Chapter 1

Vengeance! that is the first, the only thought, when a man finds himself
victimized, when his honor and fortune, his present and future,
are wrecked by a vile conspiracy! The torment he endures under such
circumstances can only be alleviated by the prospect of inflicting them
a hundredfold upon his persecutors. And nothing seems impossible at the
first moment, when hatred surges in the brain, and the foam of anger
rises to the lips; no obstacle seems insurmountable, or, rather,
none are perceived. But later, when the faculties have regained their
equilibrium, one can measure the distance which separates the dream from
reality, the project from execution. And on setting to work, how many
discouragements arise! The fever of revolt passes by, and the victim
wavers. He still breathes bitter vengeance, but he does not act. He
despairs, and asks himself what would be the good of it? And in this way
the success of villainy is once more assured.

Similar despondency attacked Pascal Ferailleur when he awoke for the
first time in the abode where he had hidden himself under the name of
Maumejan. A frightful slander had crushed him to the earth--he could
kill his slanderer, but afterward--? How was he to reach and stifle the
slander itself? As well try to hold a handful of water; as well try to
stay with extended arms the progress of the poisonous breeze which wafts
an epidemic on its wings. So the hope that had momentarily lightened
his heart faded away again. Since he had received that fatal letter from
Madame Leon the evening before, he believed that Marguerite was lost to
him forever, and in this case, it was useless to struggle against fate.
What would be the use of victory even if he conquered? Marguerite lost
to him--what did the rest matter? Ah! if he had been alone in the world.
But he had his mother to think of;--he belonged to this brave-hearted
woman, who had saved him from suicide already. “I will not yield, then;
I will struggle on for her sake,” he muttered, like a man who foresees
the futility of his efforts.

He rose, and had nearly finished dressing, when he heard a rap at his
chamber door. “It is I, my son,” said Madame Ferailleur outside.

Pascal hastened to admit her. “I have come for you because the woman you
spoke about last evening is already here, and before employing her, I
want your advice.”

“Then the woman doesn’t please you, mother?”

“I want you to see her.”

On entering the little parlor with his mother, Pascal found himself in
the presence of a portly, pale-faced woman, with thin lips and restless
eyes, who bowed obsequiously. It was indeed Madame Vantrasson, the
landlady of the model lodging-house, who was seeking employment for the
three or four hours which were at her disposal in the morning, she said.
It certainly was not for pleasure that she had decided to go out to
service again; her dignity suffered terribly by this fall--but then
the stomach has to be cared for. Tenants were not numerous at the model
lodging-house, in spite of its seductive title; and those who slept
there occasionally, almost invariably succeeded in stealing something.
Nor did the grocery store pay; the few half-pence which were left
there occasionally in exchange for a glass of liquor were pocketed by
Vantrasson, who spent them at some neighboring establishment; for it is
a well-known fact that the wine a man drinks in his own shop is always
bitter in flavor. So, having no credit at the butcher’s or the baker’s,
Madame Vantrasson was sometimes reduced to living for days together upon
the contents of the shop--mouldy figs or dry raisins--which she washed
down with torrents of ratafia, her only consolation here below.

But this was not a satisfying diet, as she was forced to confess; so she
decided to find some work, that would furnish her with food and a little
money, which she vowed she would never allow her worthy husband to see.

“What would you charge per month?” inquired Pascal.

She seemed to reflect, and after a great deal of counting on her
fingers, she finally declared that she would be content with breakfast
and fifteen francs a month, on condition she was allowed to do the
marketing. The first question of French cooks, on presenting themselves
for a situation, is almost invariably, “Shall I do the marketing?”
which of course means, “Shall I have any opportunities for stealing?”
Everybody knows this, and nobody is astonished at it.

“I shall do the marketing myself,” declared Madame Ferailleur, boldly.

“Then I shall want thirty francs a month,” replied Madame Vantrasson,
promptly.

Pascal and his mother exchanged glances. They were both unfavorably
impressed by this woman, and were equally determined to rid themselves
of her, which it was easy enough to do. “Too dear!” said Madame
Ferailleur; “I have never given over fifteen francs.”

But Madame Vantrasson was not the woman to be easily discouraged,
especially as she knew that if she failed to obtain this situation, she
might have considerable difficulty in finding another one. She could
only hope to obtain employment from strangers and newcomers, who were
ignorant of the reputation of the model lodging-house. So in view of
softening the hearts of Pascal and his mother, she began to relate the
history of her life, skilfully mingling the false with the true, and
representing herself as an unfortunate victim of circumstances, and the
inhuman cruelty of relatives. For she belonged, like her husband, to
a very respectable family, as the Maumejans might easily ascertain by
inquiry. Vantrasson’s sister was the wife of a man named Greloux, who
had once been a bookbinder in the Rue Saint-Denis, but who had now
retired from business with a competency. “Why had this Greloux refused
to save them from bankruptcy? Because one could never hope for a favor
from relatives,” she groaned; “they are jealous if you succeed; and if
you are unfortunate, they cast you off.”

However, these doleful complaints, far from rendering Madame Vantrasson
interesting, imparted a deceitful and most disagreeable expression to
her countenance. “I told you that I could only give fifteen francs,”
interrupted Madame Ferailleur--“take it or leave it.”

Madame Vantrasson protested. She expressed her willingness to deduct
five francs from the sum she had named, but more--it was impossible!
Would they haggle over ten francs to secure such a treasure as herself,
an honest, settled woman, who was entirely devoted to her employers?
“Besides, I have been a grand cook in my time,” she added, “and I have
not lost all my skill. Monsieur and madame would be delighted with my
cooking, for I have seen more than one fine gentleman smack his lips
over my sauces when was in the employment of the Count de Chalusse.”

Pascal and his mother could not repress a start on hearing this name;
but it was in a tone of well-assumed indifference that Madame Ferailleur
repeated, “M. de Chalusse?”

“Yes, madame--a count--and so rich that he didn’t know how much he was
worth. If he were still alive I shouldn’t be compelled to go out to
service again. But he’s dead and he’s to be buried this very day.” And
with an air of profound secrecy, she added: “On going yesterday to
the Hotel de Chalusse to ask for a little help, I heard of the great
misfortune. Vantrasson, my husband, accompanied me, and while we were
talking with the concierge, a young woman passed through the hall, and
he recognized her as a person who some time ago was--well--no better
than she should be. Now, however, she’s a young lady as lofty as the
clouds, and the deceased count has been passing her off as his daughter.
Ah! this is a strange world.”

Pascal had become whiter than the ceiling. His eyes blazed; and Madame
Ferailleur trembled. “Very well,” she said, “I will give you twenty-five
francs--but on condition you come without complaining if I sometimes
require your services of an evening. On these occasions I will give you
your dinner.” And taking five francs from her pocket she placed them in
Madame Vantrasson’s hand, adding: “Here is your earnest money.”

The other quickly pocketed the coin, not a little surprised by this
sudden decision which she had scarcely hoped for, and which she by no
means understood. Still she was so delighted with this denouement that
she expressed her willingness to enter upon her duties at once; and to
get rid of her Madame Ferailleur was obliged to send her out to purchase
the necessary supplies for breakfast. Then, as soon as she was alone
with her son, she turned to him and asked: “Well, Pascal?”

But the wretched man seemed turned to stone, and seeing that he neither
spoke nor moved, she continued in a severe tone: “Is this the way you
keep your resolutions and your oaths! You express your intention
of accomplishing a task which requires inexhaustible patience and
dissimulation, and at the very first unforeseen circumstance your
coolness deserts you, and you lose your head completely. If it had not
been for me you would have betrayed yourself in that woman’s presence.
You must renounce your revenge, and tamely submit to be conquered by the
Marquis de Valorsay if your face is to be an open book in which any one
may read your secret plans and thoughts.”

Pascal shook his head dejectedly. “Didn’t you hear, mother?” he
faltered.

“Hear what?”

“What that vile woman said? This young lady whom she spoke of, whom her
husband recognized, can be none other than Marguerite.”

“I am sure of it.”

He recoiled in horror. “You are sure of it!” he repeated; “and you can
tell me this unmoved--coldly, as if it were a natural, a possible thing.
Didn’t you understand the shameful meaning of her insinuations? Didn’t
you see her hypocritical smile and the malice gleaming in her eyes?” He
pressed his hands to his burning brow, and groaned “And I did not crush
the infamous wretch! I did not fell her to the ground!”

Ah! if she had obeyed the impulse of her heart. Madame Ferailleur would
have thrown her arms round her son’s neck, and have mingled her tears
with his, but reason prevailed. The worthy woman’s heart was pervaded
with that lofty sentiment of duty which sustains the humble heroines
of the fireside, and lends them even more courage than the reckless
adventurers whose names are recorded by history could boast of. She felt
that Pascal must not be consoled, but spurred on to fresh efforts;
and so mustering all her courage, she said: “Are you acquainted with
Mademoiselle Marguerite’s past life? No. You only know that hers has
been a life of great vicissitudes--and so it is not strange that she
should be slandered.”

“In that case, mother,” said Pascal, “you were wrong to interrupt Madame
Vantrasson. She would probably have told us many things.”

“I interrupted her, it is true, and sent her away--and you know why. But
she is in our service now; and when you are calm, when you have regained
your senses, nothing will prevent you from questioning her. It may be
useful for you to know who this man Vantrasson is, and how and where he
met Mademoiselle Marguerite.”

Shame, sorrow, and rage, brought tears to Pascal’s eyes. “My God!” he
exclaimed, “to be reduced to the unspeakable misery of hearing my mother
doubt Marguerite!” He did not doubt her. HE could have listened to the
most infamous accusations against her without feeling a single doubt.
However, Madame Ferailleur had sufficient self-control to shrug her
shoulders. “Ah, well! silence this slander,” she exclaimed. “I wish for
nothing better; but don’t forget that we have ourselves to rehabilitate.
To crush your enemies will be far more profitable to Mademoiselle
Marguerite than vain threats and weak lamentations. It seemed to me that
you had sworn to act, not to complain.”

This ironical thrust touched Pascal’s sensitive mind to the quick; he
rose at once to his feet, and coldly said, “That’s true. I thank you for
having recalled me to myself.”

She made no rejoinder, but mentally thanked God. She had read her son’s
heart, and perceiving his hesitation and weakness she had supplied the
stimulus he needed. Now she saw him as she wished to see him. Now he was
ready to reproach himself for his lack of courage and his weakness in
displaying his feelings. And as a test of his powers of endurance, he
decided not to question Madame Vantrasson till four or five days had
elapsed. If her suspicions had been aroused, this delay would suffice to
dispel them.

He said but little during breakfast; for he was now eager to commence
the struggle. He longed to act, and yet he scarcely knew how to begin
the campaign. First of all, he must study the enemy’s position--gain
some knowledge of the men he had to deal with, find out exactly who the
Marquis de Valorsay and the Viscount de Coralth were. Where could he
obtain information respecting these two men? Should he be compelled to
follow them and to gather up here and there such scraps of intelligence
as came in his way? This method of proceeding would be slow and
inconvenient in the extreme. He was revolving the subject in his mind
when he suddenly remembered the man who, on the morning that followed
the scene at Madame d’Argeles’s house, had come to him in the Rue d’Ulm
to give him a proof of his confidence. He remembered that this strange
man had said: “If you ever need a helping hand, come to me.” And at the
recollection he made up his mind. “I am going to Baron Trigault’s,” he
remarked to his mother; “if my presentiments don’t deceive me, he will
be of service to us.”

In less than half an hour he was on his way. He had dressed himself in
the oldest clothes he possessed; and this, with the change he had made
by cutting off his hair and beard, had so altered his appearance that
it was necessary to look at him several times, and most attentively, to
recognize him. The visiting cards which he carried in his pocket bore
the inscription: “P. Maumejan, Business Agent, Route de la Revolte.” His
knowledge of Parisian life had induced him to choose the same profession
as M. Fortunat followed--a profession which opens almost every door.
“I will enter the nearest cafe and ask for a directory,” he said to
himself. “I shall certainly find Baron Trigault’s address in it.”

The baron lived in the Rue de la Ville-l’Eveque. His mansion was one
of the largest and most magnificent in the opulent district of the
Madeleine, and its aspect was perfectly in keeping with its owner’s
character as an expert financier, and a shrewd manufacturer, the
possessor of valuable mines. The marvellous luxury so surprised Pascal,
that he asked himself how the owner of this princely abode could find
any pleasure at the gaming table of the Hotel d’Argeles. Five or six
footmen were lounging about the courtyard when he entered it. He walked
straight up to one of them, and with his hat in his hand, asked: “Baron
Trigault, if you please?”

If he had asked for the Grand Turk the valet would not have looked at
him with greater astonishment. His surprise, indeed, seemed so profound
that Pascal feared he had made some mistake and added: “Doesn’t he live
here?”

The servant laughed heartily. “This is certainly his house,” he replied,
“and strange to say, by some fortunate chance, he’s here.”

“I wish to speak with him on business.”

The servant called one of his colleagues. “Eh! Florestan--is the baron
receiving?”

“The baroness hasn’t forbidden it.”

This seemed to satisfy the footman; for, turning to Pascal he said: “In
that case, you can follow me.”

II.

The sumptuous interior of the Trigault mansion was on a par with its
external magnificence. Even the entrance bespoke the lavish millionaire,
eager to conquer difficulties, jealous of achieving the impossible, and
never haggling when his fancies were concerned. The spacious hall, paved
with costly mosaics, had been transformed into a conservatory full of
flowers, which were renewed every morning. Rare plants climbed the walls
up gilded trellis work, or hung from the ceiling in vases of rare old
china, while from among the depths of verdure peered forth exquisite
statues, the work of sculptors of renown. On a rustic bench sat a couple
of tall footmen, as bright in their gorgeous liveries as gold coins
fresh from the mint; still, despite their splendor, they were stretching
and yawning to such a degree, that it seemed as if they would ultimately
dislocate their jaws and arms.

“Tell me,” inquired the servant who was escorting Pascal, “can any one
speak to the baron?”

“Why?”

“This gentleman has something to say to him.”

The two valets eyed the unknown visitor, plainly considering him to
be one of those persons who have no existence for the menials of
fashionable establishments, and finally burst into a hearty laugh. “Upon
my word!” exclaimed the eldest, “he’s just in time. Announce him,
and madame will be greatly obliged to you. She and monsieur have
been quarrelling for a good half-hour. And, heavenly powers, isn’t he
tantalizing!”

The most intense curiosity gleamed in the eyes of Pascal’s conductor,
and with an airy of secrecy, he asked: “What is the cause of the rumpus?
That Fernand, no doubt--or some one else?”

“No; this morning it’s about M. Van Klopen.”

“Madame’s dressmaker?”

“The same. Monsieur and madame were breakfasting together--a most
unusual thing--when M. Van Klopen made his appearance. I thought to
myself, when I admitted him: ‘Look out for storms!’ I scented one in
the air, and in fact the dressmaker hadn’t been in the room five minutes
before we heard the baron’s voice rising higher and higher. I said to
myself: ‘Whew! the mantua-maker is presenting his bill!’ Madame cried
and went on like mad; but, pshaw! when the master really begins, there’s
no one like him. There isn’t a cab-driver in Paris who’s his equal for
swearing.”

“And M. Van Klopen?”

“Oh, he’s used to such scenes! When gentlemen abuse him he does the same
as dogs do when they come up out of the water; he just shakes his head
and troubles himself no more about it. He has decidedly the best of the
row. He has furnished the goods, and he’ll have to be paid sooner or
later----”

“What! hasn’t he been paid then?”

“I don’t know; he’s still here.”

A terrible crash of breaking china interrupted this edifying
conversation. “There!” exclaimed one of the footmen, “that’s monsieur;
he has smashed two or three hundred francs’ worth of dishes. He MUST be
rich to pay such a price for his angry fits.”

“Well,” observed the other, “if I were in monsieur’s place I should be
angry too. Would you let your wife have her dresses fitted on by a man?
I says that it’s indecent. I’m only a servant, but----”

“Nonsense, it’s the fashion. Besides, monsieur does not care about that.
A man who----”

He stopped short; in fact, the others had motioned him to be silent.
The baron was surrounded by exceptional servants, and the presence of a
stranger acted as a restraint upon them. For this reason, one of them,
after asking Pascal for his card, opened a door and ushered him into a
small room, saying: “I will go and inform the baron. Please wait here.”

“Here,” as he called it, was a sort of smoking-room hung with cashmere
of fantastic design and gorgeous hues, and encircled by a low, cushioned
divan, covered with the same material. A profusion of rare and costly
objects was to be seen on all sides, armor, statuary, pictures,
and richly ornamented weapons. But Pascal, already amazed by the
conversation of the servants, did not think of examining these objects
of virtu. Through a partially open doorway, directly opposite the one he
had entered by, came the sound of loud voices in excited conversation.
Baron Trigault, the baroness, and the famous Van Klopen were evidently
in the adjoining room. It was a woman, the baroness, who was speaking,
and the quivering of her clear and somewhat shrill voice betrayed
a violent irritation, which was only restrained with the greatest
difficulty. “It is hard for the wife of one of the richest men in Paris
to see a bill for absolute necessities disputed in this style,” she was
saying.

A man’s voice, with a strong Teutonic accent, the voice of Van Klopen,
the Hollander, caught up the refrain. “Yes, strict necessities, one can
swear to that. And if, before flying into a passion, Monsieur le Baron
had taken the trouble to glance over my little bill, he would have
seen----”

“No more! You bore me to death. Besides I haven’t time to listen to your
nonsense; they are waiting for me to play a game of whist at the club.”

This time it was the master of the house, Baron Trigault, who spoke, and
Pascal recognized his voice instantly.

“If monsieur would only allow me to read the items. It will take but a
moment,” rejoined Van Klopen. And as if he had construed the oath
that answered him as an exclamation of assent, he began: “In June, a
Hungarian costume with jacket and sash, two train dresses with upper
skirts and trimmings of lace, a Medicis polonaise, a jockey costume, a
walking costume, a riding-habit, two morning-dresses, a Velleda costume,
an evening dress.”

“I was obliged to attend the races very frequently during the month of
June,” remarked the baroness.

But the illustrious adorner of female loveliness had already resumed his
reading. “In July we have: two morning-jackets, one promenade costume,
one sailor suit, one Watteau shepherdess costume, one ordinary
bathing-suit, with material for parasol and shoes to match, one
Pompadour bathing-suit, one dressing-gown, one close-fitting Medicis
mantle, two opera cloaks----”

“And I was certainly not the most elegantly attired of the ladies at
Trouville, where I spent the month of July,” interrupted the baroness.

“There are but few entries in the month of August,” continued
Van Klopen. “We have: a morning-dress, a travelling-dress, with
trimmings----” And he went on and on, gasping for breath, rattling off
the ridiculous names which he gave to his “creations,” and interrupted
every now and then by the blow of a clinched fist on the table, or by a
savage oath.

Pascal stood in the smoking-room, motionless with astonishment. He did
not know what surprised him the most, Van Klopen’s impudence in daring
to read such a bill, the foolishness of the woman who had ordered all
these things, or the patience of the husband who was undoubtedly going
to pay for them. At last, after what seemed an interminable enumeration,
Van Klopen exclaimed: “And that’s all!”

“Yes, that’s all,” repeated the baroness, like an echo.

“That’s all!” exclaimed the baron--“that’s all! That is to say, in four
months, at least seven hundred yards of silk, velvet, satin, and muslin,
have been put on this woman’s back!”

“The dresses of the present day require a great deal of material.
Monsieur le Baron will understand that flounces, puffs, and ruches----”

“Naturally! Total, twenty-seven thousand francs!”

“Excuse me! Twenty-seven thousand nine hundred and thirty-three francs,
ninety centimes.”

“Call it twenty-eight thousand francs then. Ah, well, M. Van Klopen, if
you are ever paid for this rubbish it won’t be by me.”

If Van Klopen was expecting this denouement, Pascal wasn’t; in fact,
he was so startled, that an exclamation escaped him which would have
betrayed his presence under almost any other circumstances. What amazed
him most was the baron’s perfect calmness, following, as it did, such
a fit of furious passion, violent enough even to be heard in the
vestibule. “Either he has extraordinary control over himself or this
scene conceals some mystery,” thought Pascal.

Meanwhile, the man-milliner continued to urge his claims--but the baron,
instead of replying, only whistled; and wounded by this breach of good
manners, Van Klopen at last exclaimed: “I have had dealings with all the
distinguished men in Europe, and never before did one of them refuse to
pay me for his wife’s toilettes.”

“Very well--I don’t pay for them--there’s the difference. Do you suppose
that I, Baron Trigault, that I’ve worked like a negro for twenty years
merely for the purpose of aiding your charming and useful branch of
industry? Gather up your papers, Mr. Ladies’ Tailor. There may
be husbands who believe themselves responsible for their wives’
follies--it’s quite possible there are--but I’m not made of that kind
of stuff. I allow Madame Trigault eight thousand francs a month for
her toilette--that is sufficient--and it is a matter for you and her to
arrange together. What did I tell you last year when I paid a bill of
forty thousand francs? That I would not be responsible for any more of
my wife’s debts. And I not only said it, I formally notified you through
my private secretary.”

“I remember, indeed----”

“Then why do you come to me with your bill? It is with my wife that you
have opened an account. Apply to her, and leave me in peace.”

“Madame promised me----”

“Teach her to keep her promises.”

“It costs a great deal to retain one’s position as a leader of fashion;
and many of the most distinguished ladies are obliged to run into debt,”
urged Van Klopen.

“That’s their business. But my wife is not a fine lady. She is simply
Madame Trigault, a baroness, thanks to her husband’s gold and the
condescension of a worthy German prince, who was in want of money. SHE
is not a person of consequence--she has no rank to keep up.”

The baroness must have attached immense importance to the satisfying of
Van Klopen’s demands, for concealing the anger this humiliating scene
undoubtedly caused her, she condescended to try and explain, and even to
entreat. “I have been a little extravagant, perhaps,” she said; “but I
will be more prudent in future. Pay, monsieur--pay just once more.”

“No!”

“If not for my sake, for your own.”

“Not a farthing.”

By the baron’s tone, Pascal realized that his wife would never shake
his fixed determination. Such must also have been the opinion of the
illustrious ruler of fashion, for he returned to the charge with an
argument he had held in reserve. “If this is the case, I shall, to my
great regret, be obliged to fail in the respect I owe to Monsieur le
Baron, and to place this bill in the hands of a solicitor.”

“Send him along--send him along.”

“I cannot believe that monsieur wishes a law-suit.”

“In that you are greatly mistaken. Nothing would please me better. It
would at last give me an opportunity to say what I think about your
dealings. Do you think that wives are to turn their husbands into
machines for supplying money? You draw the bow-string too tightly, my
dear fellow--it will break. I’ll proclaim on the house-top what others
dare not say, and we’ll see if I don’t succeed in organizing a little
crusade against you.” And animated by the sound of his own words,
his anger came back to him, and in a louder and ever louder voice he
continued: “Ah! you prate of the scandal that would be created by my
resistance to your demands. That’s your system; but, with me, it won’t
succeed. You threaten me with a law-suit; very good. I’ll take it upon
myself to enlighten Paris, for I know your secrets, Mr. Dressmaker. I
know the goings on in your establishment. It isn’t always to talk about
dress that ladies stop at your place on returning from the Bois. You
sell silks and satins no doubt; but you sell Madeira, and excellent
cigarettes as well, and there are some who don’t walk very straight
on leaving your establishment, but smell suspiciously of tobacco and
absinthe. Oh, yes, let us go to law, by all means! I shall have an
advocate who will know how to explain the parts your customers pay, and
who will reveal how, with your assistance, they obtain money from other
sources than their husband’s cash-box.”

When M. Van Klopen was addressed in this style, he was not at all
pleased. “And I!” he exclaimed, “I will tell people that Baron Trigault,
after losing all his money at play, repays his creditors with curses.”

The noise of an overturned chair told Pascal that the baron had sprung
up in a furious passion “You may say what you like, you rascally fool!
but not in my house,” he shouted. “Leave--leave, or I will ring----”

“Monsieur----”

“Leave, leave, I tell you, or I sha’n’t have the patience to wait for a
servant!”

He must have joined action to word, and have seized Van Klopen by
the collar to thrust him into the hall, for Pascal heard a sound of
scuffling, a series of oaths worthy of a coal-heaver, two or three
frightened cries from the baroness, and several guttural exclamations
in German. Then a door closed with such violence that the whole house
shook, and a magnificent clock, fixed to the wall of the smoking-room,
fell on to the floor.

If Pascal had not heard this scene, he would have deemed it incredible.
How could one suppose that a creditor would leave this princely mansion
with his bill unpaid? But more and more clearly he understood that there
must be some greater cause of difference between husband and wife than
this bill of twenty-eight thousand francs. For what was this amount to
a confirmed gambler who, without as much as a frown, gained or lost a
fortune every evening of his life. Evidently there was some skeleton in
this household--one of those terrible secrets which make a man and his
wife enemies, and all the more bitter enemies as they are bound together
by a chain which it is impossible to break. And undoubtedly, a good many
of the insults which the baron had heaped upon Van Klopen must have been
intended for the baroness. These thoughts darted through Pascal’s mind
with the rapidity of lightning, and showed him the horrible position
in which he was placed. The baron, who had been so favorably disposed
toward him, and from whom he was expecting a great service, would
undoubtedly hate him, undoubtedly become his enemy, when he learned
that he had been a listener, although an involuntary one, to this
conversation with Van Klopen. How did it happen that he had been placed
in this dangerous position? What had become of the footman who had taken
his card? These were questions which he was unable to answer. And what
was he to do? If he could have retired noiselessly, if he could have
reached the courtyard and have made his escape without being observed he
would not have hesitated. But was this plan practicable? And would not
his card betray him? Would it not be discovered sooner or later that he
had been in the smoking-room while M. Van Klopen was in the dining-room?
In any case, delicacy of feeling as well as his own interest forbade him
to remain any longer a listener to the private conversation of the baron
and his wife.

He therefore noisily moved a chair, and coughed in that affected style
which means in every country: “Take care--I’m here!” But he did not
succeed in attracting attention. And yet the silence was profound; he
could distinctly hear the creaking of the baron’s boots, as he paced
to and fro, and the sound of fingers nervously beating a tattoo on the
table. If he desired to avoid hearing the confidential conversation,
which would no doubt ensue between the baron and his wife, there was
but one course for him to pursue, and that was to reveal his presence at
once. He was about to do so, when some one opened a door which must have
led from the hall into the dining-room. He listened attentively, but
only heard a few confused words, to which the baron replied: “Very well.
That’s sufficient. I will see him in a moment.”

Pascal breathed freely once more. “They have just given him my card,” he
thought. “I can remain now; he will come here in a moment.”

The baron must really have started to leave the room, for his wife
exclaimed: “One word more: have you quite decided?”

