctor, “your father----”

“The Count de Chalusse is not my father!”

Dr. Jodon was greatly disconcerted by Mademoiselle Marguerite’s
vehemence. “Ah!” said he, in three different tones, “ah! ah!”

In less than a second, a thousand strange and contradictory suppositions
darted through his brain. Who, then, could this girl be, if she were not
Mademoiselle de Chalusse? What right had she in that house? How was
it that she reigned as a sovereign there? Above all, why this angry
outburst for no other apparent cause than a very natural and exceedingly
insignificant request on his part?

However, she had regained her self-possession, and it was easy to see
by her manner that she was seeking some means of escape from threatened
danger. At last she found it. “Casimir,” she said, authoritatively,
“search M. de Chalusse’s pocket for the key of his escritoire.”

Astonished by what he regarded as a new caprice, the valet obeyed. He
gathered up the garments strewn over the floor, and eventually drew a
key from one of the waistcoat pockets. Mademoiselle Marguerite took it
from him, and then in a determined tone, exclaimed: “A hammer.”

It was brought; whereupon, to the profound amazement of the physician,
she knelt down beside the fireplace, laid the key upon one of the
andirons, and with a heavy blow of the hammer, broke it into fragments.
“Now,” said she, quietly, “my mind will be at rest. I am certain,” she
added, turning toward the servants, “that M. de Chalusse would approve
what I have done. When he recovers, he will have another key made.”

The explanation was superfluous. All the servants understood the motive
that had influenced her, and were saying to themselves, “Mademoiselle is
right. It would not do to touch the escritoire of a dying man. Who knows
but what there are millions in it? If anything were missed, why any of
us might be accused. But if the key is destroyed, it will be impossible
to suspect any one.”

However, the physician’s conjectures were of an entirely different
nature. “What can there be in that escritoire which she desires to
conceal?” he thought.

But there was no excuse for prolonging his visit. Once more he examined
the sick man, whose condition remained unchanged; and then, after
explaining what was to be done in his absence, he declared that he must
leave at once, as he had a number of important visits to make; he added,
however, that he would return about midnight.

“Madame Leon and I will watch over M. de Chalusse,” replied Mademoiselle
Marguerite; “that is sufficient assurance, monsieur, that your orders
will be obeyed to the letter. Only--you will not take offence, I trust,
if I ask the count’s regular physician to meet you in consultation.”

Such a proposal was anything but pleasing to M. Jodon, who had met with
the same misfortune in this aristocratic neighborhood several times
before. When an accident happened, he was summoned because he chanced
to be close at hand, but just as he was flattering himself that he
had gained a desirable patient, he found himself in presence of some
celebrated physician, who had come from a distance in his carriage.
Accustomed to such disappointments, he knew how to conceal his
dissatisfaction.

“Were I in your place, mademoiselle, I should do precisely what you
suggest,” he answered, “and should you think it unnecessary for me to
call, I----”

“Oh! monsieur, on the contrary, I shall certainly expect you.”

“In that case, very well.” Thereupon he bowed and left the room.

But Mademoiselle Marguerite followed him on to the landing. “You know,
monsieur,” she said, speaking rapidly in an undertone, “that I am not
M. de Chalusse’s daughter. You may, therefore, tell me the truth. Is his
condition hopeless?”

“Alarming--yes; hopeless--no.”

“But, monsieur, this terrible unconsciousness----”

“It usually follows such an attack as he has been the victim of. Still
we may hope that the paralysis will gradually disappear, and the power
of motion return after a time.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite was listening, pale, agitated, and embarrassed.
It was evident that she had a question on her lips which she scarcely
dared to ask. At last, however, summoning all her courage, she
exclaimed: “And if M. de Chalusse should not recover, will he die
without regaining consciousness--without being able to speak?”

“I am unable to say, mademoiselle--the count’s malady is one of those
which set at naught all the hypotheses of science.”

She thanked him sadly, sent a servant to summon Madame Leon, and
returned to the count’s room.

As for the doctor, he said to himself as he went downstairs, “What a
strange girl! Is she afraid that the count will regain consciousness?
or, on the contrary, does she wish him to speak? Is there any question
of a will under all this? What else can it be? What is at stake?” His
preoccupation was so intense that he almost forgot where he was going,
and he paused on every step. It was not until the fresh air of the
courtyard blew upon his face, reminding him of the realities of life,
that the charlatanesque element in his nature regained the ascendency.
“My friend,” he said, addressing M. Casimir, who was lighting him out,
“you must at once have some straw spread over the street so as to deaden
the sound of the vehicles. And to-morrow, you must inform the commissary
of police.”

Ten minutes later a thick bed of straw had been strewed across the
thoroughfare, and the drivers of passing vehicles involuntarily
slackened their speed, for every one in Paris knows what this signifies.
M. Casimir personally superintended the work which was intrusted to the
grooms, and he was about to return indoors again, when a young man, who
had been walking up and down in front of the mansion for more than an
hour, hastily approached him. He was a beardless fellow with a strangely
wrinkled face, as leaden-tinted as that of a confirmed absinthe-drinker.
His general expression was shrewd, and at the same time impudent, and
surprising audacity gleamed in his eyes. “What do you want?” asked M.
Casimir.

The young fellow bowed humbly, and replied, “Ah, don’t you recognize
me, monsieur? I’m Toto--excuse me--Victor Chupin, employed by M. Isidore
Fortunat.”

“Oh, yes. I recollect.”

“I came, in obedience to my employer’s orders, to inquire if you had
obtained the information you promised him; but seeing that something had
happened at your house, I didn’t dare go in, but decided to watch for
you----”

“And you did quite right, my lad. I have no information to give you--ah,
yes! stop! The Marquis de Valorsay was closeted with the count for two
hours yesterday. But what good will that do? The count has been taken
suddenly ill, and he will scarcely live through the night.”

Victor Chupin was thunderstruck. “Impossible!” he cried. “Is it for him
that the straw has been strewed in the street?”

“It’s for him.”

“What a lucky fellow! No one would go to such expense for me! But I have
an idea that my guv’nor will hardly laugh when I tell him this. Still,
thank you all the same, m’sieur, and au revoir.” He was darting off when
a sudden thought detained him. “Excuse me,” said he, with conjuror
like volubility; “I was so horrified that I forgot business. Tell
me, m’sieur, if the count dies, you’ll take charge of the funeral
arrangements, won’t you? Very well; a word of advice then. Don’t go to
the regular undertakers, but come to me: here’s my address”--proffering
a card--“I will treat with the undertakers for you, and take charge of
everything. It will be much better and far cheaper for you, on account
of certain arrangements I’ve made with these parties. Everything, to the
very last plume, is warranted to give perfect satisfaction. Each item
will be specified in the bill, and can be verified during the ceremony,
no payment exacted until after delivery. Well, is it understood?”

The valet shrugged his shoulders. “Nonsense!” said he, carelessly; “what
is all that to me?”

“Ah! I forgot to mention that there would be a commission of two hundred
francs to divide between us.”

“That’s consideration. Give me your card, and rely on me. My compliments
to M. Fortunat, please.” And so saying, he re-entered the house.

Victor Chupin drew a huge silver watch from his pocket and consulted
it. “Five minutes to eight,” he growled, “and the guv’nor expects me at
eight precisely. I shall have to stretch out my legs.”




II.


M. Isidore Fortunat resided at No. 27 Place de la Bourse, on the
third floor. He had a handsome suite of apartments: a drawing-room, a
dining-room, a bed-room, a large outer office where his clerks
worked, and a private one, which was the sanctuary of his thoughts and
meditations. The whole cost him only six thousand francs a year, a mere
trifle as rents go nowadays. His lease entitled him, moreover, to the
use of a room ten feet square, up under the eaves, where he lodged his
servant, Madame Dodelin, a woman of forty-six or thereabouts, who had
met with reverses of fortune, and who now took such good charge of his
establishment, that his table--for he ate at home--was truly fit for a
sybarite.

Having been established here for five years or more, M. Fortunat was
very well known in the neighborhood, and, as he paid his rent promptly,
and met all his obligations without demur, he was generally respected.
Besides, people knew very well from what source M. Fortunat derived his
income. He gave his attention to contested claims, liquidations, the
recovery of legacies, and so on, as was shown by the inscription in
large letters which figured on the elegant brass plate adorning his
door. He must have had a prosperous business, for he employed six
collectors in addition to the clerks who wrote all day long in his
office; and his clients were so numerous that the concierge was often
heard to complain of the way they ran up and down the stairs, declaring
that it was worse than a procession.

To be just, we must add that M. Fortunat’s appearance, manners
and conduct were of a nature to quiet all suspicions. He was some
thirty-eight years of age, extremely methodical in his habits, gentle
and refined in his manner, intelligent, very good-looking, and always
dressed in perfect taste. He was accused of being, in business matters,
as cold, as polished, and as hard as one of the marble slabs of the
Morgue; but then, no one was obliged to employ him unless they chose
to do so. This much is certain: he did not frequent cafes or places of
amusement. If he went out at all after dinner, it was only to pass
the evening at the house of some rich client in the neighborhood. He
detested the smell of tobacco, and was inclined to be devout--never
failing to attend eight o’clock mass on Sunday mornings. His housekeeper
suspected him of matrimonial designs, and perhaps she was right.

On the evening that the Count de Chalusse was struck with apoplexy M.
Isidore Fortunat had been dining alone and was sipping a cup of tea when
the door-bell rang, announcing the arrival of a visitor. Madame Dodelin
hastened to open the door, and in walked Victor Chupin, breathless from
his hurried walk. It had not taken him twenty-five minutes to cover
the distance which separates the Rue de Courcelles from the Place de la
Bourse.

“You are late, Victor,” said M. Fortunat, quietly.

“That’s true, monsieur, but it isn’t my fault. Everything was in
confusion down there, and I was obliged to wait.”

“How is that? Why?”

“The Count de Chalusse was stricken with apoplexy this evening, and he
is probably dead by this time.”

M. Fortunat sprang from his chair with a livid face and trembling lips.
“Stricken with apoplexy!” he exclaimed in a husky voice. “I am ruined!”

Then, fearing Madame Dodelin’s curiosity, he seized the lamp and rushed
into his office, crying to Chupin: “Follow me.”

Chupin obeyed without a word, for he was a shrewd fellow, and knew how
to make the best of a trying situation. He was not usually allowed
to enter this private room, the floor of which was covered with a
magnificent carpet; and so, after carefully closing the door, he
remained standing, hat in hand, and looking somewhat intimidated. But
M. Fortunat seemed to have forgotten his presence. After depositing the
lamp on the mantel-shelf, he walked several times round and round the
room like a hunted beast seeking for some means of egress.

“If the count is dead,” he muttered, “the Marquis de Valorsay is lost!
Farewell to the millions!”

The blow was so cruel, and so entirely unexpected, that he could not,
would not believe in its reality. He walked straight to Chupin, and
caught him by the collar, as if the young fellow had been the cause
of this misfortune. “It isn’t possible,” said he; “the count CANNOT
be dead. You are deceiving me, or they deceived you. You must have
misunderstood--you only wished to give some excuse for your delay
perhaps. Speak, say something!”

As a rule, Chupin was not easily impressed, but he felt almost
frightened by his employer’s agitation. “I only repeated what M. Casimir
told me, monsieur,” was his reply.

He then wished to furnish some particulars, but M. Fortunat had already
resumed his furious tramp to and fro, giving vent to his wrath and
despair in incoherent exclamations. “Forty thousand francs lost!” he
exclaimed. “Forty thousand francs, counted out there on my desk! I see
them yet, counted and placed in the hand of the Marquis de Valorsay in
exchange for his signature. My savings for a number of years, and I have
only a worthless scrap of paper to show for them. That cursed marquis!
And he was to come here this evening, and I was to give him ten thousand
francs more. They are lying there in that drawer. Let him come, the
wretch, let him come!”

Anger had positively brought foam to M. Fortunat’s lips, and any one
seeing him then would subsequently have had but little confidence in his
customary good-natured air and unctuous politeness. “And yet the marquis
is as much to be pitied as I am,” he continued. “He loses as much,
even more! And such a sure thing it seemed, too! What speculation can a
fellow engage in after this? And a man must put his money somewhere; he
can’t bury it in the ground!”

Chupin listened with an air of profound commiseration; but it was only
assumed. He was inwardly jubilant, for his interest in the affair was in
direct opposition to that of his employer. Indeed, if M. Fortunat lost
forty thousand francs by the Count de Chalusse’s death, Chupin expected
to make a hundred francs commission on the funeral.

“Still, he may have made a will!” pursued M. Fortunat. “But no, I’m
sure he hasn’t. A poor devil who has only a few sous to leave behind him
always takes this precaution. He thinks he may be run over by an omnibus
and suddenly killed, and he always writes and signs his last wishes.
But millionaires don’t think of such things; they believe themselves
immortal!” He paused to reflect for a moment, for power of reflection
had returned to him. His excitement had quickly spent itself by reason
of its very violence. “This much is certain,” he resumed, slowly, and
in a more composed voice, “whether the count has made a will or not,
Valorsay will lose the millions he expected from Chalusse. If there
is no will, Mademoiselle Marguerite won’t have a sou, and then, good
evening! If there is one, this devil of a girl, suddenly becoming
her own mistress, and wealthy into the bargain, will send Monsieur de
Valorsay about his business, especially if she loves another, as he
himself admits--and in that case, again good evening!”

M. Fortunat drew out his handkerchief, and, pausing in front of the
looking-glass, wiped the perspiration from his brow, and arranged his
disordered hair. He was one of those men who may be stunned, but never
crushed, by a catastrophe. “In conclusion,” he muttered, “I must enter
my forty thousand francs as an item in the profit and loss account. It
only remains to be seen if it would not be possible to regain them in
the same affair.” He was again master of himself, and never had his mind
been more clear. He seated himself at his desk, leant his elbows upon
it, rested his head on his hands, and remained for some time perfectly
motionless; but there was triumph in his gesture when he at last looked
up again.

“I am safe,” he muttered, so low that Chupin could not hear him. “What a
fool I was! If there is no will a fourth of the millions shall be mine!
Ah, when a man knows his ground, he never need lose the battle! But I
must act quickly,” he added, “very quickly.” And so speaking, he rose
and glanced at the clock. “Nine o’clock,” said he. “I must open the
campaign this very evening.”

Motionless in his dark corner, Chupin still retained his commiserating
attitude; but he was so oppressed with curiosity that he could scarcely
breathe. He opened his eyes and ears to the utmost, and watched his
employer’s slightest movements with intense interest.

Prompt to act when he had once decided upon his course, M. Fortunat now
drew from his desk a large portfolio, crammed full of letters, receipts,
bills, deeds of property, and old parchments. “I can certainly discover
the necessary pretext here,” he murmured, rummaging through the mass of
papers. But he did not at once find what he sought, and he was growing
impatient, as could be seen by his feverish haste, when all at once he
paused with a sigh of relief. “At last!”

He held in his hand a soiled and crumpled note of hand, affixed by a
pin to a huissier’s protest, thus proving conclusively that it had been
dishonored. M. Fortunat waved these strips of paper triumphantly, and
with a satisfied air exclaimed: “It is here that I must strike; it is
here--if Casimir hasn’t deceived me--that I shall find the indispensable
information I need.”

He was in such haste that he did not wait to put his portfolio in order.
He threw it with the papers it had contained into the drawer of his
desk again, and, approaching Chupin, he asked, “It was you, was it not,
Victor, who obtained that information respecting the solvency of the
Vantrassons, husband and wife, who let out furnished rooms?”

“Yes, monsieur, and I gave you the answer: nothing to hope for----”

“I know; but that doesn’t matter. Do you remember their address?”

“Perfectly. They are now living on the Asnieres Road, beyond the
fortifications, on the right hand side.”

“What is the number?”

Chupin hesitated, reflected for a moment, and then began to scratch
his head furiously, as he was in the habit of doing whenever his memory
failed him and he wished to recall it to duty. “I’m not sure whether the
number is eighteen or forty-six,” he said, at last; “that is----”

“Never mind,” interrupted M. Fortunat. “If I sent you to the house could
you find it?”

“Oh--yes, m’sieur--at once--with my eyes shut. I can see the place
perfectly--a rickety old barrack. There is a tract of unoccupied land on
one side, and a kitchen-garden in the rear.”

“Very well; you shall accompany me there.”

Chupin seemed astonished by this strange proposal. “What, m’sieur,” said
he, “do you think of going there at this time of night?”

“Why not? Shall we find the establishment closed?”

“No; certainly not. Vantrasson doesn’t merely keep furnished rooms; he’s
a grocer, and sells liquor too. His place is open until eleven o’clock
at least. But if you are going there to present a bill, it’s perhaps
a little late. If I were in your place, m’sieur, I should wait
till to-morrow. It’s raining, and the streets are deserted. It’s an
out-of-the-way place too; and in such cases, a man has been known to
settle his account with whatever came handiest--with a cudgel, or a
bullet, for instance.”

“Are you afraid?”

This question seemed so utterly absurd to Chupin that he was not in
the least offended by it; his only answer was a disdainful shrug of the
shoulders.

“Then we will go,” remarked M. Fortunat. “While I’m getting ready, go
and hire a cab, and see that you get a good horse.”

Chupin was off in an instant, tearing down the staircase like a tempest.
There was a cab-stand only a few steps from the house, but he preferred
to run to the jobmaster’s stables in the Rue Feydeau.

“Cab, sir!” shouted several men, as they saw him approaching.

He made no reply, but began to examine the horses with the air of a
connoisseur, until at last he found an animal that suited him. Thereupon
he beckoned to the driver, and going to the little office where a woman
sat reading: “My five sous, if you please,” he said, authoritatively.

The woman looked at him. Most jobmasters are in the habit of giving five
sous to any servant who comes in search of a cab for his master; and
this was the custom here. But the keeper of the office, who felt sure
that Chupin was not a servant, hesitated; and this made the young fellow
angry. “Make haste,” he cried, imperiously. “If you don’t, I shall run
to the nearest stand.”

The woman at once threw him five sous, which he pocketed with a
satisfied grin. They were his--rightfully his--since he had taken the
trouble to gain them. He then hastily returned to the office to inform
his employer that the cab was waiting at the door, and found himself
face to face with a sight which made him open his eyes to their widest
extent.

