Chapter 2

On this side, at least, Mademoiselle Marguerite had no very wide field
of investigation to explore. Her common sense told her that her task
would merely consist in carefully watching the behavior of the General
and his wife, in noting their expenditure, and so on. It was a matter
of close attention, and of infinitesimal trifles. Nor was she much
encouraged by her first success. It was, perhaps, important; and yet
it might be nothing. For she felt that the real difficulties would not
begin until she became morally certain that the General had stolen the
millions that were missing from the count’s escritoire. Even then it
would remain for her to discover how he had obtained possession of
this money. And when she had succeeded in doing this, would her task be
ended? Certainly not. She must obtain sufficient evidence to give her
the right of accusing the General openly, and in the face of every one.
She must have material and indisputable proofs before she could say: “A
robbery has been committed. I was accused of it. I was innocent. Here is
the culprit!”

What a long journey must be made before this goal was reached! No
matter! Now that she had a positive and fixed point of departure, she
felt that she possessed enough energy to sustain her in her endeavors
for years, if need be. What troubled her most was that she could not
logically explain the conduct of her enemies from the time M. de Fondege
had asked her hand for his son up to the present moment. And first, why
had they been so audacious or so imprudent as to bring her to their own
home if they had really stolen one of those immense amounts that are
sure to betray their possessors? “They are mad,” she thought, “or else
they must deem me blind, deaf, and more stupid than mortal ever was!”
Secondly, why should they be so anxious to marry her to their son,
Lieutenant Gustave? This also was a puzzling question. However, she was
fully decided on one point: the suspicions of the Fondege family must
not be aroused. If they were on their guard, it would be the easiest
thing in the world for them to pay their debts quietly, and increase
their expenditure so imperceptibly that she would not be able to prove a
sudden acquisition of wealth.

But the events of the next few days dispelled these apprehensions. That
very afternoon, although it was Sunday, it became evident that a
shower of gold had fallen on the General’s abode. The door-bell rang
incessantly for several hours, and an interminable procession of
tradesmen entered. It looked very much as if M. de Fondege had called a
meeting of his creditors. They came in haughty and arrogant, with their
hats upon their heads, and surly of speech, like people who have made
up their minds to accept their loss, but who intend to pay themselves in
rudeness. They were ushered into the drawing-room where the General was
holding his levee; they remained there from five to ten minutes,
and then, bowing low with hat in hand, they retired with radiant
countenances, and an obsequious smile on their lips. So they had been
paid. And as if to prove to Mademoiselle Marguerite that her suspicions
were correct, she chanced to be present when the livery stable-keeper
presented his bill.

Madame de Fondege received him very haughtily. “Ah! here you are!”
she exclaimed, rudely, as soon as he appeared. “So you are the man who
teaches his drivers to insult his customers? That is an excellent way to
gain patronage. What! I hire a one-horse carriage from you by the month,
and because I happen to wish for a two-horse vehicle for a single day,
you make me pay the difference. You should demand payment in advance if
you are so suspicious.”

The stable-keeper, who had a bill for nearly four thousand francs in
his pocket, stood listening with the air of a man who is meditating some
crushing reply; but she did not give him time to deliver it. “When
I have cause to complain of the people I employ, I dismiss them and
replace them by others. Insolence is one of those things that I never
forgive. Give me your bill.”

The man, in whose face doubt, fear, and hope had succeeded each other in
swift succession, thereupon drew an interminable bill from his pocket.
And when he saw the bank-notes, when he saw the bill paid without
dispute or even examination, he was seized with a wondering respect, and
his voice became sweeter than honey. They say the payment of a bad debt
delights a merchant a thousand times more than the settlement of fifty
good ones. The truth of this assertion became apparent in the present
case. Mademoiselle Marguerite thought the man was going to beg “Madame
la Comtesse to do him the favor to withhold a portion of the small
amount.” For the Parisian tradesman is so constituted that very
frequently it is not necessary to pay him money, but only to show it.

However, this creditor’s abnegation did not extend so far; still he did
entreat Madame la Comtesse not to leave him on account of a blunder--for
it was a blunder--he swore it on his children’s heads. His coachman was
only a fool and a drunkard, who had misunderstood him entirely, and whom
he should ignominiously dismiss on returning to his establishment.
But “Madame la Comtesse” was inflexible. She sent the man about his
business, saying, “I never place myself in a position to be treated with
disrespect a second time.”

This probably accounted for the fact that Evariste, the footman, who had
been so wanting in respect the previous evening, had been sent away that
very morning. Mademoiselle Marguerite did not see him again. Dinner was
served by a new servant, who had been sent by an Employment Office, and
engaged without a question, no doubt because Evariste’s livery fitted
him like a glove. Had the cook also been replaced? Mademoiselle
Marguerite thought so, though she had no means of convincing herself on
this point. It was certain, however, that the Sunday dinner was utterly
unlike that of the evening before. Quality had replaced quantity, and
care, profusion. It was not necessary to send to the cellar for a bottle
of Chateau-Laroze; it made its appearance at the proper moment, warmed
to the precise degree of temperature, and seemed quite to the taste of
excellent Madame Leon.

In twenty-four hours the Fondege family had been raised to such
affluence that they must have asked themselves if it were possible they
had ever known the agonies of that life of false appearances and sham
luxury which is a thousand times worse than an existence of abject
poverty. “Is it possible that I am deceived?” Marguerite said to
herself, on retiring to her room that evening. For it surprised her that
a keen-sighted person like Madame Leon should not have remarked this
revolution; but the worthy companion merely declared the General and his
wife to be charming people, and did not cease to congratulate her dear
young lady upon having accepted their hospitality. “I feel quite at home
here,” said she; “and though my room is a trifle small, I shall have
nothing to wish for when it has been refurnished.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite spent a restless and uncomfortable night. In
spite of her reason, in spite of the convincing proofs she had seen, the
most disturbing doubts returned. Might she not have judged the situation
with a prejudiced mind? Had the Fondeges really been as reduced in
circumstances as she supposed? Like every one who has been unfortunate,
she feared illusions, and was extremely distrustful of everything
that seemed to favor her hopes and wishes. The only thing that
really encouraged her was the thought that she could consult the old
magistrate, and that M. de Chalusse’s former agent might succeed in
finding Pascal Ferailleur. M. Fortunat must have received her letter
by this time: he would undoubtedly expect her on Tuesday, and it only
remained for her to invent some excuse which would give her a couple of
hours’ liberty without awakening suspicion.

She rose early the next morning, and had almost completed her toilette,
when she heard some one in the passage outside rapping at the door of
Madame Leon’s room. “Who’s there?” inquired that worthy lady.

It was Justine, Madame de Fondege’s maid, who answered in a pert voice,
“Here is a letter, madame, which has just been sent up by the concierge.
It is addressed to Madame Leon. That is your name, is it not?”

Marguerite staggered as if she had received a heavy blow. “My God! a
letter from the Marquis de Valorsay!” she thought.

It was evident that the estimable lady was expecting this missive by
the eagerness with which she sprang out of bed and opened the door.
And Marguerite heard her say to the servant in her sweetest voice: “A
thousand thanks, my child! Ah! this is a great relief, I have heard from
my brother-in-law at last. I recognize his hand-writing.” And then the
door closed again.

Standing silent and motionless in the middle of her room, Marguerite
listened with that feverish anxiety that excites the perceptive
faculties to the utmost degree. An inward voice, stronger than reason,
told her that this letter threatened her happiness, her future, perhaps
her life! But how could she convince herself of the truth of this
presentiment? If she had followed her first impulse, she would have
rushed into Madame Leon’s room and have snatched the letter from her
hands. But if she did this, she would betray herself, and prove that she
was not the dupe they supposed her to be, and this supposition on the
part of her enemies constituted her only chance of salvation.

If she could only watch Madame Leon as she read the letter, and gain
some information from the expression of her face; but this seemed
impossible, for the keyhole was blocked up by the key, which had been
left in the lock on the other side. Suddenly a crack in the partition
attracted her attention, and finding that it extended through the wall,
she realized she might watch what was passing in the adjoining room. So
she approached the spot on tiptoe, and, with bated breath, stooped and
looked in.

In her impatience to learn the contents of her letter, Madame Leon
had not gone back to bed. She had broken the seal, and was reading the
missive, standing barefooted in her night-dress, directly opposite the
little crevice. She read line after line, and word after word, and
her knitted brows and compressed lips suggested deep concentration of
thought mingled with discontent. At last she shrugged her shoulders,
muttered a few inaudible words, and laid the open letter upon the
rickety chest of drawers, which, with two chairs and a bed, constituted
the entire furniture of her apartment.

“My God!” exclaimed Marguerite, with bated breath, “if she would only
forget it!”

But she did not forget it. She began to dress, and when she had finished
she read the letter again, and then placed it carefully in one of the
drawers, which she locked, putting the key in her pocket.

“I shall never know, then,” thought Marguerite; “no, I shall never know.
But I must know--and I will!” she added vehemently.

From that moment a firm determination to obtain that letter took
possession of her mind; and so deeply was she occupied in seeking for
some means to surmount the difficulties which stood in her way that she
did not say a dozen words during breakfast. “I must be a fool if I can’t
find some way of gaining possession of that letter,” she said to herself
again and again. “I’m sure I could find in it the explanation of the
abominable intrigue which Pascal and I are the victims of.”

Happily, her preoccupation was not remarked. Each person present was too
deeply engrossed in his or her own concerns to notice the behavior of
the others. Madame Leon’s mind was occupied with the news she had just
received; and, besides, her attention was considerably attracted by some
partridges garnished with truffles, and a bottle of Chateau-Laroze.
For she was rather fond of good living, the dear lady, as she confessed
herself, adding that no one is perfect. The General talked of nothing
but a certain pair of horses which he was to look at that afternoon, and
which he thought of buying--being quite disgusted with job-masters, so
he declared. Besides, he expected to get the animals at a bargain, as
they were the property of a young gentleman who had been led to commit
certain misdemeanors by his love of gambling and his passion for a
notorious woman who was addicted with an insatiable desire for jewelry.

As for Madame de Fondege, her head seemed to have been completely turned
by the prospect of the approaching fete at the Countess de Commarin’s.
She had only a fortnight left to make her preparations. All the evening
before, through part of the night, and ever since she had been awake
that morning, she had been racking her brain to arrive at an effective
combination of colors and materials. And at the cost of a terrible
headache, she had at last conceived one of those toilettes which are
sure to make a sensation, and which the newspaper reporters will mention
as noticeable for its “chic.” “Picture to yourself,” she said, all
ablaze with enthusiasm, “picture to yourself a robe of tea-flower silk,
trimmed with bands of heavy holland-tinted satin, thickly embroidered
with flowers. A wide flounce of Valenciennes at the bottom of the skirt.
Over this, I shall wear a tunic of pearl-gray crepe, edged with a fringe
of the various shades in the dress, and forming a panier behind.”

But how much trouble, time and labor must be expended before such an
elaborate chef-d’oeuvre could be completed! How many conferences with
the dressmaker, with the florist, and the embroiderer! How many doubts,
how many inevitable mistakes! Ah! there was not a moment to lose! Madame
de Fondege, who was dressed to go out, and who had already sent for a
carriage, insisted that Mademoiselle Marguerite should accompany her.
And certainly, the General’s wife deemed the proposal a seductive one.
It is a very fashionable amusement to run from one shop to another,
even when one cannot, or will not, buy. It is a custom, which some
noble ladies have imported from America, to the despair of the poor
shopkeepers. And thus every fine afternoon, the swell shops are filled
to overflowing with richly-attired dames and damsels, who ask to see all
the new goods. It is far more amusing than remaining at home. And when
they return to dinner in the evening, after inspecting hundreds of yards
of silk and satin, they are very well pleased with themselves, for they
have not lost the day. Nor do the shrewdest always return from these
expeditions empty-handed. A dozen gloves or a piece of lace can be
hidden so easily in the folds of a mantle!

And yet, to Madame de Fondege’s great surprise, Marguerite declined the
invitation. “I have so many things to put in order,” she added, feeling
that an excuse was indispensable.

But Madame Leon, who had not the same reasons as her dear child
for wishing to remain at home, kindly offered her services. She was
acquainted with several of the best shops, she declared, particularly
with the establishment of a dealer in laces, in the Rue de Mulhouse, and
thanks to an introduction from her, Madame de Fondege could not fail to
conclude a very advantageous bargain there. “Very well,” replied Madame
de Fondege, “I will take you with me, then; but make haste and dress
while I put on my bonnet.”

They left the breakfast-room at the same time, closely followed by
Mademoiselle Marguerite, who was disturbed by a hope which she scarcely
dared confess to herself. With her forehead resting against the wall,
and her eye peering through the tiny crack, she watched her governess
change her dress, throw a shawl over her shoulders, put on her best
bonnet, and, after a glance at the looking-glass, rush from the room,
exclaiming: “Here I am, my dear countess. I’m ready.”

And a few moments afterward they left the house together.

As the outer door closed after them, Marguerite’s brain whirled. If she
were not deceived, Madame Leon had left the key of the drawers in the
pocket of the dress she had just taken off. So it was with a wildly
throbbing heart that she opened the communicating door and entered her
“companion’s” room. She hastily approached the bed on which the dress
was lying, and, with a trembling hand, she began to search for the
pocket. Fortune favored her! The key was there. The letter was within
her reach. But she was about to do a deed against which her whole nature
revolted. To steal a key, to force an article of furniture open, and
violate the secret of a private correspondence, these were actions so
repugnant to her sense of honor, and her pride, that for some time she
stood irresolute. At last the instinct of self-preservation overpowered
her scruples. Was not her honor, and Pascal’s honor also, at stake--as
well as their mutual love and happiness? “It would be folly to
hesitate.” she murmured. And with a firm hand she placed the key in the
lock.

The latter was out of order and the drawer was only opened with
difficulty. But there, on some clothes which Madame Leon had not yet
found time to arrange, Marguerite saw the letter. She eagerly snatched
it up, unfolded it, and read: “Dear Madame Leon--” “Dear me,” she
muttered, “here is the name in full. This is an indiscretion which will
render denial difficult.” And she resumed her perusal: “Your letter,
which I have just received, confirms what my servants had already
told me: that twice during my absence--on Saturday evening and Sunday
morning--you called at my house to see me.” So Mademoiselle Marguerite’s
penetration had served her well. All this talk about anxious relatives
had only been an excuse invented by Madame Leon to enable her to absent
herself whenever occasion required. “I regret,” continued the letter,
“that you did not find me at home, for I have instructions of the
greatest importance to give you. We are approaching the decisive moment.
I have formed a plan which will completely, and forever, efface all
remembrance of that cursed P. F., in case any one condescended to think
of him after the disgrace we fastened upon him the other evening at the
house of Madame d’Argeles.” P. F.--these initials of course meant
Pascal Ferailleur. Then he was innocent, and she held an undeniable,
irrefutable proof of his innocence in her hands. How coolly and
impudently Valorsay confessed his atrocious crime! “A bold stroke is in
contemplation which, if no unfortunate and well-nigh impossible accident
occur, will throw the girl into my arms.” Marguerite shuddered. “The
girl” referred to her, of course. “Thanks to the assistance of one of my
friends,” added the letter “I can place this proud damsel in a perilous,
terribly perilous position, from which she cannot possibly extricate
herself unaided. But, just as she gives herself up for lost, I shall
interpose. I shall save her; and it will be strange if gratitude does
not work the necessary miracle in my favor. The plan is certain to
succeed. Still, it will be all the better if the physician who attended
M. de C---- in his last moments, and whom you spoke to me about (Dr.
Jodon, if I remember rightly), will consent to lend us a helping hand.
What kind of a man is he? If he is accessible to the seductive influence
of a few thousand francs, I shall consider the business as good as
concluded. Your conduct up to the present time has been a chef-d’oeuvre,
for which you shall be amply compensated. You have cause to know that
I am not ungrateful. Let the F’s continue their intrigues, and even
pretend to favor them. I am not afraid of these people. I understand
their game perfectly, and know why they wish my little one to marry
their son. But when they become troublesome, I shall crush them like
glass. In spite of these explanations, which I have just given you for
your guidance, it is very necessary that I should see you. I shall look
for you on Tuesday afternoon, between three and four o’clock. Above all,
don’t fail to bring me the desired information respecting Dr. Jodon. I
am, my dear madame, devotedly yours--V.” Below ran a postscript which
read as follows: “When you come on Tuesday bring this letter with you.
We will burn it together. Don’t imagine that I distrust you--but there
is nothing so dangerous as letters.”

For some time Marguerite stood, stunned and appalled by the Marquis de
Valorsay’s audacity, and by the language of this letter, which was at
once so obscure and so clear, every line of it threatening her future.
The reality surpassed her worst apprehensions, but realizing the gravity
of the situation, she shook off the torpor stealing over her. She felt
that every second was precious, and that she must act, and act at once.
But what should she do? Simply return the letter to its place, and
continue to act the role of a dupe, as if nothing had happened? No; that
must not be. It would be madness not to seize this flagrant proof of
the Marquis de Valorsay’s infamy. But on the other hand, if she kept
the letter, Madame Leon would immediately discover its loss, and an
explanation would be unavoidable. M. de Valorsay would be worsted, but
not annihilated, and the plans which made the physician’s intervention
a necessity would never be revealed. She thought of hastening to her
friend the old magistrate; but he lived a long way off, and time was
pressing. Besides she might not find him at home. Then she thought of
going to a notary, to a judge. She would show them the letter, and they
could take a copy of it. But no--this would do no good--the marquis
could still deny it. She was becoming desperate, and was accusing
herself of stupidity, when a sudden inspiration illumined her mind,
turning night into day, as it were. “Oh, Pascal, we are saved!” she
exclaimed. And without pausing to deliberate any longer, she threw a
mantle over her shoulders, hastily tied on her bonnet, and hurried from
the house, without saying a word to any one.

Unfortunately she was not acquainted with this part of Paris, and on
reaching the Rue Pigalle she was at a loss for her way. Unwilling to
waste any more time, she hastily entered a grocer’s shop at the corner
of the Rue Pigalle and the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, and anxiously
inquired: “Do you know any photographer in this neighborhood, monsieur?”

Her agitation made this question seem so singular that the grocer
looked at her closely for a moment, as if to make sure that she was not
jesting. “You have only to go down the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette,” he
replied, “and on the left-hand side, at the foot of the hill, you will
find the photographer Carjat.”

“Thank you.”

The grocer stepped to the door to watch her. “That girl’s certainly
light-headed,” he thought.

Her demeanor was really so extraordinary that it attracted the attention
of the passers-by. She saw this, and slackening her pace, tried
to become more composed. At the spot the grocer had indicated, she
perceived several show frames filled with photographs hanging on either
side of a broad, open gateway, above which ran the name, “E. Carjat.”
She went in, and seeing a man standing at the door of an elegant
pavilion on the right-hand side of a large courtyard, she approached
him, and asked for his employer.

“He is here,” replied the man. “Does madame come for a photograph?”

“Yes.”

“Then will madame be so kind as to pass in. She will not be obliged to
wait long. There are only four or five persons before her.”

Four or five persons! How long would she be obliged to wait?--half an
hour--two hours? She had not the slightest idea. But she DID know that
she had not a second to lose, that Madame Leon might return at any
moment, and find the letter missing; and, to crown all, she remembered
now that she had not even locked the drawer again. “I cannot wait,” she
said, imperiously. “I must speak to M. Carjat at once.”

“But----”

“At once, I tell you. Go and tell him that he must come.”

Her tone was so commanding, and there was so much authority in her
glance, that the servant hesitated no longer. He ushered her into a
little sitting-room, and said, “If madame will take a seat, I will call
monsieur.”

She sank on to a chair, for her limbs were failing her. She was
beginning to realize the strangeness of the step she had taken--to fear
the result it might lead to--and to be astonished at her own boldness.
But she had no time to prepare what she wished to say, for a man of
five-and-thirty, wearing a mustache and imperial, and clad in a velvet
coat, entered the room, and bowing with an air of surprise, exclaimed:
“You desire to speak with me, madame?”

“I have a great favor to ask of you, monsieur.”

“Of me?”

She drew M. de Valorsay’s letter from her pocket, and, showing it to
the photographer, she said, “I have come to you, monsieur, to ask you
to photograph this letter--but at once--before me--and quickly--very
quickly. The honor of two persons is imperilled by each moment I lose
here.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite’s embarrassment was extreme. Her cheeks were
crimson, and she trembled like a leaf. Still her attitude was proud,
generous enthusiasm glowed in her dark eyes, and her tone of voice
revealed the serenity of a lofty soul ready to dare anything for a just
and noble cause. This striking contrast--this struggle between girlish
timidity and a lover’s virgil energy, endowed her with a strange and
powerful charm, which the photographer made no attempt to resist.
Unusual as was the request, he did not hesitate. “I am ready to do what
you desire, madame,” he replied, bowing again.