“Oh, fully!”

“You are resolved to leave me exposed to the persecutions of my
dressmaker?”

“Van Klopen is too charming and polite to cause you the least worry.”

“You will brave the disgrace of a law-suit?”

“Nonsense! You know very well that he won’t bring any action against
me--unfortunately. And, besides, pray tell me where the disgrace
would be? I have a foolish wife--is that my fault? I oppose her absurd
extravagance--haven’t I a right to do so? If all husbands were as
courageous, we should soon close the establishments of these artful men,
who minister to your vanity, and use you ladies as puppets, or living
advertisements, to display the absurd fashions which enrich them.”

The baron took two or three more steps forward, as if about to leave the
room, but his wife interposed: “The Baroness Trigault, whose husband
has an income of seven or eight hundred thousand francs a year, can’t go
about clad like a simple woman of the middle classes.”

“I should see nothing so very improper in that.”

“Oh, I know. Only your ideas don’t coincide with mine. I shall never
consent to make myself ridiculous among the ladies of my set--among my
friends.”

“It would indeed be a pity to arouse the disapproval of your friends.”

This sneering remark certainly irritated the baroness, for it was with
the greatest vehemence that she replied: “All my friends are ladies of
the highest rank in society--noble ladies!”

The baron no doubt shrugged his shoulders, for in a tone of crushing
irony and scorn, he exclaimed: “Noble ladies! whom do you call
noble ladies, pray? The brainless fools who only think of displaying
themselves and making themselves notorious?--the senseless idiots who
pique themselves on surpassing lewd women in audacity, extravagance, and
effrontery, who fleece their husbands as cleverly as courtesans fleece
their lovers? Noble ladies! who drink, and smoke, and carouse, who
attend masked balls, and talk slang! Noble ladies! the idiots who long
for the applause of the crowd, and consider notoriety to be desirable
and flattering. A woman is only noble by her virtues--and the chief
of all virtues, modesty, is entirely wanting in your illustrious
friends----”

“Monsieur,” interrupted the baroness, in a voice husky with anger, “you
forget yourself--you----”

But the baron was well under way. “If it is scandal that crowns one
a great lady, you ARE one--and one of the greatest; for you are
notorious--almost as notorious as Jenny Fancy. Can’t I learn from
the newspapers all your sayings and gestures, your amusements, your
occupations, and the toilettes you wear? It is impossible to read of a
first performance at a theatre, or of a horse-race, without finding
your name coupled with that of Jenny Fancy, or Cora Pearl, or Ninette
Simplon. I should be a very strange husband indeed, if I wasn’t proud
and delighted. Ah! you are a treasure to the reporters. On the day
before yesterday the Baroness Trigault skated in the Bois. Yesterday she
was driving in her pony-carriage. To-day she distinguished herself by
her skill at pigeon-shooting. To-morrow she will display herself half
nude in some tableaux vivants. On the day after to-morrow she will
inaugurate a new style of hair-dressing, and take part in a comedy. It
is always the Baroness Trigault who is the observed of all observers at
Vincennes. The Baroness Trigault has lost five hundred louis in betting.
The Baroness Trigault uses her lorgnette with charming impertinence.
It is she who has declared it proper form to take a ‘drop’ on returning
from the Bois. No one is so famed for ‘form,’ as the baroness--and
silk merchants have bestowed her name upon a color. People rave of the
Trigault blue--what glory! There are also costumes Trigault, for
the witty, elegant baroness has a host of admirers who follow her
everywhere, and loudly sing her praises. This is what I, a plain, honest
man, read every day in the newspapers. The whole world not only knows
how my wife dresses, but how she looks en dishabille, and how she
is formed; folks are aware that she has an exquisite foot, a
divinely-shaped leg, and a perfect hand. No one is ignorant of the fact
that my wife’s shoulders are of dazzling whiteness, and that high on
the left shoulder there is a most enticing little mole. I had the
satisfaction of reading this particular last evening. It is charming,
upon my word! and I am truly a fortunate man!”

In the smoking-room, Pascal could hear the baroness angrily stamp her
foot, as she exclaimed: “It is an outrageous insult--your journalists
are most impertinent.”

“Why? Do they ever trouble honest women?”

“They wouldn’t trouble me if I had a husband who knew how to make them
treat me with respect!”

The baron laughed a strident, nervous laugh, which it was not pleasant
to hear, and which revealed the fact that intense suffering was hidden
beneath all this banter. “Would you like me to fight a duel then? After
twenty years has the idea of ridding yourself of me occurred to you
again? I can scarcely believe it. You know too well that you would
receive none of my money, that I have guarded against that. Besides, you
would be inconsolable if the newspapers ceased talking about you for a
single day. Respect yourself, and you will be respected. The publicity
you complain of is the last anchor which prevents society from drifting
one knows not where. Those who would not listen to the warning voice of
honor and conscience are restrained by the fear of a little paragraph
which might disclose their shame. Now that a woman no longer has a
conscience, the newspapers act in place of it. And I think it quite
right, for it is our only hope of salvation.”

By the stir in the adjoining room, Pascal felt sure that the baroness
had stationed herself before the door to prevent her husband from
leaving her. “Ah! well, monsieur,” she exclaimed, “I declare to you
that I must have Van Klopen’s twenty-eight thousand francs before this
evening. I will have them, too; I am resolved to have them, and you will
give them to me.”

“Oh!” thundered the baron, “you WILL have them--you will----” He paused,
and then, after a moment’s reflection, he said: “Very well. So be it! I
will give you this amount, but not just now. Still if, as you say, it is
absolutely necessary that you should have it to-day, there is a means of
procuring it. Pawn your diamonds for thirty thousand francs--I authorize
you to do so; and I give you my word of honor that I will redeem them
within a week. Say, will you do this?” And, as the baroness made no
reply, he continued: “You don’t answer! shall I tell you why? It is
because your diamonds were long since sold and replaced by imitation
ones; it is because you are head over heels in debt; it is because you
have stooped so low as to borrow your maid’s savings; it is because you
already owe three thousand francs to one of my coachmen; it is because
our steward lends you money at the rate of thirty or forty per cent.”

“It is false!”

The baron sneered. “You certainly must think me a much greater fool than
I really am!” he replied. “I’m not often at home, it’s true--the sight
of you exasperates me; but I know what’s going on. You believe me your
dupe, but you are altogether mistaken. It is not twenty-seven thousand
francs you owe Van Klopen, but fifty or sixty thousand. However, he is
careful not to demand payment. If he brought me a bill this morning, it
was only because you had begged him to do so, and because it had been
agreed he should give you the money back if I paid him. In short, if you
require twenty-eight thousand francs before to-night, it is because M.
Fernand de Coralth has demanded that sum, and because you have promised
to give it to him!”

Leaning against the wall of the smoking-room, speechless and motionless,
holding his breath, with his hands pressed upon his heart, as if to
stop its throbbings, Pascal Ferailleur listened. He no longer thought
of flying; he no longer thought of reproaching himself for his enforced
indiscretion. He had lost all consciousness of his position. The name of
the Viscount de Coralth, thus mentioned in the course of this frightful
scene, came as a revelation to him. He now understood the meaning of the
baron’s conduct. His visit to the Rue d’Ulm, and his promises of help
were all explained. “My mother was right,” he thought; “the baron hates
that miserable viscount mortally. He will do all in his power to assist
me.”

Meanwhile, the baroness energetically denied her husband’s charges. She
swore that she did not know what he meant. What had M. de Coralth to
do with all this? She commanded her husband to speak more plainly--to
explain his odious insinuations.

He allowed her to speak for a moment, and then suddenly, in a harsh,
sarcastic voice, he interrupted her by saying: “Oh! enough! No more
hypocrisy! Why do you try to defend yourself? What matters one crime
more? I know only too well that what I say is true; and if you desire
proofs, they shall be in your hands in less than half an hour. It is a
long time since I was blind--full twenty years! Nothing concerning you
has escaped my knowledge and observation since the cursed day when I
discovered the depths of your disgrace and infamy--since the terrible
evening when I heard you plan to murder me in cold blood. You had grown
accustomed to freedom of action; while I, who had gone off with the
first gold-seekers, was braving a thousand dangers in California, so as
to win wealth and luxury for you more quickly. Fool that I was! No task
seemed too hard or too distasteful when I thought of you--and I was
always thinking of you. My mind was at peace--I had perfect faith in
you. We had a daughter; and if a fear or a doubt entered my mind, I told
myself that the sight of her cradle would drive all evil thoughts
from your heart. The adultery of a childless wife may be forgiven or
explained; but that of a mother, never! Fool! idiot! that I was! With
what joyous pride, on my return after an absence of eighteen months, I
showed you the treasures I had brought back with me! I had two hundred
thousand francs! I said to you as I embraced you: ‘It is yours, my
well-beloved, the source of all my happiness!’ But you did not care for
me--I wearied you! You loved another! And while you were deceiving
me with your caresses, you were, with fiendish skill, preparing a
conspiracy which, if it had succeeded, would have resulted in my death!
I should consider myself amply revenged if I could make you suffer for a
single day all the torments that I endured for long months. For this was
not all! You had not even the excuse, if excuse it be, of a powerful,
all-absorbing passion. Convinced of your treachery, I resolved to
ascertain everything, and I discovered that in my absence you had become
a mother. Why didn’t I kill you? How did I have the courage to remain
silent and conceal what I knew? Ah! it was because, by watching you, I
hoped to discover the cursed bastard and your accomplice. It was because
I dreamed of a vengeance as terrible as the offence. I said to myself
that the day would come when, at any risk, you would try to see your
child again, to embrace her, and provide for her future. Fool! fool
that I was! You had already forgotten her! When you received news of my
intended return, she was sent to some foundling asylum, or left to die
upon some door-step. Have you ever thought of her? Have you ever asked
what has become of her? ever asked yourself if she had needed bread
while you have been living in almost regal luxury? ever asked yourself
into what depths of vice she may have fallen?”

“Always the same ridiculous accusation!” exclaimed the baroness.

“Yes, always!”

“You must know, however, that this story of a child is only a vile
slander. I told you so when you spoke of it to me a dozen years
afterward. I have repeated it a thousand times since.”

The baron uttered a sigh that was very like a sob, and without paying
any heed to his wife’s words, he continued: “If I consented to allow
you to remain under my roof, it was only for the sake of our daughter.
I trembled lest the scandal of a separation should fall upon her. But it
was useless suffering on my part. She was as surely lost as you yourself
were; and it was your work, too!”

“What! you blame me for that?”

“Whom ought I to blame, then? Who took her to balls, and theatres and
races--to every place where a young girl ought NOT to be taken? Who
initiated her into what you call high life? and who used her as a
discreet and easy chaperon? Who married her to a wretch who is a
disgrace to the title he bears, and who has completed the work of
demoralization you began? And what is your daughter to-day? Her
extravagance has made her notorious even among the shameless women who
pretend to be leaders of society. She is scarcely twenty-two, and there
is not a single prejudice left for her to brave! Her husband is the
companion of actresses and courtesans; her own companions are no
better--and in less than two years the million of francs which
I bestowed on her as a dowry has been squandered, recklessly
squandered--for there isn’t a penny of it left. And, at this very hour,
my daughter and my son-in-law are plotting to extort money from me. On
the day before yesterday--listen carefully to this--my son-in-law came
to ask me for a hundred thousand francs, and when I refused them, he
threatened if I did not give them to him that he would publish some
letters written by my daughter--by his wife--to some low scoundrel.
I was horrified and gave him what he asked. But that same evening I
learned that the husband and wife, my daughter and my son-in-law, had
concocted this vile conspiracy together. Yes, I have positive proofs
of it. Leaving here, and not wishing to return home that day, he
telegraphed the good news to his wife. But in his delight he made a
mistake in the address, and the telegram was brought here. I opened it,
and read: ‘Papa has fallen into the trap, my darling. I beat my drum,
and he surrendered at once.’ Yes, that is what he dared to write, and
sign with his own name, and then send to his wife--my daughter!”

Pascal was absolutely terrified. He wondered if he were not the victim
of some absurd nightmare--if his senses were not playing him false.
He had little conception of the terrible dramas which are constantly
enacted in these superb mansions, so admired and envied by the passing
crowd. He thought that the baroness would be crushed--that she would
fall on her knees before her husband. What a mistake! The tone of
her voice told him that, instead of yielding, she was only bent on
retaliation.

“Does your son-in-law do anything worse than you?” she exclaimed. “How
dare you censure him--you who drag your name through all the gambling
dens of Europe?”

“Wretch!” interrupted the baron, “wretch!” But quickly mastering
himself, he remarked: “Yes, it’s true that I gamble. People say, ‘That
great Baron Trigault is never without cards in his hands!’ But you know
very well that I really hold gambling in horror--that I loathe it. But
when I play, I sometimes forget--for I must forget. I tried drink, but
it wouldn’t drown thought, so I had recourse to cards; and when the
stakes are large, and my fortune is imperilled, I sometimes lose
consciousness of my misery!”

The baroness gave vent to a cold, sneering laugh, and, in a tone of
mocking commiseration, she said: “Poor baron! It is no doubt in the hope
of forgetting your sorrows that you spend all your time--when you are
not gambling--with a woman named Lia d’Argeles. She’s rather pretty. I
have seen her several times in the Bois----”

“Be silent!” exclaimed the baron, “be silent! Don’t insult an
unfortunate woman who is a thousand times better than yourself.” And,
feeling that he could endure no more--that he could no longer restrain
his passion, he cried: “Out of my sight! Go! or I sha’n’t be responsible
for my acts!”

Pascal heard a chair move, the floor creak, and a moment afterward a
lady passed quickly through the smoking-room. How was it that she did
not perceive him? No doubt, because she was greatly agitated, in spite
of her bravado. And, besides, he was standing a little back in the
shade. But he saw her, and his brain reeled. “Good Lord! what a
likeness!” he murmured.

III.

It was as if he had seen an apparition, and he was vainly striving to
drive away a terrible, mysterious fear, when a heavy footfall made
the floor of the dining-room creak anew. The noise restored him to
consciousness of his position. “It is the baron!” he thought; “he is
coming this way! If he finds me here I am lost; he will never consent to
help me. A man would never forgive another man for hearing what I have
just heard.”

Why should he not try to make his escape? The card, bearing the name
of Maumejan, would be no proof of his visit. He could see the baron
somewhere else some other day--elsewhere than at his own house, so that
he need not fear the recognition of the servants. These thoughts flashed
through his mind, and he was about to fly, when a harsh cry held him
spell-bound. Baron Trigault was standing on the threshold. His emotion,
as is almost always the case with corpulent people, was evinced by a
frightful distortion of his features. His face was transformed, his
lips had become perfectly white, and his eyes seemed to be starting from
their sockets. “How came you here?” he asked, in a husky voice.

“Your servants ushered me into this room.”

“Who are you?”

“What! monsieur, don’t you recognize me?” rejoined Pascal, who in his
agitation forgot that the baron had seen him only twice before. He
forgot the absence of his beard, his almost ragged clothing, and all the
precautions he had taken to render recognition impossible.

“I have never met any person named Maumejan,” said the baron.

“Ah! monsieur, that’s not my name. Have you forgotten the innocent man
who was caught in that infamous snare set for him by the Viscount de
Coralth?”

“Yes, yes,” replied the baron, “I remember you now.” And then
recollecting the terrible scene that had just taken place in the
adjoining room: “How long have you been here?” he asked.

Should Pascal tell a falsehood, or confess the truth? He hesitated, but
his hesitation lasted scarcely the tenth part of a second. “I have been
here about half an hour,” he replied.

The baron’s livid cheeks suddenly became purple, his eyes glittered, and
it seemed by his threatening gesture as if he were strongly tempted to
murder this man, who had discovered the terrible, disgraceful secrets
of his domestic life. But it was a mere flash of energy. The terrible
ordeal which he had just passed through had exhausted him mentally and
physically, and it was in a faltering voice that he resumed: “Then you
have not lost a word--a word of what was said in the other room?”

“Not a word.”

The baron sank on to the divan. “So the knowledge of my disgrace is
no longer confined to myself!” he exclaimed. “A stranger’s eye has
penetrated the depths of misery I have fallen into! The secret of my
wretchedness and shame is mine no longer!”

“Oh, monsieur, monsieur!” interrupted Pascal. “Before I recross the
threshold of your home, all shall have been forgotten. I swear it by all
that is most sacred!”

He had raised his hand as if to take a solemn oath, when the baron
caught hold of it, and, pressing it with sorrowful gratitude, exclaimed:
“I believe you! You are a man of honor--I only needed to see your home
to be convinced of that. You will not laugh at my misfortunes or my
misery!” He must have been suffering frightfully, for big tears rolled
slowly down his cheeks. “What have I done, my God! that I should be
so cruelly punished?” he continued. “I have always been generous and
charitable, and ready to help all who applied to me. I am utterly alone!
I have a wife and a daughter--but they hate me. They long for my death,
which would give them possession of my wealth. What torture! For months
together I dared not eat a morsel of food, either in my own house, or
in the house of my son-in-law. I feared poison; and I never partook of a
dish until I had seen my daughter or my wife do so. To prevent a crime,
I was obliged to resort to the strangest expedients. I made a will, and
left my property in such a way that if I die, my family will not receive
one penny. So, they now have an interest in prolonging my life.” As he
spoke he sprang up with an almost frenzied air, and, seizing Pascal by
the arm, again continued. “Nor is this all! This woman--my wife--you
know--you have heard the extent of her shame and degradation. Ah, well!
I--love her!”

Pascal recoiled with an exclamation of mingled horror and consternation.

“This amazes you, eh?” rejoined the baron. “It is indeed
incomprehensible, monstrous--but it is the truth. It is to gratify her
desire for luxury that I have toiled to amass millions. If I purchased
a title, which is absurd and ridiculous, it was only because I wished
to satisfy her vanity. Do what she may, I can only see in her the chaste
and beautiful wife of our early married life. It is cowardly, absurd,
ridiculous--I realize it; but my love is stronger than my reason or my
will. I love her madly, passionately; I cannot tear her from my heart!”

So speaking, he sank sobbing on to the divan again. Was this, indeed,
the frivolous and jovial Baron Trigault whom Pascal had seen at Madame
d’Argeles’s house--the man of self-satisfied mien and superb assurance,
the good-natured cynic, the frequenter of gambling-dens? Alas, yes! But
the baron whom the world knew was only a comedian; this was the real
man.

After a little while he succeeded in controlling his emotion, and in a
comparatively calm voice he exclaimed: “But it is useless to distract
one’s mind with an incurable evil. Let us speak of yourself, M.
Ferailleur. To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

“To your own kind offer, monsieur, and the hope that you will help me in
refuting this slander, and wreaking vengeance upon those who have ruined
me.”

“Oh! yes, I will help you in that to the full extent of my power,”
exclaimed the baron. But experience reminded him that confidential
disclosures ought not to be made with the doors open, so he rose, shut
them, and returning to Pascal, said: “Explain in what way I can be of
service to you, monsieur.”

It was not without many misgivings that Pascal had presented himself
at the baron’s house, but after what he had heard he felt no further
hesitation; he could speak with perfect freedom. “It is quite
unnecessary for me to tell you, Monsieur le Baron,” he began, “that the
cards which made me win were inserted in the pack by M. de Coralth--that
is proven beyond question, and whatever the consequences may be, I shall
have my revenge. But before striking him, I wish to reach the man whose
instrument he was.”

“What! you suppose----”

“I don’t suppose--I am sure that M. de Coralth acted in obedience to the
instructions of some other scoundrel whose courage does not equal his
meanness.”

“Perhaps so! I think he would shrink from nothing in the way of
rascality. But who could have employed him in this vile work of
dishonoring an honest man?”

“The Marquis de Valorsay.”

On hearing this name, the baron bounded to his feet. “Impossible!” he
exclaimed; “absolutely impossible! M. de Valorsay is incapable of the
villainy you ascribe to him. What do I say?--he is even above suspicion.
I have known him for years, and I have never met a more loyal, more
honorable, or more courageous man. He is one of my few trusted friends;
we see each other almost every day. I am expecting a visit from him even
now.”

“Still it was he who incited M. de Coralth to do the deed.”

“But why? What could have been his object?”

“To win a young girl whom I love. She--loved me, and he saw that I
was an obstacle. He put me out of the way more surely than if he had
murdered me. If I died, she might mourn for me--dishonored, she would
spurn me----”

“Is Valorsay so madly in love with the girl, then?”

“I think he cares but very little for her.”

“Then why----”

“She is the heiress of several millions.”

It was evident that this explanation did not shake Baron Trigault’s
faith in his friend. “But the marquis has an income of a hundred
and fifty or two hundred thousand francs,” said he; “that is an
all-sufficient justification. With his fortune and his name, he is in a
position to choose his wife from among all the heiresses of France. Why
should he address his attentions in particular to the woman you love?
Ah! if he were poor--if his fortune were impaired--if he felt the need
of regilding his escutcheon, like my son-in-law----”

He paused; there was a rap at the door. The baron called out: “Come
in,” and a valet appeared, and informed his master that the Marquis de
Valorsay wished to speak with him.

It was the enemy! Pascal’s features were distorted with rage; but he did
not stir--he did not utter a word. “Ask the marquis into the next room,”
said the baron. “I will join him there at once.” Then as the servant
retired, the baron turned to Pascal and said: “Well, M. Ferailleur, do
you divine my intentions?”

“I think so, monsieur. You probably intend me to hear the conversation
you are going to have with M. de Valorsay.”

“Exactly. I shall leave the door open, and you can listen.”

This word, “listen,” was uttered without bitterness, or even reproach;
and yet Pascal could not help blushing and hanging his head. “I wish to
prove to you that your suspicions are without foundation,” pursued
the baron. “Rest assured that I shall prove this conclusively. I will
conduct the conversation in the form of a cross-examination, and after
the marquis’s departure, you will be obliged to confess that you were
wrong.”

“Or you, that I am right?”

“So be it. Any one is liable to be mistaken, and I am not obstinate.”

He was about to leave the room, when Pascal detained him. “I scarcely
know how to testify my gratitude even now, monsieur, and yet--if I
dared--if I did not fear to abuse your kindness, I should ask one more
favor.”

“Speak, Monsieur Ferailleur.”

“It is this, I do not know the Marquis de Valorsay; and if, instead of
leaving the door wide open, you would partially close it, I should hear
as distinctly, and I could also see him.”

“Agreed,” replied the baron. And, opening the door, he passed into the
dining-room, with his right hand cordially extended, and saying, in his
most genial tones: “Excuse me, my dear friend, for keeping you waiting.
I received your letter this morning, and I was expecting you, but some
unexpected business required my attention just now. Are you quite well?”

As the baron entered the room, the marquis had stepped quickly forward
to meet him. Either he was inspired with fresh hope, or else he
had wonderful powers of self-control, for never had he looked more
calm--never had his face evinced haughtier indifference, more complete
satisfaction with himself, and greater contempt for others. He was
dressed with even more than usual care, and in perfect taste as well;
moreover, his valet had surpassed himself in dressing his hair--for one
would have sworn that his locks were still luxuriant. If he experienced
any secret anxiety, it only showed itself in a slightly increased
stiffness of his right leg--the limb broken in hunting. “I ought rather
to inquire concerning your own health,” he remarked. “You seem greatly
disturbed; your cravat is untied.” And, pointing to the broken china
scattered about the floor, he added: “On seeing this, I asked myself if
an accident had not happened.”

“The baroness was taken suddenly ill at the breakfast table. Her
fainting fit startled me a little. But it was a mere trifle. She has
quite recovered already, and you may rely upon her applauding your
victory at Vincennes to-day. She has I don’t know how many hundred louis
staked upon your horses.”

The marquis’s countenance assumed an expression of cordial regret. “I am
very sorry, upon my word!” he exclaimed. “But I sha’n’t take part in the
races at Vincennes. I have withdrawn my horses. And, in future, I shall
have nothing to do with racing.”

“Nonsense!”

“It is the truth, however. I have been led to this determination by the
infamous slander which has been circulated respecting me.”

This answer was a mere trifle, but it somewhat shook Baron Trigault’s
confidence. “You have been slandered!” he muttered.

“Abominably. Last Sunday the best horse in my stables, Domingo, came in
third. He was the favorite in the ring. You can understand the rest. I
have been accused of manoeuvering to have my own horse beaten. People
have declared that it was my interest he should be beaten, and that I
had an understanding with my jockey to that effect. This is an every-day
occurrence, I know very well; but, as regards myself, it is none the
less an infamous lie!”

“Who has dared to circulate such a report?”

“Oh, how can I tell? It is a fact, however, that the story has been
circulated everywhere, but in such a cautious manner that there is no
way of calling the authors to account. They have even gone so far as to
say that this piece of knavery brought me in an enormous sum, and that I
used Rochecotte’s, Kervaulieu’s, and Coralth’s names in betting against
my own horse.”

The baron’s agitation was so great that M. de Valorsay observed it,
though he did not understand the cause. Living in the same society with
the Baroness Trigault, and knowing her story, he thought that Coralth’s
name might, perhaps, have irritated the baron. “And so,” he quickly
continued, “don’t be surprised if, during the coming week, you see the
sale of my horses announced.”

“What! you are going to sell----”

“All my horses--yes, baron. I have nineteen; and it will be very strange
if I don’t get eight or ten thousand louis for the lot. Domingo alone is
worth more than forty thousand francs.”

To talk of selling--of realizing something you possess--rings ominously
in people’s ears. The person who talks of selling proclaims his need
of money--and often his approaching ruin. “It will save you at least a
hundred and fifty or sixty thousand francs a year,” observed the baron.

“Double it and you won’t come up to the mark. Ah! my dear baron, you
have yet to learn that there is nothing so ruinous as a racing stable.
It’s worse than gambling; and women, in comparison, are a real economy.
Ninette costs me less than Domingo, with his jockey, his trainer, and
his grooms. My manager declares that the twenty-three thousand francs I
won last year, cost me at least fifty thousand.”

Was he boasting, or was he speaking the truth? The baron was engaged in
a rapid calculation. “What does Valorsay spend a year?” he was saying
to himself. “Let us say two hundred and fifty thousand francs for his
stable; forty thousand francs for Ninette Simplon; eighty thousand
for his household expenses, and at least thirty thousand for personal
matters, travelling, and play. All this amounts to something like four
hundred and thirty thousand francs a year. Does his income equal that
sum? Certainly not. Then he must have been living on the principal--he
is ruined.”

Meanwhile the marquis gayly continued: “You see, I’m going to make a
change in my mode of life. Ah! it surprises you! But one must make an
end of it, sooner or later. I begin to find a bachelor life not so very
pleasant after all; there is rheumatism in prospect, and my digestion is
becoming impaired--in short, I feel that it is time for marriage, baron;
and--I am about to marry.”