M. Fortunat had profited by his clerk’s absence, not to disguise
himself--that would be saying too much--but to make some changes in his
appearance. He had arrayed himself in a long overcoat, shiny with grease
and wear, and falling below his knees; in place of his elegant satin
cravat he had knotted a gaudy silk neckerchief about his throat; his
boots were worn, and out of shape; and his hat would have been treated
with contempt even by a dealer in old clothes. Of the prosperous
Fortunat, so favorably known round about the Place de la Bourse, naught
remained save his face and his hands. Another Fortunat had taken his
place, more than needy in aspect--wretched, famished, gaunt with hunger,
ready for any desperate deed. And, yet, he seemed at ease in this garb;
it yielded to his every movement, as if he had worn it for a long time.
The butterfly had become a chrysalis again. Chupin’s admiring smile must
have repaid him for his trouble. Since the young clerk evinced approval,
M. Fortunat felt sure that Vantrasson would take him for what he wished
to appear--a poor devil of an agent, who was acting on some other
person’s behalf. “Let us start at once,” said he.

But just as he was leaving the ante-room, he remembered an order of
great importance which he wished to give. He called Madame Dodelin, and
without paying the slightest heed to her astonishment at seeing him thus
attired: “If the Marquis de Valorsay comes, in my absence,” said
he--“and he WILL come--ask him to wait for me. I shall return
before midnight. Don’t take him into my office--he can wait in the
drawing-room.”

This last order was certainly unnecessary, since M. Fortunat had closed
and double-locked his office door and placed the key carefully in his
own pocket. But perhaps he had forgotten this circumstance. There
were now no traces of his recent anger and disappointment. He was in
excellent humor; and you might have supposed that he was starting on an
enterprise from which he expected to derive both pleasure and profit.

Chupin was climbing to a place on the box beside the driver when his
employer bade him take a seat inside the vehicle. They were not long in
reaching their destination, for the horse was really a good one, and the
driver had been stimulated by the promise of a magnificent gratuity. In
fact, M. Fortunat and his companion reached the Asnieres Road in less
than forty minutes.

In obedience to the orders he had received before starting, the cabman
drew up on the right hand side of the road, at about a hundred paces
from the city gate, beyond the fortifications. “Well, sir, here you are!
Are you satisfied?” he inquired, as he opened the door.

“Perfectly satisfied,” replied M. Fortunat. “Here is your promised
gratuity. Now, you have only to wait for us. Don’t stir from this place.
Do you understand?”

But the driver shook his head. “Excuse me,” he said, “but if it’s all
the same to you, I will station myself over there near the gate. Here,
you see, I should be afraid to go to sleep, while over there----”

“Very well; suit yourself,” M. Fortunat replied.

This precaution on the driver’s part convinced him that Chupin had not
exaggerated the evil reputation of this quarter of the Parisian suburbs.
And, indeed, there was little of a reassuring character in the aspect
of this broad road, quite deserted at this hour, and shrouded in the
darkness of a tempestuous night. The rain had ceased falling, but the
wind blew with increased violence, twisting the branches off the trees,
tearing slates from the roofs, and shaking the street-lamps so furiously
as to extinguish the gas. They could not see a step before them; the mud
was ankle-deep, and not a person, not a solitary soul was visible.

“Are we almost there?” M. Fortunat asked every ten paces.

“Almost there, m’sieur.”

Chupin said this; but to tell the truth, he knew nothing about it.
He tried to discover where he was, but did not succeed. Houses were
becoming scanty, and vacant plots of building ground more numerous;
it was only with the greatest difficulty that one could occasionally
discern a light. At last, however, after a quarter of an hour’s hard
struggling, Chupin uttered a joyful cry. “Here we are, m’sieur--look!”
 said he.

A large building, five stories high, sinister of aspect, and standing
quite alone, could just be distinguished in the darkness. It was already
falling to pieces, and yet it was not entirely completed. Plainly
enough, the speculator who had undertaken the enterprise had not been
rich enough to complete it. On seeing the many closely pierced windows
of the facade, a passer-by could not fail to divine for what purpose
the building had been erected; and in order that no one should remain in
ignorance of it, this inscription: “Furnished Rooms,” figured in
letters three feet high, between the third and fourth floors. The inside
arrangements could be easily divined: innumerable rooms, all small and
inconvenient, and let out at exorbitant rentals.

However, Victor Chupin’s memory had misled him. This establishment was
not on the right, but on the left-hand side of the road, a perfect mire
through which M. Fortunat and his companion were obliged to cross. Their
eyes having become accustomed to the darkness, they could discern sundry
details as they approached the building. The ground floor comprised
two shops, one of which was closed, but the other was still open, and a
faint light gleamed through the soiled red curtains. Over the frontage
appeared the shop-keeper’s name, Vantrasson, while on either side, in
smaller letters, were the words: “Groceries and Provisions--Foreign and
French Wines.” Everything about this den denoted abject poverty and low
debauchery.

M. Fortunat certainly did not recoil, but before entering the shop
he was not sorry to have an opportunity to reconnoitre. He approached
cautiously, and peered through the window at a place where a rent in
the curtain allowed him some view of the interior. Behind the counter
a woman who looked some fifty years of age was seated, mending a soiled
dress by the light of a smoking lamp. She was short and very stout.
She seemed literally weighed down, and puffed out by an unwholesome
and unnatural mass of superfluous flesh; and she was as white as if her
veins had been filled with water, instead of blood. Her hanging
cheeks, her receding forehead, and her thin lips, imparted an alarming
expression of wickedness and cunning to her countenance. At the farther
end of the store Fortunat could vaguely discern the figure of a man
seated on a stool. He seemed to be asleep, for his crossed arms rested
on a table, with his head leaning on them.

“Good luck!” whispered Chupin in his employer’s ear; “there is not
a customer in the place. Vantrasson and his wife are alone.” This
circumstance was by no means displeasing to M. Fortunat, as could be
seen by his expression of face. “So, m’sieur,” continued Chupin, “you
need have no fears. I’ll remain here and watch, while you go in.”

M. Fortunat did so. On hearing the door open and shut, the woman laid
down her work. “What can I do for monsieur?” she asked, in a wheedling
voice.

M. Fortunat did not reply at once; but he drew the note with which
he had provided himself from his pocket, and displayed it. “I am a
huissier’s clerk,” he then exclaimed; “and I called in reference to this
little matter--a note of hand for five hundred and eighty-three francs,
value received in goods, signed Vantrasson, and made payable to the
order of a person named Barutin.”

“An execution!” said the woman, whose voice suddenly soured.
“Vantrasson, wake up, and come and see about this.”

This summons was unnecessary. On hearing the words “note of hand,”
 the man had lifted his head; and at the name of Barutin, he rose and
approached with a heavy, uncertain step, as if he had not yet slept
off his intoxication. He was younger than his wife, tall, with a
well-proportioned and athletic form. His features were regular, but the
abuse of alcohol and all sorts of excesses had greatly marred them, and
their present expression was one of ferocious brutishness. “What’s that
you are talking about?” he asked in a harsh, grating voice. “Is it to
mock people that you come and ask for money on the 15th of October--rent
day? Where have you seen any money left after the landlord has made his
round? Besides, what is this bill? Give it me to look at.”

M. Fortunat was not guilty of such folly; he did not intrust the paper
to Vantrasson’s hand, but held it a little distance from him, and then
read it aloud.

When he had finished: “That note fell due eighteen months ago,” declared
Vantrasson. “It is worth nothing now.”

“You are mistaken--a note of this kind is of value any time within five
years after the day it goes to protest.”

“Possibly; but as Barutin has failed, and gone no one knows where, I am
released----”

“Another mistake on your part. You owe these five hundred and
eighty-three francs to the person who bought this note at Barutin’s
sale, and who has given my employer orders to prosecute----”

The blood had risen to Vantrasson’s face. “And what of that? Do you
suppose I’ve never been sued for debts before? Even the king can’t take
anything from a person who possesses nothing; and I own nothing. My
furniture is all pawned or mortgaged, and my stock is not worth a
hundred francs. When your employer finds it useless to waste money in
worrying me, he’ll let me alone. You can’t injure a man like me.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Unfortunately you are again mistaken, for although the holder of the
note doesn’t care so very much about obtaining his dues, he’ll spend his
own money like water to make trouble for you.” And thereupon M. Fortunat
began to draw a vivid and frightful picture of a poor debtor pursued
by a rich creditor who harassed him, and tortured him, and hounded him
everywhere, until not even a change of clothing was left him.

Vantrasson rolled his eyes and brandished his formidable fist in the
most defiant manner; but his wife was evidently much alarmed. At last
she could bear it no longer, and rising hastily she led her husband to
the rear of the shop, saying: “Come, I must speak with you.”

He followed her, and they remained for some little time conversing
together in a low tone, but with excited gestures. When they returned,
the woman opened the conversation. “Alas! sir,” she said to M. Fortunat,
“we have no money just now; business is so very bad, and if you
prosecute us, we are lost. What can be done? You look like an honest
man; give us your advice.”

M. Fortunat did not reply at once; he was apparently absorbed in
thought, but suddenly he exclaimed: “One owes a duty to unfortunate
folks, and I’m going to tell you the exact truth. My employer, who isn’t
a bad man at heart, hasn’t the slightest desire for revenge. He said to
me: ‘Go and see these Vantrassons, and if they seem to be worthy people,
propose a compromise. If they choose to accept it, I shall be quite
satisfied.’”

“And what is this compromise?”

“It is this: you must write an acknowledgment of the debt on a sheet of
stamped paper, together with a promise to pay a little on account each
month. In exchange I will give you this note of hand.”

The husband and wife exchanged glances, and it was the woman who said:
“We accept.”

But to carry out this arrangement it was necessary to have a sheet of
stamped paper, and the spurious clerk had neglected to provide himself
with some. This circumstance seemed to annoy him greatly, and you might
almost have sworn that he regretted the concession he had promised. Did
he think of going? Madame Vantrasson feared so, and turning eagerly
to her husband, she exclaimed: “Run to the tobacco shop in the Rue de
Levis; you will find some paper there!”

He started off at once, and M. Fortunat breathed freely again. He had
certainly retained his composure admirably during the interview, but
more than once he had fancied that Vantrasson was about to spring on
him, crush him with his brawny hands, tear the note from him, burn it,
and then throw him, Fortunat, out into the street, helpless and nearly
dead. But now that danger had passed and Madame Vantrasson, fearing he
might tire of waiting, was prodigal in her attentions. She brought
him the only unbroken chair in the establishment, and insisted that he
should partake of some refreshment--a glass of wine at the very least.
While rummaging among the bottles, she alternately thanked him and
complained, declaring she had a right to repine, since she had known
better days--but fate had been against her ever since her marriage,
though she had little thought she would end her days in such misery,
after having been so happy in the Count de Chalusse’s household many
years before.

To all appearance, M. Fortunat listened with the mere superficial
interest which ordinary politeness requires one to show, but in reality
his heart was filled with intense delight. Coming here without any
clearly-defined plan, circumstances had served him a thousand times
better than he could reasonably have hoped. He had preserved his
power over the Vantrassons, had won their confidence, had succeeded
in obtaining a tete-a-tete with the wife, and to crown all, this woman
alluded, of her own accord, to the very subject upon which he was
longing to question her.

“Ah! if I were only back in the Count’s household again,” she exclaimed.
“Six hundred francs a year, and gifts worth double that amount. Those
were good times for me. But you know how it is--one is never content
with one’s lot, and then the heart is weak----”

She had not succeeded in finding the sweet wine which she proposed to
her guest; so in its place she substituted a mixture of ratafia and
brandy in two large glasses which she placed upon the counter. “One
evening, to my sorrow,” she resumed, “I met Vantrasson at a ball. It was
the 13th day of the month. I might have known no good would come of it.
Ah, you should have seen him at that time, in full uniform. He belonged
to the Paris Guards then. All the women were crazy about soldiers, and
my head was turned, too----” Her tone, her gestures, and the compression
of her thin lips, revealed the bitterness of her disappointment and her
unavailing regret. “Ah, these handsome men!” she continued; “don’t
talk to me about them! This one had heard of my savings. I had nineteen
thousand francs, so he begged me to marry him, and I was fool enough
to consent. Yes, fool--for I was forty, and he was only thirty. I might
have known it was my money that he wanted, and not me. However, I gave
up my situation, and even purchased a substitute for him, in order that
I might have him all to myself.”

She had gradually warmed with her theme, as she described her confidence
and blind credulity, and then, with a tragic gesture, as if she desired
to drive away these cruel memories, she suddenly seized her glass and
emptied it at a draught.

Chupin, who was still at his post outside, experienced a thrill of
envy, and involuntarily licked his lips. “A mixed ratafia,” he said,
longingly. “I shouldn’t object to one myself.”

However, this choice compound seemed to inspire Madame Vantrasson with
renewed energy, for, with still greater earnestness, she resumed: “At
first, all went well. We employed my savings in purchasing the Hotel des
Espagnes, in the Rue Notre Dame des Victoires, and business prospered;
there was never a vacant room. But any person who has drank, sir, will
drink again. Vantrasson kept sober for a few months, but gradually he
fell into his old habits. He was in such a condition most of the time
that he was scarcely able to ask for food. And if that had been all!
But, unfortunately, he was too handsome a man to be a good husband. One
night he didn’t come home, and the next day, when I ventured to reproach
him--very gently, I assure you--he answered me with an oath and a blow.
All our happiness was over! Monsieur declared that he was master, and
would do as he liked. He drank and carried away all the wine from the
cellar--he took all the money--he remained away for weeks together; and
if I complained--more blows!”

Her voice trembled, and a tear gathered in her eye; but, wiping it away
with the back of her hand, she resumed: “Vantrasson was always drunk,
and I spent my time in crying my very eyes out. Business became very
bad, and soon everybody left the house. We were obliged to sell it.
We did so, and bought a small cafe. But by the end of the year we lost
that. Fortunately, I still had a little money left, and so I bought a
stock of groceries in my own name; but in less than six months the stock
was eaten up, and we were cast into the street. What was to be done?
Vantrasson drank worse than ever; he demanded money when he knew that I
had none to give him, and he treated me even more cruelly than before.
I lost courage--and yet one must live! Oh, you wouldn’t believe it if
I told you how we have lived for the past four years.” She did not tell
him, but contented herself with adding, “When you begin to go down hill,
there is no such thing as stopping; you roll lower and lower, until you
reach the bottom, as we have done. Here we live, no one knows how; we
have to pay our rent each week, and if we are driven from this place, I
see no refuge but the river.”

“If I had been in your position, I should have left my husband,” M.
Fortunat ventured to remark.

“Yes--it would have been better, no doubt. People advised me to do
so, and I tried. Three or four times I went away, and yet I always
returned--it was stronger than myself. Besides, I’m his wife; I’ve paid
dearly for him; he’s mine--I won’t yield him to any one else. He beats
me, no doubt; I despise him, I hate him, and yet I----” She poured out
part of a glass of brandy, and swallowed it; then, with a gesture of
rage, she added: “I can’t give him up! It’s fate! As it is now, it will
be until the end, until he starves, or I----”

M. Fortunat’s countenance wore an expression of profound commiseration.
A looker-on would have supposed him interested and sympathetic to the
last degree; but in reality, he was furious. Time was passing, and the
conversation was wandering farther and farther from the object of his
visit. “I am surprised, madame,” said he, “that you never applied to
your former employer, the Count de Chalusse.”

“Alas! I did apply to him for assistance several times----”

“With what result?”

“The first time I went to him he received me; I told him my troubles,
and he gave me bank-notes to the amount of five thousand francs.”

M. Fortunat raised his hands to the ceiling. “Five thousand francs!” he
repeated, in a tone of astonishment; “this count must be very rich----”

“So rich, monsieur, that he doesn’t know how much he’s worth. He owns,
nobody knows how many houses in Paris, chateaux in every part of the
country, entire villages, forests--his gold comes in by the shovelful.”

The spurious clerk closed his eyes, as if he were dazzled by this vision
of wealth.

“The second time I went to the count’s house,” resumed Madame
Vantrasson, “I didn’t see him, but he sent me a thousand francs. The
third and last time they gave me twenty francs at the door, and told me
that the count had gone on a journey. I understood that I could hope for
no further help from him. Besides, all the servants had been changed.
One morning, without any apparent reason, M. de Chalusse dismissed all
the old servants, so they told me. He even sent away the concierge and
the housekeeper.”

“Why didn’t you apply to his wife?”

“M. de Chalusse isn’t married. He never has been married.”

From the expression of solicitude upon her guest’s features, Madame
Vantrasson supposed he was racking his brain to discover some mode of
escape from her present difficulties. “If I were in your place,” he
said, “I should try to interest his relatives and family in my case----”

“The count has no relatives.”

“Impossible!”

“He hasn’t, indeed. During the ten years I was in his service, I heard
him say more than a dozen times that he alone was left of all his
family--that all the others were dead. People pretend that this is the
reason why he is so immensely rich.”

M. Fortunat’s interest was no longer assumed; he was rapidly approaching
the real object of his visit. “No relatives!” he muttered. “Who, then,
will inherit his millions when he dies?”

Madame Vantrasson jerked her head. “Who can say?” she replied.
“Everything will go to the government, probably, unless---- But no,
that’s impossible.”

“What’s impossible?”

“Nothing. I was thinking of the count’s sister, Mademoiselle Hermine.”

“His sister! Why, you said just now that he had no relatives.”

“It’s the same as if he hadn’t; no one knows what has become of her,
poor creature! Some say that she married; others declare that she died.
It’s quite a romance.”

M. Isidore Fortunat was literally upon the rack; and to make his
sufferings still more horrible, he dared not ask any direct question,
nor allow his curiosity to become manifest, for fear of alarming the
woman. “Let me see,” said he; “I think--I am sure that I have heard--or
that I have read--I cannot say which--some story about a Mademoiselle de
Chalusse. It was something terrible, wasn’t it?”

“Terrible, indeed. But what I was speaking of happened a long time
ago--twenty-five or twenty-six years ago, at the very least. I was still
in my own part of the country--at Besancon. No one knows the exact truth
about the affair.”

“What! not even you?”

“Oh! I--that’s an entirely different thing. When I entered the count’s
service, six years later, there was still an old gardener who knew the
whole story, and who told it to me, making me swear that I would never
betray his confidence.”