“Oh! monsieur, how can I ever thank you?”

He did not stop to listen to her thanks. Not wishing to return to the
reception-room, where five or six clients were impatiently awaiting
their turn, he called one of his subordinates, and ordered him to bring
the necessary apparatus at once. While he was speaking, Mademoiselle
Marguerite paused; but, as soon as his instructions were concluded, she
remarked: “Perhaps you are too hasty, sir. You have not allowed me to
explain; and perhaps what I desire is impossible. I came on the impulse
of the moment, without any knowledge on the subject. Before you set to
work, I must know if what you can do will answer my purpose.”

“Speak, madame.”

“Will the copy you obtain be precisely like the original in every
particular?”

“In every particular.”

“The writing will be the same--exactly the same?”

“Absolutely the same.”

“So like, that if one of your photographs should be presented to the
person who wrote this letter----”

“He could no more deny his handwriting than he could if some one handed
him the letter itself.”

“And the operation will leave no trace on the original?”

“None.”

A smile of triumph played upon Mademoiselle Marguerite’s lips. It was as
she had thought; the defensive plan which she had suddenly conceived was
a good one. “One more question, sir,” she resumed. “I am only a poor,
ignorant girl: excuse me, and give me the benefit of your knowledge.
This letter will be returned to its author to-morrow, and he will burn
it. But afterward, in case of any difficulty--in case of a law-suit--or
in case it should be necessary for me to prove certain things which one
might establish by means of this letter, would one of your photographs
be admitted as evidence?”

The photographer did not answer for a moment. Now he understood
Mademoiselle Marguerite’s motive, and the importance she attached to a
facsimile. But this imparted an unexpected gravity to the service he was
called upon to perform. He therefore wished some time for reflection,
and he scrutinized Mademoiselle Marguerite as if he were trying to read
her very soul. Was it possible that this young girl, with such a pure
and noble brow, and with such frank, honest eyes, could be meditating
any cowardly, dishonorable act? No, he could not believe it. In whom,
or in what, could he trust if such a countenance deceived him? “My
facsimile would certainly be admitted as evidence,” he replied at last;
“and this would not be the first time that the decision of a court has
depended on proofs which have been photographed by me.”

Meanwhile, his assistant had returned, bringing the necessary apparatus
with him. When all was ready, the photographer asked her, “Will you give
me the letter, madame?”

She hesitated for a second--only for a second. The man’s honest, kindly
face told her that he would not betray her, that he would rather give
her assistance. So she handed him the Marquis de Valorsay’s letter,
saying, with melancholy dignity, “It is my happiness and my future that
I place in your hands--and I have no fears.”

He read her thoughts, and understood that she either dared not ask for a
pledge of secrecy, or else that she thought it unnecessary. He took pity
on her, and his last doubt fled. “I shall read this letter, madame,”
said he, “but I am the only person who will read it. I give you my word
on that! No one but myself will see the proofs.”

Greatly moved, she offered him her hand, and simply said, “Thanks; I am
more than repaid.”

To obtain an absolutely perfect facsimile of a letter is a delicate
and sometimes lengthy operation. However, at the end of about twenty
minutes, the photographer possessed two negatives that promised him
perfect proofs. He looked at them with a satisfied air; and then
returning the letter to Mademoiselle Marguerite, he said, “In less than
three days the facsimiles will be ready, madame; and if you will tell me
to what address I ought to send them----”

She trembled on hearing these words, and quickly answered, “Don’t send
them, sir--keep them carefully. Great heavens! all would be lost if it
came to the knowledge of any one. I will send for them, or come myself.”
And, feeling the extent of her obligation, she added, “But I will not go
without introducing myself--I am Mademoiselle Marguerite de Chalusse.”
And, thereupon, she went off, leaving the photographer surprised at the
adventure and dazzled by his strange visitor’s beauty.

Rather more than an hour had elapsed since Marguerite left M. de
Fondege’s house. “How time flies!” she murmured, quickening her pace
as much as she could without exciting remark--“how time flies!” But,
hurried as she was, she stopped and spent five minutes at a shop in the
Rue Notre Dame de Lorette where she purchased some black ribbon and a
few other trifles. How else could she explain and justify her absence,
if the servants, who had probably discovered she had gone out, chanced
to speak of it?

But her heart throbbed as if it would burst as she ascended the
General’s staircase, and anxiety checked her breathing as she rang the
bell. “What if Madame de Fondege and Madame Leon had returned, and
the abstraction of the letter been discovered!” Fortunately, Madame de
Fondege required more than an hour to purchase the materials for the
elaborate toilette she had dreamt of. The ladies were still out, and
Mademoiselle Marguerite found everything in the same condition as she
had left it. She carefully placed the letter in the drawer again, locked
it, and put the key in the pocket of Madame Leon’s dress. Then she
breathed freely once more; and, for the first time in six days, she felt
something very like joy in her heart. Now she had no fear of the Marquis
de Valorsay. She had him in her power. He would destroy his letter the
next day, and think that he was annihilating all proofs of his infamy.
Not so. At the decisive moment, at the very moment of his triumph,
she would produce the photograph of this letter, and crush him. And
she--only a young girl--had outwitted this consummate scoundrel! “I
have not been unworthy of Pascal,” she said to herself, with a flash of
pride.

However, her nature was not one of those weak ones which are become
intoxicated by the first symptom of success, and then relax in their
efforts. When her excitement had abated a little, she was inclined to
disparage rather than to exaggerate the advantage she had gained. What
she desired was a complete, startling, incontestable victory. It was
not enough to prove Valorsay’s GUILT--she was resolved to penetrate his
designs, to discover why he pursued her so desperately. And, though she
felt that she possessed a formidable weapon of defence, she could
not drive away her gloomy forebodings when she thought of the threats
contained in the marquis’s letter. “Thanks to the assistance of one
of my friends,” he wrote, “I can place this proud girl in a perilous,
terribly perilous, position, from which she cannot possibly extricate
herself unaided.”

These words persistently lingered in Mademoiselle Marguerite’s mind.
What was the danger hanging over her? whence would it come? and in what
form? What abominable machination might she not expect from the villain
who had deliberately dishonored Pascal? How would he attack her? Would
he strive to ruin her reputation, or did he intend to forcibly abduct
her? Would he attempt to decoy her into a trap where she would be
subjected to the insults of the vilest wretches? A thousand frightful
memories of the time when she was an apprentice drove her nearly
frantic. “I will never go out unarmed,” she thought, “and woe to the man
who raises his hand against me!”

The vagueness of the threat increased her fears. No one is courageous
enough to confront an unknown, mysterious, and always imminent danger
without sometimes faltering. Nor was this all. The marquis was not
her only enemy. She had the Fondege family to dread--these dangerous
hypocrites, who had taken her to their home so that they might ruin
her the more surely. M. de Valorsay wrote that he had no fears of the
Fondeges--that he understood their little game. What was their little
game? No doubt they were resolved that she should become their son’s
wife, even if they were obliged to use force to win her consent. At this
thought a sudden terror seized her soul, so full of peace and hope an
instant before. When she was attacked, would she have time to produce
and use the facsimile of Valorsay’s letter? “I must reveal my secret to
a friend--to a trusty friend--who will avenge me!” she muttered.

Fortunately she had a friend in whom she could safely confide--the old
magistrate who had given her such proofs of sympathy. She felt that she
needed the advice of a riper experience than her own, and the thought of
consulting him at once occurred to her. She was alone; she had no spy to
fear; and it would be folly not to profit by the few moments of liberty
that remained. So she drew her writing-case from her trunk, and, after
barricading her door to prevent a surprise, she wrote her friend an
account of the events which had taken place since their last interview.
She told him everything with rare precision and accuracy of detail,
sending him a copy of Valorsay’s letter, and informing him that, in case
any misfortune befell her, he could obtain the facsimiles from Carjat.
She finished her letter, but did not seal it. “If anything should happen
before I have an opportunity to post it, I will add a postscript,” she
said to herself.

She had made all possible haste, fearing that Madame de Fondege and
Madame Leon might return at any moment. But this was truly a chimerical
apprehension. It was nearly six o’clock when the two shoppers made their
appearance, wearied with the labors of the day, but in fine spirits.
Besides purchasing every requisite for that wonderful costume of hers,
the General’s wife had found some laces of rare beauty, which she had
secured for the mere trifle of four thousand francs. “It was one of
those opportunities one ought always to profit by,” she said, as she
displayed her purchase. “Besides, it is the same with lace as with
diamonds, you should purchase them when you can--then you have them.
It isn’t an outlay--it’s an investment.” Subtle reasoning that has cost
many a husband dear!

On her side, Madame Leon proudly showed her dear young lady a very
pretty present which Madame de Fondege had given her. “So money is no
longer lacking in this household,” thought Mademoiselle Marguerite, all
the more confirmed in her suspicions.

The General came in a little later, accompanied by a friend, and
Marguerite soon discovered that the worthy man had spent the day as
profitably as his wife. He too was quite tired out; and he had reason to
be fatigued. First, he had purchased the horses belonging to the ruined
spendthrift, and he had paid five thousand francs for them, a mere
trifle for such animals. Less than an hour after the purchase he had
refused almost double that amount from a celebrated connoisseur in
horse-flesh, M. de Breulh-Faverlay. This excellent speculation had put
him in such good humor that he had been unable to resist the temptation
of purchasing a beautiful saddle-horse, which they let him have for a
hundred louis. He had not been foolish, for he was sure that he could
sell the animal again at an advance of a thousand francs whenever he
wished to do so. “So,” remarked his friend, “if you bought such a horse
every day, you would make three hundred and sixty-five thousand francs a
year.”

Was this only a jest--one of those witticisms which people who boast
of wonderful bargains must expect to parry, or had the remark a more
serious meaning? Marguerite could not determine. One thing is certain,
the General did not lose his temper, but gayly continued his account of
the way in which he had spent his time. Having purchased the horses, his
next task was to find a carriage, and he had heard of a barouche which
a Russian prince had ordered but didn’t take, so that the builder was
willing to sell it at less than cost price; and to recoup this worthy
man, the General had purchased a brougham as well. He had, moreover,
hired stabling in the Rue Pigalle, only a few steps from the house, and
he expected a coachman and a groom the following morning.

“And all this will cost us less than the miserable vehicle we have been
hiring by the year,” observed Madame de Fondege, gravely. “Oh, I know
what I say. I’ve counted the cost. What with gratuities and extras, it
costs us now fully a thousand francs a month, and three horses and a
coachman won’t cost you more. And what a difference! I shall no longer
be obliged to blush for the skinny horses the stable-keeper sends me,
nor to endure the insolence of his men. The first outlay frightened me
a little; but that is made now, and I am delighted. We will save it in
something else.”

“In laces, no doubt,” thought Mademoiselle Marguerite. She was intensely
exasperated, and on regaining her chamber she said to herself, for the
tenth time, “What do they take me for? Do they think me an idiot to
flaunt the millions they have stolen from my father--that they have
stolen from me--before my eyes in this fashion? A common thief would
take care not to excite suspicion by a foolish expenditure of the fruits
of his knavery, but they--they have lost their senses.”

Madame Leon was already in bed, and when Mademoiselle Marguerite was
satisfied that she was asleep, she took her letter from her trunk, and
added this post-script: “P. S.--It is impossible to retain the shadow of
a doubt, M. and Madame de Fondege have spent certainly twenty thousand
francs to-day. This audacity must arise from a conviction that no proofs
of the crime they have committed exist. Still they continue to talk
to me about their son, Lieutenant Gustave. He will be presented to me
to-morrow. To-morrow, also, between three and four, I shall be at
the house of a man who can perhaps discover Pascal’s hiding-place for
me,--the house of M. Isidore Fortunat. I hope to make my escape easily
enough, for at that same hour, Madame Leon has an appointment with the
Marquis de Valorsay.”

X.

The old legend of Achilles’s heel will be eternally true. A man may be
humble or powerful, feeble or strong, but there are none of us without
some weak spot in our armor, a spot vulnerable beyond all others, a
certain place where wounds prove most dangerous and painful. M. Isidore
Fortunat’s weak place was his cash-box. To attack him there was to
endanger his life--to wound him at a point where all his sensibility
centred. For it was in this cash-box and not in his breast that his
heart really throbbed. His safe made him happy or dejected. Happy when
it was filled to overflowing by some brilliant operation, and dejected
when he saw it become empty as some imprudent transaction failed.

This then explains his frenzy on that ill-fated Sunday, when, after
being brutally dismissed by M. Wilkie, he returned to his rooms in the
company of his clerk, Victor Chupin. This explains, too, the intensity
of the hatred he now felt for the Marquis de Valorsay and the Viscount
de Coralth. The former, the marquis, had defrauded him of forty thousand
francs in glittering gold. The other, the viscount, had suddenly sprung
up out of the ground, and carried off from under his very nose that
magnificent prize, the Chalusse inheritance, which he had considered as
good as won. And he had not only been defrauded and swindled--such
were his own expressions--but he had been tricked, deceived, duped, and
outwitted, and by whom? By people who did not make it their profession
to be shrewd, like he did himself. Just fancy, his business was to
outwit others, and a couple of mere amateurs had outgeneraled him. He
had not only suffered in pocket, he had been humiliated as well, and so
he indulged in threats of such terrible import.

However, at the very moment when he was dreaming of wreaking vengeance
on the Marquis de Valorsay and the Viscount de Coralth, his housekeeper,
austere Madame Dodelin, handed him Mademoiselle Marguerite’s letter.
He read it with intense astonishment, rubbing his eyes as if to assure
himself that he were really awake. “Tuesday,” he repeated, “the day
after to-morrow--at your house--between three and four o’clock--I must
speak with you.”

His manner was so strange, and his usually impassive face so disturbed
by conflicting feelings, that Madame Dodelin’s curiosity overcame her
prudence, and she remained standing in front of him with open mouth,
staring with all her eyes and listening with all her ears. He perceived
this, and angrily exclaimed: “What are you doing here? You are watching
me, I do believe. Get back to your kitchen, or----”

She fled in alarm, and he then entered his private office. His heart
was leaping with joy, and he laughed wickedly at the hope of a speedy
revenge. “She’s on the scent,” he muttered; “and she has luck in
her favor. She has chanced to apply to me on the very day that I had
resolved to defend and rehabilitate her lover, the honest fool who
allowed himself to be dishonored by those unscrupulous blackguards. Just
as I was thinking of going in search of her, she comes to me. As I was
about to write to her, she writes to me. Who can deny the existence
of Providence after this?” Like many other people, M. Fortunat piously
believed in Providence when things went to his liking, but it is sad to
add that in the contrary case he denied its existence. “If she has any
courage,” he resumed, “and she seems to have plenty of it, Valorsay
and Coralth will be in a tight place soon. And if it takes ten thousand
francs to put them there, and if neither Mademoiselle Marguerite nor M.
Ferailleur has the amount--ah, well! I’ll advance--well, at least
five thousand--without charging them any commission. I’ll even pay the
expenses out of my own pocket, if necessary. Ah, my fine fellows, you’ve
laughed too soon. In a week’s time we’ll see who laughs last.”

He paused, for Victor Chupin, who had lingered behind to pay the driver,
had just entered the room. “You gave me twenty francs, m’sieur,” he
remarked to his employer. “I paid the driver four francs and five sous,
here’s the change.”

“Keep it yourself, Victor,” said M. Fortunat.

What! keep fifteen francs and fifteen sous? Under any other
circumstances such unusual generosity would have drawn a grimace of
satisfaction from young Chupin. But to-day he did not even smile; he
slipped the money carelessly into his pocket, and scarcely deigned to
say “thanks,” in the coldest possible tone.

Absorbed in thought, M. Fortunat did not remark this little
circumstance. “We have them, Victor,” he resumed. “I told you that
Valorsay and Coralth should pay me for their treason. Vengeance is near.
Read this letter.” Victor read it slowly, and as soon as he had finished
his employer ejaculated, “Well?”

But Chupin was not a person to give advice lightly. “Excuse me,
m’sieur,” said he, “but in order to answer you, I must have some
knowledge of the affair. I only know what you’ve told me--which is
little enough--and what I’ve guessed. In fact, I know nothing at all.”

M. Fortunat reflected for a moment. “You are right, Victor,” he said, at
last. “So far the explanation I gave you was all that was necessary; but
now that I expect more important services from you, I ought to tell
you the whole truth, or at least all I know about the affair. This will
prove my great confidence in you.” Whereupon, he acquainted Chupin with
everything he knew concerning the history of M. de Chalusse, the Marquis
de Valorsay, and Mademoiselle Marguerite.

However, if he expected these disclosures to elevate him in his
subordinate’s estimation he was greatly mistaken. Chupin had sufficient
experience and common sense to read his master’s character and discern
his motives. He saw plainly enough that this honest impulse on M.
Fortunat’s part came from disappointed avarice and wounded vanity, and
that the agent would have allowed the Marquis de Valorsay to carry out
his infamous scheme without any compunctions of conscience, providing
he, himself, had not been injured by it. Still, the young fellow did
not allow his real feelings to appear on his face. First, it was not
his business to tell M. Fortunat his opinion of him; and in the second
place, he did not deem it an opportune moment for a declaration of his
sentiments. So, when his employer paused, he exclaimed: “Well, we must
outwit these scoundrels--for I’ll join you, m’sieur; and I flatter
myself that I can be very useful to you. Do you want the particulars of
the viscount’s past life? If so, I can furnish them. I know the brigand.
He’s married, as I told you before, and I’ll find his wife for you in a
few days. I don’t know exactly where she lives, but she keeps a tobacco
store, somewhere, and that’s enough. She’ll tell you how much he’s a
viscount. Ha! ha! Viscount just as much as I am--and no more. I can tell
you the scrapes he has been in.”

“No doubt; but the most important thing is to know how he’s living now,
and on what!”

“Not by honest work, I can tell you. But give me a little time, and
I’ll find out for sure. As soon as I can go home, change my clothes,
and disguise myself, I’ll start after him; and may I be hung, if I don’t
return with a complete report before Tuesday.”

A smile of satisfaction appeared on M. Fortunat’s face. “Good, Victor!”
he said, approvingly, “very good! I see that you will serve me with your
usual zeal and intelligence. Rest assured that you will be rewarded as
you have never been rewarded before. As long as you are engaged in this
affair, you shall have ten francs a day; and I’ll pay your board, your
cab-hire, and all your expenses.”

This was a most liberal offer, and yet, far from seeming delighted,
Chupin gravely shook his head. “You know how I value money, m’sieur,” he
began.

“Too much, Victor, my boy, too much----”

“Excuse me, it’s because I have responsibilities, m’sieur. You know my
establishment”--he spoke this word with a grandiloquent air--“you have
seen my good mother--my expenses are heavy----”

“In short, you don’t think I offer you enough?”

“On the contrary, sir--but you don’t allow me to finish. I love money,
don’t I? But no matter, I don’t want to be paid for this business. I
don’t want either my board or my expenses, not a penny--nothing. I’ll
serve you, but for my own sake, for my own pleasure--gratis.”

M. Fortunat could not restrain an exclamation of astonishment. Chupin,
who was as eager for gain as an old usurer--Chupin, as grasping as
avarice itself, refuse money! This was something which he had never seen
before, and which he would no doubt never see again.

Victor had become very much excited; his usually pale cheeks were
crimson, and in a harsh voice, he continued: “It’s a fancy of
mine--that’s all. I have eight hundred francs hidden in my room, the
fruit of years of work. I’ll spend the last penny of it if need be; and
if I can see Coralth in the mire, I shall say, ‘My money has been well
expended.’ I’d rather see that day dawn than be the possessor of a
hundred thousand francs. If a horrible vision haunted you every night,
and prevented you from sleeping, wouldn’t you give something to get rid
of it? Very well! that brigand’s my nightmare. There must be an end to
it.”

M. de Coralth, who was a man of wide experience, would certainly have
felt alarmed if he had seen his unknown enemy at the present moment, for
Victor’s eyes, usually a pale and undecided blue, were glittering like
steel, and his hands were clinched most threateningly. “For he was the
cause of all my trouble,” he continued, gloomily. “I’ve told you, sir,
that I was guilty of an infamous deed once upon a time. If it hadn’t
been for a miracle I should have killed a man--the king of men.
Ah, well! if Monsieur Andre had broken his back by falling from a
fifth-floor window, my Coralth would be the Duc de Champdoce to-day. And
shall he be allowed to ride about in his carriage, and deceive and ruin
honest people? No--there are too many such villains at large for public
safety. Wait a little, Coralth--I owe you something, and I always pay
my debts. When M. Andre saved me, though I richly deserved to have
my throat cut, he made no conditions. He only said, ‘If you are not
irredeemably bad you will be honest after this.’ And he said these words
as he was lying there as pale as death with his shoulder broken, and
his body mangled from his fall. Great heavens! I felt smaller
than--than nothing before him. But I swore that I would do honor to
his teachings--and when evil thoughts enter my mind, and when I feel a
thirst for liquor, I say to myself, ‘Wait a bit, and--and M. Andre will
take a glass with you.’ And that quenches my thirst instantly. I have
his portrait at home, and every night, before going to bed, I tell him
the history of the day--and sometimes I fancy that he smiles at me. All
this is very absurd, perhaps, but I’m not ashamed of it. M. Andre and
my good mother, they are my supports, my crutches, and with them I’m not
afraid of making a false step.” Schebel, the German philosopher, who has
written a treatise on Volition, in four volumes, was no greater a man
than Chupin. “So you may keep your money, sir,” he resumed. “I’m an
honest fellow, and honest men ought to ask no reward for the performance
of a duty. Coralth mustn’t be allowed to triumph over the innocent chap
he ruined. What did you call him? Ferailleur? It’s an odd name. Never
mind--we’ll get him out of this scrape; he shall marry his sweetheart
after all; and I’ll dance at the wedding.”