“You!”

“Yes, I. What, haven’t you heard of it, yet? It has been talked of at
the club for three days or more.”

“No, this is the first intimation I have received of it. It is true,
however, that I have not been to the club for three days. I have made a
wager with Kami-Bey, you know--that rich Turk--and as our sittings are
eight or ten hours long, we play in his apartments at the Grand Hotel.
And so you are to be married,” the baron continued, after a slight
pause. “Ah, well! I know one person who won’t be pleased.”

“Who, pray?”

“Ninette Simplon.”

M. de Valorsay laughed heartily. “As if that would make any difference
to me!” he exclaimed. And then in a most confidential manner he resumed:
“She will soon be consoled. Ninette Simplon is a shrewd girl--a girl
whom I have always suspected of having an account book in place of a
heart. I know she has at least three hundred thousand francs safely
invested; her furniture and diamonds are worth as much more. Why should
she regret me? Add to this that I have promised her fifty thousand
francs to dry her tears with on my wedding-day, and you will understand
that she really longs to see me married.”

“I understand,” replied the baron; “Ninette Simplon won’t trouble you.
But I can’t understand why you should talk of economy on the eve of a
marriage which will no doubt double your fortune; for I’m sure you won’t
surrender your liberty without good and substantial reasons.”

“You are mistaken.”

“How mistaken?”

“Well, I won’t hesitate to confess to you, my dear baron, that the girl
I am about to marry hasn’t a penny of her own. My future wife has no
dowry save her black eyes--but they are certainly superb ones.”

This assertion seemed to disprove Pascal’s statements. “Can it really be
you who are talking in this strain?” cried the baron. “You, a practical,
worldly man, give way to such a burst of sentiment?”

“Well, yes.”

The baron opened his eyes in astonishment. “Ah! then you adore your
future bride!”

“Adore only feebly expresses my feelings.”

“I must be dreaming.”

Valorsay shrugged his shoulders with the air of a man who has made up
his mind to accept the banter of his friends; and in a tone of mingled
sentimentality and irony, he said: “I know that it’s absurd, and that
I shall be the laughing-stock of my acquaintances. Still it doesn’t
matter; I have never been coward enough to hide my feelings. I’m in
love, my dear baron, as madly in love as a young collegian--sufficiently
in love to watch my lady’s house at night even when I have no possible
hope of seeing her. I thought myself blase, I boasted of being
invulnerable. Well, one fine morning I woke up with the heart of a youth
of twenty beating in my breast--a heart which trembled at the slightest
glance from the girl I love, and sent purple flushes to my face.
Naturally I tried to reason with myself. I was ashamed of my weakness;
but the more clearly I showed myself my folly, the more obstinate my
heart became. And perhaps my folly is not such a great one after all.
Such perfect beauty united with such modesty, grace, and nobility
of soul, such passion, candor and talent, cannot be met twice in a
lifetime. I intend to leave Paris. We shall first of all go to Italy,
my wife and I. After a while we shall return and install ourselves at
Valorsay, like two turtle-doves. Upon my word, my imagination paints a
charming picture of the calm and happy life we shall lead there! I don’t
deserve such good fortune. I must have been born under a lucky star!”

Had he been less engrossed in his narrative, he would have heard the
sound of a stifled oath in the adjoining room; and had he been less
absorbed in the part he was playing, he would have observed a cloud on
his companion’s brow. The baron was a keen observer, and he had detected
a false ring in this apparently vehement outburst of passion. “I
understand it now, my dear marquis,” said he; “you have met the
descendant of some illustrious but impoverished family.”

“You are wrong. My future bride has no other name than her Christian
name of Marguerite.”

“It is a regular romance then!”

“You are quite right; it is a romance. Were you acquainted with the
Count de Chalusse, who died a few days ago?”

“No; but I have often heard him spoken of.”

“Well, it is his daughter whom I am about to marry--his illegitimate
daughter.”

The baron started. “Excuse me,” said he; “M. de Chalusse was immensely
rich, and he was a bachelor. How does it happen then that his daughter,
even though she be his illegitimate child, should find herself
penniless?”

“A mere chance--a fatality. M. de Chalusse died very suddenly; he had no
time to make a will or to acknowledge his daughter.”

“But why had he not taken some precautions?”

“A formal recognition of his daughter was attended by too many
difficulties, and even dangers. Mademoiselle Marguerite had been
abandoned by her mother when only five or six months old; it is only a
few years since M. de Chalusse, after a thousand vain attempts, at last
succeeded in finding her.”

It was no longer on Pascal’s account, but on his own, that Baron
Trigault listened with breathless attention. “How very strange,” he
exclaimed, in default of something better to say. “How very strange!”

“Isn’t it? It is as good as a novel.”

“Would it be--indiscreet----”

“To inquire? Certainly not. The count told me the whole story, without
entering into particulars--you understand. When he was quite young, M.
de Chalusse became enamoured of a charming young lady, whose husband had
gone to tempt fortune in America. Being an honest woman, she resisted
the count’s advances for awhile--a very little while; but in less than
a year after her husband’s departure, she gave birth to a pretty little
daughter, Mademoiselle Marguerite. But then why had the husband gone to
America?”

“Yes,” faltered the baron; “why--why, indeed?”

“Everything was progressing finely, when M. de Chalusse was in his turn
obliged to start for Germany, having been informed that a sister of his,
who had fled from the paternal roof with nobody knows who, had been seen
there. He had been absent some four months or so, when one morning the
post brought him a letter from his pretty mistress, who wrote: ‘We are
lost! My husband is at Marseilles: he will be here to-morrow. Never
attempt to see me again. Fear everything from him. Farewell.’ On
receiving this letter, M. de Chalusse flung himself into a postchaise,
and returned to Paris. He was determined, absolutely determined, to
have his daughter. But he arrived too late. On hearing of her husband’s
return, the young wife had lost her head. She had but one thought--to
conceal her fault, at any cost; and one night, being completely
disguised, she left her child on a doorstep in the vicinity of the
central markets----”

The marquis suddenly paused in his story to exclaim: “Why, what is the
matter with you, my dear baron? What is the matter? Are you ill? Shall I
ring?”

The baron was as pale as if the last drop of blood had been drawn from
his veins, and there were dark purple circles about his eyes. Still,
on being questioned, he managed to answer in a choked voice, but not
without a terrible effort: “Nothing! It is nothing. A mere trifle! It
will be over in a moment. It IS over!” Still his limbs trembled so
much that he could not stand, and he sank on to a chair, murmuring: “I
entreat you, marquis--continue. It is very interesting--very interesting
indeed.”

M. de Valorsay resumed his narrative. “The husband was incontestably an
artless fellow: but he was also, it appears, a man of remarkable energy
and determination. Having somehow ascertained that his wife had given
birth to a child in his absence, he moved heaven and earth not only to
discover the child, but its father also. He had sworn to kill them both;
and he was a man to keep his vow unmoved by a thought of the guillotine.
And if you require a proof of his strength of character, here it is:
He said nothing to his wife on the subject, he did not utter a single
reproach; he treated her exactly as he had done before his absence.
But he watched her, or employed others to watch her, both day and night,
convinced that she would finally commit some act of imprudence which
would give him the clue he wanted. Fortunately, she was very shrewd. She
soon discovered that her husband knew everything, and she warned M. de
Chalusse, thus saving his life.”

It is not at all remarkable that the Marquis de Valorsay should have
failed to see any connection between his narrative and the baron’s
agitation. What possible connection could there be between opulent Baron
Trigault and the poor devil who went to seek his fortune in America?
What imaginable connection could there be between the confirmed gambler,
who was Kami-Bey’s companion, Lia d’Argeles’s friend, and the husband
who for ten long years had pursued the man who, by seducing his wife,
had robbed him of all the happiness of life? Another point that would
have dispelled any suspicions on the marquis’s part was that he had
found the baron greatly agitated on arriving, and that he now seemed to
be gradually regaining his composure. So he continued his story in his
customary light, mocking tone. It is the perfection of good taste and
high breeding--“proper form,” indeed, not to be astonished or moved
by anything, in fact to sneer at everything, and hold one’s self quite
above the emotions which disturb the minds of plebeians.

Thus the marquis continued: “I am necessarily compelled to omit many
particulars, my dear baron. The count was not very explicit when he
reached this part of his story; but, in spite of his reticence, I
learned that he had been tricked in his turn, that certain papers had
been stolen from him, and that he had been defrauded in many ways by his
inamorata. I also know that M. de Chalusse’s whole life was haunted by
the thought of the husband he had wronged. He felt a presentiment that
he would die by this man’s hand. He saw danger on every side. If he went
out alone in the evening, which was an exceedingly rare occurrence, he
turned the street corners with infinite caution; it seemed to him that
he could always see the gleam of a poniard or a pistol in the shade.
I should never have believed in this constant terror on the part of a
really brave man, if he had not confessed it to me with his own lips.
Ten or twelve years passed before he dared to make the slightest
attempt to find his daughter, so much did he fear to arouse his enemy’s
attention. It was not until he had discovered that the husband had
become discouraged and had discontinued his search, that the count began
his. It was a long and arduous one, but at last it succeeded, thanks to
the assistance of a clever scoundrel named Fortunat.”

The baron with difficulty repressed a movement of eager curiosity, and
remarked: “What a peculiar name!”

“And his first name is Isidore. Ah! he’s a smooth-tongued scoundrel, a
rascal of the most dangerous kind, who richly deserves to be in jail.
How it is that he is allowed to prosecute his dishonorable calling I
can’t understand; but it is none the less true that he does follow it,
and without the slightest attempt at concealment, at an office he has on
the Place de la Bourse.”

This name and address were engraved upon the baron’s memory, never to be
effaced.

“However,” resumed M. de Valorsay, “the poor count was fated to have no
peace. The husband had scarcely ceased to torment him, he had scarcely
begun to breathe freely, when the wife attacked him in her turn. She
must have been one of those vile and despicable women who make a man
hate the entire sex. Pretending that the count had turned her from
the path of duty, and destroyed her life and happiness, she lost no
opportunity of tormenting him. She would not allow M. de Chalusse to
keep the child with him, nor would she consent to his adopting the girl.
She declared it an act of imprudence, which would surely set her husband
upon the track, sooner or later. And when the count announced his
intention of legally adopting the child, in spite of her protests, she
declared that, rather than allow it, she would confess everything to her
husband.”

“The count was a patient man,” sneered the baron.

“Not so patient as you may suppose. His submission was due to some
secret cause which he never confided to me. There must have been
some great crime under all this. In any case, the poor count found it
impossible to escape this terrible woman. He took refuge at Cannes; but
she followed him. He travelled through Italy, for I don’t know how many
months under an assumed name, but all in vain. He was at last compelled
to conceal his daughter in some provincial convent. During the last few
months of his life he obtained peace--that is to say, he bought it. This
lady’s husband must either be very poor or exceedingly stingy; and as
she was exceedingly fond of luxury, M. de Chalusse effected a compromise
by giving her a large sum monthly, and also by paying her dress-maker’s
bills.”

The baron sprang to his feet with a passionate exclamation. “The vile
wretch!” he said.

But he quickly reseated himself, and the exclamation astonished M. de
Valorsay so little that he quietly concluded by saying: “And this is
the reason, baron, why my beloved Marguerite, the future Marquise de
Valorsay, has no dowry.”

The baron cast a look of positive anguish at the door of the
smoking-room. He had heard a slight movement there; and he trembled with
fear lest Pascal, maddened with anger and jealousy, should rush in and
throw himself upon the marquis. Plainly enough, this perilous situation
could not last much longer. The baron’s own powers of self-control and
dissimulation were almost exhausted, and so postponing until another
time the many questions he still wished to ask M. de Valorsay, he
made haste to check these confidential disclosures. “Upon my word,”
he exclaimed, with a forced laugh, “I was expecting something quite
different. This affair begins like a genuine romance, and ends, as
everything ends nowadays, in money!”

IV.

As a millionaire and a gambler, Baron Trigault enjoyed all sorts of
privileges. He assumed the right to be brutal, ill-bred, cynical and
bold; to be one of those persons who declare that folks must take them
as they find them. But his rudeness now was so thoroughly offensive
that under any other circumstances the marquis would have resented it.
However, he had special reasons for preserving his temper, so he decided
to laugh.

“Yes, these stories always end in the same way, baron,” said he. “You
haven’t touched a card this morning, and I know your hands are itching.
Excuse me for making you waste precious time, as you say; but what you
have just heard was only a necessary preface.”

“Only a preface?”

“Yes; but don’t be discouraged. I have arrived at the object of my visit
now.”

As Baron Trigault was supposed to enjoy an income of at least eight
hundred thousand francs a year, he received in the course of a
twelvemonth at least a million applications for money or help, and for
this reason he had not an equal for detecting a coming appeal. “Good
heavens!” he thought, “Valorsay is going to ask me for money.” In fact,
he felt certain that the marquis’s pretended carelessness concealed real
embarrassment, and that it was difficult for him to find the words he
wanted.

“So I am about to marry,” M. de Valorsay resumed--“I wish to break off
my former life, to turn over a new leaf. And now the wedding gifts,
the two fetes that I propose giving, the repairs at Valorsay, and the
honeymoon with my wife--all these things will cost a nice little sum.”

“A nice little sum, indeed!”

“Ah, well! as I’m not going to wed an heiress, I fear I shall run a
trifle short. The matter was worrying me a little, when I thought of
you. I said to myself: ‘The baron, who always has money at his disposal,
will no doubt let me have the use of five thousand louis for a year.’”

The baron’s eyes were fixed upon his companion’s face. “Zounds!” he
exclaimed in a half-grieved, half-petulant tone; “I haven’t the amount!”

It was not disappointment that showed itself on the marquis’s face; it
was absolute despair, quickly concealed.

But the baron had detected it; and he realized his applicant’s urgent
need. He felt certain that M. de Valorsay was financially ruined--and
yet, as it did not suit his plans to refuse, he hastily added: “When I
say I haven’t that amount, I mean that I haven’t got it on hand just at
this moment. But I shall have it within forty-eight hours; and if you
are at home at this time on the day after to-morrow, I will send you one
of my agents, who will arrange the matter with you.”

A moment before, the marquis had allowed his consternation to show
itself; but this time he knew how to conceal the joy that filled his
soul. So it was in the most indifferent manner, as if the affair were
one of trivial importance, that he thanked the baron for being so
obliging. Plainly enough, he now longed to make his escape, and indeed,
after rattling off a few commonplace remarks, he rose to his feet and
took his leave, exclaiming: “Till the day after to-morrow, then!”

The baron sank into an arm-chair, completely overcome. A martyr to a
passion that was stronger than reason itself, the victim of a fatal love
which he had not been able to drive from his heart, Baron Trigault had
passed many terrible hours, but never had he been so completely crushed
as at this moment when chance revealed the secret which he had vainly
pursued for years. The old wounds in his heart opened afresh, and his
sufferings were poignant beyond description. All his efforts to
save this woman whom he at once loved and hated from the depths of
degradation, had proved unavailing. “And she has extorted money from the
Count de Chalusse,” he thought; “she sold him the right to adopt their
own daughter.” And so strange are the workings of the human heart, that
this circumstance, trivial in comparison with many others, drove the
unfortunate baron almost frantic with rage. What did it avail him that
he had become one of the richest men in Paris? He allowed his wife eight
thousand francs a month, almost one hundred thousand francs a year,
merely for her dresses and fancies. Not a quarter-day passed, but what
he paid her debts to a large amount, and in spite of all this, she had
sunk so low as to extort money from a man who had once loved her. “What
can she do with it all?” muttered the baron, overcome with sorrow and
indignation. “How can she succeed in spending the income of several
millions?”

A name, the name of Ferdinand de Coralth, rose to his lips; but he did
not pronounce it. He saw Pascal emerging from the smoking-room; and
though he had forgotten the young advocate’s very existence, his
appearance now restored him to a consciousness of reality. “Ah, well!
M. Ferailleur?” he said, like a man suddenly aroused from some terrible
nightmare. Pascal tried to make some reply, but he was unable to do
so--such a flood of incoherent thoughts was seething and foaming in
his brain. “Did you hear, M. de Valorsay?” continued the baron. “Now
we know, beyond the possibility of doubt, who Mademoiselle Marguerite’s
mother is. What is to be done? What would you do in my place?”

“Ah, monsieur! how can I tell?”

“Wouldn’t your first thought be of vengeance! It is mine. But upon whom
can I wreak my vengeance? Upon the Count de Chalusse? He is dead.
Upon my wife? Yes, I might do so; but I lack the courage--Mademoiselle
Marguerite remains.”

“But she is innocent, monsieur; she has never wronged you.”

The baron did not seem to hear this exclamation. “And to make
Mademoiselle Marguerite’s life one long misery,” said he, “I need only
favor her marriage with the marquis. Ah, he would make her cruelly
expiate the crime of her birth.”

“But you won’t do so!” cried Pascal, in a transport, “it would be
shameful; I won’t allow it. Never, I swear before high Heaven! never,
while I live, shall Valorsay marry Marguerite. He may perhaps vanquish
me in the coming struggle; he may lead her to the threshold of the
church, but there he will find me--armed--and I will have justice--human
justice in default of legal satisfaction. And, afterward, the law may
take its course!”

The baron looked at him with deep emotion. “Ah, you know what it is to
love!” he exclaimed; and in a hollow voice, he added: “and thus it was
that I loved Marguerite’s mother.”

The breakfast-table had not been cleared, and a large decanter of water
was still standing on it. The baron poured out two large glasses, which
he drained with feverish avidity, and then he began to walk aimlessly
about the room.

Pascal held his peace. It seemed to him that his own destiny was being
decided in this man’s mind, that his whole future depended upon the
determination he arrived at. A prisoner awaiting the verdict of the jury
could not have suffered more intense anxiety. At last, when a minute,
which seemed a century, had elapsed, the baron paused. “Now as before,
M. Ferailleur,” he said, roughly, “I’m for you and with you. Give me
your hand--that’s right. Honest people ought to protect and assist one
another when scoundrels assail them. We will reinstate you in public
esteem, monsieur. We will unmask Coralth, and we will crush Valorsay
if we find that he is really the instigator of the infamous plot that
ruined you.”

“What, monsieur! Can you doubt it after your conversation with him?”

The baron shook his head. “I’ve no doubt but what Valorsay is ruined
financially,” said he. “I am certain that my hundred thousand francs
will be lost forever if I lend them to him. I would be willing to swear
that he bet against his own horse and prevented the animal from winning,
as he is accused of doing.”

“You must see, then--”

“Excuse me--all this does NOT explain the great discrepancy between your
allegations and his story. You assure me that he cares nothing whatever
for Mademoiselle Marguerite; he pretends that he adores her.”

“Yes, monsieur, yes--the scoundrel dared to say so. Ah! if I had not
been deterred by a fear of losing my revenge!”

“I understand; but allow me to conclude. According to you, Mademoiselle
Marguerite possesses several millions. According to him, she hasn’t a
penny of her own. Which is right? I believe he is. His desire to borrow
a hundred thousand francs of me proves it; and, besides, he wouldn’t
have come this morning to tell me a falsehood, which would be discovered
to-morrow. Still, if he is telling the truth, it is impossible to
explain the foul conspiracy you have suffered by.”

This objection had previously presented itself to Pascal’s mind, and
he had found an explanation which seemed to him a plausible one. “M. de
Chalusse was not dead,” said he, “when M. de Coralth and M. de Valorsay
decided on this plan of ridding themselves of me. Consequently,
Mademoiselle Marguerite was still an heiress.”

“That’s true; but the very day after the commission of the crime, the
accomplices must have discovered that it could do them no good; so, why
have they still persisted in their scheme?”

Pascal tried to find a satisfactory answer, but failed.

“There must be some iniquitous mystery in this affair, which neither you
nor I suspect,” remarked the baron.

“That is exactly what my mother told me.”

“Ah! that’s Madame Ferailleur’s opinion? Then it is a good one. Come,
let us reason a little. Mademoiselle Marguerite loved you, you say?”

“Yes.”

“And she has suddenly broken off the engagement?”

“She wrote to me that the Count de Chalusse extorted from her a promise
on his death-bed, that she would marry the Marquis de Valorsay.”

The baron sprang to his feet. “Stop,” he cried--“stop! We now have a
clue to the truth, perhaps. Ah! so Mademoiselle Marguerite has written
to you that M. de Chalusse commanded her to marry the marquis! Then the
count must have been fully restored to consciousness before he breathed
his last. On the other hand, Valorsay pretends that Mademoiselle
Marguerite is left without resources, simply because the count died
too suddenly to be able to write or to sign a couple of lines. Can you
reconcile these two versions of the affair, M. Ferailleur? Certainly
not. Then which version is false? We must ascertain that point. When
shall you see Mademoiselle Marguerite again?”

“She has requested me NEVER to try to see her again.”

“Very well! She must be disobeyed. You must discover some way of seeing
her without anyone’s knowledge. She is undoubtedly watched, so don’t
write on any account.” He reflected for a moment, and then added: “We
shall, perhaps, become morally certain of Valorsay’s and Coralth’s
guilt, but there’s a wide difference between this and the establishment
of their guilt by material proofs. Two scoundrels who league to ruin an
honest man don’t sign a contract to that effect before a notary. Proofs!
Ah! where shall we find them? We must gain an intimate knowledge of
Valorsay’s private life. The best plan would be to find some man devoted
to our interests who would watch him, and insinuate himself into his
confidence.”

Pascal interrupted the baron with an eager gesture. Hope glittered in
his eyes. “Yes!” he exclaimed, “yes; it is necessary that M. de Valorsay
should be watched by a man of quick perception--a man clever enough
to make himself useful to the marquis, and capable of rendering him an
important service in case of need. I will be the man, monsieur, if you
will allow me. The thought occurred to me just now while I was listening
to you. You promised to send some one to Valorsay’s house with money.
I entreat you to allow me to take the place of the man you intended to
send. The marquis doesn’t know me, and I am sufficiently sure of myself
to promise you that I will not betray my identity. I will present myself
as your agent; he will give me his confidence. I shall take him money or
fair promises, I shall be well received, and I have a plan----”

He was interrupted by a rap at the door. The next moment a footman
entered, and informed his master that a messenger wished to speak to him
on urgent business. “Let him come in,” said the baron.

It was Job, Madame Lia d’Argeles’s confidential servant, who entered
the room. He bowed respectfully, and, with an air of profound mystery
exclaimed: “I have been looking for the baron everywhere. I was ordered
by madame not to return without him.”

“Very well,” said M. Trigault. “I will go with you at once.”

V.

How was it that a clever man like M. Fortunat made such a blunder as
to choose a Sunday, and a racing Sunday too, to call on M. Wilkie. His
anxiety might explain the mistake, but it did not justify it. He felt
certain, that under any other circumstances he would not have been
dismissed so cavalierly. He would at least have been allowed to develop
his proposals, and then who knows what might have happened?

But the races had interfered with his plans. M. Wilkie had been
compelled to attend to Pompier de Nanterre, that famous steeplechaser,
of which he owned one-third part, and he had, moreover, to give orders
to the jockey, whose lord and master he was to an equal extent. These
were sacred duties, since Wilkie’s share in a race-horse constituted
his only claim to a footing in fashionable society. But it was a strong
claim--a claim that justified the display of whips and spurs that
decorated his apartments in the Rue du Helder, and allowed him to aspire
to the character of a sporting man. Wilkie really imagined that folks
were waiting for him at Vincennes; and that the fete would not be
complete without his presence.

Still, when he presented himself inside the enclosure, a cigar in his
mouth, and his racing card dangling from his button-hole, he was obliged
to confess that his entrance did not create much of a sensation. An
astonishing bit of news had imparted unusual excitement to the ring.
People were eagerly discussing the Marquis de Valorsay’s sudden
determination to pay forfeit and withdraw his horses from the contest;
and the best informed declared that in the betting-rooms the evening
before he had openly announced his intention of selling his racing
stable. If the marquis had hoped that by adopting this course he would
silence the suspicions which had been aroused, he was doomed to grievous
disappointment. The rumor that he had secretly bet against his own
horse, Domingo, on the previous Sunday, and that he had given orders not
to let the animal win the race, was steadily gaining credence.

Large sums had been staked on Domingo’s success. He had been the
favorite in the betting ring and the losers were by no means pleased.
Some declared that they had seen the jockey hold Domingo back; and they
insisted that it was necessary to make an example, and disqualify both
the marquis and his jockey. Still one weighty circumstance pleaded in
M. de Valorsay’s favor--his fortune, or, at least, the fortune he was
supposed to possess. “Why should such a rich man stoop to cheat?” asked
his defenders. “To put money into one’s pocket in this way is even worse
than to cheat at cards! Besides, it’s impossible! Valorsay is above such
contemptible charges. He is a perfect gentleman.”

“Perhaps so,” replied the skeptical bystanders. “But people said exactly
the same of Croisenois, of the Duc de H., and Baron P., who were finally
convicted of the same rascality that Valorsay is accused of.”

“It’s an infamous slander! If he had been inclined to cheat, he could
have easily diverted suspicion. He would have let Domingo come in
second, not third!”

“If he were not guilty, and afraid of detection, he wouldn’t pay forfeit
to-day nor sell his horses.”

“He only retires from the turf because he’s going to marry----”

“Nonsense! That’s no reason whatever.”

Like all gamblers, the frequenters of the turf are distrustful and
inclined to be quarrelsome. No one is above their suspicions when they
lose nor above their wrath when they are duped. And this Domingo affair
united all the losers against Valorsay; they formed a little battalion
of enemies who were no doubt powerless for the time being, but who were
ready to take a startling revenge whenever a good opportunity presented
itself. Naturally enough, M. Wilkie sided with the marquis, whom he had
heard his friend, M. de Coralth, speak of on several occasions. “Accuse
the dear marquis!” he exclaimed. “It’s contemptible, outrageous. Why,
only last evening he said to me, ‘My good friend, Domingo’s defeat cost
me two thousand louis!’” M. de Valorsay had said nothing of the kind,
for the very good reason that he did not even know Wilkie by sight;
still, no one paid much heed to the assertion, whereat Wilkie felt
vexed, and resolved to turn his attention to his jockey.

The latter was a lazy, worthless fellow, who had been dismissed from
every stable he had previously served in, and who swindled and robbed
the young gentlemen who employed him without either limit or shame.
Although he made them pay him a very high salary--something like eight
thousand francs a year--on the plea that it was most repugnant to his
feelings to act as a groom, trainer, and jockey at the same time, he
regularly every month presented them with fabulous bills from the grain
merchant, the veterinary surgeon, and the harness-maker. In addition, he
regularly sold Pompier’s oats in order to obtain liquor, and in fact the
poor animal was so nearly starved that he could scarcely stand on his
legs. The jockey ascribed the horse’s extreme thinness to a system of
rigorous training; and the owners did not question the statement in the
least. He had made them believe, and they in turn had made many others
believe, that Pompier de Nanterre would certainly win such and such a
race; and, trusting in this fallacious promise, they risked their money
on the poor animal--and lost it.