Lavish of details as she had been in telling her own story, it was
evident that she was determined to exercise a prudent reserve in
everything connected with the De Chalusse family; and M. Fortunat
inwardly cursed this, to him, most unseasonable discretion. But he was
experienced in these examinations, and he had at his command little
tricks for loosening tongues, which even an investigating magistrate
might have envied. Without seeming to attach the slightest importance to
Madame Vantrasson’s narrative, he rose with a startled air, like a
man who suddenly realizes that he has forgotten himself. “Zounds!” he
exclaimed, “we sit here gossiping, and it’s growing late. I really can’t
wait for your husband. If I remain here any longer, I shall miss the
last omnibus; and I live on the other side of the river, near the
Luxembourg.”

“But our agreement, monsieur?”

“We will draw that up at some future time. I shall be passing again, or
I will send one of my colleagues to see you.”

It was Madame Vantrasson’s turn to tremble now. She feared, if she
allowed this supposed clerk to go without signing the agreement, that
the person who came in his stead might not prove so accommodating; and
even if he called again himself, he might not be so kindly disposed.
“Wait just a moment longer, monsieur,” she pleaded; “my husband will
soon be back, and the last omnibus doesn’t leave the Rue de Levis until
midnight.”

“I wouldn’t refuse, but this part of the suburbs is so lonely.”

“Vantrasson will see you on your way.” And, resolved to detain him at
any cost, she poured out a fresh glass of liquor for him, and said:
“Where were we? Oh, yes! I was about to tell you Mademoiselle Hermine’s
story.”

Concealing his delight with an assumed air of resignation, M. Fortunat
reseated himself, to the intense disgust of Chupin, who was thoroughly
tired of waiting outside in the cold.

“I must tell you,” began Madame Vantrasson, “that when this happened--at
least twenty-five years ago--the De Chalusse family lived in the Rue
Saint-Dominique. They occupied a superb mansion, with extensive grounds,
full of splendid trees like those in the Tuileries gardens. Mademoiselle
Hermine, who was then about eighteen or nineteen years old, was,
according to all accounts, the prettiest young creature ever seen. Her
skin was as white as milk, she had a profusion of golden hair, and her
eyes were as blue as forget-me-nots. She was very kind and generous,
they say, only, like all the rest of the family, she was very haughty
and obstinate--oh, obstinate enough to allow herself to be roasted alive
over a slow fire rather than yield an inch. That’s the count’s nature
exactly. Having served him, I know something about it, to be sure,
and----”

“Excuse me,” interrupted M. Fortunat, who was determined to prevent
these digressions, “and Mademoiselle Hermine?”

“I was coming to her. Although she was very beautiful and immensely
rich, she had no suitors--for it was generally understood that she was
to marry a marquis, whose father was a particular friend of the family.
The parents had arranged the matter between them years before, and
nothing was wanting but the young lady’s consent; but Mademoiselle
Hermine absolutely refused to hear the marquis’s name mentioned.

“They did everything to persuade her to consent to this marriage; they
employed prayers and threats alike, but they might as well have talked
to a stone. When they asked her why she refused to marry the marquis,
she replied, ‘Because’--and that was all. In fact, at last she declared
she would leave home and take refuge in a convent, if they didn’t cease
to torment her. Her relatives were certain there must be some reason
for her refusal. It isn’t natural for a girl to reject a suitor who
is young, handsome, rich, and a marquis besides. Her friends suspected
there was something she wouldn’t confess; and M. Raymond swore that he
would watch his sister, and discover her secret.”

“M. Raymond is the present Count de Chalusse, I suppose?” inquired M.
Fortunat.

“Yes, monsieur. Such was the state of matters when, one night, the
gardener thought he heard a noise in the pavilion, at the end of the
garden. This pavilion was very large. I have seen it. It contained
a sitting-room, a billiard-room, and a large fencing-hall. Naturally
enough, the gardener got up to go and see what was the matter. As he
left the house, he fancied he saw two persons moving about among the
trees. He ran after them, but could find nothing. They had made their
escape through a small gate leading from the garden into the street.
When the gardener was telling me this story, he declared again and
again that he had fancied the noise he had heard was made by some of
the servants trying to leave the house secretly, and for this reason
he didn’t give the alarm. However, he hurried to the pavilion, but on
seeing no light there, he went back to bed with an easy mind.”

“And it was Mademoiselle Hermine eloping with a lover?” asked M.
Fortunat.

Madame Vantrasson seemed as disappointed as an actor who has been
deprived of an opportunity of producing a grand effect. “Wait a moment,”
 she replied, “and you’ll see. The night passed, morning came, and
then the breakfast hour. But Mademoiselle Hermine did not make her
appearance. Some one was sent to rap at her door--there was no answer.
The door was opened--the young lady was not in her room, and the bed had
not even been disturbed. In a few moments the whole household was in
the wildest commotion; the mother weeping, and the father half wild
with rage and sorrow. Of course, the next thought was of Mademoiselle
Hermine’s brother, and he was sent for. But, he, too, was not in his
room, and his bed had not been touched. The excitement was becoming
frenzy, when it occurred to the gardener to mention what he had heard
and seen on the previous night. They hastened to the pavilion, and
discovered what? Why, M. Raymond stretched upon the ground, stiff, cold,
and motionless, weltering in his own blood. One of his rigid hands still
grasped a sword. They lifted him up, carried him to the house, laid him
upon his bed, and sent for a physician. He had received two dangerous
wounds; one in the throat, the other in the breast. For more than a
month he hung between life and death, and six weeks elapsed before he
had strength to relate what had happened. He was lighting a cigar at his
window when he thought he saw a woman’s form flit through the garden.
A suspicion that it might be his sister flashed through his mind; so he
hastened down, stole noiselessly into the pavilion, and there he found
his sister and a young man who was absolutely unknown to him. He might
have killed the intruder, but instead of doing so, he told him they
would fight then and there. Weapons were within reach, and they fought,
with the result that Raymond was wounded twice, in quick succession, and
fell. His adversary, supposing him dead, thereupon fled from the spot,
taking Mademoiselle Hermine with him.”

At this point in her narrative Madame Vantrasson evinced a desire to
pause and draw a breath, and perhaps partake of some slight refreshment;
but M. Fortunat was impatient. The woman’s husband might return at any
moment. “And, after that?” he inquired.

“After that--well--M. Raymond recovered, and in about three months’
time he was out again; but the parents, who were old folks, had received
their death-blow. They never rallied from the shock. Perhaps they felt
that it was their own hard-heartedness and obstinacy that had caused
their daughter’s ruin--and remorse is hard to bear. They waned
perceptibly from day to day, and during the following year they were
borne to the cemetery within two months of each other.”

From the spurious clerk’s demeanor it was easy to see that he had ceased
thinking about his omnibus, and his hostess felt both reassured and
flattered. “And Mademoiselle Hermine?” he inquired, eagerly.

“Alas! monsieur, no one ever knew where she went, or what became of
her.”

“Didn’t they try to find her?”

“They searched for her everywhere, for I don’t know how long; all the
ablest detectives in France and in foreign countries tried to find her,
but not one of them succeeded in discovering the slightest trace of her
whereabouts. M. Raymond promised an enormous sum to the man who would
find his sister’s betrayer. He wished to kill him, and he sought for him
for years; but all in vain.”

“And did they never receive any tidings of this unfortunate girl?”

“I was told that they heard from her twice. On the morning following
her flight her parents received a letter, in which she implored their
forgiveness. Five or six months later, she wrote again to say that she
knew her brother was not dead. She confessed that she was a wicked,
ungrateful girl--that she had been mad; but she said that her punishment
had come, and it was terrible. She added that every link was severed
between herself and her friends, and she hoped they would forget her as
completely as if she had never existed. She went so far as to say that
her children should never know who their mother was, and that never in
her life again would she utter the name which she had so disgraced.”

It was the old, sad story of a ruined girl paying for a moment’s madness
with her happiness and all her after life. A terrible drama, no doubt;
but one that is of such frequent occurrence that it seems as commonplace
as life itself. Thus any one who was acquainted with M. Isidore Fortunat
would have been surprised to see how greatly he was moved by such a
trifle. “Poor girl!” said he, in view of saying something. And then, in
a tone of assumed carelessness, he inquired: “Did they never discover
what scoundrel carried Mademoiselle de Chalusse away?”

“Never. Who he was, whence he came, whether he was young or old, how he
became acquainted with Mademoiselle Hermine--these questions were never
answered. It was rumored at one time that he was an American, a captain
in the navy; but that was only a rumor. To tell the truth, they never
even discovered his name.”

“What, not even his name?”

“Not even his name.”

Unable to master his emotion, M. Fortunat had at least the presence of
mind to rise and step back into the darker part of the shop. But his
gesture of disappointment and the muttered oath that fell from his lips
did not escape Madame Vantrasson. She was startled, and from that moment
she looked upon the supposed clerk with evident distrust. It was not
long before he again resumed his seat nearer the counter, still a
trifle pale, perhaps, but apparently calm. Two questions more seemed
indispensable to him, and yet either one of them would be sure to arouse
suspicion. Nevertheless, he resolved to incur the risk of betraying
himself. And, after all, what would it matter now? Did he not possess
the information he had wished for, at least as much of it as it was in
this woman’s power to impart? “I can scarcely tell you, my dear madame,
how much your narrative has interested me,” he began. “I can confess
now that I am slightly acquainted with the Count de Chalusse, and that I
have frequently visited the house in the Rue de Courcelles, where he now
resides.”

“You!” exclaimed the woman, taking a hasty inventory of M. Fortunat’s
toilette.

“Yes, I--on the part of my employer, understand. Each time I’ve been
to visit M. de Chalusse’s I’ve seen a young lady whom I took for his
daughter there. I was wrong, no doubt, since he isn’t a married man--”

He paused. Astonishment and anger seemed to be almost suffocating his
hostess. Without understanding how or why, she felt convinced that she
had been duped; and if she had obeyed her first impulse she would have
attacked M. Isidore then and there. If she restrained this impulse, if
she made an effort to control herself, it was only because she thought
she held a better revenge in reserve.

“A young lady in the count’s house!” she said, thoughtfully. “That’s
scarcely possible. I’ve never seen her; I’ve never heard her spoken of.
How long has she been there?”

“For six or seven months?”

“In that case, I can’t absolutely deny it. It’s two years since I set
foot in the count’s house.”

“I fancied this young lady might be the count’s niece Mademoiselle
Hermine’s daughter.”

Madame Vantrasson shook her head. “Put that fancy out of your head,”
 she remarked. “The count said that his sister was dead to him from the
evening of her flight.”

“Who CAN this young girl be, then?”

“Bless me! I don’t know. What sort of a looking person is she?”

“Very tall; a brunette.”

“How old is she?”

“Eighteen or nineteen.”

The woman made a rapid calculation on her fingers. “Nine and four are
thirteen,” she muttered, “and five are eighteen. Ah, ha!--why not? I
must look into this.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing; a little reflection I was making to myself. Do you know this
young lady’s name?”

“It’s Marguerite.”

The woman’s face clouded. “No; it can’t be then,” she muttered, in a
scarcely audible voice.

M. Fortunat was on coals of fire. It was evident that this frightful
creature, even if she knew nothing definite, had some idea, some vague
suspicion of the truth. How could he compel her to speak now that she
was on her guard? He had not time to ascertain, for the door suddenly
opened, and Vantrasson appeared on the threshold. He was scarcely sober
when he left the shop, but now he was fairly drunk; his heavy shamble
had become a stagger. “Oh, you wretch, you brigand!” howled his wife;
“you’ve been drinking again!”

He succeeded in maintaining his equilibrium, and, gazing at her with the
phlegmatic stare peculiar to intoxicated men, he replied: “Well, what
of that! Can’t I have a little pleasure with my friends? I came across
a couple of men who were just taking their fifteenth glass; why should I
refuse a compliment?”

“You can’t hold yourself up.”

“That’s true.” And to prove it he tumbled on to a chair.

A torrent of abuse now flowed from Madame Vantrasson’s lips! M.
Fortunat only imperfectly distinguished the words “thief,” “spy,” and
“detective;” but he could not mistake the meaning of the looks which she
alternately gave her husband and himself. “It’s a fortunate thing for
you that my husband is in this condition,” her glances plainly implied,
“otherwise there would be an explanation, and then we should see--”

“I’ve had a lucky escape,” thought the spurious clerk. But as matters
stood there was nothing to fear. It was a case where one could show a
brave front to the enemy without incurring the slightest danger. “Let
your husband alone,” said he. “If he has only brought the paper that he
was sent to fetch, I sha’n’t have lost my evening to oblige you.”

Vantrasson had brought not one sheet of stamped paper, but two. A bad
pen and some muddy ink were produced, and M. Fortunat began to draw up
an acknowledgment according to the established formula. However, it was
necessary to mention the name of the creditor of whom he had spoken, and
not wishing to state his own, he used that of poor Victor Chupin, who
was at that very moment shivering at the door, little suspecting what
liberty was being taken with his cognomen.

“Chupin!” repeated the vixen, as if to engrave the name on her memory;
“Victor Chupin! I should just like to see him,” she added, viciously.

When the document was finished, it became necessary to wake Vantrasson,
so that he might sign it. He did so with very good grace, and his wife
appended her signature beside her husband’s. Thereupon M. Fortunat gave
them in exchange the note which had served as a pretext for his visit.
“And above all,” he remarked, as he opened the door to go, “don’t forget
that you are to pay something on account each month.”

“Go to the devil, and your account with you!” growled Madame Vantrasson.

But Fortunat did not hear this. He was already walking down the road
by the side of Chupin, who was saying: “Well, here you are, at last,
m’sieur! I thought you had taken a lease of that old barrack. If ever I
come here again, I’ll bring a foot-warmer with me.”

But one of those fits of profound abstraction to which determined
seekers after truth are subject had taken possession of M. Fortunat, and
made him oblivious of all surrounding circumstances. His heart had been
full of hope when he reached the Asnieres Road, but he went away gloomy
and despondent; and quite unconscious of the darkness, the mud, and the
rain, which was again falling, he silently plodded along in the middle
of the highway. Chupin was obliged to stop him at the city gate, and
remind him that the cab was waiting.

“That’s true,” was M. Fortunat’s only answer. He entered the vehicle,
certainly without knowing it; and as they rolled homeward, the thoughts
that filled his brain to overflowing found vent in a sort of monologue,
of which Chupin now and then caught a few words. “What a piece of
business!” he muttered--“what a piece of business! I’ve had seven years’
experience in such matters, and yet I’ve never met with an affair
so shrouded in mystery. My forty thousand francs are in a precarious
condition. Certainly I’ve lost money before through heirs whose
existence I hadn’t even suspected; but by reinstating these same heirs
in their rights, I’ve regained my lost money, and received a handsome
reward in addition; but in this case all is darkness; there isn’t a
single gleam of light--not the slightest clew. If I could only find
them! But how can I search for people whose names I don’t even know--for
people who have escaped all the inquiries of the police? And where shall
I look for them--in Europe, in America? It would be sheer madness! To
whom, then, will the count’s millions go?”

It was only the sudden stoppage of the cab in front of his own door that
recalled M. Fortunat to the realities of life. “Here are twenty
francs, Victor,” he said to Chupin. “Pay the driver, and keep the rest
yourself.”

As he spoke, he sprang nimbly to the ground. A handsome brougham, drawn
by two horses, was standing before the house. “The Marquis de Valorsay’s
carriage,” muttered M. Fortunat. “He has been very patient; he has
waited for me--or, rather, he has waited for my ten thousand francs.
Well, we shall see.”




III.


M. Fortunat had scarcely started off on his visit to the Vantrassons
when the Marquis de Valorsay reached the Place de la Bourse.

“Monsieur has gone out,” said Madame Dodelin, as she opened the door.

“You must be mistaken, my good woman.”

“No, no; my master said you would, perhaps, wait for him.”

“Very well; I will do so.”

Faithful to the orders she had received, the servant conducted the
visitor to the drawing-room, lit the tapers in the candelabra, and
retired. “This is very strange!” growled the marquis. “Monsieur Fortunat
makes an appointment, Monsieur Fortunat expects me to wait for him! What
will happen next?” However, he drew a newspaper from his pocket, threw
himself into an arm-chair, and waited.

By his habits and tastes, the Marquis de Valorsay belonged to that
section of the aristocracy which has coined the term “high life” in view
of describing its own manners and customs. The matters that engrossed
the marquis’s frivolous mind were club-life and first performances at
the opera and the leading theatres, social duties and visits to the
fashionable watering-places, racing and the shooting and hunting
seasons, together with his mistress and his tailor.

He considered that to ride in a steeple-chase was an act of prowess
worthy of his ancestors; and when he galloped past the stand, clad as
a jockey, in top-boots and a violet silk jacket, he believed he read
admiration in every eye. This was his every-day life, which had been
enlivened by a few salient episodes: two duels, an elopement with a
married woman, a twenty-six hours’ seance at the gaming table, and a
fall from his horse, while hunting, which nearly cost him his life.
These acts of valor had raised him considerably in the estimation of
his friends, and procured him a celebrity of which he was not a little
proud. The newspaper reporters were constantly mentioning his name, and
the sporting journals never failed to chronicle his departure from Paris
or his arrival in the city.

Unfortunately, such a life of busy idleness has its trials and its
vicissitudes, and M. de Valorsay was a living proof of this. He was only
thirty-three, but in spite of the care he expended upon his toilette,
he looked at least forty. Wrinkles were beginning to show themselves;
it required all the skill of his valet to conceal the bald spots on his
cranium; and since his fall from his horse, he had been troubled by
a slight stiffness in his right leg, which stiffness became perfect
lameness in threatening weather. Premature lassitude pervaded his
entire person, and when he relaxed in vigilance even his eyes betrayed
a distaste for everything--weariness, satiety as it were. All the same,
however, he bore himself with an undeniable air of distinction, albeit
the haughtiness of his manner indicated an exaggerated idea of his own
importance. He was indeed in the habit of treating all those whom he
considered his inferiors with supercilious sufficiency.

The clock on M. Fortunat’s mantel-shelf struck eleven at last and the
marquis rose to his feet with a muttered oath. “This is too much!” he
growled, angrily.

He looked about for a bell, and seeing none, he was reduced to the dire
necessity of opening the door himself, and calling some one. Madame
Dodelin answered the summons. “Monsieur said he would return before
midnight,” she replied; “so he will certainly be here. There is no one
like him for punctuality. Won’t monsieur have patience a little longer?”

“Well, I will wait a few moments; but, my good woman, light the fire; my
feet are frozen!”