As he finished speaking he laughed a shrill, dangerous laugh, which
revealed his sharp teeth--but such invincible determination was apparent
on his face, that M. Fortunat felt no misgivings. He was sure that this
volunteer would be of more service than the highest-priced hireling. “So
I can count on you, Victor?” he inquired.

“As upon yourself.”

“And you hope to have some positive information by Tuesday?”

“Before then, I hope, if nothing goes amiss.”

“Very well; I will devote my attention to Ferailleur then. As to
Valorsay’s affairs, I am better acquainted with them than he is himself.
We must be prepared to enter upon the campaign when Mademoiselle
Marguerite comes, and we will act in accordance with her instructions.”

Chupin had already caught up his hat; but just as he was leaving the
room, he paused abruptly. “How stupid!” he exclaimed. “I had forgotten
the principal thing. Where does Coralth live?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t know.”

According to his habit when things did not go to his liking, Chupin
began to scratch his head furiously. “That’s bad,” growled he.
“Viscounts of his stamp don’t parade their addresses in the directory.
Still, I shall find him.” However, although he expressed this conviction
he went off decidedly out of temper.

“I shall lose the entire evening hunting up the rascal’s address,” he
grumbled, as he hastened homeward. “And whom shall I ask for it?--Madame
d’Argeles’s concierge? Would he know it--M. Wilkie’s servant? That
would be dangerous.” He thought of roaming sound about M. de Valorsay’s
residence, and of bribing one of the valets; but while crossing the
boulevard, the sight of Brebant’s Restaurant put a new idea into his
head. “I have it!” he muttered; “my man’s caught!” And he darted into
the nearest cafe where he ordered some beer and writing materials.

Under other circumstances, he would have hesitated to employ so
hazardous an expedient as the one he was about to resort to, but the
character of his adversaries justified any course; besides, time was
passing, and he had no choice of resources. As soon as the waiter served
him, he drained his glass of beer to give himself an inspiration, and
then, in his finest hand, he wrote:

“MY DEAR VISCOUNT--Here’s the amount--one hundred francs--that I
lost to you last evening at piquet. When shall I have my revenge?
Your friend,
“VALORSAY.”

When he had finished this letter he read it over three or four
times, asking himself if this were the style of composition that very
fashionable folks employ in repaying their debts. To tell the truth, he
doubted it. In the rough draft which he penned at first, he had written
bezique, but in the copy he wrote piquet, which he deemed a more
aristocratic game. “However,” said he, “no one will examine it closely!”

Then, as soon as the ink was dry, he folded the letter and slipped it
into an envelope with a hundred franc-note which he drew from an old
pocketbook. He next addressed the envelope as follows: “Monsieur le
Vicomte de Coralth, En Ville,” and having completed his preparations, he
paid his score, and hastened to Brebant’s. Two waiters were standing at
the doorway, and, showing them the letter, he politely asked: “Do you
happen to know this name? A gentleman dropped this letter on leaving
your place last evening. I ran after him to return it; but I couldn’t
overtake him.”

The waiters examined the address. “Coralth!” they replied. “We scarcely
know him. He isn’t a regular customer, but he comes here occasionally.”

“And where does he live?”

“Why do you wish to know?”

“So as to take him this letter, to be sure!”

The waiters shrugged their shoulders. “Let the letter go; it is not
worth while to trouble yourself.”

Chupin had foreseen this objection, and was prepared for it. “But
there’s money in the letter,” he remonstrated. And opening the envelope,
he showed the bank-note which he had taken from his own pocket-book.

This changed the matter entirely. “That is quite a different thing,”
remarked one of the waiters. “If you find money, you are, of course,
responsible for it. But just leave it here at the desk, and the next
time the viscount comes in, the cashier will give it to him.”

A cold chill crept over Chupin at the thought of losing his bank-note in
this way. “Ah! I don’t fancy that idea!” he exclaimed. “Leave it here?
Never in life! Who’d get the reward? A viscount is always generous;
it is quite likely he would give me twenty francs as a reward for my
honesty. And that’s why I want his address.”

The argument was of a nature to touch the waiters; they thought the
young man quite right; but they did not know M. de Coralth’s address,
and they saw no way of procuring it. “Unless perhaps the porter knows,”
observed one of them.

The porter, on being called, remembered that he had once been sent to
M. de Coralth’s house for an overcoat. “I’ve forgotten his number,” he
declared; “but he lives in the Rue d’Anjou, near the corner of the Rue
de la Ville l’Eveque.”

This direction was not remarkable for its precision, but it was more
than sufficient for a pure-blooded Parisian like Victor Chupin. “Many
thanks for your kindness,” he said to the porter. “A blind man, perhaps,
might not be able to go straight to M. de Coralth’s house from your
directions, but I have eyes and a tongue as well. And, believe me, if
there’s any reward, you shall see that I know how to repay a good turn.”

“And if you don’t find the viscount,” added the waiters, “bring the
money here, and it will be returned to him.”

“Naturally!” replied Chupin. And he strode hurriedly away. “Return!”
he muttered; “not I! I thought for a moment they had their hands on my
precious bank-note.”

But he had already recovered from his fright, and as he turned his steps
homeward he congratulated himself on the success of his stratagem.
“For my viscount is caught,” he said to himself. “The Rue d’Anjou Saint
Honore hasn’t a hundred numbers in it, and even if I’m compelled to go
from door to door, my task will soon be accomplished.”

On reaching home he found his mother engaged in knitting, as usual. This
was the only avocation that her almost complete blindness allowed her
to pursue; and she followed it constantly. “Ah! here you are, Toto,”
she exclaimed, joyously. “I didn’t expect you so soon. Don’t you scent a
savory smell? As you must be greatly tired after being up all night, I’m
making you a stew.”

As customary when he returned, Chupin embraced the good woman with
the respectful tenderness which had so surprised M. Fortunat. “You are
always kind,” said he, “but, unfortunately, I can’t remain to dine with
you.”

“But you promised me.”

“That’s true, mamma; but business, you see--business.”

The worthy woman shook her head. “Always business!” she exclaimed.

“Yes--when a fellow hasn’t ten thousand francs a year.”

“You have become a worker, Toto, and that makes me very happy; but you
are too eager for money, and that frightens me.”

“That’s to say, you fear I shall do something dishonest. Ah! mother! do
you think I can forget you and Monsieur Andre?”

His mother said no more, and he entered the tiny nook which he so
pompously styled his chamber, and quickly changed the clothes he was
wearing (his Sunday toggery) for an old pair of checked trousers, a
black blouse, and a glazed cap. And when he had finished, and given a
peculiar turn to his hair, no one would have recognized him. In place of
M. Fortunat’s respectable clerk, there appeared one of those vagabonds
who hang about cafes and theatres from six in the evening till midnight,
and spend the rest of their time playing cards in the low drinking dens
near the barrieres. It was the old Chupin come to life once more--Toto
Chupin as he had appeared before his conversion. And as he took a
last look in the little glass hanging over the table, he was himself
astonished at the transformation. “Ah!” he muttered, “I was a sorry
looking devil in those days.”

Although he had cautiously avoided making any noise in dressing, his
mother, with the wonderfully acute hearing of the blind, had followed
each of his movements as surely as if she had been standing near
watching him. “You have changed your clothes, Toto,” she remarked.

“Yes, mother.”

“But why have you put on your blouse, my son?”

Although accustomed to his mother’s remarkable quickness of perception,
he was amazed. Still he did not think of denying it. She would only have
to extend her hand to prove that he was telling a falsehood. The blind
woman’s usually placid face had become stern. “So it is necessary to
disguise yourself,” she said, gravely.

“But, mother----”

“Hush, my son! When a man doesn’t wish to be recognized, he’s evidently
doing something he’s ashamed of. Ever since your employer came here, you
have been concealing something from me. Take care, Toto! Since I heard
that man’s voice, I’m sure that he is quite as capable of urging you to
commit a crime as others were in days gone by.”

The blind woman was preaching to a convert; for during the past three
days, M. Fortunat had shown himself in such a light that Chupin had
secretly resolved to change his employer. “I promise you I’ll leave him,
mother,” he declared, “so you may be quite easy in mind.”

“Very well; but now, at this moment, where are you going?”

There was only one way of completely reassuring the good woman, and that
was to tell her all. Chupin did so with absolute frankness. “Ah, well!”
she said, when the narrative was finished. “You see now how easy it is
to lead you astray! How could you be induced to play the part of a spy,
when you know so well what it leads to? It’s only God’s protecting care
that has saved you again from an act which you would have reproached
yourself for all your life. Your employer’s intentions are good now; but
they WERE criminal when he ordered you to follow Madame d’Argeles. Poor
woman! She had sacrificed herself for her son, she had concealed herself
from him, and you were working to betray her. Poor creature! how she
must have suffered, and how much I pity her! To be what she is, and to
see herself denounced by her own son! I, who am only a poor plebeian,
should die of shame under such circumstances.”

Chupin blew his nose so loudly that the window-panes rattled; this was
his way of repressing his emotion whenever it threatened to overcome
him. “You speak like the good mother that you are,” he exclaimed at
last, “and I’m prouder of you than if you were the handsomest and
richest lady in Paris, for you’re certainly the most honest and
virtuous; and I should be a thorough scoundrel if I caused you a
moment’s sorrow. And if ever I set my foot in such a mess again, I hope
some one will cut it off. But for this once----”

“For this once, you may go, Toto; I give my consent.”

He went off with a lighter heart; and on reaching the Rue d’Anjou he
immediately began his investigations. They were not successful at first.
At every house where he made inquiries nobody had any knowledge of the
Viscount de Coralth. He had visited half the buildings in the street,
when he reached one of the handsomest houses, in front of which stood
a cart laden with plants and flowers. An old man, who seemed to be the
concierge, and a valet in a red waistcoat, were removing the plants from
the vehicle and arranging them in a line under the porte cochere. As
soon as the cart was emptied, it drove away, whereupon Chupin stepped
forward, and addressing the concierge, asked: “Does the Viscount de
Coralth live here?”

“Yes. What do you want with him?”

Having foreseen this question, Chupin had prepared a reply. “I certainly
don’t come to call on him,” he answered. “My reason for inquiring is
this: just now, as I passed near the Madeleine, a very elegant lady
called me, and said: ‘M. de Coralth lives in the Rue d’Anjou, but
I’ve forgotten the number. I can’t go about from door to door making
inquiries, so if you’ll go there and ascertain his address for me, I’ll
give you five francs for yourself,’ so my money’s made.”

Profiting by his old Parisian experience, Chupin had chosen such a
clever excuse that both his listeners heartily laughed. “Well, Father
Moulinet,” cried the servant in the red waistcoat, “what do you say
to that? Are there any elegant ladies who give five francs for YOUR
address?”

“Is there any lady who’s likely to send such flowers as these to YOU?”
was the response.

Chupin was about to retire with a bow, when the concierge stopped him.
“You accomplish your errands so well that perhaps you’d be willing to
take these flower-pots up to the second floor, if we gave you a glass of
wine!”

No proposal could have suited Chupin better. Although he was prone to
exaggerate his own powers and the fecundity of his resources, he had not
flattered himself with the hope that he should succeed in crossing
the threshold of M. de Coralth’s rooms. For, without any great mental
effort, he had realized that the servant arrayed in the red waistcoat
was in the viscount’s employ, and these flowers were to be carried to
his apartments. However any signs of satisfaction would have seemed
singular under the circumstances, and so he sulkily replied: “A glass of
wine! you had better say two.”

“Well, I’ll say a whole bottleful, my boy, if that suits you any
better,” replied the servant, with the charming good-nature so often
displayed by people who are giving other folk’s property away.

“Then I’m at your service!” exclaimed Chupin. And, loading himself
with a host of flower-pots as skilfully as if he had been accustomed to
handling them all his life, he added: “Now, lead the way.”

The valet and the concierge preceded him with empty hands, of course;
and, on reaching the second floor, they opened a door, and said: “This
is the place. Come in.”

Chupin had expected to find that M. de Coralth’s apartments were
handsomer than his own in the Faubourg Saint Denis; but he had scarcely
imagined such luxury as pervaded this establishment. The chandeliers
seemed marvels in his eyes; and the sumptuous chairs and couches
eclipsed M. Fortunat’s wonderful sofa completely. “So he no longer
amuses himself with petty rascalities,” thought Chupin, as he surveyed
the rooms. “Monsieur’s working on a grand scale now. Decidedly this
mustn’t be allowed to continue.”

Thereupon he busied himself placing the flowers in the numerous
jardinieres scattered about the rooms, as well as in a tiny
conservatory, cleverly contrived on the balcony, and adjoining a little
apartment with silk hangings, that was used as a smoking-room. Under the
surveillance of the concierge and the valet he was allowed to visit the
whole apartments. He admired the drawing-room, filled to overflowing
with costly trifles; the dining-room, furnished in old oak; the
luxurious bed-room with its bed mounted upon a platform, as if it were a
throne, and the library filled with richly bound volumes. Everything was
beautiful, sumptuous and magnificent, and Chupin admired, though he did
not envy, this luxury. He said to himself that, if ever he became rich,
his establishment should be quite different. He would have preferred
rather more simplicity, a trifle less satin, velvet, hangings, mirrors
and gilding. Still this did not prevent him from going into ecstasies
over each room he entered; and he expressed his admiration so artlessly
that the valet, feeling as much flattered as if he were the owner of the
place, took a sort of pride in exhibiting everything.

He showed Chupin the target which the viscount practised at with
pistols for an hour every morning; for Monsieur le Vicomte was a capital
marksman, and could lodge eight balls out of ten in the neck of a bottle
at a distance of twenty paces. He also displayed his master’s swords;
for Monsieur le Vicomte handled side arms as adroitly as pistols. He
took a lesson every day from one of the best fencing-masters in Paris;
and his duels had always terminated fortunately. He also showed the
viscount’s blue velvet dressing-gown, his fur-trimmed slippers, and even
his elaborately embroidered night-shirts. But it was the dressing-room
that most astonished and stupefied Chupin. He stood gazing in
open-mouthed wonder at the immense white marble table, with its water
spigots and its basins, its sponges and boxes, its pots and vials and
cups; and he counted the brushes by the dozen--brushes hard and soft,
brushes for the hair, for the beard, for the hands, and the application
of cosmetic to the mustaches and eyebrows. Never had he seen in one
collection such a variety of steel and silver instruments, knives,
pincers, scissors, and files. “One might think oneself in a
chiropodist’s, or a dentist’s establishment,” remarked Chupin to the
servant. “Does your master use all these every day?”

“Certainly, or rather twice a day--morning and evening--at his
toilette.”

Chupin expressed his feelings with a grimace and an exclamation of
mocking wonder. “Ah, well! he must have a clean skin,” he said.

His listeners laughed heartily; and the concierge, after exchanging a
significant glance with the valet, said sotto voce, “Zounds! it’s his
business to be a handsome fellow!” The mystery was solved.

While Chupin changed the contents of the jardinieres, and remained
upstairs in the intervals between the nine or ten journeys he made
to the porte-cochere for more flowers, he listened attentively to the
conversation between the concierge and the valet, and heard snatches
of sentences that enlightened him wonderfully. Moreover, whenever a
question arose as to placing a plant in one place rather than another,
the valet stated as a conclusive argument that the baroness liked it in
such or such a place, or that she would be better pleased with this or
that arrangement, or that he must comply with the instructions she had
given him. Chupin was therefore obliged to conclude that the flowers
had been sent here by a baroness who possessed certain rights in the
establishment. But who was she?

He was manoeuvering cleverly in the hope of ascertaining this point,
when a carriage was heard driving into the courtyard below. “Monsieur
must have returned!” exclaimed the valet, darting to the window.

Chupin also ran to look out, and saw a very elegant blue-lined brougham,
drawn by a superb horse, but he did not perceive the viscount. In point
of fact, M. de Coralth was already climbing the stairs, four at a time,
and, a moment later, he entered the room, angrily exclaiming, “Florent,
what does this mean? Why have you left all the doors open?”

Florent was the servant in the red waistcoat. He slightly shrugged his
shoulders like a servant who knows too many of his master’s secrets to
have anything to fear, and in the calmest possible tone replied, “If
the doors are open, it is only because the baroness has just sent some
flowers. On Sunday, too, what a funny idea! And I have been treating
Father Moulinet and this worthy fellow” (pointing to Chupin) “to a glass
of wine, to acknowledge their kindness in assisting me.”

Fearing recognition, Chupin hid his face as much as possible; but M.
de Coralth did not pay the slightest attention to him. There was a dark
frown on his handsome, usually smiling countenance, and his hair was in
great disorder. Evidently enough, something had greatly annoyed him. “I
am going out again,” he remarked to his valet, “but first of all I must
write two letters which you must deliver immediately.”

He passed into the drawing-room as he spoke, and Florent scarcely waited
till the door was closed before uttering an oath. “May the devil
take him!” he exclaimed. “Here he sets me on the go again. It is five
o’clock, too, and I have an appointment in half an hour.”

A sudden hope quickened the throbbings of Chupin’s heart. He touched the
valet’s arm, and in his most persuasive tone remarked: “I’ve nothing
to do, and as your wine was so good, I’ll do your errands for you, if
you’ll pay me for the wear and tear of shoe-leather.”

Chupin’s appearance must have inspired confidence, for the servant
replied:--“Well--I don’t refuse--but we’ll see.”

The viscount did not spend much time in writing; he speedily reappeared
holding two letters which he flung upon the table, saying: “One of these
is for the baroness. You must deliver it into HER hands or into the
hands of her maid--there will be no answer. You will afterward take the
other to the person it is addressed to, and you must wait for an answer
which you will place on my writing-table--and make haste.” So saying,
the viscount went off as he had entered--on the run--and a moment later,
his brougham was heard rolling out of the courtyard.

Florent was crimson with rage. “There,” said he, addressing Chupin
rather than the concierge, “what did I tell you? A letter to be placed
in madame’s own hands or in the hands of her maid, and to be concealed
from the baron, who is on the watch, of course. Naturally no one can
execute that commission but myself.”

“That’s true!” replied Chupin; “but how about the other?”

The valet had not yet examined the second letter. He now took it from
the table, and glanced at the address. “Ah,” said he, “I can confide
this one to you, my good fellow, and it’s very fortunate, for it is
to be taken to a place on the other side of the river. Upon my word!
masters are strange creatures! You manage your work so as to have a
little leisure, and the moment you think yourself free, pouf!--they
send you anywhere in creation without even asking if it suits your
convenience. If it hadn’t been for you, I should have missed a dinner
with some very charming ladies. But, above all, don’t loiter on the way.
I don’t mind paying your omnibus fare if you like. And you heard him say
there would be an answer. You can give it to Moulinet, and in exchange,
he’ll give you fifteen sous for your trouble, and six sous for your
omnibus fare. Besides, if you can extract anything from the party the
letter’s intended for, you are quite welcome to it.”

“Agreed, sir! Grant me time enough to give an answer to the lady who is
waiting at the Madeleine, and I’m on my way. Give me the letter.”

“Here it is,” said the valet, handing it to Chupin. But as the latter
glanced at the address he turned deadly pale, and his eyes almost
started from their sockets. For this is what he read: “Madame Paul.
Dealer in Tobacco. Quai de la Seine.” Great as was his self-control, his
emotion was too evident to escape notice. “What’s the matter with you?”
asked the concierge and the valet in the same breath. “What has happened
to you?”

A powerful effort of will restored this young fellow’s coolness, and
ready in an instant with an excuse for his blunder, he replied, “I have
changed my mind. What! you’d only give me fifteen sous to measure such a
distance as that! Why, it isn’t a walk--it’s a journey!”

His explanation was accepted without demur. His listeners thought he
was only taking advantage of the need they had of his services--as
was perfectly natural under the circumstances. “What! So you are
dissatisfied!” cried the valet. “Very well! you shall have thirty
sous--but be off!”