In point of fact, this jockey would have been the happiest mortal in the
world if such things as steeple-chases had never existed. In the first
place, he judged, with no little reason, that it was dangerous to leap
hurdles on such an animal as Pompier; and, secondly, nothing irritated
him so much as to be obliged to promenade with his three employers in
turn. But how could he refuse, since he knew that if these young men
hired him, it was chiefly, or only in view of, displaying themselves
in his company. It afforded them untold satisfaction to walk to and fro
along the course in front of the grand stand, with their jockey in his
orange jacket with green sleeves. They were firmly convinced that he
reflected enormous credit upon them, and their hearts swelled with joy
at the thought of the envy they no doubt inspired. This conviction gave
rise indeed to terrible quarrels, in which each of the three owners was
wont to accuse the others of monopolizing the jockey.

On this occasion, M. Wilkie--being fortunate enough to arrive the
first--immediately repaired to Pompier de Nanterre’s stall. Never had
circumstances been more favorable for a display of the animal’s speed.
The day was magnificent; the stands were crowded, and thousands of eager
spectators were pushing and jostling one another beyond the ropes which
limited the course. M. Wilkie seemed to be everywhere; he showed himself
in a dozen different places at once, always followed by his jockey, whom
he ordered about in a loud voice, with many excited gesticulations. And
how great his delight was when, as he passed through the crowd, he heard
people exclaim: “That gentleman has a racing stable. His horses are
going to compete!” What bliss thrilled his heart when he overheard the
admiring exclamation of some worthy shopkeeper who was greatly impressed
by the gay silk jacket and the top-boots!

But, unfortunately, this happiness could not last forever. His partners
arrived, and claimed the jockey in their turn. So M. Wilkie left the
course and strolled about among the carriages, until at last he found
an equipage which was occupied by the young ladies who had accepted
his invitation to supper the evening before, and who were now making a
profuse display of the very yellowest hair they possessed. This afforded
him another opportunity of attracting public attention, and to giving
proofs of his “form,” for he had not filled the box of his carriage with
champagne for nothing. At last the decisive moment came, and he made
himself conspicuous by shouting. “Now! Now! Here he is! Look! Bravo,
Pompier! One hundred on Pompier!”

But, alas! poor Pompier de Nanterre fell exhausted before half the
distance was accomplished; and that evening Wilkie described his defeat,
with a profusion of technical terms that inspired the uninitiated with
the deepest awe. “What a disaster, my friends,” he exclaimed. “Pompier
de Nanterre, an incomparable steeplechaser, to break down in such a
fashion! And beaten by whom? My Mustapha, an outsider, without any
record whatever! The ring was intensely excited--and I was simply
crazed.”

However, his defeat did not affect him very deeply. It was forgotten at
thought of the inheritance which his friend Coralth had spoken to him
about. And to-morrow M. de Coralth would tell him the secret. He had
only twenty hours longer to wait! “To-morrow! to-morrow!” he said to
himself again and again, with a thrill of mingled joy and impatience.
And what bright visions of future glory haunted him! He saw himself the
possessor of a magnificent stud, of sufficient wealth to gratify every
fancy; he would splash mud upon all the passers-by, and especially upon
his former acquaintances, as he dashed past them in his superb equipage;
the best tailor should invent astonishing garments for him; he would
make himself conspicuous at all the first performances in a stage-box,
with the most notorious women in Paris; his fetes would be described in
the papers; he would be the continual subject of comment; he would be
credited with splendid, perfect “form.”

It is true that M. de Coralth had promised him all this, without a word
of explanation; but what did that matter? Should he doubt his friend’s
word? Never! The viscount was not merely his model, but his oracle as
well. By the way in which he spoke of him, it might have been supposed
that they had been friends from their childhood, or, at least, that they
had known each other for years. Such was not the case, however. Their
acquaintance dated only seven or eight months back, and their first
meeting had apparently been the result of chance; though it is needless
to say, perhaps, that this chance had been carefully prepared by M. de
Coralth. Having discovered Madame Lia d’Argeles’s secret, the viscount
watched Wilkie, ascertained where he spent his evenings, contrived a way
of introducing himself into his society, and on their third meeting was
skilful enough to render him a service--in other words, to lend him
some money. From that moment the conquest was assured; for M. de Coralth
possessed in an eminent degree all the attributes that were likely to
dazzle and charm the gifted owner of Pompier de Nanterre. First of
all, there was his title, then his impudent assurance and his apparent
wealth, and last, but by no means least, his numerous and fashionable
acquaintances. He was not long in discovering his advantage, and in
profiting by it. And without giving M. Wilkie an inkling of the truth,
he succeeded in obtaining from him as accurate a knowledge of his past
career as the young fellow himself possessed.

M. Wilkie did not know much concerning his origin or his early life; and
his history, so far as he was acquainted with it, could be told in a
few words. His earliest recollection was of the ocean. He was sure,
perfectly sure, that he had made a very long sea voyage when only a
little child, and he looked upon America as his birthplace. The French
language was certainly not the first he had learned, for he still
remembered a limited number of English phrases. The English word
“father” was among those that lingered in his memory; and now, after
a lapse of twenty years, he pronounced it without the least foreign
accent. But while he remembered the word perfectly well, no recollection
remained to him of the person he had called by that name. His first
sensations were those of hunger, weariness, and cold. He recollected,
and very distinctly too, how on one long winter night, a woman had
dragged him after her through the streets of Paris, in an icy rain. He
could still see himself as he wandered on, crying with weariness, and
begging for something to eat. And then the poor woman who held him by
the hand lifted him in her arms and carried him on--on, until her own
strength failed, and she was obliged to set him on the ground again. A
vague portrait of this woman, who was most probably his mother, still
lingered in his memory. According to his description, she was extremely
handsome, tall, and very fair. He had been particularly impressed with
the pale tint and profusion of her beautiful hair.

Their poverty had not lasted long. He remembered being installed with
his mother in a very handsome suite of rooms. A man, who was still
young, and whom he called “Monsieur Jacques,” came every day, and
brought him sweetmeats and playthings. He thought he must have been
about four years old at that time. However, he had enjoyed this
comfortable state of things scarcely a month, when one morning a
stranger presented himself. The visitor held a long conference with his
mother, or, at least, with the person whom he called by that name. He
did not understand what they were talking about, but he was none the
less very uneasy. The result of the interview must have justified his
instinctive fear, for his mother took him on her lap, and embraced him
with convulsive tenderness. She sobbed violently, and repeated again
and again in a faltering voice: “Poor child! my beloved Wilkie! I
shall never kiss you again--never, never! ‘Alas! It must be so! Give me
courage, my God!”

Those were the exact words; Wilkie was sure on that point. It seemed to
him he could still hear that despairing farewell. For it was indeed a
farewell. The stranger took him in his arms and carried him away, in
spite of his cries and struggles to escape. This person to whose care he
was confined was the master of a small boarding-school, and his wife
was the kindest and most patient of women. However, this did not prevent
Wilkie from crying and begging for his mother at first; but gradually he
forgot her. He was not unhappy, for he was petted and indulged more than
any of the other pupils, and he spent most of his time playing on the
terrace or wandering about the garden. But this charming life could not
last for ever. According to his calculation, he was just ten years
old when, one Sunday, toward the end of October, a grave-looking,
red-whiskered gentleman, clad in solemn black with a white necktie,
presented himself at the school, and declared that he had been
instructed by Wilkie’s relatives to place him in a college to continue
his education.

Young Wilkie’s lamentations were long and loud; but they did not prevent
M. Patterson--for that was the gentleman’s name--from taking him to the
college of Louis-the-Great, where he was entered as a boarder. As he
did not study, and as he was only endowed with a small amount of
intelligence, he learned scarcely anything during the years he remained
there. Every Sunday and every fete day, M. Patterson made his appearance
at ten o’clock precisely, took Wilkie for a walk in Paris or the
environs, gave him his breakfast and dinner at some of the best
restaurants, bought everything he expressed a desire to have, and at
nine o’clock precisely took him back to the college again. During the
holidays M. Patterson kept the boy with him, refusing him nothing in the
way of pleasure, granting all his wishes, but never losing sight of him
for a moment. And if Wilkie complained of this constant watchfulness,
M. Patterson always replied, “I must obey orders;” and this answer
invariably put an end to the discussion.

So things went on until it became time for Wilkie to take his degree.
He presented himself for examination; and, of course, he failed.
Fortunately, however, M. Patterson was not at a loss for an expedient.
He placed his charge in a private school; and the following year, at a
cost of five thousand francs, he beguiled a poor devil into running the
risk of three years’ imprisonment, by assuming M. Wilkie’s name, and
passing the examination in his place. In possession of the precious
diploma which opens the door of every career, M. Wilkie now hoped that
his pockets would be filled, and that he would then be set at liberty.
But the hope was vain! M. Patterson placed him in the hands of an old
tutor who had been engaged to travel with him through Europe; and as
this tutor held the purse-strings, Wilkie was obliged to follow him
through Germany, England, and Italy.

When he returned to Paris he was just twenty years old, and the very
next day M. Patterson conducted him to the suite of rooms which he
still occupied in the Rue du Helder. “You are now in your own home, M.
Wilkie,” said M. Patterson in his most impressive manner. “You are now
old enough to be responsible for your own actions, and I hope you will
conduct yourself like an honest man. From this moment you are your own
master. Those who gave you your education desire you to study law. If I
were in your place, I should obey them. If you wish to be somebody, and
to acquire a fortune, work, for you have no property, nor anything
to expect from any one. The allowance which is granted you, a far too
liberal one in my opinion, may be cut off at any moment. I don’t think
it right to conceal this fact from you. But at all events until then.
I am instructed to pay you five thousand francs quarterly. Here is the
amount for the first quarter, and in three months’ time I shall send you
a similar amount. I say ‘shall SEND,’ because my business compels me
to return to England, and take up my abode there. Here is my London
address; and if any serious trouble befalls you, write to me. Now, my
duty being fulfilled, farewell.”

“Go to the devil, you old preacher!” growled Wilkie, as he saw the door
close on the retreating figure of M. Patterson, who had acted as his
guardian for ten years. None of M. Patterson’s wise advice lingered
in the young fellow’s mind. To use a familiar expression, “It went in
through one ear and came out through the other.” Only two facts had made
an impression upon him: that he was to be his own master henceforth, and
that he had a fortune at his command. There it lay upon the table, five
thousand francs in glittering gold.

If M. Wilkie had taken the trouble to attentively examine the rooms
which had suddenly become his own, he would perhaps have recognized the
fact that a loving hand had prepared them for his reception. Countless
details revealed the delicate taste of a woman, and the thoughtful
tenderness of a mother. None of those little superfluities which delight
a young man had been forgotten. There was a box of choice cigars upon
the table, and a jar of tobacco on the mantel-shelf. But Wilkie did not
take time to discover this. He hastily slipped five hundred francs into
his pocket, locked the rest of his money in a drawer, and went out with
as lofty an air as if all Paris belonged to him, or as if he had enough
money to purchase it.

He had resolved to give a fete in honor of his deliverance, and so he
hurried off in search of some of his old college chums. He found two of
them; and, although it was very wounding to his self-love, M. Wilkie was
obliged to confess to them that this was his first taste of liberty,
and that he scarcely knew what to do with himself. Of course his friends
assured him that they could quickly make him acquainted with the only
life that it was worth while living; and, to prove it, they accepted
the invitation to dinner which he immediately offered them. It was a
remarkable repast. Other acquaintances dropped in, the wine flowed in
rivers; and after dinner they danced. And at day-break, having served
his apprenticeship at baccarat, M. Wilkie found himself without a penny
in his pocket, and face to face with a bill of four hundred francs, for
which amount he was obliged to go to his rooms, under the escort of one
of the waiters. This first experiment ought to have disgusted him, or at
least have made him reflect. But no. He felt quite in his element in the
society of dissipated young men and enamelled women. He swore that he
would win a place in their midst, and an influential place too. But
it was easier to form this plan than to carry it into execution, as he
discovered when, at the end of the month, he counted his money to see
what remained of the five thousand francs that had been given him for
his quarterly allowance. He had just three hundred francs left.

Twenty thousand francs a year is what one chooses to make it--wealth or
poverty. Twenty thousand francs a year represents about sixty francs a
day; but what are sixty francs to a high liver, who breakfasts and dines
at the best restaurants, whose clothes are designed by an illustrious
tailor, who declines to make a pair of trousers for less than a hundred
francs? What are three louis a day to a man who hires a box for first
performances at the opera, to a man who gambles and gives expensive
suppers, to a man who drives out with yellow-haired demoiselles, and
who owns a race-horse? Measuring his purse and his ambition, M. Wilkie
discovered that he should never succeed in making both ends meet. “How
do other people manage?” he wondered. A puzzling question! Every evening
a thousand gorgeously apparelled gentlemen, with a cigar in their mouth
and a flower in their button-hole, may be seen promenading between the
Chaussee d’Antin and the Faubourg Montmartre. Everybody knows them,
and they know everybody, but how they exist is a problem which it
is impossible to solve. How do they live, and what do they live on?
Everybody knows that they have no property; they do nothing, and yet
they are reckless in their expenditures, and rail at work and jeer at
economy. What source do they derive their money from? What vile business
are they engaged in?

However, M. Wilkie did not devote much time to solving this question.
“My relatives must wish me to starve,” he said to himself. “Not I--I’m
not that sort of a person, as I’ll soon let them know.” And thereupon
he wrote to M. Patterson. By return of post that gentleman sent him a
cheque for one thousand francs--a mere drop in the bucket. M. Wilkie
felt indignant and so he wrote again. This time he was obliged to wait
for a reply. Still at last it came. M. Patterson sent him two thousand
francs, and an interminable epistle full of reproaches. The interesting
young man threw the letter into the fire, and went out to hire a
carriage by the month and a servant.

From that day forward, his life was spent in demanding money and waiting
for it. He employed in quick succession every pretext that could soften
the hearts of obdurate relatives, or find the way to the most closely
guarded cash-box. He was ill--he had contracted a debt of honor--he had
imprudently lent money to an unscrupulous friend--he was about to be
arrested for debt. And in accordance with the favorable or unfavorable
character of the replies his manner became humble or impertinent, so
that his friends soon learned to judge very accurately of the condition
of his purse by the way he wore his mustaches. He became wise with
experience, however; and on adding all the sums he had received
together, he decided that his family must be very rich to allow him so
much money. And this thought made him anxious to fathom the mystery of
his birth and his infancy. He finally persuaded himself that he was the
son of a great English nobleman--a member of the House of Lords, who was
twenty times a millionaire. And he more than half believed it when he
told his creditors that his lordship, his father, would some day or
other come to Paris and pay all his debts. Unfortunately it was not
M. Wilkie’s noble father that arrived, but a letter from M. Patterson,
which was couched as follows:

“MY DEAR SIR, a considerable sum was placed in my hands to meet your
unexpected requirements; and in compliance with your repeated appeals,
I have remitted the entire amount to you. Not a penny remains in my
possession--so that my instructions have been fulfilled. Spare yourself
the trouble of making any fresh demands; they will meet with no reply.
In future you will not receive a penny above your allowance, which in my
opinion is already too large a one for a young man of your age.”

This letter proved a terrible blow to Wilkie. What should he do? He felt
that M. Patterson would not revoke his decision; and indeed he wrote him
several imploring letters, in vain. Yet never had his need of money been
so urgent. His creditors were becoming uneasy; bills actually rained in
upon his concierge; his next quarterly allowance was not due for some
time to come, and it was only through the pawnbroker that he could
obtain money for his more pressing requirements. He had begun to
consider himself ruined. He saw himself reduced to dismissing his
carriage, to selling his third share of Pompier de Nanterre and losing
the esteem of all his witty friends.

He was in the depths of despair, when one morning his servant woke
him up with the announcement that the Viscount de Coralth was in the
sitting-room and wished to speak with him on very important business. It
was not usually an easy task to entice M. Wilkie from his bed, but the
name his servant mentioned seemed to have a prodigious effect upon
him. He bounded on to the floor, and as he hastily dressed himself, he
muttered: “The viscount here, at this hour! It’s astonishing! What if
he’s going to fight a duel and wishes me to be his second? That would be
a piece of grand good luck and no mistake. It would assure my position
at once. Certainly something must have happened!”

This last remark was by no means a proof of any remarkable perspicuity
on M. Wilkie’s part. As M. de Coralth never went to bed until two or
three o’clock in the morning, he was by no means an early riser,
and only some very powerful reason could explain the presence of his
blue-lined brougham in the street before nine o’clock A.M. And the
influence that had made him rise betimes in the present case had indeed
been extremely powerful. Although the brilliant viscount had discovered
Madame d’Argeles’s secret, several months previously, he had so far
disclosed it to no one. It was certainly not from any delicacy of
feeling that he had held his peace; but only because it had not been for
his interest to speak. Now, however, the sudden death of the Count de
Chalusse changed the situation. He heard of the catastrophe at his club
on the evening after the count’s death, and his emotion was so great
that he actually declined to take part in a game of baccarat that was
just beginning. “The devil!” he exclaimed. “Let me think a moment.
Madame d’Argeles is the heiress of all these millions--will she come
forward and claim them? From what I know of her, I am inclined to think
that she won’t. Will she ever go to Wilkie and confess that she, Lia
d’Argeles, is a Chalusse, and that he is her illegitimate son? Never!
She would rather relinquish her millions, both for herself and for
him, than take such a step. She is so ridiculously antiquated in her
notions.” And then he began to study what advantages he might derive
from his knowledge of the situation.

M. de Coralth, like all persons whose present is more or less uncertain,
had great misgivings concerning his future. Just now he was cunning
enough to find a means of procuring the thirty or forty thousand francs
a year that were indispensable to his comfort; but he had not a farthing
laid by, and the vein of silver he was now working might fail him at any
moment. The slightest indiscretion, the least blunder, might hurl him
from his splendor into the mire. The perspiration started out on his
forehead when he thought of his peril. He passionately longed for a more
assured position--for a little capital that would insure him his bread
until the end of his days, and rid him of the grim phantom of poverty
forever. And it was this desire which inspired him with the same plan
that M. Fortunat had formed. “Why shouldn’t I inform Wilkie?” he said to
himself. “If I present him with a fortune, the simpleton ought certainly
to give me some reward.” But to carry this plan into execution it would
be necessary to brave Madame d’Argeles’s anger; and that was attended by
no little danger. If he knew something about her, she on her side knew
everything connected with his past life. She had only to speak to
ruin him forever. Still, after weighing all the advantages and all the
dangers, he decided to act, convinced that Madame d’Argeles might
be kept ignorant of his treason, providing he only played his cards
skilfully. And his matutinal visit to M. Wilkie was caused by a fear
that he might not be the only person knowing the truth, and that some
one else might forestall him.

“You here, at sunrise, my friend!” exclaimed Wilkie, as he entered the
room where the viscount was seated. “What has happened?”

“To me?--nothing,” replied the viscount. “It was solely on your account
that I deviated from my usual habits.”

“What is it? You frighten me.”

“Oh! don’t be alarmed. I have only some good news to communicate,” and
in a careless tone which cleverly concealed his anxiety, the viscount
added: “I have come, my dear Wilkie, to ask you what you would be
willing to give the man who put you in possession of a fortune of
several millions?”

M. Wilkie’s face turned from white to purple at least three times in ten
seconds; and it was in a strangely altered voice that he replied: “Ah!
that’s good--very good--excellent!” He tried his best to laugh, but
he was completely overcome; and, in fact, he had cherished so many
extravagant hopes that nothing seemed impossible to him.

“Never in all my life have I spoken more seriously,” insisted the
viscount.

His companion at first made no reply. It was easy to divine the conflict
that was raging in his mind, between the hope that the news was true
and the fear of being made the victim of a practical joke. “Come, my
friend,” he said at last, “do you want to poke fun at me? That wouldn’t
be polite. A debtor is always sacred, and I owe you twenty-five louis.
This is scarcely the time to talk of millions. My relatives have cut off
my supplies; and my creditors are overwhelming me with their bills----”

But M. de Coralth checked him, saying gravely: “Upon my honor, I am not
jesting. What would you give a man who--”

“I would give him half of the fortune he gave me.”

“That’s too much!”

“No, no!”

He was in earnest, certainly. What wouldn’t a man promise in all
sincerity of soul to a fellow mortal who gave him money when he had
none--when he needed it urgently and must have it to save himself from
ruin?

At such a moment no commission, however large, seems exorbitant. It is
afterward, when the day of settlement comes, that people begin to find
fault with the rate of interest.

“If I tell you that one-half is too much, it is because such is really
the case. And I am the best judge of the matter, since I am the man who
can put you in possession of this enormous fortune.”

M. Wilkie started back in speechless amazement.

“This astonishes you!” said the viscount; “and why, pray? Is it because
I ask for a commission?”

“Oh! not at all!”

“It is not perhaps a very gentlemanly proceeding, but it is a sensible
one. Business is business. In the afternoon, when I am in a restaurant,
at the club, or in a lady’s boudoir, I am merely the viscount and the
grand seigneur. All money questions sicken me. I am careless, liberal,
and obliging to a fault. But in the morning I am simply Coralth, a man
of the middle classes who doesn’t pay his bills without examining them,
and who watches his money, because he doesn’t wish to be ruined and end
his brilliant career as a common soldier in some foreign legion.”

M. Wilkie did not allow him to continue. He believed, and his joy was
wild--delirious. “Enough, enough!” he interrupted. “A difficulty between
us! Never! I am yours without reserve! Do you understand me? How much
must you have? Do you wish for it all?”

But the viscount was unmoved. “It is not fitting that I should fix upon
the indemnity which is due to me. I will consult a man of business; and
I will decide upon this point on the day after to-morrow, when I shall
explain everything to you.”

“On the day after to-morrow! You won’t leave me in suspense for
forty-eight hours?”

“It is unavoidable. I have still some important information to procure.
I lost no time in coming to you, so that I might put you on your guard.
If any scoundrel comes to you with proposals, be extremely careful.
Some agents, when they obtain a hold on an estate, leave nothing for the
rightful owner. So don’t treat with any one.”

“Oh, no! You may rest assured I won’t.”

“I should be quieter in mind if I had your promise in writing.”

Without a word, Wilkie darted to a table, and wrote a short contract by
which he bound himself to give M. Ferdinand de Coralth one-half of the
inheritance which the aforesaid Coralth might prove him to be entitled
to. The viscount read the document, placed it in his pocket, and then
said, as he took up his hat:

“Very well. I will see you again on Monday.”

But M. Wilkie’s doubts were beginning to return. “Monday, so be it!”
said he; “but swear that you are not deceiving me.”

“What, do you still doubt me?”

M. Wilkie reflected for a moment; and suddenly a brilliant inspiration
darted through his brain. “If you are speaking the truth, I shall soon
be rich,” said he. “But, in the meantime, life is hard. I haven’t a
penny, and it isn’t a pleasant situation. I have a horse entered for the
race to-morrow, Pompier de Nanterre. You know the animal very well. The
chances are enormously in his favor. So, if it wouldn’t inconvenience
you to lend me fifty louis.”

“Certainly,” interrupted the viscount, cordially. “Certainly; with the
greatest pleasure.”

And drawing a beautiful little notebook from his pocket he took from it
not one, but two bank-notes of a thousand francs, and handed them to M.
Wilkie, saying: “Monsieur believes me now, does he not?”

As will be readily believed, it was not for his own pleasure that M. de
Coralth postponed his confidential disclosures for a couple of days. He
knew Wilkie perfectly well, and felt that it was dangerous to let
him roam about Paris with half of an important secret. Postponement
generally furnishes fate with weapons against oneself. But it was
impossible for the viscount to act otherwise. He had not seen the
Marquis de Valorsay since the Count de Chalusse’s death and he dared not
conclude the contract with Wilkie before he had conferred with him,
for he was completely in the marquis’s power. At the least suspicion of
treason, M. de Valorsay would close his hand, and he, Coralth, would
be crushed like an egg-shell. It was to the house of his formidable
associate that he repaired on leaving M. Wilkie; and in a single breath
he told the marquis all that he knew, and the plans that he had formed.

M. de Valorsay’s astonishment must have been intense when he heard that
Lia d’Argeles was a Chalusse, but he knew how to maintain his composure.
He listened quietly, and when the viscount had completed his story, he
asked: “Why did you wait so long before telling me all this?”

“I didn’t see how it could interest you in the least.”

The marquis looked at him keenly, and then calmly said: “In other words,
you were waiting to see whether it would be most advantageous to you to
be with me or against me.”

“How can you think----”

“I don’t think, I’m sure of it. As long as I was strong support for you,
you were devoted to me. But now I am tottering, and you are ready to
betray me.”

“Excuse me! The step I am about to take----”

“What, haven’t you taken it already?” interrupted the marquis, quickly.
And shrugging his shoulders, he added: “Observe that I don’t reproach
you in the least. Only remember this: we survive or we perish together.”

By the angry gleam in M. de Coralth’s eyes, the marquis must have
realized that his companion was disposed to rebel; still this knowledge
did not seem to disquiet him, for it was in the same icy tone that he
continued: “Besides, your plans, far from conflicting with mine, will
be of service to me. Yes, Madame d’Argeles must lay claim to the count’s
estate. If she hesitates, her son will compel her to urge her claims,
will he not?”

“Oh, you may rest assured of that.”

“And when he becomes rich, will you be able to retain your influence
over him?”

“Rich or poor, I can mould him like wax.”

“Very good. Marguerite was escaping me, but I shall soon have her in
my power. I have a plan. The Fondeges think they can outwit me, but
we shall soon see about that.” The viscount was watching his companion
stealthily; as the latter perceived, and so in a tone of brusque
cordiality, he resumed: “Excuse me for not keeping you to breakfast,
but I must go out immediately--Baron Trigault is waiting for me at his
house. Let us part friends--au revoir--and, above all, keep me well
posted about matters in general.”

M. de Coralth’s temper was already somewhat ruffled when he entered
Valorsay’s house; and he was in a furious passion when he left it.
“So we are to survive or perish together,” he growled. “Thanks for the
preference you display for my society. Is it my fault that the fool
has squandered his fortune? I fancy I’ve had enough of his threats and
airs.”

Still his wrath was not so violent as to make him forget his own
interests. He at once went to inquire if the agreement which M. Wilkie
had just signed would be binding. The lawyer whom he consulted replied
that, at all events, a reasonable compensation would most probably be
granted by the courts, in case of any difficulty; and he suggested
a little plan which was a chef d’oeuvre in its way, at the same time
advising his client to strike the iron while it was hot.