M. Fortunat’s drawing-room being used but seldom, was really as frigid
as an iceberg; and to make matters still worse, M. de Valorsay was in
evening dress, with only a light overcoat. The servant hesitated for an
instant, thinking this visitor difficult to please, and inclined to make
himself very much at home, still she obeyed.

“I think I ought to go,” muttered the marquis. “I really think I
ought to go.” And yet he remained. Necessity, it should be remembered,
effectually quiets the revolts of pride.

Left an orphan in his early childhood, placed in possession of an
immense fortune at the age of twenty-three, M. de Valorsay had entered
life like a famished man enters a dining-room. His name entitled him to
a high position in the social world; and he installed himself at table
without asking how much the banquet might cost him. It cost him dear,
as he discovered at the end of the first year, on noting that his
disbursements had considerably exceeded his large income. It was very
evident that if he went on in this way, each twelvemonth would deepen
an abyss where in the one hundred and sixty thousand francs a year, left
him by his father, would finally be swallowed up. But he had plenty of
time to reflect upon this unpleasant possibility ere it could come to
pass! And, besides, he found his present life so delightful, and he
obtained so much gratification for his money, that he was unwilling to
make any change. He possessed several fine estates, and he found plenty
of men who were only too glad to lend him money on such excellent
security. He borrowed timidly at first, but more boldly when he
discovered what a mere trifle a mortgage is. Moreover, his wants
increased in proportion to his vanity. Occupying a certain position in
the opinion of his acquaintances, he did not wish to descend from the
heights to which they had exalted him; and the very fact that he had
been foolishly extravagant one year made it necessary for him to be
guilty of similar folly during the succeeding twelvemonth. He failed to
pay his creditors the interest that was due on his loans. They did not
ask him for it; and perhaps he forgot that it was slowly but surely
accumulating, and that at the end of a certain number of years the
amount of his indebtedness would be doubled. He never thought what the
end would be. He became absolutely ignorant of the condition of his
affairs, and really arrived at the conclusion that his resources were
inexhaustible. He believed this until one day when on going to his
lawyer for some money, that gentleman coldly said: “You requested me to
obtain one hundred thousand francs for you, Monsieur le Marquis--but I
have only been able to procure fifty thousand--here they are. And do not
hope for more. All your real estate is encumbered beyond its value. Your
creditors will probably leave you in undisturbed possession for another
year--it will be to their interest--but when it has elapsed they will
take possession of their own, as they have a perfect right to do.” Then,
with a meaning smile, the smile of a wily prime minister, he added: “If
I were in your place, Monsieur le Marquis, I would profit by this year
of grace. You undoubtedly understand what I mean. I have the honor to
wish you good-morning.”

What an awakening--after a glorious dream that had lasted for ten years.
M. de Valorsay was stunned--crushed. For three days he remained immured
in his own room, obstinately refusing to receive any one. “The marquis
is ill,” was his valet’s answer to every visitor.

M. de Valorsay felt that he must have time to regain his mental
equilibrium--to look his situation calmly in the face. It was a
frightful one, for his ruin was complete, absolute. He could save
nothing from the wreck. What was to become of him? What could he do? He
set his wits to work; but he found that he was incapable of plying any
kind of avocation. All the energy he had been endowed with by nature had
been squandered--exhausted in pandering to his self-conceit. If he had
been younger he might have turned soldier; but at his age he had not
even this resource. Then it was that his notary’s smile recurred to
his mind. “His advice was decidedly good,” he muttered. “All is not yet
lost; one way of escape still remains--marriage.”

And why, indeed, shouldn’t he marry, and marry a rich wife too? No one
knew anything about his misfortune; for a year at least, he would retain
all the advantages that wealth bestows upon its possessor. His name
alone was a great advantage. It would be very strange if he could not
find some manufacturer’s or banker’s daughter who would be only too
delighted to have a marquisial coronet emblazoned on her carriage
panels.

Having arrived at this conclusion, M. de Valorsay began his search, and
it was not long before he thought he had found what he was seeking.
But something was still necessary. The bestowers of large dowers are
inclined to be suspicious; they like to have a clear understanding as to
the financial position of the suitors who present themselves, and they
not unfrequently ask for information. Accordingly, before committing
himself, M. de Valorsay understood that it was necessary he should
provide himself with an intelligent and devoted adviser. There must be
some one to hold his creditors in check, to silence them, and obtain
sundry concessions from them--in a word, some one to interest them in
his success. With this object in view, M. de Valorsay applied to his
notary; but the latter utterly refused to mix himself up in any such
affair, and declared that the marquis’s suggestion was almost an insult.
Then touched, perhaps, by his client’s apparent despair, he said, “But
I can mention a person who might be of service to you. Go to M. Isidore
Fortunat, No. 27 Place de la Bourse. If you succeed in interesting him
in your marriage, it is an accomplished fact.”

It was under these circumstances that the marquis became acquainted with
M. Fortunat. M. de Valorsay was a man of no little penetration, and on
his first visit he carefully weighed his new acquaintance. He found
him to be the very counsellor he desired--prudent, and at the same
time courageous; fertile in expedients; a thorough master of the art
of evading the law, and not at all troubled by scruples. With such
an adviser, it would be mere child’s play to conceal his financial
embarrassments and deceive the most suspicious father-in-law. So M. de
Valorsay did not hesitate a moment. He frankly disclosed his pecuniary
condition and his matrimonial hopes, and concluded by promising M.
Fortunat a certain percentage on the bride’s dowry, to be paid on the
day following the marriage.

After a prolonged conference, the agreement was drawn up and signed,
and that very day M. Fortunat took the nobleman’s interests in hand. How
heartily, and with what confidence in his success, is shown by the fact
that he had advanced forty thousand francs for his client’s use, out
of his own private purse. After such a proof of confidence the marquis
could hardly have been dissatisfied with his adviser; in point of fact,
he was delighted with him, and all the more so, as this invaluable man
always treated him with extreme deference, verging on servility. And
in M. de Valorsay’s eyes this was a great consideration; for he was
becoming more arrogant and more irascible in proportion as his right to
be so diminished. Secretly disgusted with himself, and deeply humiliated
by the shameful intrigue to which he had stooped, he took a secret
satisfaction in crushing his accomplice with his imaginary superiority
and lordly disdain. According as his humor was good or bad, he
called him “my dear extortioner,” “Mons. Fortunat,” or “Master
Twenty-per-cent.” But though these sneers and insults drove the
obsequious smile from M. Fortunat’s lips, he was quite capable of
including them in the bill under the head of sundries.

The unvarying deference and submission which M. de Valorsay’s adviser
displayed made his failure to keep the present appointment all the
more remarkable. Such neglect of the commonest rules of courtesy was
inconceivable on the part of so polite a man; and the marquis’s anger
gradually changed to anxiety. “What can have happened?” he thought.

He was trying to decide whether he should leave or stay, when he heard a
key grate in the lock of the outer door, and then some quick steps
along the ante-room. “At last--here he is!” he muttered, with a sigh of
relief.

He expected to see M. Fortunat enter the room at once, but he was
disappointed. The agent had no desire to show himself in the garb which
he had assumed for his excursion with Chupin; and so he had hastened to
his room to don his wonted habiliments. He also desired a few moments
for deliberation.

If--as was most probably the case--M. de Valorsay were ignorant of the
Count de Chalusse’s critical condition, was it advisable to tell him of
it? M. Fortunat thought not, judging with reason that this would lead
to a discussion and very possibly to a rupture, and he wished to avoid
anything of the kind until he was quite certain of the count’s death.

Meanwhile the marquis was thinking--he was a trifle late about it--that
he had done wrong to wait in that drawing-room for three mortal hours.
Was such conduct worthy of him? Had he shown himself proper respect?
Would not M. Fortunat construe this as an acknowledgment of the
importance of his services and his client’s urgent need? Would he not
become more exacting, more exorbitant in his demands? If the marquis
could have made his escape unheard, he would, no doubt, have done so;
but this was out of the question. So he resorted to a stratagem which
seemed to him likely to save his compromised dignity. He stretched
himself out in his arm-chair, closed his eyes, and pretended to doze.
Then, when M. Fortunat at last entered the drawing-room he sprang up
as if he were suddenly aroused from slumber, rubbed his eyes, and
exclaimed: “Eh! what’s that? Upon my word I must have been asleep!”

But M. Fortunat was not deceived. He noticed, on the floor, a torn and
crumpled newspaper, which betrayed the impatience and anger his client
had experienced during his long waiting. “Well,” resumed the marquis,
“what time is it? Half-past twelve? This is a pretty time to keep an
appointment fixed for ten o’clock. This is presuming on my good-nature,
M. Fortunat! Do you know that my carriage has been waiting below ever
since half-past nine, and that my horses have, perhaps, taken cold? A
pair of horses worth six hundred louis!”

M. Fortunat listened to these reproaches with the deepest humility. “You
must excuse me, Monsieur le Marquis,” said he. “If I remained out so
much later than usual, it was only because your business interests
detained me.”

“Zounds! that is about the same as if it had been your own business that
detained you!” And well pleased with this joke, he added, “Ah well! How
are affairs progressing?”

“On my side as well as could be desired.”

The marquis had resumed his seat in the chimney-corner, and was poking
the fire with a haughty, but poorly assumed air of indifference. “I am
listening,” he said carelessly.

“In that case, Monsieur le Marquis, I will state the facts in a few
words, without going into particulars. Thanks to an expedient devised
by me, we shall obtain for twenty hours a release from all the mortgages
that now encumber your estates. On that very day we will request a
certificate from the recorder. This certificate will declare that your
estates are free from all encumbrances; you will show this statement to
M. de Chalusse, and all his doubts--that is, if he has any--will vanish.
The plan was very simple; the only difficulty was about raising the
money, but I have succeeded in doing so. All your creditors but two lent
themselves very readily to the arrangement. I have now won the consent
of the two who at first refused, but we shall have to pay dearly for it.
It will cost you about twenty-six thousand francs.”

M. de Valorsay was so delighted that he could not refrain from clapping
his hands. “Then the affair is virtually concluded,” he exclaimed.
“In less than a month Mademoiselle Marguerite will be the Marquise de
Valorsay, and I shall have a hundred thousand francs a year again.”
 Then, noting how gravely M. Fortunat shook his head: “Ah! so you doubt
it!” he cried. “Very well; now it is your turn to listen. Yesterday I
had a long conference with the Count de Chalusse, and everything has
been settled. We exchanged our word of honor, Master Twenty-per-cent.
The count does things in a princely fashion; he gives Mademoiselle
Marguerite two millions.”

“Two millions!” the other repeated like an echo.

“Yes, my dear miser, neither more nor less. Only for private reasons,
which he did not explain, the count stipulates that only two hundred
thousand francs shall appear in the marriage contract. The remaining
eighteen hundred thousand francs, he gives to me unreservedly and
unconditionally. Upon my word, I think this very charming. How does it
strike you?”

M. Fortunat made no reply. M. de Valorsay’s gayety, instead of cheering,
saddened him. “Ah! my fine fellow,” he thought, “you would sing a
different song if you knew that by this time M. de Chalusse is probably
dead, and that most likely Mademoiselle Marguerite has only her
beautiful eyes left her, and will dim them in weeping for her vanished
millions.”

But this brilliant scion of the aristocracy had no suspicion of the
real state of affairs, for he continued: “You will say, perhaps, it is
strange, that I, Ange-Marie Robert Dalbou, Marquis de Valorsay, should
marry a girl whose father and mother no one knows, and whose only name
is Marguerite. In this respect it is true that the match is not exactly
a brilliant one. Still, as it will appear that she merely has a fortune
of two hundred thousand francs, no one will accuse me of marrying for
money on the strength of my name. On the contrary, it will seem to be a
love-match, and people will suppose that I have grown young again.” He
paused, incensed by M. Fortunat’s lack of enthusiasm. “Judging from
your long face, Master Twenty-per-cent, one would fancy you doubted my
success,” he said.

“It is always best to doubt,” replied his adviser, philosophically.

The marquis shrugged his shoulders. “Even when one has triumphed over
all obstacles?” he asked sneeringly.

“Yes.”

“Then, tell me, if you please, what prevents this marriage from being a
foregone conclusion?”

“Mademoiselle Marguerite’s consent, Monsieur le Marquis.”

It was as if a glass of ice-water had been thrown in M. de Valorsay’s
face. He started, turned as pale as death, and then exclaimed: “I shall
have that; I am sure of it.”

You could not say that M. Fortunat was angry. Such a man, as cold and
as smooth as a hundred franc piece, has no useless passions. But he was
intensely irritated to hear his client foolishly chanting the paeons of
victory, while he was compelled to conceal his grief at the loss of his
forty thousand francs, deep in the recesses of his heart. So, far from
being touched by the marquis’s evident alarm, it pleased him to be able
to turn the dagger in the wound he had just inflicted. “You must
excuse my incredulity,” said he. “It comes entirely from something you,
yourself, told me about a week ago.”

“What did I tell you?”

“That you suspected Mademoiselle Marguerite of a--how shall I express
it?--of a secret preference for some other person.”

The gloomiest despondency had now followed the marquis’s enthusiasm and
exultation. He was evidently in torture. “I more than suspected it,”
 said he.

“Ah!”

“I was certain of it, thanks to the count’s house-keeper, Madame Leon,
a miserable old woman whom I have hired to look after my interests. She
has been watching Mademoiselle Marguerite, and saw a letter written by
her----”

“Oh!”

“Certainly nothing has passed that Mademoiselle Marguerite has any
cause to blush for. The letter, which is now in my possession, contains
unmistakable proofs of that. She might proudly avow the love she has
inspired, and which she undoubtedly returns. Yet----”

M. Fortunat’s gaze was so intent that it became unbearable. “You see,
then,” he began, “that I had good cause to fear.”

Exasperated beyond endurance, M. de Valorsay sprang up so violently that
he overturned his chair. “No!” he exclaimed, “no, a thousand times no!
You are wrong--for the man who loves Mademoiselle Marguerite is now
ruined. Yes, such is really the case. While we are sitting here, at this
very moment, he is lost--irredeemably lost. Between him and the woman
whom I wish to marry--whom I SHALL marry--I have dug so broad and deep
an abyss that the strongest love cannot overleap it. It is better
and worse than if I had killed him. Dead, he would have been mourned,
perhaps; while now, the lowest and most degraded woman would turn from
him in disgust, or, even if she loved him, she would not dare to confess
it.”

M. Fortunat seemed greatly disturbed. “Have you then put into execution
the project--the plan you spoke of?” he faltered. “I thought you were
only jesting.”

The marquis lowered his head. “Yes,” he answered.

His companion stood for a moment as if petrified, and then suddenly
exclaimed: “What! You have done that--you--a gentleman?”

M. de Valorsay paced the floor in a state of intense agitation. Had he
caught a glimpse of his own face in the looking-glass, it would have
frightened him. “A gentleman!” he repeated, in a tone of suppressed
rage; “a gentleman! That word is in everybody’s mouth, nowadays. Pray,
what do you understand by a gentleman, Mons. Fortunat? No doubt, you
mean a heroic idiot who passed through life with a lofty mien, clad in
all the virtues, as stoical as Job, and as resigned as a martyr--a sort
of moral Don Quixote, preaching the austerest virtue, and practising
it? But, unfortunately, nobility of soul and of purpose are expensive
luxuries, and I am a ruined man. I am no saint! I love life and all that
makes life beautiful and desirable--and to procure its pleasures I must
fight with the weapons of the age. No doubt, it is grand to be honest;
but in my case it is so impossible, that I prefer to be dishonest--to
commit an act of shameful infamy which will yield a hundred thousand
francs a year. This man is in my way--I suppress him--so much the worse
for him--he has no business to be in my way. If I could have met him
openly, I would have dispatched him according to the accepted code of
honor; but, then, I should have had to renounce all idea of marrying
Mademoiselle Marguerite, so I was obliged to find some other way. I
could not choose my means. The drowning man does not reject the plank,
which is his only chance of salvation, because it chances to be dirty.”

His gestures were even more forcible than his words; and when he
concluded, he threw himself on to the sofa, holding his head tightly
between his hands, as if he felt that it was bursting. Anger choked
his utterance--not anger so much as something he would not confess,
the quickening of his own conscience and the revolt of every honorable
instinct; for, in spite of his sins of omission, and of commission,
never, until this day, had he actually violated any clause of the code
acknowledged by men of honor.

“You have been guilty of a most infamous act, Monsieur le Marquis,” said
M. Fortunat, coldly.

“Oh! no moralizing, if you please.”

“Only evil will come of it.”

The marquis shrugged his shoulders, and in a tone of bitter scorn,
retorted: “Come, Mons. Fortunat, if you wish to lose the forty thousand
francs you advanced to me, it’s easy enough to do so. Run to Madame
d’Argeles’s house, ask for M. de Coralth, and tell him I countermand my
order. My rival will be saved, and will marry Mademoiselle Marguerite
and her millions.”

M. Fortunat remained silent. He could not tell the marquis: “My
forty thousand francs are lost already. I know that only too well.
Mademoiselle Marguerite is no longer the possessor of millions, and you
have committed a useless crime.” However, it was this conviction which
imparted such an accent of eagerness to his words as he continued to
plead the cause of virtue and of honesty. Would he have said as much
if he had entertained any great hope of the success of the marquis’s
matrimonial enterprise? It is doubtful, still we must do M. Fortunat the
justice to admit that he was really and sincerely horrified by what he
had unhesitatingly styled an “infamous act.”

The marquis listened to his agent for a few moments in silence, and then
rose to his feet again. “All this is very true,” he interrupted; “but
I am, nevertheless, anxious to learn the result of my little plot. For
this reason, Monsieur Fortunat, give me at once the five hundred louis
you promised me, and I will then bid you good-evening.”

The agent had been preparing himself for this moment, and yet he
trembled. “I am deeply grieved, monsieur,” he replied, with a doleful
smile; “it was this matter that kept me out so much later than usual
this evening. I hoped to have obtained the money from a banker, who
has always accommodated me before--M. Prosper Bertomy, you know him: he
married M. Andre Fauvel’s niece----”

“Yes, I know; proceed, if you please.”

“Ah, well! it was impossible for me to procure the money.”

The marquis had hitherto been pale, but now his face flushed crimson.
“This is a jest, I suppose,” said he.

“Alas!--unfortunately--no.”