“So I will, at once,” replied Chupin. And, imitating the whistle of a
locomotive with wonderful perfection, he darted away at a pace which
augured a speedy return.

However, when he was some twenty yards from the house he stopped short,
glanced around him, and espying a dark corner slipped into it. “That
fool in the red waistcoat will be coming out to take the letter to that
famous baroness,” he thought. “I’m here, and I’ll watch him and see
where he goes. I should like to find out the name of the kind and
charitable lady who watches over his brigand of a master with such
tender care.”

The day and the hour were in his favor. Night was coming on, hastened by
a thick fog; the street lamps were not yet lighted, and as it was Sunday
most of the shops were closed. It grew dark so rapidly that Chupin was
scarcely able to recognize Florent when he at last emerged from the
house. It is true that he looked altogether unlike the servant in
the red waist-coat. As he had the key to the wardrobe containing
his master’s clothes, he did not hesitate to use them whenever an
opportunity offered. On this occasion he had appropriated a pair of
those delicately tinted trousers which were M. de Coralth’s specialty,
with a handsome overcoat, a trifle too small for him, and a very elegant
hat.

“Fine doings, indeed!” growled Chupin as he started in pursuit. “My
servants sha’n’t serve me in that way if I ever have any.”

But he paused in his soliloquy, and prudently hid himself under a
neighboring gateway. The gorgeous Florent was ringing at the door of one
of the most magnificent mansions in the Rue de la Ville l’Eveque. The
door was opened, and he went in. “Ah! ah!” thought Chupin, “he hadn’t
far to go. The viscount and the baroness are shrewd. When you have
flowers to send to anybody it’s convenient to be neighbors!”

He glanced round, and seeing an old man smoking his pipe on the
threshold of a shop, he approached him and asked politely “Can you tell
me whom that big house belongs to?”

“To Baron Trigault,” replied the man, without releasing his hold on his
pipe.

“Thank you, monsieur,” replied Chupin, gravely. “I inquired, because
I think of buying a house.” And repeating the name of Trigault several
times to impress it upon his memory he darted off on his errand.

It might be supposed that his unexpected success had delighted him,
but, on the contrary, it rendered him even more exacting. The letter
he carried burned his pocket like a red-hot iron. “Madame Paul,” he
muttered, “that must be the rascal’s wife. First, Paul is his Christian
name; secondly, I’ve been told that his wife keeps a tobacco shop--so
the case is plain. But the strangest thing about it is that this husband
and wife should write to each other, when I fancied them at dagger’s
ends.” Chupin would have given a pint of his own blood to know the
contents of the missive. The idea of opening it occurred to him, and it
must be confessed that it was not a feeling of delicacy that prevented
him. He was deterred by a large seal which had been carefully affixed,
and which would plainly furnish evidence if the letter were tampered
with. Thus Chupin was punished for Florent’s faults, for this seal
was the viscount’s’ invariable precaution against his servant’s prying
curiosity. So our enterprising youth could only read and re-read the
superscription and smell the paper, which was strongly scented with
verbena. He fancied that there was some mysterious connection between
this letter intended for M. de Coralth’s wife and the missive sent
to the baroness. And why should it not be so? Had they not both been
written under the influence of anger? Still he failed to perceive any
possible connection between the rich baroness and the poor tobacco
dealer, and his cogitations only made him more perplexed than ever.
However, his efforts to solve the mystery did not interfere with the
free use of his limbs, and he soon found himself on the Quai de la
Seine. “Here I am,” he muttered. “I’ve come more quickly than an
omnibus.”

The Quai de la Seine is a broad road, connecting the Rue de Flandres
with the canal de l’Ourcq. On the left-hand side it is bordered with
miserable shanties interspersed with some tiny shops, and several huge
coal depots. On the right-hand side--that next to the canal--there are
also a few provision stores. In the daytime there is no noisier nor
livelier place than this same Quai; but nothing could be more gloomy
at night-time when the shops are closed, when the few gas-lamps only
increase the grimness of the shadows, and when the only sound that
breaks the silence is the rippling of the water as its smooth surface is
ruffled by some boatman propelling his skiff through the canal.

“The Viscount must certainly have made a mistake,” thought Chupin;
“there is no such shop on the Quai.” He was wrong, however; for after
passing the Rue de Soissons he espied the red lantern of a tobacco-shop,
glimmering through the fog.

XI.

Having almost reached the goal, Chupin slackened his pace. He approached
the shop very cautiously and peered inside, deeming it prudent to
reconnoitre a little before he went in. And certainly there was nothing
to prevent a prolonged scrutiny. The night was very dark, the quay
deserted. No one was to be seen; not a sound broke the stillness. The
darkness, the surroundings, and the silence were sinister enough to make
even Chupin shudder, though he was usually as thoroughly at home in the
loneliest and most dangerous by-ways of Paris as an honest man of
the middle classes would be in the different apartments of his modest
household. “That scoundrel’s wife must have less than a hundred thousand
a year if she takes up her abode here!” thought Chupin.

And, in fact, nothing could be more repulsive than the tenement in which
Madame Paul had installed herself. It was but one story high, and built
of clay, and it had fallen to ruin to such an extent that it had been
found necessary to prop it up with timber, and to nail some old boards
over the yawning fissures in the walls. “If I lived here, I certainly
shouldn’t feel quite at ease on a windy day,” continued Chupin, sotto
voce.

The shop itself was of a fair size, but most wretched in its
appointments, and disgustingly dirty. The floor was covered with that
black and glutinous coal-dust which forms the soil of the Quai de la
Seine. An auctioneer would have sold the entire stock and fixtures for
a few shillings. Four stone jars, and a couple of pairs of scales, a
few odd tumblers, filled with pipes and packets of cigarettes, some
wine-glasses, and three or four labelled bottles, five or six boxes of
cigars, and as many packages of musty tobacco, constituted the entire
stock in trade.

As Chupin compared this vile den with the viscount’s luxurious abode,
his blood fairly boiled in his veins. “He ought to be shot for this, if
for nothing else,” he muttered through his set teeth. “To let his wife
die of starvation here!” For it was M. de Coralth’s wife who kept this
shop. Chupin, who had seen her years before, recognized her now as she
sat behind her counter, although she was cruelly changed. “That’s her,”
he murmured. “That’s certainly Mademoiselle Flavie.”

He had used her maiden name in speaking of her. Poor woman! She was
undoubtedly still young--but sorrow, regret, and privations, days
spent in hard work to earn a miserable subsistence, and nights spent in
weeping, had made her old, haggard, and wrinkled before her time. Of
her once remarkable beauty naught remained but her hair, which was still
magnificent, though it was in wild disorder, and looked as if it had not
been touched by a comb for weeks; and her big black eyes, which gleamed
with the phosphorescent and destructive brilliancy of fever. Everything
about her person bespoke terrible reverses, borne without dignity. Even
if she had struggled at first, it was easy to see that she struggled
no longer. Her attire--her torn and soiled silk dress, and her dirty
cap--revealed thorough indolence, and that morbid indifference which at
times follows great misfortunes with weak natures.

“Such is life,” thought Chupin, philosophically. “Here’s a girl who was
brought up like a queen and allowed to have her own way in everything!
If any one had predicted this in those days, how she would have sneered!
I can see her now as she looked that day when I met her driving her gray
ponies. If people didn’t clear the road it was so much the worse for
them! In those times Paris was like some great shop where she could
select whatever she chose. She said: ‘I want this,’ and she got it. She
saw a handsome young fellow and wanted him for her husband; her father,
who could refuse her nothing, consented, and now behold the result!”

He had lingered longer at the window than he had meant to do, perhaps
because he could see that the young woman was talking with some person
in a back room, the door of which stood open. Chupin tried to find out
who this person was, but he did not succeed; and he was about to go in
when suddenly he saw Madame Paul rise from her seat and say a few words
with an air of displeasure. And this time her eyes, instead of turning
to the open door, were fixed on a part of the shop directly opposite
her. “Is there some one there as well, then?” Chupin wondered.

He changed his post of observation, and, by standing on tiptoe, he
succeeded in distinguishing a puny little boy, some three or four years
old, and clad in rags, who was playing with the remnants of a toy-horse.
The sight of this child increased Chupin’s indignation. “So there’s a
child?” he growled. “The rascal not only deserts his wife, but he leaves
his child to starve! We may as well make a note of that: and when we
settle up our accounts, he shall pay dearly for his villainy.” With this
threat he brusquely entered the shop.

“What do you wish, sir?” asked the woman.

“Nothing; I bring you a letter, madame.”

“A letter for me! You must be mistaken.”

“Excuse me; aren’t you Madame Paul?”

“Yes.”

“Then this is for you.” And he handed her the missive which Florent had
confided to his care.

Madame Paul took hold of it with some hesitation, eying the messenger
suspiciously meanwhile; but, on seeing the handwriting, she uttered
a cry of surprise. And, turning toward the open door, she called, “M.
Mouchon! M. Mouchon! It’s from him--it’s from my husband; from Paul.
Come, come!”

A bald-headed, corpulent man, who looked some fifty years of age, now
timidly emerged from the room behind the shop with a cap in his hand.
“Ah, well! my dear child,” he said, in an oily voice, “what was I
telling you just now? Everything comes to those who know how to wait.”

However she had already broken the seal, and she was now reading the
letter eagerly, clapping her hands with delight as she finished its
perusal. “He consents!” she exclaimed. “He’s frightened--he begs me to
wait a little--look--read!”

But M. Mouchon could not read without his spectacles, and he lost at
least two minutes in searching his pockets before he found them. And
when they were adjusted, the light was so dim that it took him at least
three minutes more to decipher the missive. Chupin had spent this
time in scrutinizing--in appraising the man, as it were. “What is this
venerable gentleman doing here?” he thought. “He’s a middle class man,
that’s evident from his linen. He’s married--there’s a wedding-ring
on his finger; he has a daughter, for the ends of his necktie are
embroidered. He lives in the neighborhood, for, well dressed as he is,
he wears a cap. But what was he doing there in that back room in the
dark?”

Meanwhile M. Mouchon had finished reading the letter. “What did I tell
you?” he said complacently.

“Yes, you were right!” answered Madame Paul as she took up the letter
and read it again with her eyes sparkling with joy. “And now what shall
I do?” she asked. “Wait, shall I not?”

“No, no!” exclaimed the elderly gentleman, in evident dismay. “You must
strike the iron while it’s hot.”

“But he promises me----”

“To promise and to keep one’s promises are two different things.”

“He wants a reply.”

“Tell him----” But he stopped short, calling her attention with a
gesture to the messenger, whose eyes were glittering with intense
curiosity.

She understood. So filling a glass with some liquor, she placed it
before Chupin, and offered him a cigar, saying: “Take a seat--here’s
something to keep you from feeling impatient while you wait here.”
Thereupon she followed the old gentleman into the adjoining room, and
closed the door.

Even if Chupin had not possessed the precocious penetration he owed to
his life of adventure, the young woman and the old gentleman had said
enough to enable him to form a correct estimate of the situation. He was
certain now that he knew the contents of the letter as perfectly as if
he had read it. M. de Coralth’s anger, and his order to make haste, were
both explained. Moreover, Chupin distinctly saw what connection there
was between the letter to the baroness and the letter to Madame Paul. He
understood that one was the natural consequence of the other. Deserted
by her husband, Madame Paul had at last become weary of poverty and
privations. She had instituted a search for her husband, and, having
found him, she had written to him in this style: “I consent to abstain
from interfering with you, but only on conditions that you provide means
of subsistence for me, your lawfully wedded wife, and for your child. If
you refuse, I shall urge my claims, and ruin you. The scandal won’t be
of much use to me, it’s true, but at least I shall no longer be obliged
to endure the torture of knowing that you are surrounded by every luxury
while I am dying of starvation.”

Yes, she had evidently written that. It might not be the precise text;
but no doubt it was the purport of her letter. On receiving it, Coralth
had become alarmed. He knew only too well that if his wife made herself
known and revealed his past, it would be all over with him. But he had
no money. Charming young men like the Viscount de Coralth never have
any money on hand. So, in this emergency, the dashing young fellow had
written to his wife imploring her to have patience, and to the baroness,
entreating, or rather commanding her to advance him a certain sum at
once.

This was no doubt the case, and yet there was one circumstance which
puzzled Chupin exceedingly. In former years, he had heard it asserted
that Mademoiselle Flavie was the very personification of pride, and that
she adored her husband even to madness. Had this great love vanished?
Had poverty and sorrow broken her spirit to such a degree that she was
willing to stoop to such shameful concessions! If she were acquainted
with her husband’s present life, how did it happen that she did not
prefer starvation, or the alms-house and a pauper’s grave to his
assistance? Chupin could understand how, in a moment of passion,
she might be driven to denounce her husband in the presence of his
fashionable acquaintances, how she might be impelled to ruin him so as
to avenge herself; but he could not possibly understand how she could
consent to profit by the ignominy of the man she loved. “The plan
isn’t hers,” said Chupin to himself, after a moment’s reflection. “It’s
probably the work of that stout old gentleman.”

There was a means of verifying his suspicions, for on returning into the
adjoining room, Madame Paul had not taken her son with her. He was still
sitting on the muddy floor of the shop, playing with his dilapidated
horse. Chupin called him. “Come here, my little fellow,” said he.

The child rose, and timidly approached, his eyes dilating with distrust
and astonishment. The poor boy’s repulsive uncleanliness was a terrible
charge against the mother. Did she no longer love her own offspring? The
untidiness of sorrow and poverty has its bounds. A long time must have
passed since the child’s face and hands had been washed, and his soiled
clothes were literally falling to rags. Still, he was a handsome little
fellow, and seemed fairly intelligent, in spite of his bashfulness.
He was very light-haired, and in features he was extremely like M. de
Coralth. Chupin took him on his knees, and, after looking to see if the
door communicating with the inner room were securely closed, he asked:
“What’s your name, little chap?”

“Paul.”

“Do you know your father?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t your mother ever talk to you about him?”

“Oh, yes!”

“And what does she say?”

“That he’s rich--very rich.”

“And what else?”

The child did not reply; perhaps his mother had forbidden him to
say anything on the subject--perhaps that instinct which precedes
intelligence, just as the dawn precedes daylight, warned him to be
prudent with a stranger. “Doesn’t your papa ever come to see you?”
insisted Chupin.

“Never.”

“Why?”

“Mamma is very poor.”

“And wouldn’t you like to go and see him?”

“I don’t know. But he’ll come some day, and take us away with him to a
large house. We shall be all right, then; and he will give us a deal of
money and pretty dresses, and I shall have plenty of toys.”

Satisfied on this point, Chupin, pushed his investigations farther.
“And do you know this old gentleman who is with your mamma in the other
room?”

“Oh, yes!--that’s Mouchon.”

“And who’s Mouchon?”

“He’s the gentleman who owns that beautiful garden at the corner of the
Rue Riquet, where there are such splendid grapes. I’m going with him to
get some.”

“Does he often come to see you?”

“Every evening. He always has goodies in his pocket for mamma and me.”

“Why does he sit in that back room without any light?”

“Oh, he says that the customers mustn’t see him.”

It would have been an abominable act to continue this examination, and
make this child the innocent accuser of his own mother. Chupin felt
conscience-smitten even now. So he kissed the cleanest spot he could
find on the boy’s face, and set him on the floor again, saying, “Go and
play.”

The child had revealed his mother’s character with cruel precision. What
had she told him about his father? That he was rich, and that, in case
he returned, he would give them plenty of money and fine clothes. The
woman’s nature stood revealed in all its deformity. Chupin had good
cause to feel proud of his discernment--all his suppositions had
been confirmed. He had read Mouchon’s character at a glance. He had
recognized him as one of those wily evil-minded men who employ their
leisure to the profit of their depravity--one of those patient,
cold-blooded hypocrites who make poverty their purveyor, and whose
passion is prodigal only in advice. “So he’s paying his court to Madame
Paul,” thought Chupin. “Isn’t it shameful? The old villain! he might at
least give her enough to eat!”

So far his preoccupation had made him forget his wine and his cigar. He
emptied the glass at a single draught, but it proved far more difficult
to light the cigar. “Zounds! this is a non-combustible,” he growled.
“When I arrive at smoking ten sous cigars, I sha’n’t come here to buy
them.”

However, with the help of several matches and a great deal of drawing,
he had almost succeeded, when the door opened, and Madame Paul
reappeared with a letter in her hand. She seemed greatly agitated; her
anxiety was unmistakable. “I can’t decide,” she was saying to Mouchon,
whose figure Chupin could only dimly distinguish in the darkness. “No,
I can’t. If I send this letter, I must forever renounce all hope of my
husband’s return. Whatever happens, he will never forgive me.”

“He can’t treat you worse than he does now, at all events,” replied the
old gentleman. “Besides, a gloved cat has never caught a mouse yet.”

“He’ll hate me.”

“The man who wants his dog to love him, beats it; and, besides, when the
wine is drawn, one must drink it.”

This singular logic seemed to decide her. She handed the letter to
Chupin, and drawing a franc from her pocket she offered it to him. “This
is for your trouble,” she said.

He involuntarily held out his hand to take the money, but quickly
withdrew it, exclaiming: “No, thank you; keep it. I’ve been paid
already.” And, thereupon, he left the shop.

Chupin’s mother--his poor good mother, as he called her--would certainly
have felt proud and delighted at her son’s disinterestedness. That
very morning, he had refused the ten francs a day that M. Fortunat had
offered him, and this evening he declined the twenty sous proffered him
by Madame Paul. This was apparently a trifle, and yet in reality it was
something marvellous, unprecedented, on the part of this poor lad, who,
having neither trade nor profession, was obliged to earn his daily bread
through the medium of those chance opportunities which the lower classes
of Paris are continually seeking. As he returned to the Rue de Flandres,
he muttered: “Take twenty sous from that poor creature, who hasn’t had
enough to satisfy her hunger for heaven knows how long! That would be
altogether unworthy of a man.”

It is only just to say that money had never given him a feeling of
satisfaction at all comparable with that which he now experienced.
He was impressed, too, with a sense of vastly-increased importance on
thinking that all the faculties, and all the energy he had once employed
in the service of evil, were now consecrated to the service of good. By
becoming the instrument of Pascal Ferailleur’s salvation he would, in
some measure, atone for the crime he had committed years before.

Chupin’s mind was so busily occupied with these thoughts that he reached
the Rue d’Anjou and M. de Coralth’s house almost before he was aware of
it. To his great surprise, the concierge and his wife were not alone.
Florent was there, taking coffee with them. The valet had divested
himself of his borrowed finery, and had donned his red waistcoat again.
He seemed to be in a savage humor; and his anger was not at all strange
under the circumstances. There was but a step from M. de Coralth’s house
to the baroness’s residence, but fatalities may attend even a step! The
baroness, on receiving the letter from her maid, had sent a message to
Florent requesting him to wait, as she desired to speak with him! and
she had been so inconsiderate as to keep him waiting for more than an
hour, so that he had missed his appointment with the charming ladies he
had spoken of. In his despair he had returned home to seek consolation
in the society of his friend the concierge. “Have you the answer?” he
asked.

“Yes, here it is,” replied Chupin, and Florent had just slipped the
letter into his pocket, and was engaged in counting out the thirty
sous which he had promised his messenger, when the familiar cry, “Open,
please,” was heard outside.

M. de Coralth had returned. He sprang to the ground as soon as the
carriage entered the courtyard, and on perceiving his servant, he
exclaimed: “Have you executed my commissions?”

“They have been executed, monsieur.”

“Did you see the baroness?”

“She made me wait two hours to tell me that the viscount need not be
worried in the least; that she would certainly be able to comply with
his request to-morrow.”

M. de Coralth seemed to breathe more freely. “And the other party?” he
inquired.

“Gave me this for monsieur.”

The viscount seized the missive, with an eager hand, tore it open, read
it at one glance, and flew into such a paroxysm of passion that he
quite forgot those around him, and began to tear the letter, and utter
a string of oaths which would have astonished a cab-driver. But suddenly
realizing his imprudence, he mastered his rage, and exclaimed, with a
forced laugh: “Ah! these women! they are enough to drive one mad!” And
deeming this a sufficient explanation, he added, addressing Florent.
“Come and undress me; I must be up early to-morrow morning.”

This remark was not lost upon Chupin, and at seven o’clock the next
morning he mounted guard at M. de Coralth’s door. All through the day he
followed the viscount about, first to the Marquis de Valorsay’s, then
to the office of a business agent, then to M. Wilkie’s, then, in the
afternoon, to Baroness Trigault’s, and finally, in the evening, to
the house of Madame d’Argeles. Here, by making himself useful to the
servants, by his zeal in opening and shutting the doors of the carriages
that left the house, he succeeded in gathering some information
concerning the frightful scene which had taken place between the mother
and the son. He perceived M. Wilkie leave the house with his clothes in
disorder, and subsequently he saw the viscount emerge. He followed
him, first to the house of the Marquis de Valorsay, and afterward to M.
Wilkie’s rooms, where he remained till nearly daybreak.