It was not yet noon, and the viscount determined to act upon the
suggestion at once; he now bitterly regretted the delay he had
specified. “I must find Wilkie at once,” he said to himself. But he did
not succeed in meeting him until the evening, when he found him at the
Cafe Riche--and in what a condition too! The two bottles of wine which
the young fool had drank at dinner had gone to his head, and he was
enumerating, in a loud voice, the desires he meant to gratify as soon
as he came into possession of his millions. “What a brute!” thought the
enraged viscount. “If I leave him to himself, no one knows what foolish
thing he may do or say. I must remain with him until he becomes sober
again.”

So he followed him to the theatre, and thence to Brebant’s, where he was
sitting feeling terribly bored, when M. Wilkie conceived the unfortunate
idea of inviting Victor Chupin to come up and take some refreshment. The
scene which followed greatly alarmed the viscount. Who could this young
man be? He did not remember having ever seen him before, and yet the
young scamp was evidently well acquainted with his past life, for he had
cast the name of Paul in his face, as a deadly insult. Surely this was
enough to make the viscount shudder! How did it happen that this young
man had been just on the spot ready to pick up Wilkie’s hat? Was it mere
chance? Certainly not. He could not believe it. Then why was the
fellow there? Evidently to watch somebody. And whom? Why,
him--Coralth--undoubtedly.

In going through life as he had done, a man makes enemies at every step;
and he had an imposing number of foes, whom he only held in check by
his unbounded impudence and his renown as a duellist. Thus it was not
strange if some one had set a snare for him; it was rather a miracle
that he had not fallen into one before. The dangers that threatened him
were so formidable that he was almost tempted to relinquish his attack
on Madame d’Argeles. Was it prudent to incur the risk of making this
woman an enemy? All Sunday he hesitated. It would be very easy to get
out of the scrape. He could concoct some story for Wilkie’s benefit,
and that would be the end of it. But on the other hand, there was the
prospect of netting at least five hundred thousand francs--a fortune--a
competency, and the idea was too tempting to be relinquished.

So on Monday morning, at about ten o’clock, he presented himself at
Wilkie’s house, looking pale with anxiety, and far more solemn in manner
than usual. “Let us say but little, and that to the point,” he remarked
on entering. “The secret I am about to reveal to you will make you rich;
but it might ruin me if it were known that you obtained this information
through me. You will therefore swear, upon your honor as a gentleman,
never to betray me, under any circumstances, or for any reason.”

M. Wilkie extended his hand and solemnly exclaimed: “I swear!”

“Very well, then. Now my mind is at rest. It is scarcely necessary for
me to add that if you break your faith you are a dead man. You know me.
You know how I handle a sword; and don’t forget it.” His manner was so
threatening that Wilkie shuddered. “You will certainly be questioned,”
continued M. de Coralth; “but you must reply that you received the
information through one of Mr. Patterson’s friends. Now let us sign our
formal contract in lieu of the temporary one you gave me the other day.”

It is needless to say that Wilkie signed it eagerly. Not so the
viscount; he read the document through carefully, before appending his
signature, and then exclaimed: “The estate that belongs to you is that
of the Count de Chalusse, your uncle. He leaves, I am informed, at least
eight or ten millions of property.”

By M. Wilkie’s excited gestures, by the glitter in his eyes, it might
have been supposed that this wonderful good fortune was too much for
him, and that he was going mad. “I knew that I belonged to a noble
family,” he began. “The Count de Chalusse my uncle! I shall have a
coronet on the corner of my visiting cards.”

But with a gesture M. de Coralth silenced him. “Wait a little before
you rejoice,” said he. “Yes, your mother is the sister of the Count
de Chalusse, and it is through her that you are an heir to the estate.
But--don’t grieve too much--there are similar misfortunes in many of our
most distinguished families--circumstances--the obstinacy of parents--a
love more powerful than reason----” The viscount paused, certainly he
had no prejudices; but at the moment of telling this interesting young
man who his mother really was, he hesitated.

“Go on,” insisted M. Wilkie.

“Well--when your mother was a young girl, about twenty, she fled from
her paternal home with a man she loved. Forsaken afterward, she found
herself in the depths of poverty. She was obliged to live. You
were starving. So she changed her name, and now she is known as Lia
d’Argeles.”

M. Wilkie sprang to his feet. “Lia d’Argeles!” he exclaimed. Then, with
a burst of laughter, he added: “Nevertheless, I think it a piece of
grand good luck!”

VI.

“This man carries away your secret; you are lost.” A sinister voice
whispered these words in Madame Lia d’Argeles’s heart when M. Isidore
Fortunat, after being rudely dismissed, closed the door of her
drawing-room behind him. This man had addressed her by the ancient and
illustrious name of Chalusse which she had not heard for twenty years,
and which she had forbidden her own lips to pronounce. This man knew
that she, Lia d’Argeles, was really a Durtal de Chalusse.

This frightful certainty overwhelmed her. It is true this man Fortunat
had declared that his visit was entirely disinterested. He had pretended
that his regard for the Chalusse family, and the compassion aroused in
his heart by the unfortunate plight of Mademoiselle Marguerite, were
the only motives that has influenced him in taking this step. However,
Madame d’Argeles’s experience in life had left her but limited faith
in apparent or pretended disinterestedness. This is a practical age;
chivalrous sentiments are expensive--as she had learned conclusively.
“If the man came here,” she murmured, “it was only because he thought
he might derive some benefit from the prosecution of my claim to my
poor brother’s estate. In refusing to listen to his entreaties, I have
deprived him of this expected profit and so I have made him my enemy.
Ah! I was foolish to send him away like that! I ought to have pretended
to listen--I ought to have bound him by all sorts of promises.”

She suddenly paused. It occurred to her that M. Fortunat could not have
gone very far; so that, if she sent for him to come back, she might
perhaps be able to repair her blunder. Without losing a second, she
rushed downstairs, and ordered her concierge and a servant to run after
the gentleman who had just left the house, and ask him to return; to
tell him that she had reflected, and wished to speak to him again. They
rushed out in pursuit, and she remained in the courtyard, her heart
heavy with anxiety. Too late! About a quarter of an hour afterward
her emissaries returned. They had made all possible haste in contrary
directions, but they had seen no one in the street who at all resembled
the person they were looking for. They had questioned the shopkeepers,
but no one had seen him pass. “It doesn’t matter,” faltered Madame
d’Argeles, in a tone that belied her words. And, anxious to escape
the evident curiosity of her servants, she hastened back to the little
boudoir where she usually spent her mornings.

M. Fortunat had left his card--that is to say, his address--and it
would have been an easy matter to send a servant to his house. She was
strongly tempted to do so; but she ultimately decided that it would
be better to wait--that an hour more or less would make but little
difference. She had sent her trusty servant, Job, for Baron Trigault; he
would probably return with the baron at any moment; and the baron would
advise her. He would know at once what was the best course for her to
pursue. And so she waited for his coming in breathless anxiety; and the
more she reflected, the more imminent her peril seemed, for she realized
that M. Fortunat must be a very dangerous and cunning man. He had set a
trap for her, and she had allowed herself to be caught. Perhaps he had
only suspected the truth when he presented himself at the house. He had
suddenly announced the death of the Count de Chalusse; she had betrayed
herself; and any doubts he might have entertained were dispelled. “If I
had only had sufficient presence of mind to deny it,” she murmured.
“If I had only been courageous enough to reply that I knew absolutely
nothing about the person he spoke of. Ah! then he would have gone away
convinced that he was mistaken.”

But would the smooth-spoken visitor have declared that he knew
everything, if he had not really penetrated the mystery of her life? It
was scarcely probable. He had implored her to accept the property, if
not for her own sake at least for the sake of another. And when she
asked him whom he meant he had answered, “Mademoiselle Marguerite,”
but he was undoubtedly thinking of Wilkie. So this man, this Isidore
Fortunat, knew that she had a son. Perhaps he was even acquainted with
him personally. In his anger he would very likely hasten to Wilkie’s
rooms and tell him everything. This thought filled the wretched woman’s
heart with despair. What! Had she not yet expiated her fault? Must she
suffer again?

For the first time a terrible doubt came over her. What she had formerly
regarded as a most sublime effort of maternal love, was, perhaps, even a
greater crime than the first she had committed. She had given her honor
as the price of her son’s happiness and prosperity. Had she a right to
do so? Did not the money she had lavished upon him contain every germ of
corruption, misfortune, and shame? How terrible Wilkie’s grief and rage
would be if he chanced to hear the truth!

Alas! he would certainly pay no heed to the extenuating circumstances;
he would close his ears to all attempts at justification. He would be
pitiless. He would have naught but hatred and scorn to bestow upon
a mother who had fallen from the highest rank in society down to
everlasting infamy. She fancied she heard him saying in an indignant
voice, “It would have been better to have allowed me to die of
starvation than to have given me bread purchased at such a price! Why
have you dishonored me by your ill-gotten wealth? Fallen, you might have
raised yourself by honest toil. You ought to have made me a laborer, and
not a spoiled idler, incapable of earning an honest livelihood. As the
son of a poor, betrayed, and deserted woman, with whom I could have
shared my scanty earnings, I might have looked the world proudly in the
face. But where can the son of Lia d’Argeles hide his disgrace after
playing the gentleman for twenty years with Lia d’Argeles’s money?” Yes,
Wilkie would certainly say this if he ever learned the truth; and he
would learn it--she felt sure of it. How could she hope to keep a
secret which was known to Baron Trigault, M. Patterson, the Viscount de
Coralth, and M. Fortunat--four persons! She had confidence in the first
two; she believed she had a hold on the third, but the fourth--Fortunat!

The hours went by; and still Job did not return. What was the meaning
of this delay? Had he failed to find the baron? At last the sound of
carriage-wheels in the courtyard made her start. “That’s Job!” she said
to herself. “He brings the baron.”

Alas! no. Job returned alone. And yet the honest fellow had spared
neither pains nor horseflesh. He had visited every place where there was
the least probability of finding the baron, and he was everywhere told
that Baron Trigault had not been seen for several days. “In that case,
you ought to have gone to his house. Perhaps he is there,” remarked
Madame d’Argeles.

“Madame knows that the baron is never at home. I did go there, however,
but in vain.”

This chanced to be one of three consecutive days which Baron Trigault
had spent with Kami-Bey, the Turkish ambassador. It had been agreed
between them that they should play until one or the other had lost five
hundred thousand francs; and, in order to prevent any waste of “precious
time,” as the baron was wont to remark, they neither of them stirred
from the Grand Hotel, where Kami-Bey had a suite of rooms. They ate and
slept there. By some strange chance, Madame d’Argeles had not heard of
this duel with bank-notes, although nothing else was talked of at the
clubs; indeed, the Figaro had already published a minute description of
the apartment where the contest was going on; and every evening it
gave the results. According to the latest accounts, the baron had the
advantage; he had won about two hundred and eighty thousand francs.

“I only returned to inform madame that I had so far been unsuccessful,”
said Job. “But I will recommence the search at once.”

“That is unnecessary,” replied Madame d’Argeles. “The baron will
undoubtedly drop in this evening, after dinner, as usual.”

She said this, and tried her best to believe it; but in her secret heart
she felt that she could no longer depend upon the baron’s assistance. “I
wounded him this morning,” she thought. “He went away more angry than I
had ever seen him before. He is incensed with me; and who knows how long
it will be before he comes again?”

Still she waited, with feverish anxiety, listening breathlessly to every
sound in the street, and trembling each time she heard or fancied
she heard a carriage stop at the door. However, at two o’clock in the
morning the baron had not made his appearance. “It is too late--he won’t
come!” she murmured.

But now her sufferings were less intolerable, for excess of wretchedness
had deadened her sensibility. Utter prostration paralyzed her energies
and benumbed her mind. Ruin seemed so inevitable that she no longer
thought of avoiding it; she awaited it with that blind resignation
displayed by Spanish women, who, when they hear the roll of thunder,
fall upon their knees, convinced that lightning is about to strike their
defenceless heads. She tottered to her room, flung herself on the bed,
and instantly fell asleep. Yes, she slept the heavy, leaden slumber
which always follows a great mental crisis, and which falls like God’s
blessing upon a tortured mind. On waking up, her first act was to ring
for her maid, in order to send a message to Job, to go out again in
search of the baron. But the faithful servant had divined his mistress’s
wishes, and had already started off of his own accord. It was past
mid-day when he returned, but his face was radiant; and it was in a
triumphant voice that he announced: “Monsieur le Baron Trigault.”

Madame d’Argeles sprang up, and greeted the baron with a joyful
exclamation. “Ah! how kind of you to come!” she exclaimed. “You are most
welcome. If you knew how anxiously I have been waiting for you!” He made
no reply. “If you knew,” continued Madame d’Argeles, “if you only knew.”
But she paused, for in spite of her own agitation, she was suddenly
struck by the peculiar expression on her visitor’s face. He was standing
silent and motionless in the centre of the room, and his eyes were fixed
upon her with a strange, persistent stare in which she could read
all the contradictory feelings which were battling for mastery in his
mind--anger, hatred, pity, and forgiveness. Madame d’Argeles shuddered.
So her cup of sorrow was not yet full. A new misfortune was about to
fall upon her. She had hoped that the baron would be able to alleviate
her wretchedness, but it seemed as if he were fated to increase it. “Why
do you look at me like that?” she asked, anxiously. “What have I done?”

“You, my poor Lia--nothing!”

“Then--what is it? Oh, my God! you frighten me.”

“What is it? Well, I am going to tell you,” he said, as he stepped
forward and took her hand in his own. “You know that I have been
infamously duped and deceived, that the happiness of my life has been
destroyed by a scoundrel who tempted the wife I so fondly loved to
forget her duty, and trample her honor under foot. You have heard my
vows of vengeance if I ever succeeded in discovering him. Ah, well, Lia,
I have discovered him. The man who stole my share of earthly happiness
was the Count de Chalusse, your brother.”

With a sudden gesture Madame d’Argeles freed her hand from the baron’s
grasp, and recoiled as terrified as if she had seen a spectre rise up
before her. Then with her hands extended as if to ward off the horrible
apparition, she exclaimed: “O, my God!”

A bitter smile curved the baron’s lips. “What do you fear?” he asked.
“Isn’t your brother dead? He has defrauded me alike of happiness and
vengeance!”

If her son’s life had depended on a single word, Madame d’Argeles could
not have uttered it. She knew what mental agony had urged the baron to
a sort of moral suicide, and led him to contract the vice in which he
wasted his life and squandered, or, at least risk, his millions.

“Nor is this all,” he continued. “Listen. As I have often told you, I
was sure that my wife became a mother in my absence. I sought the
child for years, hoping that through the offspring I might discover the
father. Ah, well! I’ve found what I sought, at last. The child is now
a beautiful young girl. She lives at the Hotel de Chalusse as your
brother’s daughter. She is known as Mademoiselle Marguerite.”

Madame d’Argeles listened, leaning against the wall for support, and
trembling like a leaf. Her reason was shaken by so many repeated blows,
and her son, her brother, Marguerite, Pascal Ferailleur, Coralth,
Valorsay--all those whom she loved or feared, or hated--rose like
spectres before her troubled brain. The horror of the truth exceeded her
most frightful apprehensions. The strangeness of the reality surpassed
every flight of fancy. And, moreover, the baron’s calmness increased her
stupor. She so often had heard him give vent to his rage and despair in
terrible threats, that she could not believe he would be thus resigned.
But was his calmness real? Was it not a mask, would not his fury
suddenly break forth?

However, he continued, “It is thus that destiny makes us its sport--it
is thus that it laughs at our plans. Do you remember, Lia, the day when
I met you wandering through the streets of Paris--with your child in
your arms--pale and half dead with fatigue, faint for want of food,
homeless and penniless? You saw no refuge but in death, as you have
since told me. How could I imagine when I rescued you that I was saving
my greatest enemy’s sister from suicide--the sister of the man whom I
was vainly pursuing? And yet this might not be the end, if I chose
to have it otherwise. The count is dead, but I can still return him
disgrace for disgrace. He dishonored me. What prevents me from casting
ineffaceable opprobrium upon the great name of Chalusse, of which he
was so proud? He seduced my wife. To-day I can tell all Paris what his
sister has been and what she is to-day.”

Ah! it was this--yes, it was this that Madame d’Argeles had dreaded. She
fell upon her knees, and, with clasped hands she entreated: “Pity!--oh!
have pity--forgive me! Have mercy! Have I not always been a faithful
and devoted friend to you? Think of the past you have just invoked! Who
helped you then to bear your intolerable sufferings? Don’t you remember
the day when you, yourself, had determined to die by your own hand?
There was a woman who persuaded you to abandon the thought of suicide.
It was I!”

He looked at her for a moment with a softer expression, tears came to
his eyes, and rolled down his cheeks. Then suddenly he raised her, and
placed her in an arm-chair, exclaiming: “Ah! you know very well that I
shall not do what I said. Don’t you know me better than that? Are you
not sure of my affection, are you not aware that you are sacred in my
eyes?” He was evidently striving hard to master his emotion. “Besides,”
he added, “I had already pardoned before coming here. It was foolish on
my part, perhaps, and for nothing in the world would I confess it to my
acquaintances, but it is none the less true. I shall have my revenge in
a certain fashion, however. I need only hold my peace, and the daughter
of M. de Chalusse and Madame Trigault would become a lost woman. Is this
not so? Very well, I shall offer her my assistance. It may, or may not,
be another absurd and ridiculous fancy added to the many I have been
guilty of. But no matter. I have promised. And why, indeed, should this
poor girl be held responsible for the sins of her parents? I--I declare
myself on her side against the world!”

Madame d’Argeles rose, her face radiant with joy and hope. “Then perhaps
we are saved!” she exclaimed. “Ah! I knew when I sent for you that I
should not appeal to your heart in vain!”

She took hold of his hand as if to raise it to her lips; but he gently
withdrew it, and inquired, with an air of astonishment: “What do you
mean?”

“That I have been cruelly punished for not wishing you to assist that
unfortunate man who was dishonored here the other evening.”

“Pascal Ferailleur?”

“Yes, he is innocent. The Viscount de Coralth is a scoundrel. It was he
who slipped the cards which made M. Ferailleur win, into the pack, and
he did it at the Marquis de Valorsay’s instigation.”

The baron looked at Madame d’Argeles with pro-found amazement. “What!”
said he; “you knew this and you allowed it? You were cruel enough to
remain silent when that innocent man entreated you to testify on his
behalf! You allowed this atrocious crime to be executed under your own
roof, and under your very eyes?”

“I was then ignorant of Mademoiselle Marguerite’s existence. I did not
know that the young man was beloved by my brother’s daughter--I did not
know--”

The baron interrupted her, and exclaimed, indignantly: “Ah! what does
that matter? It was none the less an abominable action.”

She hung her head, and in a scarcely audible voice replied: “I was not
free. I submitted to a will that was stronger than my own. If you had
heard M. de Coralth’s threats you would not censure me so severely.
He has discovered my secret; he knows Wilkie--I am in his power. Don’t
frown--I make no attempt to excuse myself--I am only explaining the
position in which I was placed. My peril is imminent; I have only
confidence in you--you alone can aid me; listen!”

Thereupon she hastily explained M. de Coralth’s position respecting
herself, what she had been able to ascertain concerning the Marquis de
Valorsay’s plans, the alarming visit she had received from M. Fortunat,
his advice and insinuations, the dangers she apprehended, and her firm
determination to deliver Mademoiselle Marguerite from the machinations
of her enemies. Madame d’Argeles’s disclosures formed, as it were, a
sequel to the confidential revelations of Pascal Ferailleur, and the
involuntary confession of the Marquis de Valorsay; and the baron could
no longer doubt the existence of the shameful intrigue which had been
planned in view of obtaining possession of the count’s millions. And
if he did not, at first, understand the motives, he at least began to
discern what means had been employed. He now understood why Valorsay
persisted in his plan of marrying Mademoiselle Marguerite, even without
a fortune. “The wretch knows through Coralth that Madame d’Argeles is
a Chalusse,” he said to himself; “and when Mademoiselle Marguerite has
become his wife, he intends to oblige Madame d’Argeles to accept her
brother’s estate and share it with him.”

At that same moment Madame d’Argeles finished her narrative. “And now,
what shall I do?” she added.

The baron was stroking his chin, as was his usual habit when his mind
was deeply exercised. “The first thing to be done,” he replied, “is to
show Coralth in his real colors, and prove M. Ferailleur’s innocence.
It will probably cost me a hundred thousand francs to do so, but I shall
not grudge the money. I should probably spend as much or even more in
play next summer; and the amount had better be spent in a good cause
than in swelling the dividends of my friend Blanc, at Baden.”

“But M. de Coralth will speak out as soon as he finds that I have
revealed his shameful past.”

“Let him speak.”

Madame d’Argeles shuddered. “Then the name of Chalusse will be
disgraced,” said she; “and Wilkie will know who his mother is.”

“No.”

“But----”

“Ah! allow me to finish, my dear friend. I have my plan, and it is
as plain as daylight. This evening you will write to your London
correspondent. Request M. Patterson to summon your son to England, under
any pretext whatever; let him pretend that he wishes to give him some
money, for instance. He will go there, of course, and then we will keep
him there. Coralth certainly won’t run after him, and we shall have
nothing more to fear on that score.”

“Great heavens!” murmured Madame d’Argeles, “why did this idea never
occur to me?”

The baron had now completely recovered his composure. “As regards
yourself,” said he, “the plan you ought to adopt is still more simple.
What is your furniture worth? About a hundred thousand francs, isn’t it?
Very well, then. You will sign me notes, dated some time back, to the
amount of a hundred thousand francs. On the day these notes fall due,
on Monday, for instance, they will be presented for payment. You will
refuse to pay them. A writ will be served, and an attachment placed
upon your furniture; but you will offer no resistance. I don’t know if I
explain my meaning very clearly.”

“Oh, very clearly!”

“So your property is seized. You make no opposition, and next week we
shall have flaming posters on all the walls, telling Paris that the
furniture, wardrobe, cashmeres, laces, and diamonds of Madame Lia
d’Argeles will be sold without reserve, at public auction, in the Rue
Drouot, with the view of satisfying the claims of her creditors. You
can imagine the sensation this announcement will create. I can see your
friends and the frequenters of your drawing-room meeting one another in
the street, and saying: ‘Ah, well! what’s this about poor d’Argeles?’
‘Pshaw!--no doubt it’s a voluntary sale.’ ‘Not at all; she’s really
ruined. Everything is mortgaged above its value.’ ‘Indeed, I’m very
sorry to hear it. She was a good creature.’ ‘Oh, excellent; a deal of
amusement could be found at her house,--only between you and me----’
‘Well?’ ‘Well, she was no longer young.’ ‘That’s true. However, I
shall attend the sale, and I think I shall bid.’ And, in fact, your
acquaintances won’t fail to repair to the Hotel Drouot, and maybe your
most intimate friends will yield to their generous impulses sufficiently
to offer twenty sous for one of the dainty trifles on your etageres.”

Overcome with shame, Madame d’Argeles hung her head. She had never
before so keenly felt the disgrace of her situation. She had never
so clearly realized what a deep abyss she had fallen into. And
this crushing humiliation came from whom? From the only friend she
possessed--from the man who was her only hope, Baron Trigault.

And what made it all the more frightful was, that he did not seem to be
in the least degree conscious of the cruelty of his words. Indeed,
he continued, in a tone of bitter irony: “Of course, you will have
an exhibition before the sale, and you will see all the dolls that
hairdressers, milliners and fools call great ladies, come running to
the show. They will come to see how a notorious woman lives, and to
ascertain if there are any good bargains to be had. This is the
right form. These great ladies would be delighted to display diamonds
purchased at the sale of a woman of the demi monde. Oh! don’t fear--your
exhibition will be visited by my wife and daughter, by the Viscountess
de Bois d’Ardon, by Madame de Rochecote, her five daughters, and a great
many more. Then the papers will take up the refrain; they will give an
account of your financial difficulties, and tell the public what you
paid for your pictures.”

It was with a sort of terror-stricken curiosity that Madame d’Argeles
watched the baron. It had been many years since she had seen him in such
a frame of mind--since she had heard him talk in such a cynical fashion.
“I am ready to follow your advice,” said she, “but afterward?”

“What, don’t you understand the object I have in view? Afterward you
will disappear. I know five or six journalists; and it would be very
strange if I could not convince one of them that you had died upon an
hospital pallet. It will furnish the subject of a touching, and what
is better, a moral article. The papers will say, ‘Another star has
disappeared. This is the miserable end of all the poor wretches whose
passing luxury scandalizes honest women.’”

“And what will become of me?”

“A respected woman, Lia. You will go to England, install yourself in
some pretty cottage near London, and create a new identity for yourself.
The proceeds of your sale will supply your wants and Wilkie’s for more
than a year. Before that time has elapsed you will have succeeded in
accumulating the necessary proofs of your identity, and then you can
assert your claims and take possession of your brother’s estate.”

Madame d’Argeles sprang to her feet. “Never never!” she exclaimed,
vehemently.

The baron evidently thought he must have misunderstood her. “What!” he
stammered; “you will relinquish the millions that are legally yours, to
the government?”

“Yes--I am resolved--it must be so.”

“Will you sacrifice your son’s future in this style?”

“No, it isn’t in my power to do that; but Wilkie will do so, later, on,
I’m sure of it.”

“But this is simply folly.”

A feverish agitation had now succeeded Madame d’Argeles’s torpor; there
was an expression of scorn and anger on her rigid features, and her
eyes, usually so dull and lifeless, fairly blazed. “It is not folly,”
she exclaimed, “but vengeance!” And as the astonished baron opened his
lips to question her: “Let me finish,” she said imperiously, “and then
you shall judge me. I have told you with perfect frankness everything
concerning my past life, save this--this--that I am married, Monsieur
le Baron, legally married. I am bound by a chain that nothing can break,
and my husband is a scoundrel. You would be frightened if you knew half
the extent of his villainy. Oh! do not shake your head. I ought not to
be suspected of exaggeration when I speak in this style of a man whom I
once loved so devotedly. For I loved him, alas!--even to madness--loved
him so much that I forgot self, family, honor, and all the most sacred
duties. I loved him so madly that I was willing to follow him, while his
hands were still wet with my brother’s blood. Ah! chastisement could not
fail to come, and it was terrible, like the sin. This man for whom I had
abandoned everything--whom I had made my idol--do you know what he said
to me the third day after my flight from home? ‘You must be more stupid
than an owl to have forgotten to take your jewels.’ Yes, those were the
very words he said to me, with a furious air. And then I could measure
the depths of the abyss into which I had plunged. This man, with whom I
had been so infatuated, did not love me at all, he had never loved me.
It had only been cold calculation on his part. He had devoted months to
the task of winning my heart, just as he would have devoted them to
some business transaction. He only saw in me the fortune that I was
to inherit. Oh! he didn’t conceal it from me. ‘If your parents are not
monsters,’ he was always saying, ‘they will finally become reconciled to
our marriage. They will give you a handsome fortune and we will divide
it. I will give you back your liberty, and then we can each of us be
happy in our own way.’ It was for this reason that he wished to marry
me. I consented on account of my unborn child. My father and mother had
died, and he hoped to prevail upon me to claim my share of the paternal
fortune. As for claiming it himself, he dared not. He was a coward, and
he was afraid of my brother. But I took a solemn oath that he should
never have a farthing of the wealth he coveted, and neither threats nor
BLOWS could compel me to assert my claim. God only knows how much I had
suffered from his brutality when I at last succeeded in making my escape
with Wilkie. He has sought us everywhere for fifteen years, but he has
not yet succeeded in finding a trace of us. Still he has not ceased to
watch my brother. I am sure of that, my presentiments never deceive me.
So, if I followed your advice--if I claimed possession of my brother’s
fortune--my husband would instantly appear with our marriage contract in
his hands, and demand everything. Shall I enrich him? No, never, never!
I would rather die of want! I would rather see Wilkie die of starvation
before my very eyes!”