There was a moment’s silence, which the marquis probably spent in
reflecting upon the probable consequences of this disappointment, for
it was in an almost threatening tone that he eventually exclaimed: “You
know that I must have this money at once--that I must have it.”

M. Fortunat would certainly have preferred to lose a good pound of flesh
rather than the sum of money mentioned; but, on the other hand, he felt
that it would not do for him to sever his connection with his client
until the death of the Count de Chalusse was certain; and being anxious
to save his money and to keep his client, his embarrassment was extreme.
“It was the most unfortunate thing in the world,” he stammered; “I
apprehended no difficulty whatever--” Then, suddenly clapping his hand
to his forehead, he exclaimed: “But, Monsieur le Marquis, couldn’t you
borrow this amount from one of your friends, the Duke de Champdoce or
the Count de Commarin?--that would be a good idea.”

M. de Valorsay was anything but unsophisticated, and his natural
shrewdness had been rendered much more acute by the difficulties with
which he had recently been obliged to contend. M. Fortunat’s confusion
had not escaped his keen glance; and this last suggestion aroused his
suspicions at once. “What!” he said, slowly, and with an air of evident
distrust. “YOU give me this advice, Master Twenty-per-cent. This is
wonderful! How long is it since your opinions have undergone such a
change?”

“My opinions?”

“Yes. Didn’t you say to me during our first interview; ‘The thing that
will save you, is that you have never in your whole life borrowed
a louis from a friend. An ordinary creditor only thinks of a large
interest; and if that is paid him he holds his peace. A friend is never
satisfied until everybody knows that he has generously obliged you. It
is far better to apply to a usurer.’ I thought all that very sensible,
and I quite agreed with you when you added: ‘So, Monsieur le Marquis,
no borrowing of this kind until after your marriage--not on any pretext
whatever. Go without eating rather than do it. Your credit is still
good; but it is being slowly undermined--and the indiscretion of a
friend who chanced to say: “I think Valorsay is hard up,” might fire the
train, and then you’d explode.’”

M. Fortunat’s embarrassment was really painful to witness. He was not
usually wanting in courage, but the events of the evening had shaken his
confidence and his composure. The hope of gain and the fear of loss had
deprived him of his wonted clearness of mind. Feeling that he had just
committed a terrible blunder, he racked his brain to find some way of
repairing it, and finding none, his confusion increased.

“Did you, or didn’t you, use that language?” insisted M. de Valorsay.
“What have you to say in reply?”

“Circumstances----”

“What circumstances?”

“Urgent need--necessity. There is no rule without its exceptions. I did
not imagine you would be so rash. I have advanced you forty thousand
francs in less than five months--it is outrageous. If I were in your
place, I would be more reasonable--I would economize----”

He paused! in fact, he was compelled to pause by the piercing glance
which M. de Valorsay turned upon him. He was furious with himself. “I am
losing my wits,” he thought.

“Still more wise counsel,” remarked the ruined nobleman ironically.
“While you are about it, why don’t you advise me to sell my horses and
carriages, and establish myself in a garret in the Rue Amelot? Such a
course would seem very natural, wouldn’t it? and, of course, it would
inspire M. de Chalusse with boundless confidence!”

“But without going to such extremes----”

“Hold your tongue!” interrupted the marquis, violently. “Better than any
one else you know that I cannot retrench, although the reality no longer
exists. I am condemned, cost what it may, to keep up appearances. That
is my only hope of salvation. I have gambled, given expensive suppers,
indulged in dissipation of every kind, and I must continue to do so.
I have come to hate Ninette Simplon, for whom I have committed so many
acts of folly, and yet I still keep her--to show that I am rolling in
wealth. I have thrown thousand-franc notes out of the window, and I
mustn’t stop throwing them. Indeed, what would people say if I stopped!
Why, ‘Valorsay is a ruined man!’ Then, farewell to my hopes of marrying
an heiress. And so I am always gay and smiling; that is part of my role.
What would my servants--the twenty spies that I pay--what would they
think if they saw me thoughtful or disturbed? You would scarcely believe
it, M. Fortunat, but I have positively been reduced to dining on credit
at my club, because I had paid, that morning, for a month’s provender
for my horses! It is true I have many valuable articles in my house, but
I cannot dispose of them. People would recognize them at once; besides,
they form a part of my stock-in-trade. An actor doesn’t sell his
costumes because he’s hungry--he goes without food--and when it’s time
for the curtain to rise, he dons his satin and velvet garments, and,
despite his empty stomach, he chants the praises of a bountiful table
and rare old wine. That is what I am doing--I, Robert Dalbou, Marquis
de Valorsay! At the races at Vincennes, about a fortnight ago, I was
bowling along the boulevard behind my four-in-hand, when I heard a
laborer say, ‘How happy those rich people must be!’ Happy, indeed! Why,
I envied him his lot. He was sure that the morrow would be like the
day that preceded it. On that occasion my entire fortune consisted of
a single louis, which I had won at baccarat the evening before. As I
entered the enclosure, Isabelle, the flower-girl, handed me a rose for
my button-hole. I gave her my louis--but I longed to strangle her!”

He paused for a moment, and then, in a frenzy of passion, he advanced
toward M. Fortunat, who instinctively retreated into the protecting
embrasure of a window. “And for eight months I have lived this horrible
life!” he resumed. “For eight months each moment has been so much
torture. Ah! better poverty, prison, and shame! And now, when the prize
is almost won, actuated either by treason or caprice, you try to make
all my toil and all my suffering unavailing. You try to thwart me on the
very threshold of success! No! I swear, by God’s sacred name, it shall
not be! I will rather crush you, you miserable scoundrel--crush you like
a venomous reptile!”

There was such a ring of fury in his voice that the crystals of the
candelabra vibrated; and Madame Dodelin, in her kitchen, heard it, and
shuddered. “Some one will certainly do M. Fortunat an injury one of
these days,” she thought.

It was not by any means the first time that M. Fortunat had found
himself at variance with clients of a sanguine temperament; but he
had always escaped safe and sound, so that, after all, he was not
particularly alarmed in the present instance, as was proved by the fact
that he was still calm enough to reflect and plan. “In forty-eight hours
I shall be certain of the count’s fate,” he thought; “he will be dead,
or he will be in a fair way to recovery--so by promising to give this
frenzied man what he desires on the day after to-morrow, I shall incur
no risk.”

Taking advantage of an opportunity which M. de Valorsay furnished,
on pausing to draw breath, he hastily exclaimed, “Really, Monsieur le
Marquis, I cannot understand your anger.”

“What! scoundrel!”

“Excuse me. Before insulting me, permit me to explain----”

“No explanation--five hundred louis!”

“Have the kindness to allow me to finish. Yes, I know that you are in
urgent need of money--not by-and-by, but now. To-day I was unable
to procure it, nor can I promise it to-morrow; but on the day after
to-morrow, Saturday, I shall certainly have it ready for you.”

The marquis seemed to be trying to read his agent’s very soul. “Are you
in earnest?” he asked. “Show your hand. If you don’t intend to help me
out of my embarrassment, say so.”

“Ah, Monsieur le Marquis, am I not as much interested in your success
as you yourself can be? Have you not received abundant proofs of my
devotion?”

“Then I can rely upon you.”

“Absolutely.” And seeing a lingering doubt in his client’s eyes, M.
Fortunat added, “You have my word of honor!”

The clock struck three. The marquis took his hat and started toward
the door. But M. Fortunat, in whose heart the word scoundrel was still
rankling, stopped him. “Are you going to that lady’s house now? What
is she called? I’ve forgotten her name. Ah, yes, I remember now. Madame
d’Argeles, isn’t she called? It’s at her place, I believe, that the
reputation of Mademoiselle Marguerite’s favored lover is to be ruined.”

The marquis turned angrily. “What do you take me for, Master
Twenty-per-cent?” he rudely asked. “That is one of those things no
well-bred gentleman will do himself. But in Paris people can be found to
do any kind of dirty work, if you are willing to pay them for it.”

“Then how will you know the result?”

“Why, twenty minutes after the affair is over, M. de Coralth will be
at my house. He is there even now, perhaps.” And as this subject was
anything but pleasant, he hastened away, exclaiming, “Get to bed, my
dear extortioner. Au revoir. And, above all, remember your promise.”

“My respects, Monsieur le Marquis.”

But when the door closed, M. Fortunat’s expression immediately changed.
“Ah! you insult me!” he muttered sullenly. “You rob me, and you call
me a scoundrel into the bargain. You shall pay dearly for it, my fine
fellow, no matter what may happen!”




IV.


It is in vain that the law has endeavored to shield private life from
prying eyes. The scribes who pander to Parisian curiosity surmount all
obstacles and brave every danger. Thanks to the “High Life” reporters,
every newspaper reader is aware that twice a week--Mondays and
Thursdays--Madame Lia d’Argeles holds a reception at her charming
mansion in the Rue de Berry. Her guests find plenty of amusement there.
They seldom dance; but card-playing begins at midnight, and a dainty
supper is served before the departure of the guests.

It was on leaving one of these little entertainments that that
unfortunate young man, Jules Chazel, a cashier in a large banking-house,
committed suicide by blowing out his brains. The brilliant frequenters
of Madame d’Argeles’s entertainments considered this act proof of
exceeding bad taste and deplorable weakness on his part. “The fellow was
a coward,” they declared. “Why, he had lost hardly a thousand louis!”

He had lost only that, it is true--a mere trifle as times go. Only the
money was not his; he had taken it from the safe which was confided
to his keeping, expecting, probably, to double the amount in a single
night. In the morning, when he found himself alone, without a penny, and
the deficit staring him in the face, the voice of conscience cried, “You
are a thief!” and he lost his reason.

The event created a great sensation at the time, and the Petit Journal
published a curious story concerning this unfortunate young man’s
mother. The poor woman--she was a widow--sold all she possessed, even
the bed on which she slept, and when she had succeeded in gathering
together twenty thousand francs--the ransom of her son’s honor--she
carried them to the banker by whom her boy had been employed. He took
them, without even asking the mother if she had enough left to purchase
her dinner that evening; and the fine gentleman, who had won and
pocketed Jules Chazel’s stolen gold, thought the banker’s conduct
perfectly natural and just. It is true that Madame d’Argeles was in
despair during forty-eight hours or so; for the police had begun a sort
of investigation, and she feared this might frighten her visitors and
empty her drawing-rooms. Not at all, however; on the contrary, she had
good cause to congratulate herself upon the notoriety she gained through
this suicide. For five days she was the talk of Paris, and Alfred
d’Aunay even published her portrait in the Illustrated Chronicle.

Still, no one was able to say exactly who Madame Lia d’Argeles was. Who
was she, and whence did she come? How had she lived until she sprang up,
full grown, in the sunshine of the fashionable world? Did the splendid
mansion in the Rue de Berry really belong to her? Was she as rich as she
was supposed to be? Where had she acquired such manners, the manners of
a thorough woman of the world, with her many accomplishments, as well as
her remarkable skill as a musician? Everything connected with her was
a subject of conjecture, even to the name inscribed upon her visiting
cards--“Lia d’Argeles.”

But no matter. Her house was always filled to over-flowing; and at the
very moment when the Marquis de Valorsay and M. Fortunat were speaking
of her, a dozen coroneted carriages stood before her door, and her
rooms were thronged with guests. It was a little past midnight, and the
bi-weekly card party had just been made up, when a footman announced,
“Monsieur le Vicomte de Coralth! Monsieur Pascal Ferailleur!”

Few of the players deigned to raise their heads. But one man growled,
“Good--two more players!” And four or five young men exclaimed, “Ah!
here’s Ferdinand! Good evening, my dear fellow!”

M. de Coralth was very young and remarkably good-looking, almost too
good-looking, indeed; for his handsomeness was somewhat startling and
unnatural. He had an exceedingly fair complexion, and large, melting
black eyes, while a woman might have envied him his wavy brown hair
and the exquisite delicacy of his skin. He dressed with great care and
taste, and even coquettishly; his turn-down collar left his firm white
throat uncovered, and his rose-tinted gloves fitted as perfectly as the
skin upon his soft, delicate hands. He bowed familiarly on entering,
and with a rather complacent smile on his lips, he approached Madame
d’Argeles, who, half reclining in an easy chair near the fire-place,
was conversing with two elderly gentlemen of grave and distinguished
bearing. “How late you are, viscount,” she remarked carelessly. “What
have you been doing to-day? I fancied I saw you in the Bois, in the
Marquis de Valorsay’s dog-cart.”

A slight flush suffused M. de Coralth’s cheeks, and to hide it, perhaps,
he turned toward the visitor who had entered with him, and drew him
toward Madame d’Argeles, saying, “Allow me, madame, to present to you
one of my great friends, M. Pascal Ferailleur, an advocate whose name
will be known to fame some day.”

“Your friends are always welcome at my house, my dear viscount,” replied
Madame d’Argeles. And before Pascal had concluded his bow, she averted
her head, and resumed her interrupted conversation.

The new-comer, however, was worthy of more than that cursory notice. He
was a young man of five or six-and-twenty, dark-complexioned and tall;
each movement of his person was imbued with that natural grace which is
the result of perfect harmony of the muscles, and of more than common
vigor. His features were irregular, but they gave evidence of energy,
kindness of heart, and honesty of purpose. A man possessing such a
proud, intelligent, and open brow, such a clear, straightforward gaze,
and such finely-cut lips, could be no ordinary one. Deserted by his
sponsor, who was shaking hands right and left, he seated himself on a
sofa a little in the background; not because he was embarrassed, but
because he felt that instinctive distrust of self which frequently
seizes hold of a person on entering a crowd of strangers. He did his
best to conceal his curiosity, but nevertheless he looked and listened
with all his might.

The salon, was an immense apartment, divided into two rooms by sliding
doors and hangings. When Madame d’Argeles gave a ball, the rooms were
thrown into one; but, as a general rule, one room was occupied by the
card-players, and the other served as a refuge for those who wished
to chat. The card-room, into which Pascal had been ushered, was an
apartment of noble proportions, furnished in a style of tasteful
magnificence. The tints of the carpet were subdued; there was not too
much gilding on the cornices; the clock upon the mantel-shelf was chaste
and elegant in design. The only thing at all peculiar about the room
and its appointments was a reflector, ingeniously arranged above the
chandelier in such a way as to throw the full glare of the candles upon
the card-table which stood directly beneath it. The table itself was
adorned with a rich tapestry cover, but this was visible only at
the corners, for it was covered, in turn, with a green baize cloth
considerably the worse for wear. Madame d’Argeles’s guests were probably
not over fifty in number, but they all seemed to belong to the very best
society. The majority of them were men of forty or thereabouts; several
wore decorations, and two or three of the eldest were treated with
marked deference. Certain well-known names which Pascal overheard
surprised him greatly. “What! these men here?” he said to himself; “and
I--I regarded my visit as a sort of clandestine frolic.”

There were only seven or eight ladies present, none of them being
especially attractive. Their toilettes were very costly, but in rather
doubtful taste, and they wore a profusion of diamonds. Pascal noticed
that these ladies were treated with perfect indifference, and that,
whenever the gentlemen spoke to them, they assumed an air of politeness
which was too exaggerated not to be ironical.

A score of persons were seated at the card-table, and the guests who had
retired into the adjoining salon were silently watching the progress of
the game, or quietly chatting in the corners of the room. It surprised
him to note that every one spoke in very low tones; there was something
very like respect, even awe, in this subdued murmur. One might
have supposed that those present were celebrating the rites of some
mysterious worship. And is not gaming a species of idolatry, symbolized
by cards, and which has its images, its fetishes, its miracles, its
fanatics, and its martyrs?

Occasionally, above the accompaniment of whispers, rose the strange and
incoherent exclamations of the players: “Here are twenty louis! I take
it--I pass! The play is made! Banco!”

“What a strange gathering!” thought Pascal Ferailleur. “What singular
people!” And he turned his attention to the mistress of the house, as if
he hoped to decipher the solution of the enigma on her face.

But Madame Lia d’Argeles defied all analysis. She was one of those women
whose uncertain age varies according to their mood, between the thirties
and the fifties; one who did not look over thirty in the evening, but
who would have been charged with being more than fifty the next morning.
In her youth she must have been very beautiful, and she was still
good-looking, though she had grown somewhat stout, and her face had
become a trifle heavy, thus marring the symmetry of her very delicate
features. A perfect blonde, she had eyes of so clear a blue that they
seemed almost faded. The whiteness of her skin was so unnatural that it
almost startled one. It was the dull, lifeless white which suggests an
excessive use of cosmetics and rice powder, and long baths, late hours,
and sleep at day-time, in a darkened room. Her face was utterly devoid
of expression. One might have fancied that its muscles had become
relaxed after terrible efforts to feign or to conceal some violent
emotions; and there was something melancholy, almost terrifying in the
eternal, and perhaps involuntary smile, which curved her lips. She wore
a dress of black velvet, with slashed sleeves and bodice, a new design
of the famous man-milliner, Van Klopen.

Pascal was engaged in these observations when M. de Coralth, having made
his round, came and sat down on the sofa beside him. “Well, what do you
think of it?” he inquired.

“Upon my word!” replied the young advocate, “I am infinitely obliged to
you for inviting me to accompany you here. I am intensely amused.”

“Good! My philosopher is captivated.”

“Not captivated, but interested, I confess.” Then, in the tone of
good-humor which was habitual to him, he added: “As for being the sage
you call me, that’s all nonsense. And to prove it, I’m going to risk my
louis with the rest.”

M. de Coralth seemed amazed, but a close observer might have detected a
gleam of triumph in his eyes. “You are going to play--you?”

“Yes. Why not?”

“Take care!”

“Of what, pray? The worst I can do is to lose what I have in my
pocket--something over two hundred francs.”

The viscount shook his head thoughtfully. “It isn’t that which one has
cause to fear. The devil always has a hand in this business, and the
first time a man plays he’s sure to win.”

“And is that a misfortune?”

“Yes, because the recollection of these first winnings is sure to lure
you back to the gaming-table again. You go back, you lose, you try to
recover your money, and that’s the end of it--you become a gambler.”

Pascal Ferailleur’s smile was the smile of a man who has full confidence
in himself. “My brain is not so easily turned, I hope,” said he. “I have
the thought of my name, and the fortune I must make, as ballast for it.”

“I beseech you not to play,” insisted the viscount. “Listen to me; you
don’t know what this passion for play is; the strongest and the coldest
natures succumb--don’t play.”