Thus, when Chupin presented himself in M. Fortunat’s office at two
o’clock on the Tuesday afternoon, he felt that he held every possible
clue to the shameful intrigue which would ruin the viscount as soon as
it was made public.

M. Fortunat knew that his agent was shrewd, but he had not done justice
to his abilities; and it was, indeed, with something very like envy that
he listened to Chupin’s clear and circumstantial report. “I have not
been as successful,” he remarked, when Chupin’s story was ended. But he
had not time to explain how or why, for just as he was about to do so,
Madame Dodelin appeared, and announced that the young lady he expected
was there. “Let her come in!” exclaimed M. Fortunat, eagerly--“let her
come in!”

Mademoiselle Marguerite had not been compelled to resort to any
subterfuge to make her escape from Madame de Fondege’s house. The
General had decamped early in the morning to try his horses and his
carriages, announcing, moreover, that he would breakfast at the club.
And as soon as her breakfast was concluded, Madame de Fondege had
hurried off to her dressmaker’s, warning the household that she would
not return before dinner-time. A little while later, Madame Leon had
suddenly remembered that her noble relative would certainly be expecting
a visit from her, and so she dressed herself in haste, and went off,
first to Dr. Jodon’s and thence to the Marquis de Valorsay’s.

Thus, Mademoiselle Marguerite had been able to make her escape without
attracting any one’s attention, and she would be able to remain away as
many hours as she chose, since the servants would not know how long she
had been absent even if they saw her when she returned. An empty cab was
passing as she left the house, so she hailed it and got in. The step she
was about to take cost her a terrible effort. It was a difficult task
for her, a girl naturally so reserved, to confide in a stranger, and
open to him her maidenly heart, filled with love for Pascal Ferailleur!
Still, she was much calmer than she had been on the previous evening,
when she called on the photographer for a facsimile of M. de Valorsay’s
letter. Several circumstances combined to reassure her. M. Fortunat
knew her already, since he was the agent whom the Count de Chalusse
had employed to carry on the investigations which had resulted in her
discovery at the foundling asylum. A vague presentiment told her that
this man was better acquainted with her past life than she was herself,
and that he could, if he chose, tell her her mother’s name--the name of
the woman whom the count so dreaded, and who had so pitilessly deserted
her. However, her heart beat more quickly, and she felt that she was
turning pale when, at Madame Dodelin’s invitation, she at last entered
M. Fortunat’s private office. She took in the room and its occupants
with a single glance. The handsome appointments of the office surprised
her, for she had expected to see a den. The agent’s polite manner and
rather elegant appearance disconcerted her, for she had expected to
meet a coarse and illiterate boor; and finally, Victor Chupin, who was
standing twisting his cap near the fireplace, attired in a blouse and
a pair of ragged trousers, fairly alarmed her. Still, no sign of her
agitation was perceptible on her countenance. Not a muscle of her
beautiful, proud face moved--her glance remained clear and haughty, and
she exclaimed in a ringing voice: “I am the late Count de Chalusse’s
ward, Mademoiselle Marguerite. You have received my letter, I suppose?”

M. Fortunat bowed with all the grace of manner he was wont to display in
the circles where he went wife-hunting, and with a somewhat pretentious
gesture he advanced an arm-chair, and asked his visitor to sit down.
“Your letter reached me, mademoiselle,” he replied, “and I was expecting
you--flattered and honored beyond expression by your confidence. My
door, indeed, was closed to any one but you.”

Marguerite took the proffered seat, and there was a moment’s silence.
M. Fortunat found it difficult to believe that this beautiful, imposing
young girl could be the poor little apprentice whom he had seen in
the book-bindery, years before, clad in a coarse serge frock, with
dishevelled hair covered with scraps of paper. In the meantime,
Marguerite was regretting the necessity of confiding in this man, for
the more she looked at him, the more she was convinced that he was
not an honest, straightforward person; and she would infinitely have
preferred a cynical scoundrel to this plausible and polite gentleman,
whom she strongly suspected of being a hypocrite. She remained silent,
waiting for M. Fortunat to dismiss the young man in the blouse, whose
presence she could not explain, and who stood in a sort of mute ecstasy,
staring at her with eyes expressive of the most intense surprise and
the liveliest admiration. But weary at last of this fruitless delay, she
exclaimed: “I have come, monsieur, to confer with you respecting certain
matters which require the most profound secrecy.”

Chupin understood her, for he blushed to the tips of his ears, and
started as if to leave the room. But his employer detained him with a
gesture.

“Remain, Victor,” he said kindly, and, turning to Mademoiselle
Marguerite, he added: “You have no indiscretion to fear from this worthy
fellow, mademoiselle. He knows everything, and he has already been
actively at work--and with the best result--on your behalf.”

“I don’t understand you, sir,” replied the girl.

M. Fortunat smiled sweetly. “I have already taken your business in hand,
mademoiselle,” said he. “An hour after the receipt of your letter I
began the campaign.”

“But I had not told you----”

“What you wished of me--that’s true. But I allowed myself to
suspect----”

“Ah!”

“I fancied I might conclude that you wished the help of my experience
and poor ability in clearing an innocent man who has been vilely
slandered, M. Pascal Ferailleur.”

Marguerite sprang to her feet, at once agitated and alarmed. “How did
you know this?” she exclaimed.

M. Fortunat had left his arm-chair, and was now leaning against the
mantel-shelf, in what he considered a most becoming and awe-inspiring
attitude, with his thumb in the armhole of his waistcoat. “Ah! nothing
could be more simple,” he answered, in much the same tone as a conqueror
might assume to explain his feat. “It is part of my profession to
penetrate the intentions of persons who deign to honor me with their
confidence. So my surmises are correct; at least you have not said the
contrary?”

She had said nothing. When her first surprise was over, she vainly
endeavored to find a plausible explanation of M. Fortunat’s acquaintance
with her affairs, for she was not at all deceived by his pretended
perspicacity. Meanwhile, delighted by the supposed effect he had
produced, he recklessly continued: “Reserve your amazement for what I
am about to disclose, for I have made several important discoveries. It
must have been your good angel who inspired you with the idea of coming
to me. You would have shuddered if you had realized the dangers that
threatened you. But now you have nothing to fear; I am watching. I am
here, and I hold in my hand all the threads of the abominable intrigue
for ruining you. For it is you, your person, and your fortune that
are imperilled. It was solely on your account that M. Ferailleur was
attacked. And I can tell you the names of the scoundrels who ruined him.
The crime originated with the person who had the most powerful interest
in the matter--the Marquis de Valorsay. His agent was a scoundrel who is
generally known as the Viscount de Coralth; but Chupin here can tell you
his real name and his shameful past. You preferred M. Ferailleur, hence
it was necessary to put him out of the way. M. de Chalusse had promised
your hand to the Marquis de Valorsay. This marriage was Valorsay’s only
resource--the plank that might save the drowning man. People fancy he is
rich; but he is ruined. Yes, ruined completely, irretrievably. He was in
such desperate straits that he had almost determined to blow his brains
out before the hope of marrying you entered his mind.”

“Ah!” thought Chupin, “my employer is well under way.”

This was indeed the case. The name of Valorsay was quite sufficient
to set all M. Fortunat’s bile in motion. All thought of his ex-client
irritated him beyond endurance. Unfortunately for him, however, his
anger in the present instance had ruined his plans. He had intended to
take Mademoiselle Marguerite by surprise, to work upon her imagination,
to make her talk without saying anything himself, and to remain master
of the situation. But on the contrary he had revealed everything; and
he did not discover this until it was too late to retrieve his blunder.
“How the Marquis de Valorsay has kept his head above water is a wonder
to me,” he continued. “His creditors have been threatening to sue him
for more than six months. How he has been able to keep them quiet since
M. de Chalusse’s death, I cannot understand. However, this much is
certain, mademoiselle: the marquis has not renounced his intention of
becoming your husband; and to attain that object he won’t hesitate to
employ any means that may promise to prove effectual.”

Completely mistress of herself, Mademoiselle Marguerite listened with an
impassive face. “I know all this,” she replied, in a frigid tone.

“What! you know----”

“Yes; but there is one thing that baffles my powers of comprehension. My
dowry was the only temptation to M. de Valorsay, was it not? Why does he
still wish to marry me, now that I have no fortune?”

M. Fortunat had gradually lost all his advantage. “I have asked myself
the same question,” he replied, “and I think I have found an answer. I
believe that the marquis has in his possession a letter, or a will, or a
document of some sort, written by M. de Chalusse--in fact an instrument
in which the count acknowledges you as his daughter, and which
consequently establishes; your right to his property.”

“And the marquis could urge this claim if he became my husband?”

“Certainly he could.”

M. Fortunat explained M. de Valorsay’s conduct exactly as the old
magistrate had done. However, Mademoiselle Marguerite discreetly
refrained from committing herself. The great interest that M. Fortunat
seemed to take in her affairs aroused her distrust; and she decided
to do what he had attempted in vain--that is, allow him to do all the
talking, and to conceal all that she knew herself. “Perhaps you are
right,” she remarked, “but it is necessary to prove the truth of your
assertion.”

“I can prove that Valorsay hasn’t a shilling, and that he has lived for
a year by expedients which render him liable to arrest and prosecution
at any time. I can prove that he deceived M. de Chalusse as to his
financial position. I can prove that he conspired with M. de Coralth to
ruin your lover. Wouldn’t this be something?”

She smiled in a way that was exceedingly irritating to his vanity, and
in a tone of good-natured incredulity, she remarked: “It is easy to SAY
these things.”

“And to do them,” rejoined M. Fortunat, quickly. “I never promise what I
cannot perform. A man should never touch a pen when he is meditating any
evil act. Of course, no one is fool enough to write down his infamy in
detail. But a man cannot always be on the qui vive. There will be a word
in one letter, a sentence in another, an allusion in a third. And by
combining these words, phrases, and allusions, one may finally discover
the truth.”

He suddenly checked himself, warned of his fresh imprudence by the
expression on Mademoiselle Marguerite’s face. She drew back, and looking
him full in the eyes, she exclaimed: “Then you have been in M. de
Valorsay’s confidence, sir? Would you be willing to swear that you never
helped him in his designs?”

A silent and ignored witness of this scene, Victor Chupin was secretly
delighted. “Hit!” he thought--“hit just in the bull’s-eye. Zounds!
there’s a woman for you! She has beaten the guv’nor on every point.”

M. Fortunat was so taken by surprise that he made no attempt to deny
his guilt. “I confess that I acted as M. de Valorsay’s adviser for some
time,” he replied, “and he frequently spoke to me of his intention of
marrying a rich wife in order to retrieve his shattered fortunes. Upon
my word, I see nothing so very bad about that! It is not a strictly
honest proceeding, perhaps, but it is done every day. What is marriage
in this age? Merely a business transaction, is it not? Perhaps it would
be more correct to say that it is a transaction in which one person
tries to cheat the other. The fathers-in-law are deceived, or the
husband, or the wife, and sometimes all of them together. But when I
discovered this scheme for mining M. Ferailleur, I cried ‘halt!’ My
conscience revolted at that. Dishonor an innocent man! It was base,
cowardly, outrageous! And not being able to prevent this infamous act, I
swore that I would avenge it.”

Would Mademoiselle Marguerite accept this explanation? Chupin feared so,
and accordingly turning quickly to his employer, he remarked: “To
say nothing of the fact that this fine gentleman has swindled you
outrageously, shrewd as you are--cheating you out of the forty thousand
francs you lent him, and which he was to pay you eighty thousand for.”

M. Fortunat cast a withering look at his clerk, but the mischief was
done: denial was useless. He seemed fated to blunder in this affair.
“Well, yes,” he declared, “it’s true. Valorsay HAS defrauded me, and I
have sworn to have my revenge. I won’t rest until I see him ruined.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite was partially reassured, for she understood
his zeal now. Her scorn for the man was only increased; but she was
convinced that he would serve her faithfully. “I like this much better,”
said she. “It is better to have no concealment. You desire M. de
Valorsay’s ruin. I desire the rehabilitation of M. Ferailleur. So our
interests are in common. But before acting in this matter, we must know
M. Ferailleur’s wishes.”

“They cannot be considered.”

“And why?”

“Because no one knows what has become of him. When the desire for
revenge first took possession of me, I at once thought of him. I
procured his address, and went to the Rue d’Ulm. But he had gone away.
The very day after his misfortune, M. Ferailleur sold his furniture and
went away with his mother.”

“I am aware of that, and I have come to ask you to search for him. To
discover his hiding-place will be only child’s play to you.”

“Do you suppose I haven’t thought of this?” replied M. Fortunat. “Why, I
spent all day yesterday searching for him. By questioning the people
in the neighborhood I finally succeeded in ascertaining that Madame
Ferailleur left her home in a cab several hours after her son, and took
a very large quantity of baggage with her. Well, do you know where she
drove? To the Western railway station. I am sure of this, and I know she
told a porter there that her destination was London. M. Ferailleur is
now en route for America, and we shall never hear of him again!”

Mademoiselle Marguerite shook her head. “You are mistaken, sir,” said
she.

“There can be no mistake about what I have just told you.”

“I don’t question the result of your investigations, but appearances are
deceitful. I thoroughly understand M. Ferailleur’s character, and he is
not the man to be crushed by an infamous calumny. He may seem to fly, he
may disappear, he may conceal himself for a time, but it is only to
make his vengeance more certain. What! Pascal, who is energy itself, who
possesses an iron will, and invincible determination, would he renounce
his honor, his future, and the woman he loves without a struggle? If he
had felt that his case was hopeless, he would have destroyed himself,
and as he has not done so, he is not without hope. He has not left
Paris; I am sure of it.”

M. Fortunat was not convinced. In his opinion this was only sentiment
and rubbish. Still there was one person present who was deeply impressed
by the confidence of this young girl, who was the most beautiful
creature he had ever seen, and whose devotion and energy filled his
heart with admiration, and this person was Chupin. He stepped forward
with his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, and in a feeling voice he
exclaimed: “I understand your idea! Yes, M. Ferailleur is in Paris. And
I shall be unworthy of the name of Chupin, if I don’t find him for you
in less than a fortnight!”

XII.

Mademoiselle Marguerite knew Pascal Ferailleur. Suddenly struck down in
the full sunlight of happiness by a terrible misfortune, he, of course,
experienced moments of frenzy and terrible depression; but he was
incapable of the cowardice which M. Fortunat had accused him of.

Mademoiselle Marguerite only did him justice when she said that the sole
condition on which he could consent to live was that of consecrating his
life, and all his strength, intelligence and will to confounding this
infamous calumny. And still she did not know the extent of Pascal’s
misfortune. How could she suppose that he believed himself deserted by
her? How could she know the doubts and fears and the anguish that had
been roused in his heart by the note which Madame Leon had given him at
the garden gate? What did she know of the poignant suspicions that
had rent his mind, after listening to Madame Vantrasson’s disparaging
insinuations?

It must be admitted that he was indebted to his mother alone for his
escape from suicide--that grim madness that seizes hold of so many
desperate, despairing men. And it was still to his mother--the
incomparable guardian of his honor--that he owed his resolution on the
morning he applied to Baron Trigault. And his courage met with its first
reward.

He was no longer the same man when he left the princely mansion which
he had entered with his heart so full of anguish. He was still somewhat
bewildered with the strange scenes which he had involuntarily witnessed,
the secrets he had overheard, and the revelations which had been made to
him; but a light gleamed on the horizon--a fitful and uncertain light,
it is true, but nevertheless a hopeful gleam. At least, he would no
longer have to struggle alone. An honest and experienced man, powerful
by reason of his reputation, his connections and his fortune, had
promised him his help. Thanks to this man whom misfortune had made a
truer friend than years could have done, he would have access to the
wretch who had deprived him both of his honor and of the woman he loved.
He knew the weak spot in the marquis’s armor now; he knew where and how
to strike, and he felt sure that he should succeed in winning Valorsay’s
confidence, and in obtaining irrefutable proofs of his villainy.

Pascal was eager to inform his mother of the fortunate result of his
visit, but certain arrangements which were needful for the success of
his plans required his attention, and it was nearly five o’clock when
he reached the Route de la Revolte. Madame Ferailleur was just returning
home when he arrived, which surprised him considerably, for he had not
known that she had intended going out. The cab she had used was still
standing before the door, and she had not had time to take off her
shawl and bonnet when he entered the house. She uttered a joyful cry on
perceiving her son. She was so accustomed to read his secret thoughts on
his face, that it was unnecessary for him to say a word; before he had
even opened his lips, she cried: “So you have succeeded?”

“Yes, mother, beyond my hopes.”

“I was not deceived, then, in the worthy man who came to offer us his
assistance?”

“No, certainly not. Do what I may, I can never repay him for his
generosity and self-denial. If you knew, my dear mother, if you only
knew----”

“What?”

He kissed her as if he wished to apologize for what he was about to say,
and then he quickly replied: “Marguerite is the daughter of Baroness
Trigault.”

Madame Ferailleur started back, as if she had seen a reptile spring up
in her pathway. “The daughter of the baroness!” she faltered. “Great
Heavens!”

“It is the truth, mother; listen to me.” And in a voice that trembled
with emotion, he rapidly related all he had learned by his visit to the
baron, softening the truth as much as he could without concealing it.
But prevarication was useless. Madame Ferailleur’s indignation
and disgust were none the less evident. “That woman is a shameless
creature,” she said, coldly, when her son’s narrative was concluded.

Pascal made no reply. He knew only too well that his mother was right,
and yet it wounded him cruelly to hear her speak in this style. For the
baroness was Marguerite’s mother after all.

“So,” continued Madame Ferailleur, with increasing indignation,
“creatures do exist who are destitute even of the maternal instincts
of animals. I am an honest woman myself; I don’t say it in
self-glorification, it’s no credit to me; my mother was a saint, and I
loved my husband; what some people call duty was my happiness, so I may
be allowed to speak on this subject. I don’t excuse infidelity, but I
can understand how such a thing is possible. Yes, I can understand how a
beautiful young woman, who is left alone in a city like Paris, may lose
her senses, and forget the worthy man who has exiled himself for her
sake, and who is braving a thousand dangers to win a fortune for her.
The husband who exposes his honor and happiness to such terrible risk,
is an imprudent man. But when this woman has erred, when she has given
birth to a child, how she can abandon it, how she can cast it off as
if it were a dog, I cannot comprehend. I could imagine infanticide more
easily. No, such a woman has no heart, no bowels of compassion. There is
nothing human in her! For how could she live, how could she sleep with
the thought that somewhere in the world her own child, the flesh of her
flesh, was exposed to all the temptations of poverty, and the horrors of
shame and vice? And she, the possessor of millions, she, the inmate of a
palace, thinking only of dress and pleasure! How was it that she didn’t
ask herself every minute, ‘Where is my daughter now, and what is she
doing? What is she living on? Has she shelter, clothes and food? To what
depths of degradation she may have sunk? Perhaps she has so far lived by
honest toil, and perhaps at this very moment this support fails her, and
she is abandoning herself to a life of infamy.’ Great God! how does this
woman dare to step out of doors? On seeing the poor wretches who have
been driven to vice by want, how can she fail to say to herself: ‘That,
perhaps, is my daughter!’”

Pascal turned pale, moved to the depths of his soul by his mother’s
extraordinary vehemence. He trembled lest she should say: “And you,
my son, would you marry the child of such a mother?” For he knew his
mother’s prejudices, and the great importance she attached to a
spotless reputation transmitted from parent to child, from generation to
generation. “The baroness knew that her husband adored her, and hearing
of his return she became terrified; she lost her senses,” he ventured to
say in extenuation.

“Would you try to defend her?” exclaimed Madame Ferailleur. “Do you
really think one can atone for a fault by a crime?”

“No, certainly not, but----”

“Perhaps you would censure the baroness more severely if you knew what
her daughter has suffered--if you knew the perils and miseries she has
been exposed to from the moment her mother left her on a door-step, near
the central markets, till the day when her father found her. It is a
miracle that she did not perish.”

Where had Madame Ferailleur learned these particulars? Pascal asked
himself this question without being able to answer it. “I don’t
understand you, mother,” he faltered.

“Then you know nothing of Mademoiselle Marguerite’s past life. Is it
possible she never told you anything about it?”

“I only know that she has been very unhappy.”

“Has she never alluded to the time when she was an apprentice?”

“She has only told me that she earned her living with her own hands at
one time of her life.”

“Well, I am better informed on the subject.”

Pascal’s amazement was changed to terror. “You, mother, you!”

“Yes; I--I have been to the asylum where she was received and educated.
I have had a conversation with two Sisters of Charity who remember
her, and it is scarcely an hour since I left the people to whom she was
formerly bound as an apprentice.”

Standing opposite his mother with one hand convulsively clutching the
back of the chair he was leaning on, Pascal tried to nerve himself for
some terrible blow. For was not his life at stake? Did not his whole
future depend upon the revelations Madame Ferailleur was about to make?
“So this was your object in going out, mother?” he faltered.