Madame d’Argeles spoke in that tone of concentrated rage which betrays
years of repressed passion and unflinching resolution. One could
scarcely hope to modify her views even by the wisest and most practical
advice. The baron did not even think of attempting to do so. He had
known Madame d’Argeles for years; he had seen so many proofs of her
invincible energy and determination. She possessed the distinguishing
characteristic of her family in a remarkable degree--that proverbial
Chalusse obstinacy which Madame Vantrasson had alluded to in her
conversation with M. Fortunat.

She was silent for a moment, and then, in a firm tone she said: “Still,
I will follow your advice in part, baron. This evening I will write
to M. Patterson and request him to send for Wilkie. In less than a
fortnight I shall have sold my furniture and disappeared. I shall remain
poor. My fortune is not so large as people suppose. No matter. My son is
a man; he must learn to earn his own living.”

“My banking account is always at your disposal, Lia.”

“Thanks, my friend, thanks a thousand times; but it will not be
necessary for me to accept your kind offer. When Wilkie was a child I
did not refuse. But now I would dig the ground with my own hands,
rather than give him a louis that came from you. You think me full of
contradictions! Perhaps I am. It is certain that I am no longer what I
was yesterday. This trouble has torn away the bandage that covered my
eyes. I can see my conduct clearly now, and I condemn it. I sinned for
my son’s sake, more than for my own. But I might have rehabilitated
myself through him, and now he will perhaps be dishonored through me.”
Her breathing came short and hard, and it was in a choked voice that she
continued: “Wilkie shall work for me and for himself. If he is strong,
he will save us. If he is weak--ah, well! we shall perish. But there
has been cowardice and shame enough! It shall never be said that I
sacrificed the honor of a noble name and the happiness of my brother’s
child to my son. I see what my duty is, and I shall do it.”

The baron nodded approvingly. “That’s no doubt right,” said he. “Only
allow me to tell you that all is not lost yet. The code has a weapon for
every just cause. Perhaps there will be a way for you to obtain and hold
your fortune independent of your husband.”

“Alas! I made inquiries on the subject years ago, and I was told that
it would be impossible. Still, you might investigate the matter. I have
confidence in you. I know that you would not advise me rashly;--but
don’t delay. The worst misfortune would be less intolerable than this
suspense.”

“I will lose no time. M. Ferailleur is a very clever lawyer, I am told.
I will consult him.”

“And what shall I do about this man Fortunat, who called upon me?”

The baron reflected for a moment. “The safest thing would be to take no
action whatever at present,” he replied. “If he has any evil designs, a
visit or a letter from you would only hasten them.”

By the way Madame d’Argeles shook her head, it was easy to see that she
had very little hope. “All this will end badly,” she murmured.

The baron shared her opinion, but he did not think it wise or kind to
discourage her. “Nonsense!” he said lightly, “luck is going to change;
it is always changing.”

Then as he heard the clock strike, he sprang from his arm-chair in
dismay. “Two o’clock,” he exclaimed, “and Kami-Bey is waiting for me.
I certainly haven’t been wasting time here, but I ought to have been at
the Grand Hotel at noon. Kami is quite capable of suspecting a man of
any knavery. These Turks are strange creatures. It’s true that I am
now a winner to the tune of two hundred and eighty thousand francs.”
He settled his hat firmly on his head, and opening the door, he added:
“Good-by, my dear madame, I will soon see you again, and in the meantime
don’t deviate in the least from your usual habits. Our success depends,
in a great measure, upon the fancied security of our enemies!”

Madame d’Argeles considered this advice so sensible that half an hour
later she went out for her daily drive in the Bois, little suspecting
that M. Fortunat’s spy, Victor Chupin, was dogging her carriage. It was
most imprudent on her part to have gone to Wilkie’s house on her return.
She incurred such a risk of awakening suspicion by wandering about
near her son’s home that she seldom allowed herself that pleasure, but
sometimes her anxiety overpowered her reason. So, on this occasion, she
ordered the coachman to stop near the Rue du Helder, and she reached the
street just in time to betray her secret to Victor Chupin, and receive a
foul insult from M. Wilkie. The latter’s cruel words stabbed her to the
heart, and yet she tried to construe them as mere proofs of her son’s
honesty of feeling--as proof of his scorn for the depraved creatures
who haunt the boulevards each evening. But though her energy was
indomitable, her physical strength was not equal to her will. On
returning home, she felt so ill that she was obliged to go to bed. She
shivered with cold, and yet the blood that flowed in her veins seemed to
her like molten lead. The physician who was summoned declared that her
illness was a mere trifle, but prescribed rest and quiet. And as he was
a very discerning man, he added, not without a malicious smile, that any
excess is injurious--excess of pleasure as well as any other. As it
was Sunday, Madame d’Argeles was able to obey the physician, and so she
closed her doors against every one, the baron excepted. Still, fearing
that this seclusion might seem a little strange, she ordered her
concierge to tell any visitors that she had gone into the country,
and would not return until her usual reception-day. She would then be
compelled to open her doors as usual. For what would the habitues of the
house, who had played there every Monday for years, say if they found
the doors closed? She was less her own mistress than an actress--she had
no right to weep or suffer in solitude.

So, at about seven o’clock on Monday evening, although still grievously
suffering both in mind and body, she arranged herself to receive her
guests. From among all her dresses, she chose the same dark robe she had
worn on the night when Pascal Ferailleur was ruined at her house; and
as she was even paler than usual, she tried to conceal the fact by a
prodigal use of rouge. At ten o’clock, when the first arrivals entered
the brilliantly lighted rooms, they found her seated as usual on the
sofa, near the fire, with the same eternal, unchangeable smile upon her
lips. There were at least forty persons in the room, and the gambling
had become quite animated when the baron entered. Madame d’Argeles read
in his eyes that he was the bearer of good news. “Everything is going
on well,” he whispered, as he shook hands with her. “I have seen M.
Ferailleur--I wouldn’t give ten sous for Valorsay’s and Coralth’s
chances.”

This intelligence revived Madame d’Argeles’s drooping spirits, and she
received M. de Coralth with perfect composure when he came to pay his
respects to her soon afterward. For he had the impudence to come, in
order to dispel any suspicions that might have been aroused anent his
complicity in the card-cheating affair. The hostess’s calmness amazed
him. Was she still ignorant of her brother’s death and the complications
arising from it, or was she only acting a part? He was so anxious and
undecided, that instead of mingling with the groups of talkers, he
at once took a seat at the card-table, whence he could watch the poor
woman’s every movement.

Both rooms were full, and almost everybody was engaged in play, when,
shortly after midnight, a servant entered the room, whispered a few
words in his mistress’s ear, and handed her a card. She took it, glanced
at it, and uttered so harsh, so terrible, so heart-broken a cry, that
several of the guests sprang to their feet. “What is it? What is it?”
they asked. She tried to reply, but could not. Her lips parted, she
opened her mouth, but no sound came forth. She turned ghastly white
under her rouge, and a wild, unnatural light gleamed in her eyes. One
curious guest, without a thought of harm, tried to take the card, which
she still held in her clinched hand; but she repulsed him with such an
imperious gesture that he recoiled in terror. “What is it? What is the
matter with her?” was the astonished query on every side.

At last, with a terrible effort, she managed to reply, “Nothing.” And
then, after clinging for a moment to the mantel-shelf, in order to
steady herself, she tottered out of the room.

VII.

It was not enough to tell M. Wilkie the secret of his birth. He must
be taught how to utilize the knowledge. The Viscount de Coralth
devoted himself to this task, and burdened Wilkie with such a host of
injunctions, that it was quite evident he had but a poor opinion of his
pupil’s sagacity. “That woman d’Argeles,” he thought, “is as sharp as
steel. She will deceive this young idiot completely, if I don’t warn
him.”

So he did warn him; and Wilkie was instructed exactly what to do and
say, how to answer any questions, and what position to take up according
to circumstances. Moreover, he was especially enjoined to distrust
tears, and not to let himself be put out of countenance by haughty airs.
The Viscount spent at least an hour in giving explanations and advice,
to the great disgust of M. Wilkie, who, feeling that he was being
treated like a child, somewhat testily declared that he was no fool, and
that he knew how to take care of himself as well as any one else. Still,
this did not prevent M. de Coralth from persisting in his instructions
until he was persuaded that he had prepared his pupil for all possible
emergencies. He then rose to depart. “That’s all, I think,” he remarked,
with a shade of uneasiness. “I’ve traced the plan--you must execute it,
and keep cool, or the game’s lost.”

His companion rose proudly. “If it fails, it won’t be from any fault of
mine,” he answered with unmistakable petulance.

“Lose no time.”

“There’s no danger of that.”

“And understand, that whatever happens, my name is not to be mentioned.”

“Yes, yes.”

“If there should be any new revelations, I will inform you.”

“At the club?”

“Yes, but don’t be uneasy; the affair is as good as concluded.”

“I hope so, indeed.”

Wilkie gave a sigh of relief as he saw his visitor depart. He wished to
be alone, so as to brood over the delights that the future had in store
for him. He was no longer to be limited to a paltry allowance of twenty
thousand francs! No more debts, no more ungratified longings. He would
have millions at his disposal! He seemed to see them, to hold them, to
feel them gliding in golden waves between his fingers! What horses he
would have! what carriages! what mistresses! And a gleam of envy that
he had detected in M. de Coralth’s eyes put the finishing touch to his
bliss. To be envied by this brilliant viscount, his model and his ideal,
what happiness it was!

The reputation that Madame d’Argeles bore had at first cast a shadow
over his joy; but this shadow had soon vanished. He was troubled by no
foolish prejudices, and personally he cared little or nothing for his
mother’s reputation. The prejudices of society must, of course, be
considered. But nonsense! society has no prejudices nowadays when
millionaires are concerned, and asks no questions respecting their
parents. Society only requires passports of the indigent. Besides, no
matter what Madame d’Argeles might have done, she was none the less a
Chalusse, the descendant of one of the most aristocratic families in
France.

Such were Wilkie’s meditations while he was engaged in dressing himself
with more than usual care. He had been quite shocked by the suggestion
that Madame d’Argeles might try to deny him, and he wished to appear
before her in the most advantageous light. His toilette was consequently
a lengthy operation. However, shortly after twelve o’clock he was ready.
He cast a last admiring glance at himself in the mirror, twirled his
mustaches, and departed on his mission. He even went on foot, which was
a concession to what he considered M. de Coralth’s absurd ideas. The
aspect of the Hotel d’Argeles, in the Rue de Berry, impressed him
favorably, but, at the same time, it somewhat disturbed his superb
assurance. “Everything is very stylish here,” he muttered.

A couple of servants--the concierge and Job--were standing at the door
engaged in conversation. M. Wilkie approached them, and in his most
imposing manner, but not without a slight tremble in his voice,
requested to see Madame d’Argeles. “Madame is in the country,” replied
the concierge; “she will not return before this evening. If monsieur
will leave his card.”
“Oh! that’s quite unnecessary. I shall be passing again.”

This, too, was in obedience to the instructions of M. de Coralth, who
had advised him not to send in his name, but to gain admission into
Madame d’Argeles’s presence as speedily as possible, without giving her
time to prepare herself for the interview; and Wilkie had ultimately
decided that these precautions might not prove as superfluous as he had
at first supposed. But this first mishap annoyed him extremely. What
should he do? how should he kill time till the evening? A cab was
passing. He hired it for a drive to the Bois, whence he returned to the
boulevards, played a game of billiards with one of the co-proprietors
of Pompier de Nanterre, and finally dined at the Cafe Riche, devoting as
much time as possible to the operation. He was finishing his coffee when
the clock struck eight. He caught up his hat, drew on his gloves, and
hastened to the Hotel d’Argeles again.

“Madame has not yet returned,” said the concierge, who knew that his
mistress had only just risen from her bed, “but I don’t think it will be
long. And if monsieur wishes--”

“No,” replied M. Wilkie brusquely, and he was going off in a furious
passion, when, on crossing the street, he chanced to turn his head and
notice that the reception rooms were brilliantly lighted up. “Ah! I
think that a very shabby trick!” grumbled the intelligent youth. “They
won’t succeed in playing that game on me again. Why, she’s there now!”

It occurred to him that Madame d’Argeles had perhaps described him to
her servants, and had given them strict orders not to admit him.
“I’ll find out if that is the case, even if I have to wait here until
to-morrow morning,” he thought, angrily. However, he had not been on
guard very long, when he saw a brougham stop in front of the mansion,
whereupon the gate opened, as if by enchantment. The vehicle entered the
courtyard, deposited its occupants, and drove away. A second carriage
soon appeared, then a third, and then five or six in quick succession.
“And does she think I’ll wear out my shoe-leather here, while everybody
else is allowed to enter?” he grumbled. “Never!--I’ve an idea.” And,
without giving himself time for further deliberation, he returned to his
rooms, arrayed himself in evening-dress, and sent for his carriage. “You
will drive to No.--in the Rue de Berry,” he said. “There is a soiree
there, and you can drive directly into the courtyard.” The coachman
obeyed, and M. Wilkie realized that his idea was really an excellent
one.

As soon as he alighted, the doors were thrown open, and he ascended
a handsome staircase, heavily carpeted, and adorned with flowers. Two
liveried footmen were standing at the door of the drawing-room, and one
of them advanced to relieve Wilkie of his overcoat, but his services
were declined. “I don’t wish to go in,” said the young man roughly.
“I wish to speak with Madame d’Argeles in private. She is expecting
me--inform her. Here is my card.”

The servant was hesitating, when Job, suspecting some mystery perhaps,
approached. “Take in the gentleman’s card,” he said, with an air of
authority; and, opening the door of a small room on the left-hand side
of the staircase, he invited Wilkie to enter, saying, “If monsieur will
be kind enough to take a seat, I will summon madame at once.”

M. Wilkie sank into an arm-chair, considerably overcome. The air of
luxury that pervaded the entire establishment, the liveried servants,
the lights and flowers, all impressed him much more deeply than he would
have been willing to confess. And in spite of his affected arrogance,
he felt that the superb assurance which was the dominant trait in his
character was deserting him. In his breast, moreover, in the place where
physiologists locate the heart, he felt certain extraordinary movements
which strongly resembled palpitations. For the first time it occurred
to him that this woman, whose peace he had come to destroy, was not only
the heiress of the Count de Chalusse’s millions, but also his mother,
that is to say, the good fairy whose protection had followed him
everywhere since he entered the world. The thought that he was about to
commit an atrocious act entered his mind, but he drove it away. It was
too late now to draw back, or even to reflect.

Suddenly a door opposite the one by which he had entered opened, and
Madame d’Argeles appeared on the threshold. She was no longer the woman
whose anguish and terror had alarmed her guests. During the brief moment
of respite which fate had granted her, she had summoned all her energy
and courage, and had mastered her despair. She felt that her salvation
depended upon her calmness, and she had succeeded in appearing calm,
haughty, and disdainful--as impassive as if she had been a statue. “Was
it you, sir, who sent me this card?” she inquired.

Greatly disconcerted, M. Wilkie could only bow and stammer out an almost
unintelligible answer. “Excuse me! I am much grieved, upon my word! I
disturb you, perhaps----”

“You are Monsieur Wilkie!” interrupted Madame d’Argeles, in a tone of
mingled irony and disdain.

“Yes,” he replied, drawling out the name affectedly, “I am M. Wilkie.”

“Did you desire to speak with me?” inquired Madame d’Argeles, dryly.

“In fact--yes. I should like----”

“Very well. I will listen to you, although your visit is most
inopportune, for I have eighty guests or more in my drawing-room. Still,
speak!”

It was very easy to say “speak,” but unfortunately for M. Wilkie he
could not articulate a syllable. His tongue was as stiff, and as dry, as
if it had been paralyzed. He nervously passed and repassed his fingers
between his neck and his collar, but although this gave full play to his
cravat, his words did not leave his throat any more readily. For he had
imagined that Madame d’Argeles would be like other women he had known,
but not at all. He found her to be an extremely proud and awe-inspiring
creature, who, to use his own vocabulary, SQUELCHED him completely. “I
wished to say to you,” he repeated, “I wished to say to you----” But
the words he was seeking would not come; and, so at last, angry with
himself, he exclaimed: “Ah! you know as well as I, why I have come. Do
you dare to pretend that you don’t know?”

She looked at him with admirably feigned astonishment, glanced
despairingly at the ceiling, shrugged her shoulders, and replied: “Most
certainly I don’t know--unless indeed it be a wager.”

“A wager!” M. Wilkie wondered if he were not the victim of some
practical joke, and if there were not a crowd of listeners hidden
somewhere, who, after enjoying his discomfiture, would suddenly make
their appearance, holding their sides. This fear restored his presence
of mind. “Well, then,” he replied, huskily, “this is my reason. I know
nothing respecting my parents. This morning, a man with whom you are
well acquainted, assured me that I was--your son. I was completely
stunned at first, but after a while I recovered sufficiently to call
here, and found that you had gone out.”

He was interrupted by a nervous laugh from Madame d’Argeles. For she was
heroic enough to laugh, although death was in her heart, and although
the nails of her clinched hands were embedded deep in her quivering
flesh. “And you believed him, monsieur?” she exclaimed. “Really, this is
too absurd! I--your mother! Why, look at me----”

He was doing nothing else, he was watching her with all the powers of
penetration he possessed. Madame d’Argeles’s laugh had an unnatural
ring that awakened his suspicions. All Coralth’s recommendations buzzed
confusedly in his ears, and he judged that the moment had come “to do
the sentimental,” as he would have expressed it. So he lowered his head,
and in an aggrieved tone, exclaimed: “Ah! you think it very amusing, I
don’t. Do you realize how wretched it makes one to live as utterly alone
as a leper, without a soul to love or care for you? Other young men have
a mother, sisters, relatives. I have no one! Ah! if---- But I only have
friends while my money lasts.” He wiped his eyes, dry as they were, with
his handkerchief, and in a still more pathetic tone, resumed: “Not that
I want for anything; I receive a very handsome allowance. But when my
relatives have given me the wherewithal to keep me from starving, they
imagine their duty is fulfilled. I think this very hard. I didn’t come
into the world at my own request, did I? I didn’t ask to be born. If
I was such an annoyance to them when I came into existence, why didn’t
they throw me into the river? Then they would have been well rid of me,
and I should be out of my misery!”

He stopped short, struck dumb with amazement, for Madame d’Argeles had
thrown herself on her knees at his feet. “Have mercy!” she faltered;
“Wilkie; my son, forgive me!” Alas! the unfortunate woman had failed in
playing a part which was too difficult for a mother’s heart. “You have
suffered cruelly, my son,” she continued; “but I--I--Ah! you can’t
conceive the frightful agony it costs a mother to separate from her
child! But you were not deserted, Wilkie; don’t say that. Have you not
felt my love in the air around you? YOU forgotten? Know, then, that for
years and years I have seen you every day, and that all my thoughts and
all my hopes are centered in you alone! Wilkie!”

She dragged herself toward him with her hands clasped in an agony of
supplication, while he recoiled, frightened by this outburst of
passion, and utterly amazed by his easily won victory. The poor woman
misunderstood this movement. “Great God!” she exclaimed, “he spurns me;
he loathes me. Ah! I knew it would be so. Oh! why did you come? What
infamous wretch sent you here? Name him, Wilkie! Do you understand, now,
why I concealed myself from you? I dreaded the day when I should blush
before you, before my own son. And yet it was for your sake. Death would
have been a rest, a welcome release for me. But your breath was ebbing
away, your poor little arms no longer had strength to clasp me round the
neck. And then I cried: ‘Perish my soul and body, if only my child can
be saved!’ I believed such a sacrifice permissible in a mother. I am
punished for it as if it were a crime. I thought you would be happy, my
Wilkie. I said to myself that you, my pride and joy, would move freely
and proudly far above me and my shame. I accepted ignominy, so that your
honor might be preserved intact. I knew the horrors of abject poverty,
and I wished to save my son from it. I would have licked up the very
mire in your pathway to save you from a stain. I renounced all hope for
myself, and I consecrated all that was noble and generous in my nature
to you. Oh! I will discover the vile coward who sent you here, who
betrayed my secret. I will discover him and I will have my revenge! You
were never to know this, Wilkie. In parting from you, I took a solemn
oath never to see you again, and to die without the supreme consolation
of feeling your lips upon my forehead.”

She could not continue; sobs choked her utterance. And for more than a
minute the silence was so profound that one could hear the sound of low
conversation in the hall outside, the exclamations of the players as
they greeted each unexpected turn of luck, and occasionally a cry of
“Banco!” or “I stake one hundred louis!” Standing silent and motionless
near the window, Wilkie gazed with consternation at Madame d’Argeles,
his mother, who was crouching in the middle of the room with her face
hidden in her hands, and sobbing as if her heart would break. He would
willingly have given his third share in Pompier de Nanterre to have
made his escape. The strangeness of the scene appalled him. It was
not emotion that he felt, but an instinctive fear mingled with
commiseration. And he was not only ill at ease, but he was angry
with himself for what he secretly styled his weakness. “Women are
incomprehensible,” he thought. “It would be so easy to explain things
quietly and properly, but they must always cry and have a sort of
melodrama.”

Suddenly the sound of footsteps near the door roused him from his
stupor. He shuddered at the thought that some one might come in. He
hated the very idea of ridicule. So summoning all his courage he went
toward Madame d’Argeles, and, raising her from the floor, he exclaimed:
“Don’t cry so. You grieve me, upon my word! Pray get up. Some one is
coming. Do you hear me? Some one is coming.” Thereupon, as she offered
no resistance, he half led, half carried her to an arm-chair, into
which she sank heavily. “Now she is going to faint!” thought Wilkie,
in despair. What should he do? Call for help? He dared not. However,
necessity inspired him. He knelt at Madame d’Argeles’s feet, and gently
said: “Come, come, be reasonable! Why do you give way like this? I don’t
reproach you!”

Slowly, with an air of humility which was indescribably touching,
she took her hands from her face, and for the first time raised her
tear-stained eyes to her son’s. “Wilkie,” she murmured.

“Madame!”

She heaved a deep sigh, and in a half-stifled voice:

“MADAME!” she repeated. “Will you not call me mother?”

“Yes, of course--certainly. But--only you know it will take me some time
to acquire the habit. I shall do so, of course; but I shall have to get
used to it, you know.”

“True, very true!--but tell me it is not mere pity that leads you to
make this promise? If you should hate me--if you should curse me--how
should I bear it! Ah! when a woman reaches the years of understanding
one should never cease repeating to her: ‘Take care! Your son will be
twenty some day, and you will have to meet his searching gaze. You
will have to render an account of your honor to him!’ My God! If women
thought of this, they would never sin. To be reduced to such a state of
abject misery that one dares not lift one’s head before one’s own son!
Alas! Wilkie, I know only too well that you cannot help despising me.”

“No, indeed. Not at all! What an idea!”

“Tell me that you forgive me!”

“I do, upon my word I do.”

Poor woman, her face brightened. She so longed to believe him! And her
son was beside her, so near that she felt his breath upon her cheek. It
was he indeed. Had they ever been separated? She almost doubted it, she
had lived so near him in thought. It was with a sort of ecstasy that she
looked at him. There was a world of entreaty in her eyes; they seemed
to be begging a caress; she raised her quivering lips to his, but he did
not observe it. For a long time she hesitated, fearing he might spurn
her; but at last, yielding to a supreme impulse, she threw her arms
around his neck, drew him toward her, and pressed him to her heart in
a close embrace. “My son! my son!” she repeated; “to have you with me
again, after all these years!”

Unfortunately, no whirlwind of passion was capable of carrying M. Wilkie
beyond himself. His emotion was now spent and his mind had regained
its usual indifference. He flattered himself that he was a man of
mettle--and he remained as cold as ice beneath his mother’s kisses.
Indeed, he barely tolerated them; and if he did allow her to embrace
him, it was only because he did not know how to refuse. “Will she never
have done?” he thought. “This is a pretty state of things! I must be
very attractive. How Costard and Serpillon would laugh if they saw
me now.” Costard and Serpillon were his intimate friends, the
co-proprietors of the famous steeplechaser.

In her rapture, however, Madame d’Argeles did not observe the peculiar
expression on her son’s face. She had compelled him to take a chair
opposite her, and, with nervous volubility, she continued: “If I don’t
deny myself the happiness of embracing you again, it is because I have
not broken the vow I took never to make myself known to you. When I
entered this room, I was firmly resolved to convince you, no matter how,
that you had been deceived. God knows that it was not my fault if I did
not succeed. There are some sacrifices that are above human strength.”

M. Wilkie deigned to smile. “Oh! yes, I saw your little game,” he said,
with a knowing air. “But I had been well posted, and besides, it is not
very easy to fool me.”

Madame d’Argeles did not even hear him. “Perhaps destiny is weary of
afflicting us,” she continued; “perhaps a new life is about to begin.
Through you, Wilkie. I can again be happy. I, who for years have lived
without even hope. But will you have courage to forget?”

“What?”

She hung her head, and in an almost inaudible voice replied, “The past,
Wilkie.”

But with an air of the greatest indifference, he snapped his fingers,
and exclaimed: “Nonsense! What is past is past. Such things are soon
forgotten. Paris has known many such cases. You are my mother; I care
very little for public opinion. I begin by pleasing myself, and I
consult other people afterward; and when they are dissatisfied, I tell
them to mind their own business.”

The poor woman listened to these words with a joy bordering on rapture.
One might have supposed that the strangeness of her son’s expressions
would have surprised her--have enlightened her in regard to his true
character--but no. She only saw and understood one thing--that he had no
intention of casting her off, but was indeed ready to devote himself to
her. “My God!” she faltered, “is this really true? Will you allow me
to remain with you? Oh, don’t reply rashly! Consider well, before you
promise to make such a sacrifice. Think how much sorrow and pain it will
cost you.”