He had raised his voice, as if he intended to be overheard by two guests
who had just approached the sofa. They did indeed hear him. “Can I
believe my own eyes and ears!” exclaimed one of them, an elderly man.
“Can this really be Ferdinand who is trying to shake the allegiance of
the votaries of our noble lady--the Queen of Spades?”

M. de Coralth turned quickly round: “Yes, it is indeed I,” he answered.
“I have purchased with my patrimony the right of saying: ‘Distrust
yourself, and don’t do as I’ve done,’ to an inexperienced friend.”

The wisest counsels, given in a certain fashion, never fail to produce
an effect diametrically opposed to that which they seemingly aim at.
M. de Coralth’s persistence, and the importance he attached to a mere
trifle, could not fail to annoy the most patient man in the world, and
in fact his patronizing tone really irritated Pascal. “You are free, my
friend, to do as you please,” said he; “but I----”

“Are you resolved?” interrupted the viscount.

“Absolutely.”

“So be it, then. You are no longer a child, and I have warned you. Let
us play, then.” Thereupon they approached the table; room was made
for them, and they seated themselves, Pascal being on M. Ferdinand de
Coralth’s right-hand side.

The guests were playing “Baccarat tournant,” a game of terrible and
infantile simplicity. There are no such things as skill or combination
possible in it; science and calculation are useless. Chance alone
decides, and decides with the rapidity of lightning. Amateurs certainly
assert that, with great coolness and long practice, one can, in a
measure at least, avert prolonged ill-luck. Maybe they are right, but
it is not conclusively proved. Each person takes the cards in his turn,
risks what he chooses, and when his stakes are covered, deals. If he
wins, he is free to follow up his vein of good-luck, or to pass the
deal. When he loses, the deal passes at once to the next player on the
right.

A moment sufficed for Pascal Ferailleur to learn the rules of the game.
It was already Ferdinand’s deal. M. de Coralth staked a hundred francs;
the bet was taken; he dealt, lost, and handed the cards to Pascal.

The play, which had been rather timid at first--since it was necessary,
as they say, to try the luck--had now become bolder. Several players
had large piles of gold before them, and the heavy artillery--that is to
say, bank-notes--were beginning to put in appearance. But Pascal had no
false pride. “I stake a louis!” said he

The smallness of the sum attracted instant attention, and two or three
voices replied: “Taken!”

He dealt, and won. “Two louis!” he said again. This wager was also
taken; he won, and his run of luck was so remarkable that, in a
wonderfully short space of time, he won six hundred francs.

“Pass the deal,” whispered Ferdinand, and Pascal followed this advice.
“Not because I desire to keep my winnings,” he whispered in M. de
Coralth’s ear, “but because I wish to have enough to play until the end
of the evening without risking anything.”

But such prudence was unnecessary so far as he was concerned. When the
deal came to him again, fortune favored him even more than before.
He started with a hundred francs, and doubling them each time in six
successive deals, he won more than three thousand francs.

“The devil! Monsieur is in luck.”--“Zounds! And he is playing for the
first time.”--“That accounts for it. The inexperienced always win.”

Pascal could not fail to hear these comments. The blood mantled over
his cheeks, and, conscious that he was flushing, he, as usually happens,
flushed still more. His good fortune embarrassed him, as was evident,
and he played most recklessly. Still his good luck did not desert him;
and do what he would he won--won continually. In fact, by four o’clock
in the morning he had thirty-five thousand francs before him.

For some time he had been the object of close attention. “Do you know
this gentleman?” inquired one of the guests.

“No. He came with Coralth.”

“He is an advocate, I understand.”

And all these whispered doubts and suspicions, these questions fraught
with an evil significance, these uncharitable replies, grew into a
malevolent murmur, which resounded in Pascal’s ears and bewildered
him. He was really becoming most uncomfortable, when Madame d’Argeles
approached the card-table and exclaimed: “This is the third time,
gentlemen, that you have been told that supper is ready. What gentleman
will offer me his arm?”

There was an evident unwillingness to leave the table, but an old
gentleman who had been losing heavily rose to his feet. “Yes, let us go
to supper!” he exclaimed; “perhaps that will change the luck.”

This was a decisive consideration. The room emptied as if by magic; and
no one was left at the table but Pascal, who scarcely knew what to
do with all the gold piled up before him. He succeeded, however, in
distributing it in his pockets, and was about to join the other guests
in the dining-room, when Madame d’Argeles abruptly barred his passage.

“I desire a word with you, monsieur,” she said. Her face still retained
its strange immobility, and the same stereotyped smile played about her
lips. And yet her agitation was so evident that Pascal, in spite of his
own uneasiness, noticed it, and was astonished by it.

“I am at your service, madame,” he stammered, bowing.

She at once took his arm, and led him to the embrasure of a window. “I
am a stranger to you, monsieur,” she said, very hurriedly, and in very
low tones, “and yet I must ask, and you must grant me, a great favor.”

“Speak, madame.”

She hesitated, as if at a loss for words, and then all of a sudden she
said, eagerly: “You will leave this house at once, without warning any
one, and while the other guests are at supper.”

Pascal’s astonishment changed into stupor.

“Why am I to go?” he asked.

“Because--but, no; I cannot tell you. Consider it only a caprice on my
part--it is so; but I entreat you, don’t refuse me. Do me this favor,
and I shall be eternally grateful.”

There was such an agony of supplication in her voice and her attitude,
that Pascal was touched. A vague presentiment of some terrible,
irreparable misfortune disturbed his own heart. Nevertheless, he sadly
shook his head, and bitterly exclaimed: “You are, perhaps, not aware
that I have just won over thirty thousand francs.”

“Yes, I am aware of it. And this is only another, and still stronger
reason why you should protect yourself against possible loss. It is well
to pattern after Charlemagne [1] in this house. The other night, the
Count d’Antas quietly made his escape bareheaded. He took a thousand
louis away with him, and left his hat in exchange. The count is a brave
man; and far from indulging in blame, every one applauded him the next
day. Come, you have decided, I see--you will go; and to be still more
safe, I will show you out through the servants’ hall, then no one can
possibly see you.”

Pascal had almost decided to yield to her entreaties; but this proposed
retreat through the back-door was too revolting to his pride to be
thought of for a moment. “I will never consent to such a thing,” he
declared. “What would they think of me? Besides I owe them their revenge
and I shall give it to them.”

Neither Madame d’Argeles nor Pascal had noticed M. de Coralth, who in
the meantime had stolen into the room on tiptoe, and had been listening
to their conversation, concealed behind the folds of a heavy curtain. He
now suddenly revealed his presence. “Ah! my dear friend,” he exclaimed,
in a winning tone. “While I honor your scruples, I must say that I think
madame is a hundred times right. If I were in your place, if I had won
what you have won, I shouldn’t hesitate. Others might think what they
pleased; you have the money, that is the main thing.”

For the second time, the viscount’s intervention decided Pascal. “I
shall remain,” he said, resolutely.

But Madame d’Argeles laid her hand imploringly on his arm. “I entreat
you, monsieur,” said she. “Go now, there is still time.”

“Yes, go,” said the viscount, approvingly, “it would be a most excellent
move. Retreat and save the cash.”

These words were like the drop which makes the cup overflow. Crimson
with anger and assailed by the strangest suspicions, Pascal turned from
Madame d’Argeles and hastened into the dining-room. The conversation
ceased entirely on his arrival there. He could not fail to understand
that he had been the subject of it. A secret instinct warned him that
all the men around him were his enemies--though he knew not why--and
that they were plotting against him. He also perceived that his
slightest movements were watched and commented upon. However he was a
brave man; his conscience did not reproach him in the least, and he was
one of those persons who, rather than wait for danger, provoke it.

So, with an almost defiant air, he seated himself beside a young
lady dressed in pink tulle, and began to laugh and chat with her. He
possessed a ready wit, and what is even better, tact; and for a quarter
of an hour astonished those around him by his brilliant sallies.
Champagne was flowing freely; and he drank four or five glasses in quick
succession. Was he really conscious of what he was doing and saying? He
subsequently declared that he was not, that he acted under the influence
of a sort of hallucination similar to that produced by the inhalation of
carbonic gas.

However, the guests did not linger long at the supper-table. “Let us go
back!” cried the old gentleman, who had insisted upon the suspension of
the game; “we are wasting a deal of precious time here!”

Pascal rose with the others, and in his haste to enter the adjoining
room he jostled two men who were talking together near the door. “So it
is understood,” said one of them.

“Yes, yes, leave it to me; I will act as executioner.”

This word sent all Pascal’s blood bounding to his heart. “Who is to be
executed?” he thought? “I am evidently to be the victim. But what does it
all mean?”

Meanwhile the players at the green table had changed places, and Pascal
found himself seated not on Ferdinand’s right, but directly opposite
him, and between two men about his own age--one of them being the person
who had announced his intention of acting as executioner. All eyes were
fixed upon the unfortunate advocate when it came his turn to deal. He
staked two hundred louis, and lost them. There was a slight commotion
round the table; and one of the players who had lost most heavily,
remarked in an undertone: “Don’t look so hard at the gentleman--he won’t
have any more luck.”

As Pascal heard this ironical remark, uttered in a tone which made it as
insulting as a blow, a gleam of light darted through his puzzled brain.
He suspected at last, what any person less honest than himself would
have long before understood. He thought of rising and demanding an
apology; but he was stunned, almost overcome by the horrors of his
situation. His ears tingled, and it seemed to him as if the beating of
his heart were suspended.

However the game proceeded; but no one paid any attention to it. The
stakes were insignificant, and loss or gain drew no exclamation from any
one. The attention of the entire party was concentrated on Pascal; and
he, with despair in his heart, followed the movements of the cards,
which were passing from hand to hand, and fast approaching him again.
When they reached him the silence became breathless, menacing, even
sinister. The ladies, and the guests who were not playing, approached
and leaned over the table in evident anxiety. “My God!” thought Pascal,
“my God, if I can only lose!”

He was as pale as death; the perspiration trickled down from his hair
upon his temples, and his hands trembled so much that he could scarcely
hold the cards. “I will stake four thousand francs,” he faltered.

“I take your bet,” answered a voice.

Alas! the unfortunate fellow’s wish was not gratified; he won. Then
in the midst of the wildest confusion, he exclaimed: “Here are eight
thousand francs!”

“Taken!”

But as he began to deal the cards, his neighbor sprang up, seized him
roughly by the hands and cried: “This time I’m sure of it--you are a
thief!”

With a bound, Pascal was on his feet. While his peril had been vague and
undetermined, his energy had been paralyzed. But it was restored to him
intact when his danger declared itself in all its horror. He pushed away
the man who had caught his hands, with such violence that he sent him
reeling under a sofa; then he stepped back and surveyed the excited
throng with an air of menace and defiance. Useless! Seven or eight
players sprang upon him and overpowered him, as if he had been the
vilest criminal.

Meanwhile, the executioner, as he had styled himself, had risen to his
feet with his cravat untied, and his clothes in wild disorder. “Yes,”
 he said, addressing Pascal, “you are a thief! I saw you slip other cards
among those which were handed to you.”

“Wretch!” gasped Pascal.

“I saw you--and I am going to prove it.” So saying he turned to
the mistress of the house, who had dropped into an arm-chair, and
imperiously asked, “How many packs have we used?”

“Five.”

“Then there ought to be two hundred and sixty cards upon the table.”

Thereupon he counted them slowly and with particular care, and he found
no fewer than three hundred and seven. “Well, scoundrel!” he cried; “are
you still bold enough to deny it?”

Pascal had no desire to deny it. He knew that words would weigh as
nothing against this material, tangible, incontrovertible proof.
Forty-seven cards had been fraudulently inserted among the others.
Certainly not by him! But by whom? Still he, alone, had been the gainer
through the deception.

“You see that the coward will not even defend himself!” exclaimed one of
the women.

He did not deign to turn his head. What did the insult matter to him? He
knew himself to be innocent, and yet he felt that he was sinking to the
lowest depths of infamy--he beheld himself disgraced, branded, ruined.
And realizing that he must meet facts with facts, he besought God to
grant him an idea, an inspiration, that would unmask the real culprit.

But another person came to his aid. With a boldness which no one would
have expected on his part, M. de Coralth placed himself in front of
Pascal, and in a voice which betokened more indignation than sorrow, he
exclaimed: “This is a terrible mistake, gentlemen. Pascal Ferailleur
is my friend; and his past vouches for his present. Go to the Palais de
Justice, and make inquiries respecting his character there. They will
tell you how utterly impossible it is that this man can be guilty of the
ignoble act he is accused of.”

No one made any reply. In the opinion of all his listeners, Ferdinand
was simply fulfilling a duty which it would have been difficult for
him to escape. The old gentleman who had decided the suspension and
the resumption of the game, gave audible expression to the prevailing
sentiment of the party. He was a portly man, who puffed like a porpoise
when he talked, and whom his companions called the baron. “Your words do
you honor--really do you honor,” he said, addressing Ferdinand--“and no
possible blame can attach to you. That your friend is not an honest
man is no fault of yours. There is no outward sign to distinguish
scoundrels.”

Pascal had so far not opened his lips. After struggling for a moment in
the hands of his captors, he now stood perfectly motionless, glancing
furiously around him as if hoping to discover the coward who had
prepared the trap into which he had fallen. For he felt certain that he
was the victim of some atrocious conspiracy, though it was impossible
for him to divine what motive had actuated his enemies. Suddenly those
who were holding him felt him tremble. He raised his head; he fancied
he could detect a ray of hope. “Shall I be allowed to speak in my own
defence?” he asked.

“Speak!”

He tried to free himself; but those beside him would not relax their
hold, so he desisted, and then, in a voice husky with emotion, he
exclaimed: “I am innocent! I am the victim of an infamous plot. Who
the author of it is I do not know. But there is some one here who must
know.” Angry exclamations and sneering laughs interrupted him. “Would
you condemn me unheard?” he resumed, raising his voice. “Listen to me.
About an hour ago, while you were at supper, Madame d’Argeles almost
threw herself at my feet as she entreated me to leave this house. Her
agitation astonished me. Now I understand it.”

The gentleman known as the baron turned toward Madame d’Argeles: “Is
what this man says true?”

She was greatly agitated, but she answered: “Yes.”

“Why were you so anxious for him to go?”

“I don’t know--a presentiment--it seemed to me that something was going
to happen.”

The least observant of the party could not fail to notice Madame
d’Argeles’s hesitation and confusion; but even the shrewdest were
deceived. They supposed that she had seen the act committed, and had
tried to induce the culprit to make his escape, in order to avoid a
scandal.

Pascal saw he could expect no assistance from this source. “M. de
Coralth could assure you,” he began.

“Oh, enough of that,” interrupted a player. “I myself heard M. de
Coralth do his best to persuade you not to play.”

So the unfortunate fellow’s last and only hope had vanished. Still he
made a supreme effort, and addressing Madame d’Argeles: “Madame,” he
said, in a voice trembling with anguish? “I entreat you, tell what you
know. Will you allow an honorable man to be ruined before your very
eyes? Will you abandon an innocent man whom you could save by a single
word?” But she remained silent; and Pascal staggered as if some one had
dealt him a terrible blow. “It is all over!” he muttered.

No one heard him; everybody was listening to the baron, who seemed to
be very much put out. “We are wasting precious time with all this,” said
he. “We should have made at least five rounds while this absurd scene
has been going on. We must put an end to it. What are you going to do
with this fellow? I am in favor of sending for a commissary of police.”

Such was not at all the opinion of the majority of the guests. Four
or five of the ladies took flight at the bare suggestion and several
men--the most aristocratic of the company--became angry at once. “Are
you mad?” said one of them. “Do you want to see us all summoned as
witnesses? You have probably forgotten that Garcia affair, and that
rumpus at Jenny Fancy’s house. A fine thing it would be to see, no one
knows how many great names mixed up with those of sharpers and notorious
women!”

Naturally of a florid complexion, the baron’s face now became scarlet.
“So it’s fear of scandal that deters you! Zounds, sir! a man’s courage
should equal his vices. Look at me.”

Celebrated for his income of eight hundred thousand francs a year, for
his estates in Burgundy, for his passion for gaming, his horses, and his
cook, the baron wielded a mighty influence. Still, on this occasion he
did not carry the day, for it was decided that the “sharper” should
be allowed to depart unmolested. “Make him at least return the money,”
 growled a loser; “compel him to disgorge.”

“His winnings are there upon the table.”

“Don’t believe it,” cried the baron. “All these scoundrels have secret
pockets in which they stow away their plunder. Search him by all means.”

“That’s it--search him!”

Crushed by this unexpected, undeserved and incomprehensible misfortune,
Pascal had almost yielded to his fate. But the shameful cry: “Search
him!” kindled terrible wrath in his brain. He shook off his assailants
as a lion shakes off the hounds that have attacked him, and, reaching
the fireplace with a single bound, he snatched up a heavy bronze
candelabrum and brandished it in the air, crying: “The first who
approaches is a dead man!”

He was ready to strike, there was no doubt about it; and such a weapon
in the hands of a determined man, becomes positively terrible. The
danger seemed so great and so certain that his enemies paused--each
encouraging his neighbor with his glance; but no one was inclined to
engage in this struggle, by which the victor would merely gain a
few bank-notes. “Stand back, and allow me to retire?” said Pascal,
imperiously. They still hesitated; but finally made way. And, formidable
in his indignation and audacity, he reached the door of the room
unmolested, and disappeared.

This superb outburst of outraged honor, this marvellous
energy--succeeding, as it did, the most complete mental prostration--and
these terrible threats, had proved so prompt and awe-inspiring that
no one had thought of cutting off Pascal’s retreat. The guests had
not recovered from their stupor, but were still standing silent and
intimidated when they heard the outer door close after him.

It was a woman who at last broke the spell. “Ah, well!” she exclaimed,
in a tone of intense admiration, “that handsome fellow is level-headed!”

“He naturally desired to save his plunder!”

It was the same expression that M. de Coralth had employed; and which
had, perhaps, prevented Pascal from yielding to Madame d’Argeles’s
entreaties. Everybody applauded the sentiment--everybody, the baron
excepted. This rich man, whose passions had dragged him into the vilest
dens of Europe, was thoroughly acquainted with sharpers and scoundrels
of every type, from those who ride in their carriages down to the
bare-footed vagabond. He knew the thief who grovels at his victim’s
feet, humbly confessing his crime, the desperate knave who swallows the
notes he has stolen, the abject wretch who bares his back to receive the
blows he deserves, and the rascal who boldly confronts his accusers and
protests his innocence with the indignation of an honest man. But never,
in any of these scoundrels, had the baron seen the proud, steadfast
glance with which this man had awed his accusers.