“Yes.”

“And you went without warning me?”

“Was it necessary? What! you love a young girl, you swear in my presence
that she shall be your wife, and you think it strange that I should
try to ascertain whether she is worthy of you or not? It would be very
strange if I did not do so.”

“This idea occurred to you so suddenly!”

Madame Ferailleur gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders,
as if she were astonished to have to answer such puerile objections.
“Have you already forgotten the disparaging remarks made by our new
servant, Madame Vantrasson?”

“Good Heavens!”

“I understood her base insinuations as well as you did, and after your
departure I questioned her, or rather I allowed her to tell her
story, and I ascertained that Mademoiselle Marguerite had once been an
apprentice of Vantrasson’s brother-in-law, a man named Greloux, who was
formerly a bookbinder in the Rue Saint-Denis, but who has now retired
from business. It was there that Vantrasson met Mademoiselle Marguerite,
and this is why he was so greatly surprised to see her doing the
mistress at the Hotel de Chalusse.”

It seemed to Pascal that the throbbing of his heart stopped his breath.

“By a little tact I obtained the Greloux’s address from Madame
Vantrasson,” resumed his mother. “Then I sent for a cab and drove there
at once.”

“And you saw them?”

“Yes; thanks to a falsehood which doesn’t trouble my conscience much, I
succeeded in effecting an entrance, and had an hour’s conversation with
them.” His mother’s icy tones frightened Pascal. Her slowness tortured
him, and still he dared not press her. “The Greloux family,” she
continued, “seem to be what are called worthy people, that is, incapable
of committing any crime that is punishable by the code, and very proud
of their income of seven thousand francs a year. They must have been
very much attached to Mademoiselle Marguerite, for they were lavish in
their protestations of affection when I mentioned her name. The husband
in particular seemed to regard her with a feeling of something like
gratitude.”

“Ah! you see, mother, you see!”

“As for the wife, it was easy to see that she had sincerely regretted
the loss of the best apprentice, the most honest servant, and the best
worker she had ever seen in her life. And yet, from her own story, I
should be willing to swear that she had abused the poor child, and had
made a slave of her.” Tears glittered in Pascal’s eyes, but he breathed
freely once more. “As for Vantrasson,” resumed Madame Ferailleur, “it
is certain that he took a violent fancy to his sister’s apprentice. This
man, who has since become an infamous scoundrel, was then only a rake,
an unprincipled drunkard and libertine. He fancied the poor little
apprentice--she was then but thirteen years old--would be only too glad
to become the mistress of her employer’s brother; but she scornfully
repulsed him, and his vanity was so deeply wounded that he persecuted
the poor girl to such an extent that she was obliged to complain, first
to Madame Greloux, who--to her shame be it said--treated these insults
as mere nonsense; and afterward to Greloux himself, who was probably
delighted to have an opportunity of ridding himself of his indolent
brother-in-law, for he turned him out of the house.”

The thought that so vile a rascal as this man Vantrasson should have
dared to insult Marguerite made Pascal frantic with indignation. “The
wretch!” he exclaimed; “the wretch!” But without seeming to notice her
son’s anger, Madame Ferailleur continued: “They pretended they had not
seen their former apprentice since she had been living in grandeur,
as they expressed it. But in this they lied to me. For they saw her at
least once, and that was on the day she brought them twenty thousand
francs, which proved the nucleus of their fortune. They did not mention
this fact, however.”

“Dear Marguerite!” murmured Pascal, “dear Marguerite!” And then aloud:
“But where did you learn these last details, mother?” he inquired.

“At the asylum where Mademoiselle Marguerite was brought up, and there,
too, I only heard words of praise. ‘Never,’ said the superior, ‘have I
had a more gifted, sweeter-tempered or more attractive charge.’ They had
reproached her sometimes for being too reserved, and her self-respect
had often been mistaken for inordinate pride; but she had not forgotten
the asylum any more than she had forgotten her former patrons. On one
occasion the superior received from her the sum of twenty-five thousand
francs, and a year ago she presented the institution with one hundred
thousand francs, the yearly income of which is to constitute the
marriage dowry of some deserving orphan.”

Pascal was greatly elated. “Well, mother!” he exclaimed, “well, is
it strange that I love her?” Madame Ferailleur made no reply, and a
sorrowful apprehension seized hold of him. “You are silent,” said he,
“and why? When the blessed day that will allow me to wed Marguerite
arrives, you surely won’t oppose our marriage?”

“No, my son, nothing that I have learned gives me the right to do so.”

“The right! Ah, you are unjust, mother.”

“Unjust! Haven’t I faithfully reported all that was told me, although I
knew it would only increase your passion?”

“That’s true, but----”

Madame Ferailleur sadly shook her head. “Do you think,” she interrupted,
“that I can, without sorrow, see you choose a girl of no family, a girl
who is outside the pale of social recognition? Don’t you understand
my disquietude when I think that the girl that you will marry is the
daughter of such a woman as Baroness Trigault, an unfortunate girl
whom her mother cannot even recognize, since her mother is a married
woman----”

“Ah! mother, is that Marguerite’s fault?”

“Did I say it was her fault? No--I only pray God that you may never
have to repent of choosing a wife whose past life must ever remain an
impenetrable mystery!”

Pascal had become very pale. “Mother!” he said in a quivering voice,
“mother!”

“I mean that you will only know so much of Mademoiselle Marguerite’s
past life as she may choose to tell you,” continued the obdurate old
lady. “You heard Madame Vantrasson’s ignoble allegations. It has been
said that she was the mistress, not the daughter, of the Count de
Chalusse. Who knows what vile accusations you may be forced to meet?
And what is your refuge, if doubts should ever assail you? Mademoiselle
Marguerite’s word! Will this be sufficient? It is now, perhaps; but will
it suffice in years to come? I would have my son’s wife above suspicion;
and she--why, there is not a single episode in her life that does not
expose her to the most atrocious calumny.”

“What does calumny matter? it will never shake my faith in her. The
misfortunes which you reproach Marguerite for sanctify her in my eyes.”

“Pascal!”

“What! Am I to scorn her because she has been unfortunate? Am I to
regard her birth as a crime? Am I to despise her because her MOTHER is
a despicable woman? No--God be praised! the day when illegitimate
children, the innocent victims of their mother’s faults, were branded as
outcasts, is past.”

But Madame Ferailleur’s prejudices were too deeply rooted to be shaken
by these arguments. “I won’t discuss this question, my son,” she
interrupted, “but take care. By declaring children irresponsible for
their mother’s faults, you will break the strongest tie that binds a
woman to duty. If the son of a pure and virtuous wife, and the son of
an adulterous woman meet upon equal ground, those who are held in check
only by the thought of their children will finally say to themselves,
what does it matter?”

It was the first time that a cloud had ever arisen between mother and
son. On hearing his dearest hopes thus attacked, Pascal was tempted
to rebel, and a flood of bitter words rose to his lips. However he had
strength enough to control himself. “Marguerite alone can triumph over
these implacable prejudices,” he thought; “when my mother knows her, she
will feel how unjust they are!”

And as he found it difficult to remain master of himself, he stammered
some excuse, and abruptly retired to his own room, where he threw
himself on his bed. He felt that it was not his place to reproach his
mother or censure her for her opinions. What mother had ever been so
devoted as she had been? And who knows?--it was, perhaps, from these
same rigid prejudices that this simple-minded and heroic woman had
derived her energy, her enthusiastic love of God, her hatred of evil,
and that virility of spirit which misfortune had been powerless to
daunt. Besides, had she not promised to offer no opposition to his
marriage! And was not this a great concession, a sacrifice which must
have cost her a severe struggle? And where can one find the mother
who does not count as one of the sublime joys of maternity the task of
seeking a wife for her son, of choosing from among all others the young
girl who will be the companion of his life, the angel of his dark and of
his prosperous days? His mind was occupied with these thoughts when his
door suddenly opened, and he sprang up, exclaiming: “Who is it?”

It was Madame Vantrasson, who came to announce that dinner was
ready--a dinner which she had herself prepared, for on going out Madame
Ferailleur had left her in charge of the household. On seeing this
woman, Pascal was overcome with rage and indignation, and felt a wild
desire to annihilate her. He knew that she was only a vile slanderer,
but she might meet other beings as vile as herself who would be only too
glad to believe her falsehoods. And to think that he was powerless to
punish her! He now realized the suffering his mother had spoken of--the
most atrocious suffering which the lover can endure--powerlessness to
protect the object of his affections, when she is assailed. Engrossed
in these gloomy thoughts, Pascal preserved a sullen silence during the
repast. He ate because his mother filled his plate; but if he had been
questioned, he could scarcely have told what he was eating. And yet, the
modest dinner was excellent. Madame Vantrasson was really a good cook,
and in this first effort in her new situation she had surpassed herself.
Her vanity as a cordon-bleu was piqued because she did not receive the
compliments she expected, and which she felt she deserved. Four or five
times she asked impatiently, “Isn’t that good?” and as the only reply
was a scarcely enthusiastic “Very good,” she vowed she would never again
waste so much care and talent upon such unappreciative people.

Madame Ferailleur was as silent as her son, and seemed equally anxious
to finish with the repast. She evidently wanted to get rid of Madame
Vantrasson, and in fact as soon as the simple dessert had been placed
on the table, she turned to her, and said: “You may go home now. I will
attend to the rest.”

Irritated by the taciturnity of these strange folks, the landlady of the
Model Lodging House withdrew, and they soon heard the street door close
behind her with a loud bang as she left the house. Pascal drew a long
breath as if relieved of a heavy weight. While Madame Vantrasson had
been in the room he had scarcely dared to raise his eyes, so great was
his dread of encountering the gaze of this woman, whose malignity was
but poorly veiled by her smooth-tongued hypocrisy. He really feared he
should not be able to resist his desire to strangle her. However, Madame
Ferailleur must have understood her son’s agitation, for as soon as
they were alone, she said: “So you have not forgiven me for my plain
speaking?”

“How can I be angry with you, mother, when I know that you are thinking
only of my happiness? But how sorry I shall be if your prejudices----”

Madame Ferailleur checked him with a gesture. “Let us say no more on the
subject,” she remarked. “Mademoiselle Marguerite will be the innocent
cause of one of the greatest disappointments of my life; but I have no
reason to hate her--and I have always been able to show justice even to
the persons I loved the least. I have done so in this instance, and I am
going perhaps to give you a convincing proof of it.”

“A proof?”

“Yes.”

She reflected for a moment and then she asked: “Did you not tell me,
my son, that Mademoiselle Marguerite’s education has not suffered on
account of her neglected childhood?”

“And it’s quite true, mother.”

“She worked diligently, you said, so as to improve herself?”

“Marguerite knows all that an unusually talented girl can learn in four
years, when she finds herself very unhappy, and study proves her only
refuge and consolation.”

“If she wrote you a note would it be written grammatically, and be free
from any mistakes in spelling?”

“Oh, certainly!” exclaimed Pascal, and a sudden inspiration made
him pause abruptly. He darted to his own room, and a minute later he
returned with a package of letters, which he laid on the table, saying:
“Here, mother, read and see for yourself.”

Madame Ferailleur drew her spectacles from their case, and, after
adjusting them, she began to read.

With his elbows on the table, and his head resting upon his hands,
Pascal eagerly watched his mother, anxious to read her impressions
on her face. She was evidently astonished. She had not expected these
letters would express such nobility of sentiment, an energy no whit
inferior to her own, and even an echo of her own prejudices. For this
strange young girl shared Madame Ferailleur’s rather bigoted opinions.
Again and again she asked herself if her birth and past had not created
an impassable abyss between Pascal and herself. And she had not felt
satisfied on this point until the day when the gray-haired magistrate,
after hearing her story, said: “If I had a son, I should be proud to
have him beloved by you!”

It soon became apparent that Madame Ferailleur was deeply moved, and
once she even raised her glasses to wipe away a furtive tear which made
Pascal’s heart leap with very joy. “These letters are admirable,” she
said at last; “and no young girl, reared by a virtuous mother, could
have given better expression to nobler sentiments; but----” She paused,
not wishing to wound her son’s feelings, and as he insisted, she added:

“But, these letters have the irreparable fault of being addressed to
you, Pascal!”

This, however, was the expiring cry of her intractable obstinacy. “Now,”
she resumed, “wait before you censure your mother.” So saying, she rose,
opened a drawer, and taking from it a torn and crumpled scrap of paper,
she handed it to her son, exclaiming: “Read this attentively.”

This proved to be the note in pencil which Madame Leon had given to
Pascal, and which he had divined rather than read by the light of the
street-lamp; he had handed it to his mother on his return, and she had
kept it. He had scarcely been in his right mind the evening he received
it, but now he was enjoying the free exercise of all his faculties.
He no sooner glanced at the note than he sprang up, and in an excited
voice, exclaimed, “Marguerite never wrote this!”

The strange discovery seemed to stupefy him. “I was mad, raving mad!” he
muttered. “The fraud is palpable, unmistakable. How could I have failed
to discover it?” And as if he felt the need of convincing himself that
he was not deceived, he continued, speaking to himself rather than to
his mother: “The hand-writing is not unlike Marguerite’s, it’s true; but
it’s only a clever counterfeit. And who doesn’t know that all writings
in pencil resemble each other more or less? Besides, it’s certain that
Marguerite, who is simplicity itself, would not have made use of such
pretentious melodramatic phrases. How could I have been so stupid as to
believe that she ever thought or wrote this: ‘One cannot break a promise
made to the dying; I shall keep mine even though my heart break.’ And
again: ‘Forget, therefore, the girl who has loved you so much: she is
now the betrothed of another, and honor requires she should forget even
your name!’” He read these passages with an extravagant emphasis, which
heightened their absurdity. “And what shall I say of these mistakes in
spelling?” he resumed. “You noticed them, of course, mother?--command
is written with a single ‘m,’ and supplicate with one ‘p.’ These are
certainly not mistakes that we can attribute to haste! Ignorance is
proved since the blunder is always the same. The forger is evidently in
the habit of omitting one of the double letters.”

Madame Ferailleur listened with an impassive face. “And these mistakes
are all the more inexcusable since this letter is only a copy,” she
observed, quietly.

“What?”

“Yes; a verbatim copy. Yesterday evening, while I was examining it for
the twentieth time, it occurred to me that I had read some portions of
it before. Where, and under what circumstances? It was a puzzle which
kept me awake most of the night. But this morning I suddenly remembered
a book which I had seen in the hands of the workmen at the factory,
and which I had often laughed over. So, while I was out this morning I
entered a book-shop, and purchased the volume. That’s it, there on the
corner of the mantel-shelf. Take it and see.”

Pascal obeyed, and noticed with surprise that the work was entitled,
“The Indispensable and Complete Letter-writer, for Both Sexes, in Every
Condition of Life.”

“Now turn to the page I have marked,” said Madame Ferailleur.

He did so, and read: “(Model 198). Letter from a young lady who has
promised her dying father to renounce the man she loves, and to bestow
her hand upon another.” Doubt was no longer possible. Line for line and
word for word, the mistakes in spelling excepted, the note was an exact
copy of the stilted prose of the “Indispensable Letter-writer.”

It seemed to Pascal as if the scales had suddenly fallen from his eyes,
and that he could now understand the whole intrigue which had been
planned to separate him from Marguerite. His enemies had dishonored him
in the hope that she would reject and scorn him, and, disappointed
in their expectations, they had planned this pretended rupture of the
engagement to prevent him from making any attempt at self-justification.
So, in spite of some short-lived doubts, his love had been more
clear-sighted than reason, and stronger than appearances. He had been
quite right, then, in saying to his mother: “I can never believe that
Marguerite deserts me at a moment when I am so wretched--that she
condemns me unheard, and has no greater confidence in me than in my
accusers. Appearances may indicate the contrary, but I am right.”
Certain circumstances, which had previously seemed contradictory,
now strengthened this belief. “How is it,” he said to himself, “that
Marguerite writes to me that her father, on his death-bed, made her
promise to renounce me, while Valorsay declares the Count de Chalusse
died so suddenly, that he had not even time to acknowledge his daughter
or to bequeath her his immense fortune? One of these stories must be
false; and which of them? The one in this note most probably. As for the
letter itself, it must have been the work of Madame Leon.”

If he had not already possessed irrefutable proofs of this, the
“Indispensable Letter-writer” would have shown it. The housekeeper’s
perturbation when she met him at the garden gate was now explained. She
was shuddering at the thought that she might be followed and watched,
and that Marguerite might appear at any moment, and discover everything.

“I think it would be a good plan to let this poor young girl know that
her companion is Valorsay’s spy,” remarked Madame Ferailleur.

Pascal was about to approve this suggestion, when a sudden thought
deterred him. “They must be watching Marguerite very closely,” he
replied, “and if I attempt to see her, if I even venture to write to
her, our enemies would undoubtedly discover it. And then, farewell to
the success of my plans.”

“Then you prefer to leave her exposed to these dangers?”

“Yes, even admitting there is danger, which is by no means certain.
Owing to her past life, Marguerite’s experience is far in advance of
her years, and if some one told me that she had fathomed Madame Leon’s
character, I should not be at all surprised.”

It was necessary to ascertain what had become of Marguerite; and Pascal
was puzzling his brain to discover how this might be done, when suddenly
he exclaimed: “Madame Vantrasson! We have her; let us make use of her.
It will be easy to find some excuse for sending her to the Hotel de
Chalusse: she will gossip with the servants there, and in that way we
can discover the changes that have taken place.”

This was a heroic resolution on Pascal’s part, and one which he would
have recoiled from the evening before. But it is easy to be brave when
one is hopeful; and he saw his chances of success increase so rapidly
that he no longer feared the obstacles that had once seemed almost
insurmountable. Even his mother’s opposition had ceased to alarm him.
For why should he fear after the surprising proof she had given him of
her love of justice, proving that the pretended letter from Mademoiselle
Marguerite was really a forgery?

He slept but little that night and did not stir from the house on the
following day. He was busily engaged in perfecting his plan of attack
against the marquis. His advantages were considerable, thanks to Baron
Trigault, who had placed a hundred thousand francs at his disposal;
but the essential point was to use this amount in such a way as to win
Valorsay’s confidence, and induce him to betray himself. Pascal’s hours
of meditation were not spent in vain, and when it became time for him to
repair to his enemy’s house, he said to his mother: “I’ve found a plan;
and if the baron will let me follow it out, Valorsay is mine!”

XIII.

It was pure childishness on Pascal’s part to doubt Baron Trigault’s
willingness to agree even with closed eyes to any measures he might
propose. He ought to have recollected that their interests were
identical, that they hated the same men with equal hatred, and that they
were equally resolved upon vengeance. And certainly the events which had
occurred since their last interview had not been of a nature to modify
the baron’s intentions. However, misfortune had rendered Pascal timid
and suspicious, and it was not until he reached the baron’s house that
his fears vanished. The manner in which the servants received him proved
that the baron greatly esteemed him: for the man must be stupid indeed
who does not know that the greeting of the servants is ever in harmony
with the feelings of the master of the house. “Will you be kind enough
to follow me?” said the servant to whom he handed his card. “The baron
is very busy, but that doesn’t matter. He gave orders that monsieur
should be shown up as soon as he arrived.”

Pascal followed without a word. The elegance of this princely abode
never varied. The same careless, prodigal, regal luxury was apparent
everywhere. The servants--whose name was legion--were always passing
noiselessly to and fro. A pair of horses, worth at least a thousand
louis, and harnessed to the baroness’s brougham, were stamping and
neighing in the courtyard; and the hall was, as usual, fragrant with the
perfume of rare flowers, renewed every morning.

On his first visit Pascal had only seen the apartments on the ground
floor. This time his guide remarked that he would take him upstairs
to the baron’s private room. He was slowly ascending the broad marble
staircase and admiring the bronze balustrade, the rich carpet, the
magnificent frescoes, and the costly statuary, when a rustle of silk
resounded near him. He had only time to step aside, and a lady passed
him rapidly, without turning her head, or even deigning to look at him.
She did not appear more than forty, and she was still very beautiful,
with her golden hair dressed high on the back of her head. Her costume,
brilliant enough in hue to frighten a cab horse, was extremely eccentric
in cut; but it certainly set off her peculiar style of beauty to
admirable advantage.

“That’s the baroness,” whispered the servant, after she had passed.

Pascal did not need to be told this. He had seen her but once, and then
only for a second; but it had been under such circumstances that he
should never forget her so long as he lived. And now he understood the
strange and terrible impression which had been produced upon him when he
saw her first. Mademoiselle Marguerite was the living prototype of this
lady, save as regards the color of her hair. And there would have been
no difference in this respect had the baroness allowed her locks to
retain their natural tint. Her hair had been black, like Marguerite’s,
and black it had remained until she was thirty-five, when she bleached
it to the fashionable color of the time. And every fourth day even now
her hairdresser came to apply a certain compound to her head, after
which she remained in the bright sunlight for several hours, so as to
impart a livelier shade of gold to her dyed locks.