“I have considered. It is decided--mother.”

She sprang up, wild with hope and enthusiasm. “Then we are saved!”
she cried. “Blessed be he who betrayed my secret! And I doubted your
courage, my Wilkie! At last I can escape from this hell! This very night
we will fly from this house, without one backward glance. I will never
set foot in these rooms again--the detested gamblers who are sitting
here shall never see me again. From this moment Lia d’Argeles is dead.”

M. Wilkie positively felt like a man who had just fallen from the
clouds. “What, fly?” he stammered. “Where shall we go, then?”

“To a country where we are unknown, Wilkie--to a land where you will not
have to blush for your mother.”

“But--”

“Trust yourself to me, my son. I know a pleasant village near London
where we can find a refuge. My connections in England are such that you
need not fear the obstacles one generally meets with among foreigners.
M. Patterson, who manages a large manufacturing establishment, will, I
know, be happy to be of service to us--but we shall not be indebted to
any one for long, now that you have resolved to work.”

On hearing these words, M. Wilkie sprang up in dismay. “Excuse me,”
he said, “I don’t understand you. You propose to set me to work in M.
Patterson’s factory? Well, to tell the truth, that doesn’t suit me at
all.”

It was impossible to mistake M. Wilkie’s manner, his tone, or gesture.
They revealed him in his true character. Madame d’Argeles saw her
terrible mistake at once. The bandage fell from her eyes. She had taken
her dreams for realities, and the desires of her own heart for those of
her son. She rose, trembling with sorrow and with indignation. “Wilkie!”
she exclaimed, “Wilkie, wretched boy! what did you dare to hope?”

And, without giving him time to reply, she continued: “Then it was only
idle curiosity that brought you here. You wished to know the source
of the money which you spend like water. Very well, you may see
for yourself. This is a gambling house; one of those establishments
frequented by distinguished personages, which the police ignore, or
which they cannot suppress. The hubbub you hear is made by the players.
Men are ruined here. Some poor wretches have blown their brains out on
leaving the house; others have parted with the last vestige of honor
here. And the business pays me well. One louis out of every hundred that
change hands falls to my share. This is the source of your wealth, my
son.”

This anger, which succeeded such deep grief--this outburst of disdain,
following such abject humility--considerably astonished M. Wilkie.
“Allow me to ask----” he began.

But he was not allowed a hearing. “Fool!” continued Madame d’Argeles,
“did nothing warn you that in coming here you would deprive yourself
forever of the income you received? Did no inward voice tell you that
all would be changed when you compelled me, Lia d’Argeles, to say,
‘Well, yes, it is true; you are my son?’ So long as you did not know
who and what I was, I had a mother’s right to watch over you. I could
help you without disgracing you, without despising you. But now that you
know me, and know what I am, I can do nothing more for you--nothing! I
would rather let you starve than succor you, for I would rather see you
dead than dishonored by my money.”

“But--”

“What! would you still consent to receive the allowance I have made you,
even if I consented to continue it?”

Had a viper raised its head in M. Wilkie’s path he would not have
recoiled more quickly. “Never!” he exclaimed. “Ah, no! What do you take
me for?”

This repugnance was sincere; there could be no doubt of that, and it
seemed to give Madame d’Argeles a ray of hope. “I have misjudged him,”
she thought. “Poor Wilkie! Evil advice has led him astray; but he is not
bad at heart. In that case, my poor child,” she said aloud, “you must
see that a new life is about to commence for you. What do you intend to
do? How will you gain a livelihood? People must have food, and clothes,
and a roof to shelter them. These things cost money. And where will
you obtain it--you who rebel at the very word work? Ah! if I had only
listened to M. Patterson. He was not blind like myself. He was always
telling me that I was spoiling you, and ruining your future by giving
you so much money. Do you know that you have spent more than fifty
thousand francs during the past two years? How have you squandered them?
Have you been to the law-school a dozen times? No. But you can be seen
at the races, at the opera, in the fashionable restaurants, and at every
place of amusement where a young man can squander money. And who are
your associates? Dissipated and heartless idlers, grooms, gamblers, and
abandoned women.”

A sneer from M. Wilkie interrupted her. To think that any one should
dare to attack his friends, his tastes, and his pleasures. Such a thing
was not to be tolerated. “This is astonishing--astonishing, upon my
word!” said he. “You moralizing! that’s really too good! I should like a
few minutes to laugh; it is too ridiculous!”

Was he really conscious of the cruelty of his ironical words? The blow
was so terrible that Madame d’Argeles staggered beneath it. She was
prepared for anything and everything except this insult from her son.
Still, she accepted it without rebellion, although it was in a tone of
heart-broken anguish that she replied: “Perhaps I have no right to tell
you the truth. I hope the future will prove that I am wrong. However,
you are without resources, and you have no profession. Pray Heaven that
you may never know what it is to be hungry and to have no bread.”

For some time already the ingenious young man had shown unmistakable
signs of impatience. This gloomy prediction irritated him beyond
endurance.

“All this is empty talk,” he interrupted. “I don’t mean to work, for
it’s not at all in my line. Still, I don’t expect to want for anything!
That’s plain enough, I hope.”

Madame d’Argeles did not wince. “What do you mean to do then?” she
asked, coldly. “I don’t understand you.”

He shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “Are we to keep up this farce for
ever?” he petulantly exclaimed. “It doesn’t take with me. You know what
I mean as well as I do. Why do you talk to me about dying of starvation?
What about the fortune?”

“What fortune?”

“Eh? why, my uncle’s, of course! Your brother’s, the Count de Chalusse.”

Now M. Wilkie’s visit, manner, assurance, wheedling, and contradictions
were all explained. That maternal confidence which is so strong in the
hearts of mothers vanished from Madame d’Argeles’s for ever. The depths
of selfishness and cunning she discerned in Wilkie’s mind appalled her.
She now understood why he had declared himself ready to brave public
opinion--why he had proved willing to accept his share of the past
ignominy. It was not his mother’s, but the Count de Chalusse’s estate
that he claimed. “Ah! so you’ve heard of that,” she said, in a tone
of bitter irony. And then, remembering M. Isidore Fortunat, she asked:
“Some one has sold you this valuable secret. How much have you promised
to pay him in case of success?”

Although Wilkie prided himself on being very clever, he did not pretend
to be a diplomatist, and, indeed, he was greatly disconcerted by this
question; still, recovering himself, he replied: “It doesn’t matter how
I obtained the information--whether I paid for it, or whether it cost
me nothing--but I know that you are a Chalusse, and that you are
the heiress of the count’s property, which is valued at eight or ten
millions of francs. Do you deny it?”

Madame d’Argeles sadly shook her head. “I deny nothing,” she replied,
“but I am about to tell you something which will destroy all your plans
and extinguish your hopes. I am resolved, understand, and my resolution
is irrevocable, never to assert my rights. To receive this fortune, I
should be obliged to confess that Lia d’Argeles is a Chalusse--and that
is a confession which no consideration whatever will wring from me.”

She imagined that this declaration would silence and discomfit Wilkie,
but she was mistaken. If he had been obliged to depend upon himself he
would perhaps have been conquered by it; but he was armed with weapons
which had been furnished by the cunning viscount. So he shrugged his
shoulders, and coolly replied: “In that case we should remain poor, and
the government would take possession of our millions. One moment. I
have something to say in this matter. You may renounce your claim, but I
shall not renounce mine. I am your son, and I shall claim the property.”

“Even if I entreated you on my knees not to do so?”

“Yes.”

Madame d’Argeles’s eyes flashed. “Very well. I will show you that this
estate can never be yours. By what right will you lay claim to it?
Because you are my son? But I will deny that you are. I will declare
upon oath that you are nothing to me, and that I don’t even know you.”

But even this did not daunt Wilkie. He drew from his pocket a scrap
of paper, and flourishing it triumphantly, he exclaimed: “It would
be extremely cruel on your part to deny me, but I foresaw such a
contingency, and here is my answer, copied from the civil code: ‘Article
341. Inquiry as to maternity allowed, etc., etc.’”

What the exact bearing of Wilkie’s threat might be Madame d’Argeles did
not know. But she felt that this Article 341 would no doubt destroy her
last hope; for the person who had chosen this weapon from the code to
place it in Wilkie’s hand must have chosen it carefully. She understood
the situation perfectly. With her experience of life, she could not fail
to understand the despicable part Wilkie was playing. And though it was
not her son who had conceived this odious plot, it was more than enough
to know that he had consented to carry it into execution. Should she try
to persuade Wilkie to abandon this shameful scheme? She might have done
so if she had not been so horrified by the utter want of principle which
she had discovered in his character. But, under the circumstances, she
realized that any effort in this direction would prove unavailing. So
it was purely from a sense of duty and to prevent her conscience from
reproaching her that she exclaimed: “So you will apply to the courts in
order to constrain me to acknowledge you as my son?”

“If you are not reasonable----”

“That is to say, you care nothing for the scandal that will be created
by such a course. In order to prove yourself a member of the Chalusse
family you will begin by disgracing the name and dragging it through the
mire.”

Wilkie had no wish to prolong this discussion. So much talk about an
affair, which, in his opinion, at least, was an extremely simple one,
seemed to him utterly ridiculous, and irritated him beyond endurance.
“It strikes me this is much ado about nothing,” he remarked. “One would
suppose, to hear you talk, that you were the greatest criminal in the
world. Goodness is all very well in its way, but there is such a thing
as having too much of it! Break loose from this life to-morrow, assume
your rightful name, install yourself at the Hotel de Chalusse, and in
a week from now no one will remember that you were once known as Lia
d’Argeles. I wager one hundred louis on it. Why, if people attempted to
rake up the past life of their acquaintances, they should have far too
much to do. Folks do not trouble themselves as to whether a person has
done this or that; the essential thing is to have plenty of money. And
if any fool speaks slightingly of you, you can reply: ‘I have an income
of five hundred thousand francs,’ and he’ll say no more.”

Madame d’Argeles listened, speechless with horror and disgust. Was it
really her son who was speaking in this style, and to her of all people
in the world? M. Wilkie misunderstood her silence. He had an excellent
opinion of himself, but he was rather surprised at the effect of his
eloquence. “Besides, I’m tired of vegetating, and having only one name,”
he continued. “I want to be on the move. Even with the small allowance
I’ve had, I have gained a very good position in society; and if I had
plenty of money I should be the most stylish man in Paris. The count’s
estate belongs to me, and so I must have it--in fact, I will have it.
So believe me when I tell you that it will be much better for you if you
acknowledge me without any fuss! Now, will you do so? No? Once, twice,
three times? Is it still no? Very well then; to-morrow, then, you may
expect an official notice. I wish you good-evening.”

He bowed; he was really going, for his hand was already on the
door-knob. But Madame d’Argeles detained him with a gesture. “One word
more,” she said, in a voice hoarse with emotion.

He scarcely deigned to come back, and he made no attempt to conceal his
impatience. “Well, what is it?” he asked, hastily.

“I wish to give you a bit of parting advice. The court will undoubtedly
decide in your favor; I shall be placed in possession of my brother’s
estate; but neither you nor I will have the disposal of these millions.”

“Why?”

“Because, though this fortune belongs to me, the control of it belongs
to your father.”

M. Wilkie was thunderstruck. “To my father?” he exclaimed. “Impossible!”

“It is so, however; and you would not have been ignorant of the fact, if
your greed for money had not made you forget to question me. You believe
yourself an illegitimate child. Wilkie, you are mistaken. You are my
legitimate child. I am a married woman----”

“Bah!”

“And my husband--your father--is not dead. If he is not here now,
threatening our safety, it is because I have succeeded in eluding him.
He lost all trace of us eighteen years ago. Since then he has been
constantly striving to discover us, but in vain. He is still watching,
you may be sure of that; and as soon as there is any talk of a law-suit
respecting the Chalusse property, you will see him appear, armed with
his rights. He is the head of the family--your master and mine. Ah! this
seems to disturb you. You will find him full of insatiable greed for
wealth, a greed which has been whetted by twenty years’ waiting. You may
yet see the day when you will regret the paltry twenty thousand francs a
year formerly given you by your poor mother.”

Wilkie’s face was whiter than his shirt. “You are deceiving me,” he
stammered.

“To-morrow I will show you my marriage certificate.”

“Why not this evening?”

“Because it is locked up in a room which is now full of people.”

“And what was my father’s name?”

“Arthur Gordon--he is an American.”

“Then my name is Wilkie Gordon?”

“Yes.”

“And---is my father rich?” he inquired.

“No.”

“What does he do?”

“Everything that a man can do when he has a taste for luxury and a
horror for work.”

This reply was so explicit in its brevity, and implied so many terrible
accusations, that Wilkie was dismayed. “The devil!” he exclaimed, “and
where does he live!”

“He lives at Baden or Homburg in the summer; in Paris or at Monaco in
the winter.”

“Oh! oh! oh!” ejaculated Wilkie, in three different tones. He knew
what he had to expect from such a father as that. Anger now followed
stupor--one of those terrible, white rages which stir the bile and not
the blood. He saw his hopes and his cherished visions fade. Luxury and
notoriety, high-stepping horses, yellow-haired mistresses, all vanished.
He pictured himself reduced to a mere pittance, and held in check and
domineered over by a brutal father. “Ah! I understand your game,” he
hissed through his set teeth. “If you would only quietly assert your
rights, everything could be arranged privately, and I should have time
to put the property out of my father’s reach before he could claim it.
Instead of doing that--as you hate me--you compel me to make the affair
public, so that my father will hear of it and defraud me of everything.
But you won’t play this trick on me. You are going to write at once, and
make known your claim to your brother’s estate.”

“No.”

“Ah! you won’t? You refuse----” He approached threateningly, and
caught hold of her arm. “Take care!” he vociferated; “take care! Do not
infuriate me beyond endurance----”

As cold and rigid as marble, Madame d’Argeles faced him with the
undaunted glance of a martyr whose spirit no violence can subdue. “You
will obtain nothing from me,” she said, firmly; “nothing, nothing,
nothing!”

Maddened with rage and disappointment, M. Wilkie dared to lift his hand
as if about to strike her. But at this moment the door was flung open,
and a man sprang upon him. It was Baron Trigault.

Like the other guests, the baron had seen the terrible effect produced
upon Madame d’Argeles by a simple visiting card. But he had this
advantage over the others: he thought he could divine and explain the
reason of this sudden, seemingly incomprehensible terror. “The poor
woman has been betrayed,” he thought; “her son is here!” Still, while
the other players crowded around their hostess, he did not leave the
card-table. He was sitting opposite M. de Coralth, and he had seen the
dashing viscount start and change color. His suspicions were instantly
aroused, and he wished to verify them. He therefore pretended to be more
than ever absorbed in the cards, and swore lustily at the deserters who
had broken up the game. “Come back, gentleman, come back,” he cried,
angrily. “We are wasting precious time. While you have been trifling
there, I might have gained--or lost--a hundred louis.”

He was nevertheless greatly alarmed, and the prolonged absence of Madame
d’Argeles increased his fears each moment. At the end of an hour he
could restrain himself no longer. So taking advantage of a heavy loss,
he rose from the table, swearing that the beastly turmoil of a few
moments before had changed the luck. Then passing into the adjoining
drawing-room, he managed to make his escape unobserved. “Where is
madame?” he inquired of the first servant he met.

“In the little sitting-room.”

“Alone?”

“No; a young gentleman is with her.”

The baron no longer doubted the correctness of his conjectures, and his
disquietude increased. Quickly, and as if he had been in his own house,
he hastened to the door of the little sitting-room and listened. At that
moment rage was imparting a truly frightful intonation to M. Wilkie’s
voice. The baron really felt alarmed. He stooped, applied his eye to the
keyhole, and seeing M. Wilkie with his hand uplifted, he burst open the
door and went in. He arrived only just in time to fell Wilkie to
the floor, and save Madame d’Argeles from that most terrible of
humiliations: the degradation of being struck by her own son. “Ah, you
rascal!” cried the worthy baron, transported with indignation, “you
beggarly rascal! you brigand! Is this the way you treat an unfortunate
woman who has sacrificed herself for you--your mother? You try to strike
your mother, when you ought to kiss her very footprints!”

As livid as if his blood had been suddenly turned to gall--with
quivering lips and eyes starting from their sockets--M. Wilkie rose,
with difficulty, to his feet, at the same time rubbing his left elbow
which had struck against the corner of a piece of furniture, in his
fall. “Scoundrel! You brutal scoundrel!” he growled, ferociously. And
then, retreating a step: “Who gave you permission to come in here?” he
added. “Who are you? By what right do you meddle with my affairs?”

“By the right that every honest man possesses to chastise a cowardly
rascal.”

M. Wilkie shook his fist at the baron. “You are a coward yourself,” he
retorted. “You had better learn who you are talking to! You must mend
your manners a little, you old----”

The word he uttered was so vile that no man could fail to resent it,
much less the baron, who was already frantic with passion. His faced
turned as purple as if he were stricken with apoplexy, and such furious
rage gleamed in his eyes that Madame d’Argeles was frightened. She
feared she should see her son butchered before her very eyes, and
she extended her arms as if to protect him. “Jacques,” she said
beseechingly, “Jacques!”

This was the name which was indelibly impressed upon Wilkie’s
memory--the name he had heard when he was but a child. Jacques--that
was the name of the man who had brought him cakes and toys in the
comfortable rooms where he had remained only a few days. He understood,
or at least he thought he understood, everything. “Ah, ha!” he
exclaimed, with a laugh that was at once both ferocious and idiotic.
“This is very fine--monsieur is the lover. He has the say here--he--”

He did not have time to finish his sentence, for quick as thought
the baron caught him by the collar, lifted him from the ground with
irresistible strength, and flung him on his knees at Madame d’Argeles’s
feet, exclaiming: “Ask her pardon, you vile wretch! Ask her pardon,
or----” “Or” meant the baron’s clinched fist descending like a
sledge-hammer on M. Wilkie’s head.

The worthy youth was frightened--so terribly frightened that his teeth
chattered. “Pardon!” he faltered.

“Louder--speak up better than that. Your mother must answer you!”

Alas! the poor woman could no longer hear. She had endured so much
during the past hour that her strength was exhausted, and she had fallen
back in her arm-chair in a deep swoon. The baron waited for a moment,
and seeing that her eyes remained obstinately closed, he exclaimed:
“This is your work, wretch!”

And lifting him again, as easily as if he had been a child, he set him
on his feet, saying in a calmer tone, but in one that admitted of no
reply: “Arrange your clothes and go.”

This advice was not unnecessary. Baron Trigault had a powerful hand;
and M. Wilkie’s attire was decidedly the worse for the encounter. He
had lost his cravat, his shirt-front was crumpled and torn, and his
waistcoat--one of those that open to the waist and are fastened by a
single button--hung down in the most dejected manner. He obeyed the
baron’s order without a word, but not without considerable difficulty,
for his hands trembled like a leaf. When he had finished, the baron
exclaimed: “Now be off; and never set foot here again--understand
me--never set foot here again, never!”

M. Wilkie made no reply until he reached the door leading into the hall.
But when he had opened it, he suddenly regained his powers of speech.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he cried, with frantic violence. “You have
taken advantage of your superior strength--you are a coward. But this
shall not end here. No!--you shall answer for it. I shall find your
address, and to-morrow you will receive a visit from my friends M.
Costard and M. Serpillon. I am the insulted party--and I choose swords!”

A frightful oath from the baron somewhat hastened M. Wilkie’s exit. He
went out into the hall, and holding the door open, in a way that would
enable him to close it at the shortest notice, he shouted back, so as to
be heard by all the servants: “Yes; I will have satisfaction. I will not
stand such treatment. Is it any fault of mine that Madame d’Argeles is a
Chalusse, and that she wishes to defraud me of my fortune. To-morrow, I
call you all to witness, there will be a lawyer here. You don’t frighten
me. Here is my card!” And actually, before he closed the door, he threw
one of his cards into the middle of the room.

The baron did not trouble himself to pick it up; his attention was
devoted to Madame d’Argeles. She was lying back in her arm-chair, white,
motionless and rigid, to all appearance dead. What should the baron
do? He did not wish to call the servants; they had heard too much
already--but he had almost decided to do so, when his eyes fell upon a
tiny aquarium, in a corner of the room. He dipped his handkerchief in
it; and alternately bathed Madame d’Argeles’s temples and chafed her
hands. It was not long before the cold water revived her. She trembled,
a convulsive shudder shook her from head to foot, and at last she opened
her eyes, murmuring: “Wilkie!”

“I have sent him away,” replied the baron.

Poor woman! with returning life came the consciousness of the terrible
reality. “He is my son!” she moaned, “my son, my Wilkie!” Then with a
despairing gesture she pressed her hands to her forehead as if to calm
its throbbings. “And I believed that my sin was expiated,” she pursued.
“I thought I had been sufficiently punished. Fool that I was! This is my
chastisement, Jacques. Ah! women like me have no right to be mothers!”

A burning tear coursed down the baron’s cheek; but he concealed his
emotion as well as he could, and said, in a tone of assumed gayety:
“Nonsense! Wilkie is young--he will mend his ways! We were all
ridiculous when we were twenty. We have all caused our mothers many
anxious nights. Time will set everything to rights, and put some ballast
in this young madcap’s brains. Besides, your friend Patterson doesn’t
seem to me quite free from blame. In knowledge of books, he may have
been unequalled; but as a guardian for youth, he must have been the
worst of fools. After keeping your son on a short allowance for years,
he suddenly gorges him with oats--or I should say, money--lets him
loose; and then seems surprised because the boy is guilty of acts of
folly. It would be a miracle if he were not. So take courage, and hope
for the best, my dear Lia.”

She shook her head despondingly. “Do you suppose that my heart hasn’t
pleaded for him?” she said. “I am his mother; I can never cease to love
him, whatever he may do. Even now I am ready to give a drop of blood for
each tear I can save him. But I am not blind; I have read his nature.
Wilkie has no heart.”

“Ah! my dear friend, how do you know what shameful advice he may have
received before coming to you?”

Madame d’Argeles half rose, and said, in an agitated voice: “What! you
try to make me believe that? ‘Advice!’ Then he must have found a man
who said to him: ‘Go to the house of this unfortunate woman who gave you
birth, and order her to publish her dishonor and yours. If she refuses,
insult and beat her! ‘You know, even better than I, baron, that this
is impossible. In the vilest natures, and when every other honorable
feeling has been lost, love for one’s mother survives. Even convicts
deprive themselves of their wine, and sell their rations, in order to
send a trifle now and then to their mothers--while he----”

She paused, not because she shrunk from what she was about to say, but
because she was exhausted and out of breath. She rested for a moment,
and then resumed in a calmer tone: “Besides, the person who sent him
here had counselled coolness and prudence. I discovered this at once.
It was only toward the close of the interview, and after an unexpected
revelation from me, that he lost all control over himself. The thought
that he would lose my brother’s millions crazed him. Oh! that fatal and
accursed money! Wilkie’s adviser wished him to employ legal means to
obtain an acknowledgment of his parentage; and he had copied from the
Code a clause which is applicable to this case. By this one circumstance
I am convinced that his adviser is a man of experience in such
matters--in other words, the business agent----”

“What business agent?” inquired the baron.

“The person who called here the other day, M. Isidore Fortunat. Ah! why
didn’t I not bribe him to hold his peace?”

The baron had entirely forgotten the existence of Victor Chupin’s
honorable employer. “You are mistaken, Lia,” he replied. “M. Fortunat
has had no hand in this.”

“Then who could have betrayed my secret?”

“Why, your former ally, the rascal for whose sake you allowed Pascal
Ferailleur to be sacrificed--the Viscount de Coralth!”

The bare supposition of such treachery on the viscount’s part brought a
flush of indignant anger to Madame d’Argeles’s cheek. “Ah! if I thought
that!” she exclaimed. And then, remembering what reasons the baron had
for hating M. de Coralth, she murmured: “No! Your animosity misleads
you--he wouldn’t dare!”

The baron read her thoughts. “So you are persuaded that it is personal
vengeance that I am pursuing?” said he. “You think that fear of ridicule
and public odium prevents me from striking M. de Coralth in my own name,
and that I am endeavoring to find some other excuse to crush him. This
might have been so once; but it is not the case now. When I promised
M. Ferailleur to do all in my power to save the young girl he loves,
Mademoiselle Marguerite, my wife’s daughter, I renounced all thought of
self, all my former plans. And why should you doubt Coralth’s treachery?
You, yourself, promised me to unmask HIM. If he has betrayed YOU, my
poor Lia, he has only been a little in advance of you.”

She hung her head and made no reply. She had forgotten this.

“Besides,” continued the baron, “you ought to know that when I make such
a statement I have some better foundation for it than mere conjecture.
It was to some purpose that I watched M. de Coralth during your absence.
When the servant handed you that card he turned extremely pale. Why?
Because he knew whose card it was. After you left the room his hands
trembled like leaves, and his mind was no longer occupied with the game.
He--who is usually such a cautious player--risked his money recklessly.
When the cards came to him he did still worse; and though luck favored
him, he made the strangest blunders, and lost. His agitation and
preoccupation were so marked as to attract attention; and one
acquaintance laughingly inquired if he were ill, while another jestingly
remarked that he had dined and wined a little too much. The traitor
was evidently on coals of fire. I could see the perspiration on his
forehead, and each time the door opened or shut, he changed color, as if
he expected to see you and Wilkie enter. A dozen times I surprised him
listening eagerly, as if by dint of attention, or by the magnetic force
of his will, he hoped to hear what you and your son were saying. With a
single word I could have wrung a confession from him.”

This explanation was so plausible that Madame d’Argeles felt half
convinced. “Ah! if you had only spoken that word!” she murmured. The
baron smiled a crafty and malicious smile, which would have chilled
M. de Coralth’s very blood if he had chanced to see it. “I am not so
stupid!” he replied. “We mustn’t frighten the fish till we are quite
ready. Our net is the Chalusse estate, and Coralth and Valorsay will
enter it of their own accord. It is not my plan, but M. Ferailleur’s.
There’s a man for you! and if Mademoiselle Marguerite is worthy of him
they will make a noble pair. Without suspecting it, your son has perhaps
rendered us an important service this evening--”

“Alas!” faltered Madame d’Argeles, “I am none the less ruined--the name
of Chalusse is none the less dishonored!”

She wanted to return to the drawing-room; but she was compelled to
relinquish this idea. The expression of her face betrayed too plainly
the terrible ordeal she had passed through. The servants had heard
M. Wilkie’s parting words; and news of this sort flies about with
the rapidity of lightning. That very night, indeed, it was currently
reported at the clubs that there would be no more card-playing at the
d’Argeles establishment, as that lady was a Chalusse, and consequently
the aunt of the beautiful young girl whom M. and Madame de Fondege had
taken under their protection.