With this thought uppermost in his mind he drew the person who had
seized Pascal’s hands at the card-table a little aside. “Tell me,” said
he, “did you actually see that young man slip the cards into the pack?”

“No, not exactly. But you know what we agreed at supper? We were sure
that he was cheating; and it was necessary to find some pretext for
counting the cards.”

“What if he shouldn’t be guilty, after all?”

“Who else could be guilty then? He was the only winner.”

To this terrible argument--the same which had silenced Pascal--the baron
made no reply. Indeed his intervention became necessary elsewhere, for
the other guests were beginning to talk loudly and excitedly around the
pile of gold and bank-notes which Pascal had left on the table. They
had counted it, and found it to amount to the sum of thirty-six thousand
three hundred and twenty francs; and it was the question of dividing it
properly among the losers which was causing all this uproar. Among these
guests, who belonged to the highest society--among these judges who had
so summarily convicted an innocent man, and suggested the searching of
a supposed sharper only a moment before--there were several who
unblushingly misrepresented their losses. This was undeniable; for on
adding the various amounts that were claimed together a grand total of
ninety-one thousand francs was reached. Had this man who had just fled
taken the difference between the two sums away with him? A difference
amounting almost to fifty-five thousand francs? No, this was impossible;
the supposition could not be entertained for a moment. However, the
discussion might have taken an unfortunate turn, had it not been for the
baron. In all matters relating to cards, his word was law. He quietly
said, “It is all right;” and they submitted.

Nevertheless, he absolutely refused to take his share of the money; and
after the division, rubbing his hands as if he were delighted to see
this disagreeable affair concluded, he exclaimed: “It is only six
o’clock; we have still time for a few rounds.”

But the other guests, pale, disturbed, and secretly ashamed of
themselves, were eager to depart, and in fact they were already
hastening to the cloak-room. “At least play a game of ecarte,” cried the
baron, “a simple game of ecarte, at twenty louis a point.”

But no one listened, and he reluctantly prepared to follow his departing
friends, who bowed to Madame d’Argeles on the landing, as they filed by,
M. de Coralth, who was among the last to retire, had already reached
the staircase, and descended two or three steps, when Madame d’Argeles
called to him. “Remain,” said she; “I want to speak with you.”

“You will excuse me,” he began; “I----”

But she again bade him “remain” in such an imperious tone that he dared
not resist. He reascended the stairs, very much after the manner of a
man who is being dragged into a dentist’s office, and followed Madame
d’Argeles into a small boudoir at the end of the gambling-room. As soon
as the door was closed and locked, the mistress of the house turned to
her prisoner. “Now you will explain,” said she. “It was you who brought
M. Pascal Ferailleur here.”

“Alas! I know only too well that I ought to beg your forgiveness.
However, this affair will cost me dear myself. It has already embroiled
me in a difficulty with that fool of a Rochecote, with whom I shall have
to fight in less than a couple of hours.”

“Where did you make his acquaintance?”

“Whose--Rochecote’s?”

Madame d’Argeles’s sempiternal smile had altogether disappeared. “I am
speaking seriously,” said she, with a threatening ring in her voice.
“How did you happen to become acquainted with M. Ferailleur?”

“That can be very easily explained. Seven or eight months ago I had need
of an advocate’s services, and he was recommended to me. He managed my
case very cleverly, and we kept up the acquaintance.”

“What is his position?”

M. de Coralth’s features wore an expression of exceeding weariness as if
he greatly longed to go to sleep. He had indeed installed himself in a
large arm-chair, in a semi-recumbent position. “Upon my word, I
don’t know,” he replied. “Pascal had always seemed to be the most
irreproachable man in the world--a man you might call a philosopher! He
lives in a retired part of the city, near the Pantheon, with his mother,
who is a widow, a very respectable woman, always dressed in black. When
she opened the door for me, on the occasion of my first visit, I thought
some old family portrait had stepped down from its frame to receive
me. I judge them to be in comfortable circumstances. Pascal has the
reputation of being a remarkable man, and people supposed he would rise
very high in his profession.”

“But now he is ruined; his career is finished.”

“Certainly! You can be quite sure that by this evening all Paris will
know what occurred here last night.”

He paused, meeting Madame Argeles’s look of withering scorn with a
cleverly assumed air of astonishment. “You are a villain! Monsieur de
Coralth,” she said, indignantly.

“I--and why?”

“Because it was you who slipped those cards, which made M. Ferailleur
win, into the pack; I saw you do it! And yielding to my entreaties,
the young fellow was about to leave the house when you, intentionally,
prevented him from saving himself. Oh! don’t deny it.”

M. de Coralth rose in the coolest possible manner. “I deny nothing, my
dear lady,” he replied, “absolutely nothing. You and I understand each
other.”

Confounded by his unblushing impudence, Madame d’Argeles remained
speechless for a moment. “You confess it!” she cried, at last. “You dare
to confess it! Were you not afraid that I might speak and state what I
had seen?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “No one would have believed you,” he
exclaimed.

“Yes, I should have been believed, Monsieur de Coralth, for I could have
given proofs. You must have forgotten that I know you, that your past
life is no secret to me, that I know who you are, and what dishonored
name you hide beneath your borrowed title! I could have told my guests
that you are married--that you have abandoned your wife and child,
leaving them to perish in want and misery--I could have told them where
you obtain the thirty or forty thousand francs you spend each year. You
must have forgotten that Rose told me everything, Monsieur--Paul!”

She had struck the right place this time, and with such precision that
M. de Coralth turned livid, and made a furious gesture, as if he were
about to fell her to the ground. “Ah, take care!” he exclaimed; “take
care!”

But his rage speedily subsided, and with his usual indifferent manner,
and in a bantering tone, he said: “Well, what of that? Do you fancy that
the world doesn’t already suspect what you could reveal? People have
suspected me of being even worse than I am. When you proclaim on the
housetops that I am an adventurer, folks will only laugh at you, and I
shall be none the worse for it. A matter that would crush a dozen men
like Pascal Ferailleur would not injure me in the least. I am accustomed
to it. I must have luxury and enjoyment, everything that is pleasant and
beautiful--and to procure all this, I do my very best. It is true that
I don’t derive my income from my estate in Brie; but I have plenty of
money, and that is the essential thing. Besides, it is so difficult to
earn a livelihood nowadays, and the love of luxury is so intense that
no one knows at night what he may do--or, rather, what he won’t do--the
next day. And last, but not least, the people who ought to be despised
are so numerous that contempt is an impossibility. A Parisian who
happened to be so absurdly pretentious as to refuse to shake hands with
such of his acquaintances as were not irreproachable characters, might
walk for hours on the Boulevards without finding an occasion to take his
hands out of his pockets.”

M. de Coralth talked well enough, and yet, in point of fact, all this
was sheer bravado on his part. He knew better than any one else, on what
a frail and uncertain basis his brilliant existence was established.
Certainly, society does show great indulgence to people of doubtful
reputation. It shuts its eyes and refuses to look or listen. But this is
all the more reason why it should be pitiless when a person’s guilt is
positively established. Thus, although he assumed an air of insolent
security, the “viscount” anxiously watched the effect of his words upon
Madame d’Argeles. Fortunately for himself, he saw that she was abashed
by his cynicism; and so he resumed: “Besides, as our friend, the baron,
would say, we are wasting precious time in discussing improbable, and
even impossible, suppositions. I was sufficiently well acquainted with
your heart and your intelligence, my dear madame, to be sure that you
would not speak a word to my disparagement.”

“Indeed! What prevented me from doing so?”

“I did; or perhaps I ought rather to say, your own good sense, which
closed your mouth when Monsieur Pascal entreated you to speak in his
defence. I am entitled to considerable indulgence, madame, and a great
deal ought to be forgiven me. My mother, unfortunately, was an honest
woman, who did not furnish me with the means of gratifying every whim.”

Madame d’Argeles recoiled as if a serpent had suddenly crossed her path.

“What do you mean?” she faltered.

“You know as well as I do.”

“I don’t understand you--explain yourself.”

With the impatient gesture of a man who finds himself compelled
to answer an idle question, and assuming an air of hypocritical
commiseration, he replied: “Well, since you insist upon it, I know,
in Paris--in the Rue de Helder, to be more exact--a nice young fellow,
whose lot I have often envied. He has wanted for nothing since the day
he came into the world. At school, he had three times as much money
as his richest playfellow. When his studies were finished, a tutor was
provided--with his pockets full of gold--to conduct this favored youth
to Italy, Egypt, and Greece. He is now studying law; and four times
a year, with unvarying punctuality, he receives a letter from London
containing five thousand francs. This is all the more remarkable, as
this young man has neither a father nor a mother. He is alone in the
world with his income of twenty thousand francs. I have heard him say,
jestingly, that some good fairy must be watching over him; but I know
that he believes himself to be the illegitimate son of some great
English nobleman. Sometimes, when he has drunk a little too much, he
talks of going in search of my lord, his father.”

The effect M. de Coralth had created by these words must have been
extremely gratifying to him, for Madame d’Argeles had fallen back in her
chair, almost fainting. “So, my dear madame,” he continued, “if I ever
had any reason to fancy that you intended causing me any trouble, I
should go to this charming youth and say: ‘My good fellow, you are
strangely deceived. Your money doesn’t come from the treasure-box of an
English peer, but from a small gambling den with which I am very well
acquainted, having often had occasion to swell its revenues with my
franc-pieces.’ And if he mourned his vanished dreams, I should tell
him: ‘You are wrong; for, if the great nobleman is lost, the good fairy
remains. She is none other than your mother, a very worthy person, whose
only object in life is your comfort and advancement.’ And if he doubted
my word, I should bring him to his mother’s house some baccarat night;
and there would be a scene of recognition worthy of Fargueil’s genius.”

Any man but M. de Coralth would have had some compassion, for Madame
d’Argeles was evidently suffering agony. “It is as I feared!” she
moaned, in a scarcely audible voice.

However, he heard her. “What!” he exclaimed in a tone of intense
astonishment; “did you really doubt it? No; I can’t believe it; it would
be doing injustice to your intelligence and experience. Are people like
ourselves obliged to talk in order to understand each other? Should I
ever have ventured to do what I have done, in your house, if I had not
known the secret of your maternal tenderness, delicacy of feeling, and
devotion?”

She was weeping; big tears were rolling down her face, tracing a broad
furrow through the powder on her cheeks. “He knows everything!” she
murmured; “he knows everything!”

“By the merest chance, I assure you. As I don’t like folks to meddle
with my affairs, I never meddle with theirs. As I have just said, it was
entirely the work of chance. One April afternoon I came to invite you
to a drive in the Bois. I was ushered into this very room where we
are sitting now, and found you writing. I said I would wait until you
finished your letter; but some one called you, and you hastily left the
room. How it was that I happened to approach your writing-table I cannot
explain; but I did approach it, and read your unfinished letter. Upon my
word it touched me deeply. I can give no better proof of the truth of my
assertion than the fact that I can repeat it, almost word for word, even
now. ‘DEAR SIR,’--you wrote to your London correspondent--‘I send you
three thousand francs, in addition to the five thousand for the regular
quarterly payment. Forward the money without delay. I fear the poor boy
is greatly annoyed by his creditors. Yesterday I had the happiness
of seeing him in the Rue de Helder, and I found him looking pale and
careworn. When you send him this money, forward at the same time a
letter of fatherly advice. It is true, he ought to work and win an
honorable position for himself; but think of the dangers and temptation
that beset him, alone and friendless, in this corrupt city.’ There, my
dear lady, your letter ended; but the name and address were given, and
it was easy enough to understand it. You remember, perhaps, a little
incident that occurred after your return. On perceiving that you had
forgotten your letter, you turned pale and glanced at me. ‘Have you
read it, and do you understand it?’ your eyes asked; while mine replied:
‘Yes, but I shall be silent.’”

“And I shall be silent too,” said Madame d’Argeles.

M. de Coralth took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I knew we should
understand each other,” he remarked, gravely. “I am not bad at heart,
believe me; and if I had possessed money of my own, or a mother like
you----”

She averted her face, fearing perhaps that M. de Coralth might read
her opinion of him in her eyes; but after a short pause she exclaimed
beseechingly: “Now that I am your accomplice, let me entreat you to do
all you possibly can to prevent last night’s affair from being noised
abroad.”

“Impossible.”

“If not for M. Ferailleur’s sake, for the sake of his poor widowed
mother.”

“Pascal must be put out of the way!”

“Why do you say that? Do you hate him so much then? What has he done to
you?”

“To me, personally? Nothing--I even feel actual sympathy for him.”

Madame d’Argeles was confounded. “What!” she stammered; “it wasn’t on
your own account that you did this?”

“Why, no.”

She sprang to her feet, and quivering with scorn and indignation, cried:
“Ah! then the deed is even more infamous--even more cowardly!” But
alarmed by the threatening gleam in M. de Coralth’s eyes, she went no
further.

“A truce to these disagreeable truths,” said he, coldly. “If we
expressed our opinions of each other without reserve, in this world,
we should soon come to hard words. Do you think I acted for my own
pleasure? Suppose some one had seen me when I slipped the cards into the
pack. If that had happened, I should have been ruined.”

“And you think that no one suspects you?”

“No one. I lost more than a hundred louis myself. If Pascal belonged to
our set, people might investigate the matter, perhaps; but to-morrow it
will be forgotten.”

“And will he have no suspicions?”

“He will have no proofs to offer, in any case.”

Madame d’Argeles seemed to resign herself to the inevitable. “I hope you
will, at least, tell me on whose behalf you acted,” she remarked.

“Impossible,” replied M. de Coralth. And, consulting his watch, he
added, “But I am forgetting myself; I am forgetting that that idiot of
a Rochecote is waiting for a sword-thrust. So go to sleep, my dear lady,
and--till we meet again.”

She accompanied him so far as the landing. “It is quite certain that he
is hastening to the house of M. Ferailleur’s enemy,” she thought. And,
calling her confidential servant, “Quick, Job,” she said; “follow M.
de Coralth. I want to know where he is going. And, above all, take care
that he doesn’t see you.”




V.


If through the length and breadth of Paris there is a really quiet,
peaceful street, a refuge for the thoughtfully inclined, it is surely
the broad Rue d’Ulm, which starts from the Place du Pantheon,
and finishes abruptly at the Rue des Feuillantines. The shops are
unassuming, and so few that one can easily count them. There is
a wine-shop on the left-hand side, at the corner of the Rue de la
Vieille-Estrapade; then a little toy-shop, then a washerwoman’s and then
a book-binder’s establishment; while on the right-hand you will find
the office of the Bulletin, with a locksmith’s, a fruiterer’s, and a
baker’s--that is all. Along the rest of the street run several spacious
buildings, somewhat austere in appearance, though some of them are
surrounded by large gardens. Here stands the Convent of the Sisters of
the Cross, with the House of Our Lady of Adoration; while further on,
near the Rue des Feuillantines, you find the Normal School, with the
office of the General Omnibus Company hard by. At day-time you mostly
meet grave and thoughtful faces in the street: priests, savants,
professors, and clerks employed in the adjacent public libraries. The
only stir is round about the omnibus office; and if occasional bursts of
laughter are heard they are sure to come from the Normal School. After
nightfall, a person might suppose himself to be at least a hundred
leagues from the Boulevard Montmartre and the Opera-House, in some
quiet old provincial town, at Poitiers, for instance. And it is only on
listening attentively that you can catch even a faint echo of the tumult
of Paris.

It was in this street--“out of the world,” as M. de Coralth expressed
it--that Pascal Ferailleur resided with his mother. They occupied a
second floor, a pretty suite of five rooms, looking out upon a garden.
Their rent was high. Indeed, they paid fourteen hundred francs a year.
But this was a burden which Pascal’s profession imposed upon him; for
he, of course, required a private office and a little waiting-room for
his clients. With this exception, the mother and son led a straightened,
simple life. Their only servant was a woman who came at seven o’clock to
do the heavy work, went home again at twelve, and did not return again
until the evening, to serve dinner. Madame Ferailleur attended to
everything, not blushing in the least when she was compelled to open the
door for some client. Besides, she could do this without the least risk
of encountering disrespect, so imposing and dignified were her manners
and her person.

M. de Coralth had shown excellent judgment when he compared her to a
family portrait. She was, in fact, exactly the person a painter would
select to represent some old burgher’s wife--a chaste and loving spouse,
a devoted mother, an incomparable housewife--in one phrase, the faithful
guardian of her husband’s domestic happiness. She had just passed her
fiftieth birthday, and looked fully her age. She had suffered. A close
observer would have detected traces of weeping about her wrinkled
eyelids; and the twinge of her lips was expressive of cruel anguish,
heroically endured. Still, she was not severe, nor even too sedate; and
the few friends who visited her were often really astonished at her wit.
Besides, she was one of those women who have no history, and who find
happiness in what others would call duty. Her life could be summed up in
a single sentence: she had loved; she had mourned.

The daughter of a petty clerk in one of the government departments, and
merely dowered with a modest portion of three thousand francs, she had
married a young man as poor as herself, but intelligent and industrious,
whom she loved, and who adored her. This young man on marrying had sworn
that he would make a fortune; not that he cared for money for himself,
but he wished to provide his idol with every luxury. His love, enhancing
his energy, no doubt hastened his success. Attached as a chemist to
a large manufacturing establishment, his services soon became so
invaluable to his employers that they gave him a considerable interest
in the business. His name even obtained an honorable place among modern
inventors; and we are indebted to him for the discovery of one of those
brilliant colors that are extracted from common coal. At the end of ten
years he had become a man of means. He loved his wife as fondly as on
the day of their marriage, and he had a son--Pascal.

Unfortunate fellow! One day, in the full sunshine of happiness and
success, while he was engaged in a series of experiments for the purpose
of obtaining a durable, and at the same time perfectly harmless, green,
the chemicals exploded, smashing the mortar which he held, and wounding
him horribly about the head and chest. A fortnight later he died,
apparently calm, but in reality a prey to bitter regrets. It was a
terrible blow for his poor wife, and the thought of her son alone
reconciled her to life. Pascal was now everything to her--her present
and her future; and she solemnly vowed that she would make a noble man
of him. But alas! misfortunes never come singly. One of her husband’s
friends, who acted as administrator to the estate, took a contemptible
advantage of her inexperience. She went to sleep one night possessing
an income of fifteen thousand francs, but she awoke to find herself
ruined--so completely ruined that she did not know where to obtain her
dinner for that same evening. Had she been alone in the world, she would
not have grieved much over the catastrophe, but she was sadly affected
by the thought that her son’s future was, perhaps, irrevocably blighted,
and that, in any case, this disaster would condemn him to enter life
through the cramped and gloomy portals of poverty.