Pascal had scarcely regained his composure, when the servant opened the
door of an immense apartment as large as a handsome suite of rooms,
and magnificently furnished. Here sat the baron, surrounded by several
clerks, who were busily engaged in putting a pile of papers and
documents in order.

But as soon as Pascal entered, the baron rose, and cordially holding out
his hand, exclaimed, “Ah! here you are at last, Monsieur Maumejan!”

So he had not forgotten the name which Pascal had assumed. This was a
favorable omen. “I called, monsieur----” began the young man.

“Yes--I know--I know!” interrupted the baron. “Come, we must have a
talk.”

And, taking Pascal’s arm, he led him into his private sanctum, separated
from the large apartment by folding-doors, which had been removed, and
replaced by hangings. Once there he indicated by a gesture that they
could be heard in the adjoining room, and that it was necessary to
speak in a low tone. “You have no doubt come,” said he, “for the money
I promised that dear Marquis de Valorsay--I have it all ready for you;
here it is.” So saying, he opened an escritoire, and took out a large
roll of bank-notes, which he handed to Pascal. “Here, count it,” he
added, “and see if the amount is correct.”

But Pascal, whose face had suddenly become as red as fire, did not utter
a word in reply. On receiving this money a new but quite natural thought
had entered his mind for the first time. “What is the matter?” inquired
the baron, surprised by this sudden embarrassment. “What has happened to
you?”

“Nothing, monsieur, nothing! Only I was asking myself--if I ought--if I
can accept this money.”

“Bah! and why not?”

“Because if you lend it to M. de Valorsay, it is perhaps lost.”

“PERHAPS! You are polite----”

“Yes, monsieur, you are right. I ought to have said that it is sure to
be lost; and hence my embarrassment. Is it not solely on my account
that you sacrifice a sum which would be a fortune to many men? Yes. Very
well, then. I am asking myself if it is right for me to accept such a
sacrifice, when it is by no means certain that I shall ever be able to
requite it. Shall I ever have a hundred thousand francs to repay you?”

“But isn’t this money absolutely necessary to enable you to win
Valorsay’s confidence?”

“Yes, and if it belonged to me I should not hesitate.”

Though the baron had formed a high estimate of Pascal’s character, he
was astonished and deeply touched by these scruples, and this excessive
delicacy of feeling. Like most opulent men, he knew few poor people who
wore their poverty with grace and dignity, and who did not snatch at a
twenty-franc piece wherever they chanced to find it. “Ah, well, my dear
Ferailleur,” he said, kindly, “don’t trouble yourself on this score.
It’s not at your request nor solely on your account that I make this
sacrifice.”

“Oh!”

“No; I give you my word of honor it isn’t. Leaving you quite out of the
question, I should still have lent Valorsay this money; and if you do
not wish to take it to him, I shall send it by some one else.”

After that, Pascal could not demur any further. He took the baron’s
proffered hand and pressed it warmly, uttering only this one word, made
more eloquent than any protestations by the fervor with which it was
spoken: “Thanks!”

The baron shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly, like a man who fails to
see that he has done anything at all meritorious, or even worthy of the
slightest acknowledgment. “And you must understand, my dear sir,” he
resumed, “that you can employ this sum as you choose, in advancing your
interests, which are identical with mine. You can give the money to
Valorsay at such a time and under such conditions as will best serve
your plans. Give it to him in an hour or in a month, all at once or in
fifty different instalments, as you please. Only use it like the rope
one ties round a dog’s neck before drowning him.”

The keenest penetration was concealed beneath the baron’s careless
good-nature. Pascal knew this, and feeling that his protector understood
him, he said: “You overpower me with kindness.”

“Nonsense!”

“You offer me just what I came to ask for.”

“So much the better.”

“But you will allow me to explain my intentions?”

“It is quite unnecessary, my dear sir.”

“Excuse me; if I follow my present plan, I shall be obliged to ascribe
certain sentiments, words, and even acts, to you, which you might
perhaps disavow, and--”

With a careless toss of the head, accompanied by a disdainful snap of
the fingers, the baron interrupted him. “Set to work, and don’t give
yourself the slightest uneasiness about that. You may do whatever you
like, if you only succeed in unmasking this dear marquis, and Coralth,
his worthy acolyte. Show me up in whatever light you choose. Who will
you be in Valorsay’s eyes? Why, Maumejan, one of my business agents,
and I can always throw the blame on you.” And as if to prove that he had
divined even the details of the scheme devised by his young friend, he
added: “Besides, every one knows that a millionaire’s business agent is
anything but a pleasant person to deal with. A millionaire, who is not
a fool, must always smile, and no matter how absurd the demands upon him
may be, he must always answer: ‘Yes, certainly, certainly--I should be
only too happy!’ But then he adds: ‘You must arrange the matter with my
agent. Confer with him.’ And it is the unlucky agent who must object,
declare that his employer has no money at his disposal just now, and
finally say, ‘No.’”

Pascal was still disposed to insist, but the baron was obdurate. “Oh!
enough, enough!” he exclaimed. “Don’t waste precious time in idle
discussion. The days are only twenty-four hours long: and as you see,
I’m very busy, so busy that I’ve not touched a card since the day before
yesterday. I am preparing a delightful surprise for Madame Trigault, my
daughter, and my son-in-law. It has been rather a delicate operation,
but I flatter myself that I have succeeded finely.” And he laughed a
laugh that was not pleasant to hear. “You see, I’ve had enough of
paying several hundred thousand francs a year for the privilege of
being sneered at by my wife, scorned by my daughter, swindled by my
son-in-law, and vilified and anathematized by all three of them. I am
still willing to go on paying, but only on conditions that they give
me in return for my money, if not the reality, at least a show of love,
affection, and respect. I’m determined to have the semblance of these
things; I’m quite resolved on that. Yes, I will have myself treated with
deference. I’ll be petted and coddled and made much of, or else I’ll
suspend payment. It was one of my old friends, a parvenu like myself--a
man whose domestic happiness I have envied for many years--who gave me
this receipt: ‘At home,’ said he, ‘with my wife, my daughters, and my
sons-in-law, I’m like a peer of England at an hotel. I order first-class
happiness at so much a month. If I get it I pay for it; if I don’t get
it, I cut off the supplies. When I get extras I pay for them cheerfully,
without haggling. Follow my example, my old friend, and you’ll have a
comfortable life.’ And I shall follow his advice, M. Ferailleur, for I
am convinced that his theory is sound and practicable. I have led this
life long enough. I’ll spend my last days in peace, or, as God hears me,
I’ll let my family die of starvation!”

His face was purple, and the veins on his forehead stood out like
whipcords, but not so much from anger as from the constraint he imposed
upon himself by speaking in a whisper. He drew a long breath, and then
in a calmer tone, resumed: “But you must make haste and succeed, M.
Ferailleur, if you don’t want the young girl you love to be deprived
of her rightful heritage. You do not know into what unworthy hands the
Chalusse property is about to fall.” He was on the point of telling
Pascal the story of Madame d’Argeles and M. Wilkie, when he was
interrupted by the sound of a lively controversy in the hall.

“Who’s taking such liberty in my house?” the baron began. But the
next instant he heard some one fling open the door of the large room
adjoining, and then a coarse, guttural voice called out: “What! he isn’t
here! This is too much!”

The baron made an angry gesture. “That’s Kami-Bey,” said he, “the Turk
whom I am playing that great game of cards with. The devil take him! He
will be sure to force his way in here--so we may as well join him, M.
Ferailleur.”

On reentering the adjoining apartment Pascal beheld a very corpulent
man, with a very red face, a straggling beard, a flat nose, small,
beadlike eyes, and sensual lips. He was clad in a black frock-coat,
buttoned tight to the throat, and he wore a fez. This costume gave him
the appearance of a chunky bottle, sealed with red wax. Such, indeed,
was Kami-Bey, a specimen of those semi-barbarians, loaded with gold who
are not attracted to Paris by its splendors and glories, but rather by
its corruption--people who come there persuaded that money will purchase
anything and everything, and who often return home with the same
conviction. Kami was no doubt more impudent, more cynical and more
arrogant than others of his class. As he was more wealthy, he had more
followers; he had been more toadied and flattered, and victimized to
a greater extent by the host of female intriguers, who look upon every
foreigner as their rightful prey.

He spoke French passably well, but with an abominable accent. “Here
you are at last!” he exclaimed, as the baron entered the room. “I was
becoming very anxious.”

“About what, prince?”

Why Kami-Bey was called prince no one knew, not even the man himself.
Perhaps it was because the lackey who opened his carriage door on his
arrival at the Grand Hotel had addressed him by that title.

“About what!” he repeated. “You have won more than three hundred
thousand francs from me, and I was wondering if you intended to give me
the slip.”

The baron frowned, and this time he omitted the title of prince
altogether. “It seems to me, sir, that according to our agreement, we
were to play until one of us had won five hundred thousand francs,” he
said haughtily.

“That’s true--but we ought to play every day.”

“Possibly: but I’m very busy just now. I wrote to you explaining this,
did I not? If you are at all uneasy, tear up the book in which the
results of our games are noted, and that shall be the end of it. You
will gain considerably by the operation.”

Kami-Bey felt that the baron would not tolerate his arrogance, and so
with more moderation he exclaimed: “It isn’t strange that I’ve become
suspicious. I’m so victimized on every side. Because I’m a foreigner
and immensely rich, everybody fancies he has a right to plunder me. Men,
women, hotel-keepers and merchants, all unite in defrauding me. If I
buy pictures, they sell me vile daubs at fabulous prices. They ask
ridiculous amounts for horses, and then give me worthless, worn-out
animals. Everybody borrows money from me--and I’m never repaid. I shall
be ruined if this sort of thing goes on much longer.”

He had taken a seat, and the baron saw that he was not likely to get
rid of his guest very soon; so approaching Pascal he whispered: “You had
better go off, or you may miss Valorsay. And be careful, mind; for he is
exceedingly shrewd. Courage and good luck!”

Courage! It was not necessary to recommend that to Pascal. He who had
triumphed over his despair in the terrible hours, when he had reason to
suppose that Marguerite believed him guilty and had abandoned him, could
scarcely lack courage. While he was condemned to inaction, his mind had
no doubt been assailed by countless doubts and fears; but now that he
knew whom he was to attack--now that the decisive moment had come, he
was endowed with indomitable energy; he had turned to bronze, and he
felt sure that nothing could disconcert or even trouble him in future.
The weapons he had to use were not at all to his taste, but he had not
been allowed a choice in the matter; and since his enemies had decided
on a warfare of duplicity, he was resolved to surpass them in cunning,
and vanquish them by deception.

So, while hastening to the Marquis de Valorsay’s residence, he took
stock of his chances, and recapitulated his resources, striving to
foresee and remember everything. Thus if he failed--for he admitted the
possibility of defeat, without believing in it--he would have no cause
to reproach himself. Only fools find consolation in saying: “Who could
have foreseen that?” Great minds do foresee. And Pascal felt almost
certain that he was fully prepared for any emergency.

That morning, before leaving home, he had dressed with extreme care,
realizing that the shabby clothes he had worn on his first visit to the
Trigault mansion would not be appropriate on such an occasion as this.
The baron’s agent could scarcely have a poverty-stricken appearance,
for contact with millionaires is supposed to procure wealth as surely
as proximity to fire insures warmth. So he arrayed himself in a suit
of black, which was neither too elegant nor too much worn, and donned
a broad white necktie. He could see only one immediate, decisive chance
against him. M. de Valorsay might possibly recognize him. He thought
not, but he was not sure; and anxious on this account, he at first
decided to disguise himself. However, on reflection, he concluded not
to do so. An imperfect disguise would attract attention and awaken
suspicion; and could he really disguise his physiognomy? He was certain
he could not. Very few men are capable of doing so successfully, even
after long experience. Only two or three detectives and half a dozen
actors possess the art of really changing their lineaments. Thus after
weighing the pros and cons, Pascal determined to present himself as he
was at the marquis’s house.

On approaching M. de Valorsay’s residence in the Avenue des Champs
Elysees, he slackened his pace. The mansion, which stood between a
courtyard and a garden, was very large and handsome. The stables and
carriage-house--really elegant structures--stood on either side of the
courtyard, near the half-open gate of which five or six servants were
amusing themselves by teasing a large dog. Pascal was just saying to
himself that the coast was clear, and that he should incur no danger by
going in, when he saw the servants step aside, the gate swing back, and
M. de Coralth emerged, accompanied by a young, fair-haired man, whose
mustaches were waxed and turned up in the most audacious fashion. They
were arm in arm, and turned in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe.
Pascal’s heart thrilled with joy. “Fate favors me!” he said to himself.
“If it hadn’t been for Kami-Bey, who detained me a full quarter of an
hour at Baron Trigault’s, I should have found myself face to face with
that miserable viscount, and then all would have been lost. But now I’m
safe!”

It was with this encouraging thought that he approached the house.

“The marquis is very busy this morning,” said the servant to whom Pascal
addressed himself at the gate. “I doubt if he can see you.” But when
Pascal handed him one of his visiting cards, bearing the name of
Maumejan, with this addition in pencil: “Who calls as the representative
of Baron Trigault,” the valet’s face changed as if by enchantment.
“Oh!” said he, “that’s quite a different matter. If you come from Baron
Trigault, you will be received with all the respect due to the Messiah.
Come in. I will announce you myself.”

Everything in M. de Valorsay’s house, as at the baron’s residence,
indicated great wealth, and yet a close observer would have detected a
difference. The luxury of the Rue de la Ville-l’Eveque was of a real and
substantial character, which one did not find in the Avenue des Champs
Elysees. Everything in the marquis’s abode bore marks of the haste which
mars the merest trifle produced at the present age. “Take a seat here,
and I will see where the marquis is,” said the servant, as he ushered
Pascal into a large drawing-room. The apartment was elegantly furnished,
but had somewhat lost its freshness; the carpet, which had once been a
marvel of beauty, was stained in several places, and as the servants had
not always been careful to keep the shutters closed, the sunlight had
perceptibly faded the curtains. The attention of visitors was at once
attracted by the number of gold and silver cups, vases, and statuettes
scattered about on side-tables and cheffoniers. Each of these objects
bore an inscription, setting forth that it had been won at such a race,
in such a year, by such a horse, belonging to the Marquis de Valorsay.
These were indeed the marquis’s chief claims to glory, and had cost him
at least half of the immense fortune he had inherited. However, Pascal
did not take much interest in these trophies, so the time of waiting
seemed long. “Valorsay is playing the diplomat,” he thought. “He doesn’t
wish to appear to be anxious. Unfortunately, his servant has betrayed
him.”

At last the valet returned. “The marquis will see you now, monsieur,”
said he.

This summons affected Pascal’s heart like the first roll of a drum
beating the charge. But his coolness did not desert him. “Now is the
decisive moment,” he thought. “Heaven grant that he may not recognize
me!” And with a firm step he followed the valet.

M. de Valorsay was seated in the apartment he usually occupied when he
remained at home--a little smoking-room connected with his bedroom. He
was to all intents busily engaged in examining some sporting journals.
A bottle of Madeira and a partially filled glass stood near him. As the
servant announced “Monsieur Maumejan!” he looked up and his eyes met
Pascal’s. But his glance did not waver; not a muscle of his face moved;
his countenance retained its usually cold and disdainful expression.
Evidently he had not the slightest suspicion that the man he had tried
to ruin--his mortal enemy--was standing there before him.

“M. Maumejan,” said he, “Baron Trigault’s agent?”

“Yes, monsieur----”

“Pray be seated. I am just finishing here; I shall be at leisure in a
moment.”

Pascal took a chair. He had feared that he might not be able to retain
his self-control when he found himself in the presence of the scoundrel
who, after destroying his happiness, ruining his future, and depriving
him of his honor--dearer than life itself--was at that moment
endeavoring, by the most infamous manoeuvres, to rob him of the woman
he loved. “If my blood mounted to my brain,” he had thought, “I should
spring upon him and strangle him!” But no. His arteries did not throb
more quickly; it was with perfect calmness--the calmness of a strong
nature--that he stealthily watched M. de Valorsay. If he had seen him a
week before he would have been startled by the change which the past few
days had wrought in this brilliant nobleman’s appearance. He was little
more than a shadow of his former self. And seen at this hour, before
placing himself in his valet’s hands, before his premature decrepitude
had been concealed by the artifices of the toilet, he was really
frightful. His face was haggard, and his red and swollen eyelids
betrayed a long-continued want of sleep.

The fact is, he had suffered terribly during the past week. A man may
be a scapegrace and a spendthrift and may boast of it; he may have no
principle and no conscience; he may be immoral, he may defy God and the
devil, but it is nevertheless true that he suffers fearful anguish
of mind when he is guilty, for the first time, of a positive crime,
forbidden by the laws and punishable with the galleys. And who can say
how many crimes the Marquis de Valorsay had committed since the day
he provided his accomplice, the Viscount de Coralth, with those fatal
cards? And apart from this there was something extremely appalling in
the position of this ruined millionaire, who was contending desperately
against his creditors for the vain appearance of splendor, with
the despairing energy of a ship-wrecked mariner struggling for the
possession of a floating spar. Had he not confessed to M. Fortunat that
he had suffered the tortures of the damned in his struggle to maintain
a show of wealth, while he was often without a penny in his pocket, and
was ever subject to the pitiless surveillance of thirty servants?
His agony, when he thought of his precarious condition, could only be
compared to that of a miner, who, while ascending from the bowels of
the earth, finds that the rope, upon which his life depends, is slowly
parting strand by strand, and who asks himself, in terror, if the few
threads that still remain unsevered will be strong enough to raise him
to the mouth of the pit.

However, the moment which M. de Valorsay had asked for had lengthened
into a quarter of an hour, and he had not yet finished his work. “What
the devil is he doing?” wondered Pascal, who was following his enemy’s
slightest movement with eager curiosity.

Countless sporting newspapers were strewn over the table, the chairs,
and the floor around the marquis, who took them up one after another,
glanced rapidly through their columns, and threw them on the floor
again, or placed them on a pile before him, first marking certain
passages with a red pencil. At last, probably fearing that Pascal was
growing impatient, he looked up and said:

“I am really very sorry to keep you waiting so long, but some one is
waiting for this work to be completed.”

“Oh! pray continue, Monsieur le Marquis,” interrupted Pascal. “Strange
to say, I have a little leisure at my command just now.”

The marquis seemed to feel that it was necessary to make some remark
in acknowledgment of this courtesy on his visitor’s part, and so, as
he continued his work, he condescended to explain its purpose. “I am
playing the part of a commentator,” he remarked. “I sold seven of my
horses a few days ago, and the purchaser, before paying the stipulated
price, naturally required an exact and authentic statement of each
animal’s performances. However, even this does not seem to have
satisfied the gentleman, for he has now taken it into his head to ask
for such copies of the sporting journals as record the victories or
defeats of the animals he has purchased. A gentleman is not so exacting
generally. It is true, however, that I have a foreigner to deal
with--one of those half-civilized nabobs who come here every year to
astonish the Parisians with their wealth and display, and who, by their
idiotic prodigality, have so increased the price of everything that life
has become well-nigh an impossibility to such of us as don’t care to
squander an entire fortune in a couple of years. These folks are the
curse of Paris, for, with but few exceptions, they only use their
millions to enrich notorious women, scoundrels, hotel-keepers, and
jockeys.”

Pascal at once thought of the foreigner, Kami-Bey, whom he had met at
Baron Trigault’s half an hour before, and who had complained so bitterly
of having had worthless scrubs palmed off upon him when he fancied
he had purchased valuable animals. “Kami-Bey must be this exacting
purchaser,” thought Pascal, “and it’s probable that the marquis,
desperately straitened as he is, has committed one of those frauds
which lead their perpetrator to prison?” The surmise was by no means
far-fetched, for in sporting matters, at least, there was cause to
suspect Valorsay of great elasticity of conscience. Had he not already
been accused of defrauding Domingo’s champions by a conspiracy?

At last the marquis heaved a sigh of relief. “I’ve finished,” he
muttered, as he tied up the bundle of papers he had laid aside, and
after ringing the bell, he said to the servant who answered the summons:
“Here, take this package to Prince Kami at the Grand Hotel.”

Pascal’s presentiments had not deceived him, and he said to himself:
“This is a good thing to know. Before this evening I shall look into
this affair a little.”

A storm was decidedly gathering over the Marquis de Valorsay’s head. Did
he know it? Certainly he must have expected it. Still he had sworn to
stand fast until the end. Besides, he would not concede that all was
lost; and, like most great gamblers, he told himself that since he
had so much at stake, he might reasonably hope to succeed. He rose,
stretched himself, as a man is apt to do after the conclusion of a
tiresome task, and then, leaning against the mantel-shelf, he exclaimed:
“Now, Monsieur Maumejan, let us speak of the business that brings you
here.” His negligent attitude and his careless tone were admirably
assumed, but a shrewd observer would not have been deceived by them, or
by the indifferent manner in which he added: “You bring me some money
from Baron Trigault?”