VIII.

Unusual strength of character, unbounded confidence in one’s own energy,
with thorough contempt of danger, and an invincible determination to
triumph or perish, are all required of the person who, like Mademoiselle
Marguerite, intrusts herself to the care of strangers--worse yet, to the
care of actual enemies. It is no small matter to place yourself in the
power of smooth-tongued hypocrites and impostors, who are anxious for
your ruin, and whom you know to be capable of anything. And the task is
a mighty one--to brave unknown dangers, perilous seductions, perfidious
counsels, and perhaps even violence, at the same time retaining a calm
eye and smiling lips. Yet such was the heroism that Marguerite, although
scarcely twenty, displayed when she left the Hotel de Chalusse to accept
the hospitality of the Fondege family. And, to crown all, she took
Madame Leon with her--Madame Leon, whom she knew to be the Marquis de
Valorsay’s spy.

But, brave as she was, when the moment of departure came her heart
almost failed her. There was despair in the parting glance she cast upon
the princely mansion and the familiar faces of the servants. And there
was no one to encourage or sustain her. Ah, yes! standing at a window
on the second floor, with his forehead pressed close against the pane of
glass, she saw the only friend she had in the world--the old magistrate
who had defended, encouraged, and sustained her--the man who had
promised her his assistance and advice, and prophesied ultimate success.

“Shall I be a coward?” she thought; “shall I be unworthy of Pascal?” And
she resolutely entered the carriage, mentally exclaiming: “The die is
cast!”

The General insisted that she should take a place beside Madame de
Fondege on the back seat; while he found a place next to Madame Leon on
the seat facing them. The drive was a silent and tedious one. The night
was coming on; it was a time when all Paris was on the move, and
the carriage was delayed at each street corner by a crowd of passing
vehicles. The conversation was solely kept alive by the exertions of
Madame de Fondege, whose shrill voice rose above the rumble of the
wheels, as she chronicled the virtues of the late Count de Chalusse, and
congratulated Mademoiselle Marguerite on the wisdom of her decision. Her
remarks were of a commonplace description, and yet each word she uttered
evinced intense satisfaction, almost delight, as if she had won some
unexpected victory. Occasionally, the General leaned from the carriage
window to see if the vehicle laden with Mademoiselle Marguerite’s trunks
was following them, but he said nothing.

At last they reached his residence in the Rue Pigalle. He alighted
first, offered his hand successively to his wife, Mademoiselle
Marguerite, and Madame Leon, and motioned the coachman to drive away.

But the man did not stir. “Pardon--excuse me, monsieur,” he said, “but
my employers bade--requested me----”

“What?”

“To ask you--you know, for the fare--thirty-five francs--not counting
the little gratuity.”

“Very well!--I will pay you to-morrow.”

“Excuse me, monsieur; but if it is all the same to you, would you do so
this evening? My employer said that the bill had been standing a long
time already.”

“What, scoundrel!”

But Madame de Fondege, who was on the point of entering the house,
suddenly stepped back, and drawing out her pocketbook, exclaimed:
“That’s enough! Here are thirty-five francs.”

The man went to his carriage lamp to count the money, and seeing that he
had the exact amount--“And my gratuity?” he asked.

“I give none to insolent people,” replied the General.

“You should take a cab if you haven’t money enough to pay for coaches,”
replied the driver with an oath. “I’ll be even with you yet.”

Marguerite heard no more, for Madame de Fondege caught her by the arm
and hurried her up the staircase, saying: “Quick! we must make haste.
Your baggage is here already, and we must see if the rooms I intended
for you--for you and your companion--suit you.”

When Marguerite reached the second floor, Madame de Fondege hunted
in her pocket for her latch-key. Not finding it, she rang. A tall
man-servant of impudent appearance and arrayed in a glaring livery
opened the door, carrying an old battered iron candlestick, in which
a tiny scrap of candle was glaring and flickering. “What!” exclaimed
Madame de Fondege, “the reception-room not lighted yet? This is
scandalous! What have you been doing in my absence? Come, make haste.
Light the lamp. Tell the cook that I have some guests to dine with me.
Call my maid. See that M. Gustave’s room is in order. Go down and see if
the General doesn’t need your assistance about the baggage.”

Finding it difficult to choose between so many contradictory orders, the
servant did not choose at all. He placed his rusty candlestick on one
of the side-tables in the reception-room, and gravely, without saying
a single word, went out into the passage leading to the kitchen.
“Evariste!” cried Madame de Fondege, crimson with anger, “Evariste, you
insolent fellow!”

As he deigned no reply, she rushed out in pursuit of him. And soon the
sound of a violent altercation arose; the servant lavishing insults upon
his mistress, and she unable to find any response, save, “I dismiss you;
you are an insolent scamp--I dismiss you.”

Madame Leon, who was standing near Mademoiselle Marguerite in the
reception-room, seemed greatly amused. “This is a strange household,”
said she. “A fine beginning, upon my word.”

But the worthy housekeeper was the last person on earth to whom
Mademoiselle Marguerite wished to reveal her thoughts. “Hush, Leon,” she
replied. “We are the cause of all this disturbance, and I am very sorry
for it.”

The retort that rose to the housekeeper’s lips was checked by the return
of Madame de Fondege, followed by a servant-girl with a turn-up nose, a
pert manner, and who carried a lighted candle in her hand.

“How can I apologize, madame,” began Mademoiselle Marguerite, “for all
the trouble I am giving you?”

“Ah! my dear child, I’ve never been so happy. Come, come, and see your
room.” And while they crossed several scantily-furnished apartments,
Madame de Fondege continued: “It is I who ought to apologize to you. I
fear you will pine for the splendors of the Hotel de Chalusse. We
are not millionaires like your poor father. We have only a modest
competence, no more. But here we are!”

The maid had opened a door, and Mademoiselle Marguerite entered a
good-sized room lighted by two windows, hung with soiled wall paper, and
adorned with chintz curtains, from which the sun had extracted most of
the coloring. Everything was in disorder here, and in fact, the whole
room was extremely dirty. The bed was not made, the washstand was dirty,
some woollen stockings were hanging over the side of the rumpled bed,
and on the mantel-shelf stood an ancient clock, an empty beer bottle,
and some glasses. On the floor, on the furniture, in the corners,
everywhere in fact, stumps of cigars were scattered in profusion, as if
they had positively rained down.

“What!” gasped Madame de Fondege, “you haven’t put this room in order,
Justine?”

“Indeed, madame, I haven’t had time.”

“But it’s more than a month since M. Gustave slept here?”

“I know it; but madame must remember that I have been very much hurried
this last month, having to do all the washing and ironing since the
laundress----”

“That’s sufficient,” interrupted Madame de Fondege. And turning to
Marguerite, she said: “You will, I am sure, excuse this disorder, my
dear child. By this time to-morrow the room shall be transformed into
one of those dainty nests of muslin and flowers which young girls
delight in.”

Connected with this apartment, which was known to the household as the
lieutenant’s room, there was a much smaller chamber lighted only by a
single window, and originally intended for a dressing-room. It had two
doors, one of them communicating with Marguerite’s room, and the
other with the passage; and it was now offered to Madame Leon, who
on comparing these quarters with the spacious suite of rooms she had
occupied at the Hotel de Chalusse, had considerable difficulty in
repressing a grimace. Still she did not hesitate nor even murmur. M. de
Valorsay’s orders bound her to Marguerite, and she deemed it fortunate
that she was allowed to follow her. And whether the marquis succeeded or
not, he had promised her a sufficiently liberal reward to compensate
for all personal discomfort. So, in the sweetest of voices, and with
a feigned humility of manner, she declared this little room to be even
much too good for a poor widow whose misfortunes had compelled her to
abdicate her position in society.

The attentions which M. and Madame de Fondege showed her contributed not
a little to her resignation. Without knowing exactly what the General
and his wife expected from Mademoiselle Marguerite, she was shrewd
enough to divine that they hoped to gain some important advantage.
Now her “dear child” had declared her to be a trusted friend, who was
indispensable to her existence and comfort. “So these people will pay
assiduous court to me,” she thought. And being quite ready to play
a double part as the spy of the Marquis de Valorsay, and the Fondege
family, and quite willing to espouse the latter’s cause should that
prove to be the more remunerative course, she saw a long series of
polite attentions and gifts before her.

That very evening her prophecies were realized; and she received a proof
of consideration which positively delighted her. It was decided that
she should take her meals at the family table, a thing which had never
happened at the Hotel de Chalusse. Mademoiselle Marguerite raised a few
objections, which Madame Leon answered with a venomous look, but Madame
de Fondege insisted upon the arrangement, not understanding, she said,
graciously, why they need deprive themselves of the society of such an
agreeable and distinguished person. Madame Leon in no wise doubted but
this favor was due to her merit alone, but Mademoiselle Marguerite, who
was more discerning, saw that their hostess was really furious at the
idea, but was compelled to submit to it by the imperious necessity of
preventing Madame Leon from coming in contact with the servants, who
might make some decidedly compromising disclosures. For there were
evidently many little mysteries and make-shifts to be concealed in this
household. For instance, while the servants were carrying the luggage
upstairs, Marguerite discovered Madame de Fondege and her maid in
close consultation, whispering with that volubility which betrays an
unexpected and pressing perplexity. What were they talking about? She
listened without any compunctions of conscience, and the words “a pair
of sheets,” repeated again and again, furnished her with abundant food
for reflection. “Is it possible,” she thought, “that they have no sheets
to give us?”

It did not take her long to discover the maid’s opinion of the
establishment in which she served; for while she brandished her broom
and duster, this girl, exasperated undoubtedly by the increase of work
she saw in store for her, growled and cursed the old barrack where one
was worked to death, where one never had enough to eat, and where the
wages were always in arrears. Mademoiselle Marguerite was doing her
best to aid the maid, who was greatly surprised to find this handsome,
queenly young lady so obliging, when Evariste, the same who had received
warning an hour before, made his appearance, and announced in an
insolent tone that “Madame la Comtesse was served.”

For Madame de Fondege exacted this title. She had improvised it, as
her husband had improvised his title of General, and without much more
difficulty. By a search in the family archives she had discovered--so
she declared to her intimate friends--that she was the descendant of a
noble family, and that one of her ancestors had held a most important
position at the court of Francis I. or of Louis XII. Indeed, she
sometimes confounded them. However, people who had not known her father,
the wood merchant, saw nothing impossible in the statements.

Evariste was dressed as a butler should be dressed when he announces
dinner to a person of rank. In the daytime when he discharged the duties
of footman, he was gorgeous in gold lace; but in the evening, he arrayed
himself in severe black, such as is appropriate to the butler of an
aristocratic household. Immediately after his announcement everybody
repaired to the sumptuous dining-room which, with its huge side-boards,
loaded with silver and rare china, looked not unlike a museum. Such was
the display, indeed, that when Mademoiselle Marguerite took a seat at
the table, between the General and his wife, and opposite Madame Leon,
she asked herself if she had not been the victim of that dangerous
optical delusion known as prejudice. She noticed that the supply of
knives and forks was rather scanty; but many economical housewives keep
most of their silver under lock and key; besides the china was very
handsome and marked with the General’s monogram, surmounted by his
wife’s coronet.

However, the dinner was badly cooked and poorly served. One might have
supposed it to be a scullery maid’s first attempt. Still the General
devoured it with delight. He partook ravenously of every dish, a flush
rose to his cheeks, and an expression of profound satisfaction was
visible upon his countenance. “From this,” thought Mademoiselle
Marguerite, “I must infer that he usually goes hungry, and that this
seems a positive feast to him.” In fact, he seemed bubbling over with
contentment. He twirled his mustaches a la Victor Emmanuel, and rolled
his “r,” as he said, “Sacr-r-r-r-r-e bleu!” even more ferociously than
usual. It was only by a powerful effort that he restrained himself from
indulging in various witticisms which would have been most unseemly in
the presence of a poor girl who had just lost her father and all her
hopes of fortune. But he did forget himself so much as to say that the
drive to the cemetery had whetted his appetite, and to address his wife
as Madame Range-a-bord, a title which had been bestowed upon her by a
sailor brother.

Crimson with anger to the very roots of her coarse, sandy hair--amazed
to see her husband deport himself in this style, and almost suffocated
by the necessity of restraining her wrath, Madame de Fondege was heroic
enough to smile, though her eyes flashed ominously. But the General was
not at all dismayed. On the contrary, he cared so little for his wife’s
displeasure that, when the dessert was served, he turned to the servant,
and, with a wink that Mademoiselle Marguerite noticed, “Evariste,” he
ordered, “go to the wine-cellar, and bring me a bottle of old Bordeaux.”

The valet, who had just received a week’s notice, was only too glad of
an opportunity for revenge. So with a malicious smile, and in a drawling
tone, he replied: “Then monsieur must give me the money. Monsieur knows
very well that neither the grocer nor the wine-merchant will trust him
any longer.”

M. de Fondege rose from the table, looking very pale; but before he had
time to utter a word, his wife came to the rescue. “You know, my dear,
that I don’t trust the key of my cellar to this lad. Evariste, call
Justine.”

The pert-looking chambermaid appeared, and her mistress told her where
she would find the key of the famous cellar. About a quarter of an hour
afterward, one of those bottles which grocers and wine-merchants prepare
for the benefit of credulous customers was brought in--a bottle duly
covered with dust and mould to give it a venerable appearance, and
festooned with cobwebs, such as the urchins of Paris collect and sell at
from fifteen sous to two francs a pound, according to quality. But the
Bordeaux did not restore the General’s equanimity. He was silent and
subdued; and his relief was evident when, after the coffee had been
served, his wife exclaimed: “We won’t keep you from your club, my dear.
I want a chat with our dear child.”

Since she dismissed the General so unceremoniously, Madame de Fondege
evidently wished for a tete-a-tete with Mademoiselle Marguerite. At
least Madame Leon thought so, or feigned to think so, and addressing the
young girl, she said: “I shall be obliged to leave you for a couple of
hours, my dear young lady. My relatives would never forgive me if I did
not inform them of my change of residence.”

This was the first time since she had been engaged by the Count de
Chalusse, that the estimable “companion” had ever made any direct
allusion to her relatives, and what is more, to relatives residing in
Paris. She had previously only spoken of them in general terms, giving
people to understand that her relatives had not been unfortunate like
herself--that they still retained their exalted rank, though she had
fallen, and that she found it difficult to decline the favors they
longed to heap upon her.

However, Mademoiselle Marguerite evinced no surprise. “Go at once and
inform your relatives, my dear Leon,” she said, without a shade of
sarcasm in her manner. “I hope they won’t be offended by your devotion
to me.” But in her secret heart, she thought: “This hypocrite is going
to report to the Marquis de Valorsay, and these relatives of hers will
furnish her with excuses for future visits to him.”

The General went off, the servants began to clear the table, and
Mademoiselle Marguerite followed her hostess to the drawing-room. It was
a lofty and spacious apartment, lighted by three windows, and even more
sumptuous in its appointments than the dining-room. Furniture, carpets,
and hangings, were all in rather poor taste, perhaps, but costly, very
costly. As the evening was a cold one, Madame de Fondege ordered the
fire to be lighted. She seated herself on a sofa near the mantelpiece,
and when Mademoiselle Marguerite had taken a chair opposite her, she
began, “Now, my dear child, let us have a quiet talk.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite expected some important communication, so that
she was not a little surprised when Madame de Fondege resumed: “Have you
thought about your mourning?”

“About my mourning, madame?”

“Yes. I mean, have you decided what dresses you will purchase? It is
an important matter, my dear--more important than you suppose. They are
making costumes entirely of crepe now, puffed and plaited, and extremely
stylish. I saw one that would suit you well. You may think that a
costume for deep mourning made with puffs would be a trifle LOUD, but
that depends upon tastes. The Duchess de Veljo wore one only eleven days
after her husband’s death; and she allowed some of her hair, which is
superb, to fall over her shoulders, a la pleureuse, and the effect was
extremely touching.” Was Madame de Fondege speaking sincerely? There
could be no doubt of it. Her features, which had been distorted with
anger when the General took it into his head to order the bottle of
Bordeaux, had regained their usual placidity of expression, and had even
brightened a little. “I am entirely at your service, my dear, if you
wish any shopping done,” she continued. “And if you are not quite
pleased with your dressmaker, I will take you to mine, who works like an
angel. But how absurd I am. You will of course employ Van Klopen. I go
to him occasionally myself, but only on great occasions. Between you and
me, I think him a trifle too high in his charges.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite could scarcely repress a smile. “I must confess,
madame, that from my infancy I have been in the habit of making almost
all my dresses myself.”

The General’s wife raised her eyes to Heaven in real or feigned
astonishment. “Yourself!” she repeated four or five times, as if to make
sure that she had heard aright. “Yourself! That is incomprehensible!
You, the daughter of a man who possessed an income of five or six
hundred thousand francs a year! Still I know that poor M. de Chalusse,
though unquestionably a very worthy and excellent man, was peculiar in
some of his ideas.”

“Excuse me, madame. What I did, I did for my own pleasure.”

But this assertion exceeded Madame de Fondege’s powers of comprehension.
“Impossible!” she murmured, “impossible! But, my poor child, what did
you do for fashions--for patterns?”

The immense importance she attached to the matter was so manifest that
Marguerite could not refrain from smiling. “I was probably not a very
close follower of the fashions,” she replied. “The dress that I am
wearing now----.”

“Is very pretty, my child, and it becomes you extremely; that’s the
truth. Only, to be frank, I must confess that this style is no longer
worn--no--not at all. You must have your new dresses made in quite a
different way.”

“But I already have more dresses than I need, madame.”

“What! black dresses?”

“I seldom wear anything but black.”

Evidently her hostess had never heard anything like this before. “Oh!
all right,” said she, “these dresses will doubtless do very well for
your first months of mourning--but afterward? Do you suppose, my poor
dear, that I’m going to allow you to shut yourself up as you did at the
Hotel de Chalusse? Good heavens! how dull it must have been for you,
alone in that big house, without society or friends.”

A tear fell from Marguerite’s long lashes. “I was very happy there,
madame,” she murmured.

“You think so; but you will change your mind. When one has never tasted
real pleasure, one cannot realize how gloomy one’s life really is. No
doubt, you were very unhappy alone with M. de Chalusse.”

“Oh! madame----”

“Tut! tut! my dear, I know what I am talking about. Wait until you have
been introduced into society before you boast of the charms of solitude.
Poor dear! I doubt if you have ever attended a ball in your whole life.
No! I was sure of it, and you are twenty! Fortunately, I am here. I will
take your mother’s place, and we will make up for lost time! Beautiful
as you are, my child--for you are divinely beautiful--you will reign as
a queen wherever you appear. Doesn’t that thought make that cold little
heart of yours throb more quickly? Ah! fetes and music, wonderful
toilettes and the flashing of diamonds, the admiration of gentlemen,
the envy of rivals, the consciousness of one’s own beauty, are these
delights not enough to fill any woman’s life? It is intoxication,
perhaps, but an intoxication which is happiness.”

Was she sincere, or did she hope to dazzle this lonely girl, and then
rule her through the tastes she might succeed in giving her? As is not
unfrequently the case with callous natures, Madame de Fondege was a
compound of frankness and cunning. What she was saying now she really
meant; and as it was to her interest to say it, she urged her opinions
boldly and even eloquently. Twenty-four hours earlier, proud and
truthful Marguerite would have silenced her at once. She would have told
her that such pleasures could never have any charm for her, and that she
felt only scorn and disgust for such worthless aims and sordid desires.
But having resolved to appear a dupe, she concealed her real feelings
under an air of surprise, and was astonished and even ashamed to find
that she could dissemble so well.

“Besides,” continued Madame de Fondege, “a marriageable young girl
should never shut herself up like a nun. She will never find a husband
if she remains at home--and she must marry. Indeed, marriage is a
sensible woman’s only object in life, since it is her emancipation.”

Was Madame de Fondege going to plead her son’s cause? Mademoiselle
Marguerite almost believed it--but the lady was too shrewd for that. She
took good care not to mention as much as Lieutenant Gustave’s name.

“The season will certainly be unusually brilliant,” she said, “and
it will begin very early. On the fifth of November, the Countess de
Commarin will give a superb fete; all Paris will be there. On the
seventh, there will be a ball at the house of the Viscountess de Bois
d’Ardon. On the eleventh, there will be a concert, followed by a ball,
at the superb mansion of the Baroness Trigault--you know--the wife of
that strange man who spends all his time in playing cards.”

“This is the first time I ever heard the name mentioned.”

“Really! and you have been living in Paris for years. It seems
incomprehensible. You must know then, my dear little ignoramus, that the
Baroness Trigault is one of the most distinguished ladies in Paris, and
certainly the best dressed. I am sure her bill at Van Klopen’s is not
less than a hundred thousand francs a year--and that is saying enough,
is it not?” And with genuine pride, she added: “The baroness is my
friend. I will introduce you to her.”

Having once started on this theme, Madame de Fondege was not easily
silenced. It was evidently her ambition to be considered a woman of the
world, and to be acquainted with all the leaders of fashionable society;
and, in fact, if one listened to her conversation for an hour one could
learn all the gossip of the day. Though she was unable to interest
herself in this tittle-tattle, Marguerite was pretending to listen to it
with profound attention when the drawing-room door suddenly opened and
Evariste appeared with an impudent smile on his face. “Madame Landoire,
the milliner, is here, and desires to speak with Madame la Comtesse,” he
said.

On hearing this name, Madame de Fondege started as if she had been
stung by a viper. “Let her wait,” she said quickly. “I will see her in a
moment.”

The order was useless, for the visitor was already on the threshold.
She was a tall, dark-haired, ill-mannered woman. “Ah! I’ve found you
at last,” she said, rudely, “and I’m not sorry. This is the fourth time
I’ve come here with my bill.”

Madame de Fondege pointed to Mademoiselle Marguerite, and exclaimed:
“Wait, at least, until I am alone before you speak to me on business.”

Madame Landoire shrugged her shoulders. “As if you were ever alone,” she
growled. “I wish to put an end to this.”

“Step into my room then, and we will put an end to it, and at once.”

This opportunity to escape from Madame de Fondege must not be allowed
to pass; so Marguerite asked permission to withdraw, declaring, what was
really the truth, that she felt completely tired out. After receiving
a maternal kiss from her hostess, accompanied by a “sleep well, my dear
child,” she retired to her own room. Thanks to Madame Leon’s absence,
she found herself alone, and, drawing a blotting-pad from one of her
trunks, she hastily wrote a note to M. Isidore Fortunat, telling him
that she would call upon him on the following Tuesday. “I must be very
awkward,” she thought, “if to-morrow, on going to mass, I can’t find
an opportunity to throw this note into a letter-box without being
observed.”

It was fortunate that she had lost no time, for her writing-case was
scarcely in its place again before Madame Leon entered, evidently out of
sorts. “Well,” asked Marguerite, “did you see your friends?”

“Don’t speak of it, my dear young lady; they were all of them away from
home--they had gone to the play.”

“Ah?”

“So I shall go again early to-morrow morning; you must realize how
important it is.”

“Yes, I understand.”

But Madame Leon, who was usually so loquacious, did not seem to be in a
talkative mood that evening, and, after kissing her dear young lady, she
went into her own room.

“She did not succeed in finding the Marquis de Valorsay,” thought
Marguerite, “and being in doubt as to the part she is to play, she feels
furious.”

The young girl tried to sum up the impressions of the evening, and to
decide upon a plan of conduct, but she felt sad and very weary. She said
to herself that rest would be more beneficial than anything else, and
that her mind would be clearer on the morrow; so after a fervent prayer
in which Pascal Ferailleur’s name was mentioned several times, she
prepared for bed. But before she fell asleep she was able to collect
another bit of evidence. The sheets on her bed were new.

If Marguerite had been born in the Hotel de Chalusse, if she had known a
father’s and a mother’s tender care from her infancy, if she had always
been protected by a large fortune from the stern realities of life,
there would have been no hope for her now that she was left poor and
alone--for how can a girl avoid dangers she is ignorant of? But from her
earliest childhood Marguerite had studied the difficult science of real
life under the best of teachers--misfortune. Cast upon her own resources
at the age of thirteen, she had learned to look upon everybody and
everything with distrust; and by relying only on herself, she had become
strangely cautious and clear-sighted. She knew how to watch and how
to listen, how to deliberate and how to act. Two men, the Marquis de
Valorsay and M. de Fondege’s son, coveted her hand; and one of the two,
the marquis, so she believed, was capable of any crime. Still she felt
no fears. She had been in danger once before when she was little more
than a child, when the brother of her employer insulted her with his
attentions, but she had escaped unharmed.

Deceit was certainly most repugnant to her truth-loving nature; but it
was the only weapon of defence she possessed. And so on the following
day she carefully studied the abode of her entertainers. And certainly
the study was instructive. The General’s household was truly Parisian
in character; or, at least, it was what a Parisian household inevitably
becomes when its inmates fall a prey to the constantly increasing
passion for luxury and display, to the furore for aping the habits and
expenditure of millionaires, and to the noble and elevated desire of
humiliating and outshining their neighbors. Ease, health, and comfort
had been unscrupulously sacrificed to show. The dining-room was
magnificent, the drawing-room superb; but these were the only
comfortably furnished apartments in the establishment. The other rooms
were bare and desolate. It is true that Madame de Fondege had a handsome
wardrobe with glass doors in her own room, but this was an article
which the friend of the fashionable Baroness Trigault could not possibly
dispense with. On the other hand, her bed had no curtains.

The aspect of the place fittingly explained the habits and manners of
the inmates. What sinister fears must have haunted them! for how could
this extreme destitution in one part of the establishment be reconciled
with the luxury noticeable in the other, except by the fact that a
desperate struggle to keep up appearances was constantly going on? And
this constant anxiety made out-door noise, excitement, and gayety a
necessity of their existence, and caused them to welcome anything that
took them from the home where they had barely sufficient to deceive
society, and not enough to impose upon their creditors. “And they keep
three servants,” thought Mademoiselle Marguerite--“three enemies who
spend their time in ridiculing them, and torturing their vanity.”

Thus, on the very first day after her arrival, she realized the real
situation of the General and his wife. They were certainly on the
verge of ruin when Mademoiselle Marguerite accepted their hospitality.
Everything went to prove this: the coachman’s insolent demand, the
servants’ impudence, the grocer’s refusal to furnish a single bottle of
wine on credit, the milliner’s persistence, and, lastly, the new
sheets on the visitors’ beds. “Yes,” thought Mademoiselle Marguerite to
herself, “the Fondeges were ruined when I came here. They would never
have sunk so low if they had not been utterly destitute of resources.
So, if they rise again, if money and credit come back again, then the
old magistrate is right--they have obtained possession of the Chalusse
millions!”