However, Madame Ferailleur was of too courageous and too proud a nature
not to meet this danger with virile energy. She wasted no time in
useless lamentations. She determined to repair the harm as far as it
was in her power to repair it, resolving that her son’s studies at the
college of Louis-the-Great should not be interrupted, even if she had to
labor with her own hands. And when she spoke of manual toil, it was
no wild, unmeaning exaggeration born of sorrow and a passing flash of
courage. She found employment as a day-servant and in sewing for
large shops, until she at last obtained a situation as clerk in the
establishment where her husband had been a partner. To obtain this she
was obliged to acquire a knowledge of bookkeeping, but she was amply
repaid for her trouble; for the situation was worth eighteen hundred
francs a year, besides food and lodging. Then only did her efforts
momentarily abate; she felt that her arduous task was drawing to a happy
close. Pascal’s expenses at school amounted to about nine hundred francs
a year; she did not spend more than one hundred on herself; and thus she
was able to save nearly eight hundred francs a year.

It must be admitted that she was admirably seconded in her efforts by
her son. Pascal was only twelve years old when his mother said to him:
“I have ruined you, my son. Nothing remains of the fortune which your
father accumulated by dint of toil and self-sacrifice. You will be
obliged to rely upon yourself, my boy. God grant that in years to come
you will not reproach me for my imprudence.”

The child did not throw himself into her arms, but holding his head
proudly erect, he answered: “I shall love you even more, dear mother,
if that be possible. As for the fortune which my father left you, I will
restore it to you again. I am no longer a school-boy, I am a man--as you
shall see.”

One could not fail to perceive that he had taken a solemn vow. Although
he possessed a remarkable mind, and the power of acquiring knowledge
rapidly, he had, so far, worked indifferently, and then only by fits and
starts, whenever examination time drew near. But from that day forward
he did not lose a moment. His remarks, which were at once comical and
touching, were those of the head of a family, deeply impressed by a
sense of his own responsibility. “You see,” he said to his companions,
who were astonished at his sudden thirst for knowledge, “I can’t afford
to wear out my breeches on the college forms, now that my poor mother
has to pay for them with her work.”

His good-humor was not in the least impaired by his resolve not to spend
a single penny of his pocket money. With a tact unusual at his age, or
indeed at any other, he bore his misfortunes simply and proudly, without
any of the servile humility or sullen envy which so often accompanies
poverty. For three years in succession the highest prizes at the
competitions rewarded him for his efforts; but these successes, far from
elating him unduly, seemed to afford him but little satisfaction.
“This is only glory,” he thought; and his great ambition was to support
himself.

He was soon able to do so, thanks to the kindness of the head-master,
who offered him his tuition gratis if he would assist in superintending
some of the lower classes. Thus one day when Madame Ferailleur presented
herself as usual to make her quarterly payment, the steward replied:
“You owe us nothing, madame; everything has been paid by your son.”

She almost fainted; after bearing adversity so bravely, this happiness
proved too much for her. She could scarcely believe it. A long
explanation was necessary to convince her of the truth, and then big
tears, tears of joy this time, gushed from her eyes.

In this way, Pascal Ferailleur paid all the expenses of his education
until he had won his degree, arming himself so as to resist the trials
that awaited him, and giving abundant proof of energy and ability.
He wished to be a lawyer; and the law, he was forced to admit, is a
profession which is almost beyond the reach of penniless young men. But
there are no insurmountable obstacles for those whose hearts are really
set on an object. On the very day that Pascal inscribed his name as a
student at the law school, he entered an advocate’s office as a clerk.
His duties, which were extremely tiresome at first, had the two-fold
advantage of familiarizing him with the forms of legal procedure, and of
furnishing him with the means of prosecuting his studies. After he had
been in the office six months, his employer agreed to pay him eight
hundred francs a year, which were increased to fifteen hundred at the
end of the second twelvemonth. In three years, when he had passed his
final examination qualifying him to practise, his patron raised him
to the position of head-clerk, with a salary of three thousand francs,
which Pascal was moreover able to increase considerably by drawing up
documents for busy attorneys, and assisting them in the preparation of
their least important cases.

It was certainly something wonderful to have achieved such a result in
so short a time; but the most difficult part of his task had still to
be accomplished. It was a perilous undertaking to abandon an assured
position, to cast a certainty aside for the chances of life at the bar.
It was a grave step--so grave, indeed, that Pascal hesitated for a
long time. He was threatened with the danger that always threatens
subordinates who are useful to their superiors. He felt that his
employer, who was in the habit of relieving himself of his heaviest
duties by intrusting them to him, would not be likely to forgive him
for leaving. And on starting on his own account, he could ill afford to
dispense with this lawyer’s good-will. The patronage that could scarcely
fail to follow him from an office where he had served for four years
was the most substantial basis of his calculations for the future.
Eventually he succeeded to his satisfaction, though not without some
difficulty, and only by employing that supreme finesse which consists in
absolute frankness.

Before his office had been open a fortnight, he had seven or eight
briefs waiting their turn upon his desk, and his first efforts were
such as win the approving smile of old judges, and draw from them the
prediction: “That young man will rise in his profession.” He had not
desired to make any display of his knowledge or talent, but merely to
win the cases confided to him; and, unlike many beginners, he evinced
no inclination to shine at his clients’ expense. Rare modesty, and it
served him well. His first ten months of practice brought him about
eight thousand francs, absorbed in part by the expense attaching to a
suitable office. The second year his fees increased by about one-half,
and, feeling that his position was now assured, he insisted that his
mother should resign her clerkship. He proved to her what was indeed
the truth--that by superintending his establishment, she would save more
than she made in her present position.

From that time the mother and the son had good reason to believe that
their heroic energy had conquered fate. Clients became so numerous that
Pascal found it necessary to draw nearer the business centre, and
his rent was consequently doubled; but the income he derived from his
profession increased so rapidly that he soon had twelve thousand francs
safely invested as a resource against any emergency. Madame Ferailleur
now laid aside the mourning she had worn since her husband’s death. She
felt that she owed it to Pascal; and, besides, after believing there was
no more happiness left for her on earth, her heart rejoiced at her son’s
success.

Pascal was thus on the high-road to fame, when a complication in M.
Ferdinand de Coralth’s affair, brought that young nobleman to his
office. The trouble arose from a little stock exchange operation
which M. Ferdinand had engaged in--an affair which savored a trifle
of knavery. It was strange, but Pascal rather took a liking to M. de
Coralth. The honest worker felt interested in this dashing adventurer;
he was almost dazzled by his brilliant vices, his wit, his hardihood,
conceit, marvellous assurance, and careless impudence; and he studied
this specimen of the Parisian flora with no little curiosity. M.
de Coralth certainly did not confide the secret of his life and his
resources to Pascal but the latter’s intelligence should have told him
to distrust a man who treated the requirements of morality even more
than cavalierly, and who had infinitely more wants than scruples.
However, the young advocate seemed to have no suspicions; they exchanged
visits occasionally, and it was Pascal himself who one day requested the
viscount to take him to one of those “Reunions in High Life” which the
newspapers describe in such glowing terms.

Madame Ferailleur was playing a game of whist with a party of old
friends, according to her custom every Thursday evening, when M. de
Coralth called to invite the young advocate to accompany him to Madame
d’Argeles’s reception. Pascal considered his friend’s invitation
exceedingly well timed. He dressed himself with more than ordinary care,
and, as usual before going out, he approached his mother to kiss her and
wish her good-bye. “How fine you are!” she said, smiling.

“I am going to a soiree, my dear mother,” he replied; “and it is
probable that I shall not return until very late. So don’t wait for me,
I beg of you; promise me to go to bed at your usual hour.”

“Have you the night-key?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, then; I will not wait for you. When you come in you will
find your candle and some matches on the buffet in the ante-room. And
wrap yourself up well, for it is very cold.” Then raising her forehead
to her son’s lips, she gayly added: “A pleasant evening to you, my boy!”

Faithful to her promise, Madame Ferailleur retired at the usual hour;
but she could not sleep. She certainly had no cause for anxiety, and
yet the thought that her son was not at home filled her heart with
vague misgivings such as she had never previously felt under similar
circumstances. Possibly it was because she did not know where Pascal was
going. Possibly M. de Coralth was the cause of her strange disquietude,
for she utterly disliked the viscount. Her woman’s instinct warned her
that there was something unwholesome about this young man’s peculiar
handsomeness, and that it was not safe to trust to his professions of
friendship. At all events, she lay awake and heard the clock of the
neighboring Normal School strike each successive hour--two, three, and
four. “How late Pascal stays,” she said to herself.

And suddenly a fear more poignant even than her presentiments darted
through her mind. She sprang out of bed and rushed to the window. She
fancied she had heard a terrible cry of distress in the deserted street.
At that very moment, the insulting word “thief” was being hurled in her
son’s face. But the street was silent, and deciding that she had been
mistaken, she went back to bed laughing at herself for her fears; and
at last she fell asleep. But judge of her terror in the morning when, on
rising to let the servant in, she saw Pascal’s candle still standing on
the buffet. Was it possible that he had not returned? She hastened to
his room--he was not there. And it was nearly eight o’clock.

This was the first time that Pascal had spent a night from home without
warning his mother in advance; and such an act on the part of a man
of his character was sufficient proof that something extraordinary
had occurred. In an instant all the dangers that lurk in Paris after
nightfall flashed through her mind. She remembered all the stories she
had read of men decoyed into dark corners, of men stabbed at the turn of
some deserted street, or thrown into the Seine while crossing one of
the bridges. What should she do? Her first impulse was to run to the
Commissary of Police’s office or to the house of Pascal’s friend; but
on the other hand, she dared not go out, for fear he might return in her
absence. Thus, in an agony of suspense, she waited--counting the seconds
by the quick throbbings of her temples, and straining her ears to catch
the slightest sound.

At last, about half-past eight o’clock, she heard a heavy, uncertain
footfall on the stairs. She flew to the door and beheld her son. His
clothes were torn and disordered; his cravat was missing, he wore no
overcoat, and he was bareheaded. He looked very pale, and his teeth were
chattering. His eyes stared vacantly, and his features had an almost
idiotic expression. “Pascal, what has happened to you?” she asked.

He trembled from head to foot as the sound of her voice suddenly roused
him from his stupor. “Nothing,” he stammered; “nothing at all.” And as
his mother pressed him with questions, he pushed her gently aside and
went on to his room.

“Poor child!” murmured Madame Ferailleur, at once grieved and reassured;
“and he is always so temperate. Some one must have forced him to drink.”

She was entirely wrong in her surmise, and yet Pascal’s sensations were
exactly like those of an intoxicated man. How he had returned home, by
what road, and what had happened on the way, he could not tell. He had
found his way back mechanically, merely by force of habit--physical
memory, as it might be called. He had a vague impression, however, that
he had sat down for some time on a bench in the Champs-Elysees, that he
had felt extremely cold, and that he had been accosted by a policeman,
who threatened him with arrest if he did not move on. The last thing he
could clearly recollect was rushing from Madame d’Argeles’s house in
the Rue de Berry. He knew that he had descended the staircase slowly
and deliberately; that the servants in the vestibule had stood aside to
allow him to pass; and that, while crossing the courtyard, he had thrown
away the candelabrum with which he had defended himself. After that,
he remembered nothing distinctly. On reaching the street he had been
overcome by the fresh air, just as a carouser is overcome on emerging
from a heated dining-room. Perhaps the champagne which he had drank had
contributed to this cerebral disorder. At all events, even now, in
his own room, seated in his own arm-chair, and surrounded by familiar
objects, he did not succeed in regaining the possession of his
faculties.

He had barely strength enough to throw himself on to the bed, and in
a moment he was sleeping with that heavy slumber which so often
seizes hold of one on the occasion of a great crisis, and which has so
frequently been observed among persons condemned to death, on the night
preceding their execution. Four or five times his mother came to listen
at the door. Once she entered, and seeing her son sleeping soundly, she
could not repress a smile of satisfaction. “Poor Pascal!” she thought;
“he can bear no excess but excess of work. Heavens! how surprised and
mortified he will be when he awakes!”

Alas! it was not a trifling mortification, but despair, which awaited
the sleeper on his wakening; for the past, the present, and the future
were presented simultaneously and visionlike to his imagination.
Although he had scarcely regained the full use of his faculties, he was,
to some extent, at least capable of reflection and deliberation, and he
tried to look the situation bravely in the face. First, as to the past,
he had not the shadow of a doubt. He realized that he had fallen into a
vile trap, and the person who had laid it for him was undoubtedly M. de
Coralth, who, seated at his right, had prepared the “hands” with which
he had won. This was evident. It seemed equally proven that Madame
d’Argeles knew the real culprit--possibly she had detected him in the
act, possibly he had taken her into his confidence. But what he could
not fathom was M. de Coralth’s motive. What could have prompted the
viscount to commit such an atrocious act? The incentive must have been
very powerful, since he had naturally incurred the danger of detection
and of being considered an accomplice at the least. And then what
influence had closed Madame d’Argeles’s lips? But after all, what
was the use of these conjectures? It was an actual, unanswerable, and
terrible fact that this infamous plot had been successful, and
that Pascal was dishonored. He was honesty itself, and yet he was
accused--more than that, CONVICTED--of cheating at cards! He was
innocent, and yet he could furnish no proofs of his innocence. He knew
the real culprit, and yet he could see no way of unmasking him or even
of accusing him. Do what he would, this atrocious, incomprehensive
calumny would crush him. The bar was closed against him; his career was
ended. And the terrible conviction that there was no escape from the
abyss into which he had fallen made his reason totter--he felt that he
was incapable of deciding on the best course, and that he must have a
friend’s advice.

Full of this idea, he hastily changed his clothes, and hurried from
his room. His mother was watching for him--inclined to laugh at him
a little; but a single glance warned her that her son was in terrible
trouble, and that some dire misfortune had certainly befallen him.
“Pascal, in heaven’s name, what has happened?” she cried.

“A slight difficulty--a mere trifle,” he replied.

“Where are you going?”

“To the Palais de Justice.” And such was really the case, for he hoped
to meet his most intimate friend there.

Contrary to his usual custom, he took the little staircase on the right,
leading to the grand vestibule, where several lawyers were assembled,
earnestly engaged in conversation. They were evidently astonished to
see Pascal, and their conversation abruptly ceased on his approach.
They assumed a grave look and turned away their heads in disgust. The
unfortunate man at once realized the truth, and pressed his hand to
his forehead, with a despairing gesture, as he murmured:
“Already!--already!”

However, he passed on, and not seeing his friend, he hurried to the
little conference hall, where he found five of his fellow-advocates. On
Pascal’s entrance, two of them at once left the hall, while two of the
others pretended to be very busily engaged in examining a brief which
lay open on the table. The fifth, who did not move, was not the friend
Pascal sought, but an old college comrade named Dartelle. Pascal walked
straight toward him. “Well?” he asked.

Dartelle handed him a Figaro, still damp from the printing-press, but
crumpled and worn, as if it had already passed through more than a
hundred hands. “Read!” said he.

Pascal read as follows: “There was great sensation and a terrible
scandal last night at the residence of Madame d’A----, a well-known star
of the first magnitude. A score of gentlemen of high rank and immense
wealth were enjoying a quiet game of baccarat, when it was observed that
M. F---- was winning in a most extraordinary manner. He was watched and
detected in the very act of dexterously slipping some cards into the
pack he held. Crushed by the overpowering evidence against him, he
allowed himself to be searched, and without much demur consented to
refund the fruit of his knavery, to the amount of two thousand louis.
The strangest thing connected with this scandal is, that M. F----, who
is an advocate by profession, has always enjoyed an enviable reputation
for integrity; and, unfortunately, this prank cannot be attributed to a
momentary fit of madness, for the fact that he had provided himself with
these cards in advance proves the act to have been premeditated. One of
the persons present was especially displeased. This was the Viscount de
C----, who had introduced M. F---- to Madame d’A----. Extremely annoyed
by this contretemps, he took umbrage at an offensive remark made by M.
de R----, and it was rumored that these gentlemen would cross swords at
daybreak this morning.

“LATER INTELLIGENCE.--We learn at the moment of going to press that an
encounter has just taken place between M. de R---- and M. de C----.
M. de R---- received a slight wound in the side, but his condition is
sufficiently satisfactory not to alarm his friends.”


The paper slipped from Pascal’s hand. His features were almost
unrecognizable in his passion and despair. “It is an infamous lie!”
 he said, hoarsely. “I am innocent; I swear it upon my honor!” Dartelle
averted his face, but not quickly enough to prevent Pascal from noticing
the look of withering scorn in his eyes. Then, feeling that he was
condemned, that his sentence was irrevocable, and that there was no
longer any hope: “I know the only thing that remains for me to do!” he
murmured.

Dartelle turned, his eyes glistening with tears. He seized Pascal’s
hands and pressed them with sorrowful tenderness, as if taking leave of
a friend who is about to die. “Courage!” he whispered.

Pascal fled like a madman. “Yes,” he repeated, as he rushed along the
Boulevard Saint-Michel, “that is the only thing left me to do.”

When he reached home he entered his office, double-locked the door, and
wrote two letters--one to his mother, the other to the president of the
order of Advocates. After a moment’s thought he began a third, but tore
it into pieces before he had completed it. Then, without an instant’s
hesitation, and like a man who had fully decided upon his course, he
took a revolver and a box of cartridges from a drawer in his desk. “Poor
mother!” he murmured; “it will kill her--but my disgrace would kill her
too. Better shorten the agony.”

He little fancied at that supreme moment that each of his gestures, each
contraction of his features, were viewed by the mother whose name he
faltered. Since her son had left her to go to the Palais de Justice, the
poor woman had remained almost crazy with anxiety; and when she heard
him return and lock himself in his office--a thing he had never done
before--a fearful presentiment was aroused in her mind. Gliding into her
son’s bedroom, she at once approached the door communicating with his
office. The upper part of this portal was of glass; it was possible to
see what was occurring in the adjoining room. When Madame F

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