Pascal shook his head, as he replied: “I regret to say that I don’t,
Monsieur le Marquis.”

This response had the same effect as a heavy rock falling upon M.
de Valorsay’s bald pate. He turned whiter than his linen, and even
tottered, as if his lame leg, which was so much affected by sudden
changes in the weather, had utterly refused all service. “What! You
haven’t--this is undoubtedly a joke.”

“It is only too serious!”

“But I had the baron’s word.”

“Oh! his word!”

“I had his solemn promise.”

“It is sometimes impossible to keep one’s promises, sir.”

The consequences of this disappointment must have been terrible, for the
marquis could not maintain his self-control. Still he strove valiantly
to conceal his emotion. He thought to himself that if he allowed this
man to see what a terrible blow this really was, he would virtually
confess his absolute ruin, and have to renounce the struggle, and own
himself vanquished and lost. So, summoning all his energy, he mastered
his emotion in some degree, and, instead of appearing desperate,
succeeded in looking only irritated and annoyed. “In short,” he resumed,
angrily, “you have brought no money! I counted on a hundred thousand
francs this morning. Nothing! This is kind on the baron’s part! But
probably he doesn’t understand the embarrassing position in which he
places me.”

“Excuse me, Monsieur le Marquis, he understands it so well that, instead
of informing you by a simple note, he sent me to acquaint you with his
sincere regret. When I left him an hour ago, he was really disconsolate.
He was particularly anxious I should tell you that it was not his fault.
He counted upon the payment of two very large amounts, and both of these
have failed him.”

The marquis had now recovered a little from the shock, though he was
still very pale. He looked at Pascal with evident distrust, for he knew
with what sweet excuses well-bred people envelope their refusals. “So
the baron is disconsolate,” he remarked, in a tone of perceptible irony.

“He is indeed!”

“Poor baron! Ah! I pity him--pity him deeply.”

As cold and as unmoved as a statue, Pascal seemed quite unconscious
of the effect of the message he had brought--quite unconscious of
Valorsay’s sufferings and self-constraint. “You think I am jesting,
monsieur,” he said, quietly, “but I assure you that the baron is very
short of money just now.”

“Nonsense! a man worth seven or eight millions of francs.”

“I should say ten millions, at least.”

“Then the excuse is all the more absurd.”

Pascal shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “It astonishes me, Monsieur
le Marquis, to hear YOU speak in this way. It is not the magnitude of
a man’s income that constitutes affluence, but rather the way in which
that income is spent. In this foolish age, almost all rich people are
in arrears. What income does the baron derive from his ten millions of
francs? Not more than five hundred thousand. A very handsome fortune, no
doubt, and I should be more than content with it. But the baron
gambles, and the baroness is the most elegant--in other words, the most
extravagant--woman in Paris. They both of them love luxury, and their
establishment is kept up in princely style. What are five hundred
thousand francs under such circumstances as those? Their situation must
be something like that of several millionaires of my acquaintance, who
are obliged to take their silver to the pawn-broker’s while waiting for
their rents to fall due.”

This excuse might not be true, but it was certainly a very plausible
one. Had not a recent lawsuit revealed the fact that certain rich folks,
who had an income of more than a hundred thousand francs a year, had
kept a thieving coachman for six months, simply because, in all that
time, they were not able to raise the eight hundred francs they owed
him, and which must be paid before he was dismissed? M. de Valorsay knew
this, but a terrible disquietude seized him. Had people begun to suspect
HIS embarrassment? Had any rumor of it reached Baron Trigault’s ears?
This was what he wished to ascertain. “Let us understand each other,
Monsieur Maumejan,” said he; “the baron was unable to procure this money
he had promised me to-day--but when will he let me have it?”

Pascal opened his eyes in pretended astonishment, and it was with an air
of the utmost simplicity that he replied, “I concluded the baron would
take no further action in the matter. I judged so from his parting
words: ‘It consoles me a little,’ he said, ‘to think that the Marquis
de Valorsay is very rich and very well known, and that he has a dozen
friends who will be delighted to do him this trifling service.’”

Until now, M. de Valorsay had cherished a hope that the loan was only
delayed, and the certainty that the decision was final, crushed him. “My
ruin’s known,” he thought, and feeling that his strength was deserting
him, he poured out a brimming glass of Madeira, which he emptied at a
single draught. The wine lent him fictitious energy. Fury mounted to his
brain; he lost all control over himself, and springing up, with his face
purple with rage, he exclaimed: “It’s a shame! an infamous shame! and
Trigault deserves to be severely punished. He has no business to keep a
man in hot water for three days about such a trifle. If he had said
‘No’ in the first place, I should have made other arrangements, and I
shouldn’t now find myself in a dilemma from which I see no possible way
of escape. No gentleman would have been guilty of such a contemptible
act--no one but a shopkeeper or a thief would have stooped to such
meanness! This is the result of admitting these ridiculous parvenus into
society, just because they happen to have money.”

It certainly hurt Pascal to hear these insults heaped upon the baron,
and it hurt him all the more since they were entirely due to the course
he had personally adopted.

However, a gesture, even a frown, might endanger the success of his
undertaking, so he preserved an impassive countenance. “I must say that
I don’t understand your indignation, Monsieur le Marquis,” he said,
coldly. “I can see why you might feel annoyed, but why you should fly
into a passion--”

“Ah! you don’t know----” began M. de Valorsay, but he stopped short. It
was time. The truth had almost escaped his lips.

“Know what?” inquired Pascal.

But the marquis was again upon his guard. “I have a debt that must be
paid this evening, at all hazards--a sacred obligation--in short, a debt
of honor.”

“A debt of one hundred thousand francs?”

“No, it is only twenty-five thousand.”

“Is it possible that a rich man like you can be troubled about such a
trifling sum, which any one would lend you?”

M. de Valorsay interrupted him with a contemptuous sneer. “Didn’t you
just tell me that we were living in an age when no one has any money
except those who are in business? The richest of my friends have
only enough for themselves, even if they have enough. The time of old
stockings, stuffed full of savings, is past! Shall I apply to a banker?
He would ask two days for reflection, and he would require the names of
two or three of my friends on the note. If I go to my notary, there will
be endless forms to be gone through, and remonstrances without number.”

For a moment or more already, Pascal had been moving about uneasily
on his chair, like a man who is waiting for an opportunity to make a
suggestion, and as soon as M. de Valorsay paused to take breath, he
exclaimed: “Upon my word! if I dared----”

“Well?”

“I would offer to obtain you these twenty-five thousand francs.”

“You?”

“Yes, I.”

“Before six o’clock this evening?”

“Certainly.”

A glass of ice-water presented to a parched traveller while journeying
over the desert sands of Sahara could not impart greater relief and
delight than the marquis experienced on hearing Pascal’s offer. He
literally felt that he was restored to life.

For ruin was inevitable if he did not succeed in obtaining twenty-five
thousand francs that day. If he could procure that amount he might
obtain a momentary respite, and to gain time was the main thing.
Moreover, the offer was a sufficient proof that his financial
difficulties were not known. “Ah! I have had a fortunate escape,” he
thought. “What if I had revealed the truth!”

But he was careful to conceal the secret joy that filled his heart. He
feared lest he might say “Yes” too quickly, so betray his secret, and
place himself at the mercy of the baron’s envoy. “I would willingly
accept your offer,” he exclaimed, “if----”

“If what?”

“Would it be proper for me, after the baron has treated me in such a
contemptible manner, to have any dealings with one of his subordinates?”

Pascal protested vigorously. “Allow me to say,” he exclaimed, “that I am
not any one’s subordinate. Trigault is my client, like thirty or forty
others--nothing more. He employs me in certain difficult and delicate
negotiations, which I conduct to the best of my ability. He pays me, and
we are each of us perfectly independent of the other.”

From the look which Valorsay gave Pascal, one would have sworn that he
suspected who his visitor really was. But such was not the case. It was
simply this: a strange, but by no means impossible, idea had flashed
through the marquis’s mind--“Oh!” thought he, “this unknown party with
whom Maumejan offers to negotiate the loan, is probably none other
than the baron himself. That worthy gambler has invented this ingenious
method of obliging me so as to extort a rate of interest which he would
not dare to demand openly. And why not? There have been plenty of such
instances. Isn’t it a well-known fact that the N---- Brothers, the
most rigidly honest financiers in the world, have never under any
circumstances directly obliged one of their friends? If their own
father, of whom they always speak with the greatest veneration, asked
them to lend him fifty francs for a month, they would say to him as
they do to every one else: ‘We are rather cramped just now; but see that
rascal B----.’ And that rascal B----, who is the most pliable tool in
existence, will, providing father N---- offers unquestionable security,
lend the old gentleman his son’s money at from twelve to fifteen per
cent. interest, plus a small commission.”

These ideas and recollections were of considerable assistance in
restoring Valorsay’s composure. “Enough said, then,” he answered,
lightly. “I accept with pleasure. But----”

“Ah! so there is a but!”

“There is always one. I must warn you that it will be difficult for me
to repay this loan in less than two months.”

This, then, was the time he thought necessary for the accomplishment of
his designs.

“That does not matter,” replied Pascal, “and even if you desire a longer
delay.”
“That will be unnecessary, thank you! But there is one thing more.”

“What is that?”

“What will this negotiation cost me?”

Pascal had expected this question, and he had prepared a reply which was
in perfect keeping with the spirit of the role he had assumed. “I shall
charge you the ordinary rates,” he answered, “six per cent. interest,
plus one-and-a-half per cent. commission.”

“Bah!”

“Plus the remuneration for my trouble and services.”

“And what remuneration will satisfy you?”

“One thousand francs. Is it too much?”

If the marquis had retained the shadow of a doubt, it vanished now.
“Ah!” he sneered, “that strikes me as a very liberal compensation for
your services!”

But he would gladly have recalled the sneer when he saw how the agent
received it. Pascal drew up his head with a deeply injured air, and
remarked in the chilling tone of a person who is strongly tempted to
retract his word, “Then there is nothing more to be said, M. le Marquis;
and since you find the conditions onerous----”

“I did not say so,” interrupted M. de Valorsay, quickly--“I did not even
think it!”

This gave Pascal an opportunity to present his programme, and he availed
himself of it. “Others may pretend to oblige people merely from motives
of friendship,” he remarked. “But I am more honest. If I do anything
in the way of business, I expect to be paid for it; and I vary my terms
according to my clients’ need. It would be impossible to have a fixed
price for services like mine. When, on two different occasions, I saved
a gentleman of your acquaintance from bankruptcy, I asked ten thousand
francs the first time, and fifteen thousand the second. Was that an
exaggerated estimate of my services? I might boast with truth that
I once assured the marriage of a brilliant viscount by keeping his
creditors quiet while his courtship was in progress. The day after the
wedding he paid me twenty thousand francs. Didn’t he owe them to me? If,
instead of being a trifle short of money, you happened to be ruined,
I should not ask you merely for a thousand francs. I should study your
position, and fix my terms according to the magnitude of the peril from
which I rescued you.”

There was not a sentence, not a word of this cynical explanation which
had not been carefully studied beforehand. There was not an expression
which was not a tempting bait to the marquis’s evil instincts. But M
de Valorsay made no sign. “I see that you are a shrewd man, Monsieur
Maumejan,” said he, “and if I am ever in difficulty I shall apply to
you.”

Pascal bowed with an air of assumed modesty; but he was inwardly
jubilant, for he felt that his enemy would certainly fall into the trap
which had been set for him. “And now, when shall I have this money?”
inquired the marquis.

“By four o’clock.”

“And I need fear no disappointment as in the baron’s case?”

“Certainly not. What interest would M. Trigault have in lending you a
hundred thousand francs? None whatever. With me it is quite a different
thing. The profit I’m to realize is your security. In business matters
distrust your friends. Apply to usurers rather than to them. Question
people who are in difficulties, and ninety-five out of a hundred will
tell you that their worst troubles have been caused by those who called
themselves their best friends.”

He had risen to take leave, when the door of the smoking-room opened,
and a servant appeared and said in an undertone: “Madame Leon is in the
drawing-room with Dr. Jodon. They wish to see you, monsieur.”

Though Pascal had armed himself well against any unexpected mischance,
he changed color on hearing the name of the worthy housekeeper. “All is
lost if this creature sees and recognizes me!” he thought.

Fortunately the Marquis was too much engrossed in his own affairs to
note the momentary agitation of Baron Trigault’s envoy. “It is strange
that I can’t have five minutes’ peace and quietness,” he said. “I told
you that I was at home to no one.”

“But----”

“Enough! Let the lady and gentleman wait.”

The servant withdrew.

The thought of passing out through the drawing-room filled Pascal with
consternation. How could he hope to escape Madame Leon’s keen eyes?
Fortunately M. de Valorsay came to his relief, for as Pascal was about
to open the same door by which he had entered, the marquis exclaimed:
“Not that way! Pass out here--this is the shortest way.”

And leading him through his bedroom the marquis conducted him to the
staircase, where he even feigned to offer him his hand, saying: “A
speedy return, dear M. Maumejan.”

It is not at the moment of peril that people endure the worst agony; it
is afterward, when they have escaped it. As he went down the staircase,
Pascal wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. “Ah! it was a narrow
escape!” he exclaimed, under his breath.

He felt proud of the manner in which he had sustained a part so
repugnant to his nature. He was amazed to find that he could utter
falsehoods with such a calm, unblushing face--he was astonished at his
own audacity. And what a success he had achieved! He felt certain that
he had just slipped round M. de Valorsay’s neck the noose which would
strangle him later on. Still he was considerably disturbed by Madame
Leon’s visit to the marquis. “What is she doing here with this
physician?” he asked himself again and again. “Who is this man? What new
piece of infamy are they plotting to require his services?” One of those
presentiments which are prompted by the logic of events, told him that
this physician had been, or would be, one of the actors in the vile
conspiracy of which he and Mademoiselle Marguerite were the victims.
But he had no leisure to devote to the solution of this enigma. Time
was flying, and before returning to the marquis’s house he must find out
what had aroused the suspicions of the purchaser of those horses, the
biographies of which had been so rigidly exacted. Through the baron, he
might hope to obtain an interview with Kami-Bey--and so it was to the
baron’s house that Pascal directed his steps.

After the more than cordial reception which the baron had granted him
that morning, it was quite natural that the servants should receive him
as a friend of the household. They would scarcely allow him to explain
what he desired. It was the pompous head valet in person who ushered him
into one of the small reception-rooms, exclaiming: “The baron’s engaged,
but I’m sure he would be annoyed if he failed to see you; and I will
inform him at once.”

A moment later, the baron entered quite breathless from his hurried
descent of the staircase. “Ah! you have been successful,” he exclaimed,
on seeing Pascal’s face.

“Everything is progressing as favorably as I could wish, Monsieur
le Baron, but I must speak with that foreigner whom I met here this
morning.”

“Kami-Bey?”

“Yes.” And in a few words, Pascal explained the situation.

“Providence is certainly on our side,” said the baron, thoughtfully.
“Kami is still here.”

“Is it possible?”

“It’s a fact. Did you think it would be easy to get rid of this
confounded Turk! He invited himself to breakfast without the slightest
ceremony, and would give me no peace until I promised to play with him
for two hours. I was closeted with him, cards in hand, when they told me
you were here. Come, we’ll go and question him.”

They found the interesting foreigner in a savage mood. He had been
winning when the servant came for the baron, and he feared that an
interruption would change the luck. “What the devil took you away?” he
exclaimed, with that coarseness of manner which was habitual with him,
and which the flatterers around him styled “form.” “A man should no more
be disturbed when he’s playing than when he’s eating.”

“Come, come, prince,” said the baron, good-naturedly, “don’t be angry,
and I’ll give you three hours instead of two. But I have a favor to ask
of you.”

The foreigner at once thrust his hand into his pocket, with such a
natural gesture, that neither the baron nor Pascal could repress a
smile, and he himself understanding the cause of their merriment broke
into a hearty laugh. “It’s purely from force of habit,” said he. “Ah!
since I’ve been in Paris---- But what do you wish?”

The baron sat down, and gravely replied: “You told us scarcely an hour
ago that you had been cheated in the purchase of some horses.”

“Cheated! it was worse than highway robbery.”

“Would it be indiscreet to ask you by whom you have been defrauded?”

Kami-Bey’s purple cheeks became a trifle pale. “Hum!” said he, in
an altered tone of voice, “that is a delicate question. My defrauder
appears to be a dangerous fellow--a duellist--and if I disclose his
knavery, he is quite capable of picking a quarrel with me--not that I am
afraid of him, I assure you, but my principles don’t allow me to fight.
When a man has an income of a million, he doesn’t care to expose himself
to the dangers of a duel.”

“But, prince, in France folks don’t do a scoundrel the honor to cross
swords with him.”

“That’s just what my steward, who is a Frenchman, told me; but no
matter. Besides, I am not sufficiently sure of the man’s guilt to noise
it abroad. I have no positive proofs as yet.”

He was evidently terribly frightened, and the first thing to be done was
to reassure him. “Come,” insisted the baron, “tell us the man’s name.
This gentleman here”--pointing to Pascal--“is one of my most esteemed
friends. I will answer for him as I would for myself; and we will swear
upon our honor not to reveal the secret we ask you for, without your
permission.”

“Truly?”

“You have our word of honor,” replied both the baron and Pascal in a
breath.

After casting a half-frightened glance around him, the worthy Turk
seemed to gather courage. But no! He deliberated some time, and then
rejoined: “Really, I’m not sufficiently convinced of the accuracy of my
suspicions to incur the risk of accusing a man who belongs in the very
best society; a man who is very rich and very highly respected, and who
would tolerate no imputations upon his character.”

It was plain that he would not speak. The baron shrugged his shoulders,
but Pascal stepped bravely forward. “Then I will tell you, prince,” he
said, “the name that you are determined to hide from us.”

“Oh!”

“But you must allow me to remark that the baron and myself retract the
promise we made you just now.”

“Naturally.”

“Then, your defrauder is the Marquis de Valorsay!”

If Kami-Bey had seen an emissary of his sovereign enter the
room carrying the fatal bow-string he would not have seemed more
terror-stricken. He sprang nervously on to his short, fat legs, his eyes
wildly dilating and his hands fluttering despairingly. “Don’t speak so
loud! don’t speak so loud!” he exclaimed, imploringly.

As he did not even attempt to deny it, the truth of the assertion might
be taken for granted. But Pascal was not content with this. “Now that we
know the fact, I hope, Prince, that you will be sufficiently obliging to
tell us how it all happened,” he remarked.

Poor Kami. He was in despair. “Alas!” he replied, reluctantly, “nothing
could be more simple. I wanted to set up a racing stable. Not that I
care much for sport. I can scarcely distinguish a horse from a mule--but
morning and evening, everybody says to me: ‘Prince, a man like you ought
to make your name celebrated on the turf.’ Besides I never open a paper
without reading: ‘Such a man ought to be a patron of the noblest of
sports.’ At last, I said to myself: ‘Yes, they are right. I ought to
take part in racing.’ So I began to look about for some horses. I had
purchased several, when the Marquis de Valorsay proposed to sell me
some of his, some that were very well known, and that had--so he assured
me--won at least ten times the amount they had cost him. I accepted
his offer, and visited his stables, where I selected seven of his best
horses and paid for them; and I paid a good round price, I assure you.
Now comes the knavery. He has not given me the horses I purchased. The
real animals, the valuable ones--have been sold in England under false
names, and although the horses sent to me may be like the others in
appearance, they are really only common animals, wanting both in blood
and speed.”

Pascal and the baron exchanged astonished glances. It must be confessed
that frauds of every description are common enough in the racing world,
and a great deal of dishonest manoeuvring results from greed for gain
united with the fever of gambling. But never before had any one been
accused of such an audacious and impudent piece of rascality as that
which Kami-Bey imputed to Valorsay.

“How did you fail to discover this at the outset, prince?” inquired
Pascal in an incredulous tone.

“Because my time was so much occupied.”

“But your servants?”

“Ah! that’s another thing. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if it were
proved that the man who has charge of my stables had been bribed by the
marquis.”

“Then, how were your suspicions aroused?”

“It was only by the merest chance. A jockey whom I thought of employing
had often ridden one of the animals which I fancied myself the owner of.
Naturally, I showed him the horse, but he had no sooner set eyes on it
than he exclaimed: ‘That the horse! Never! You’ve been cheated, prince!’
Then we examined the others, and the fraud became apparent.”

Knowing Kami’s character better than Pascal, the baron had good
reason to distrust the accuracy of these statements. For the Turkish
millionaire’s superb contempt of money was only affected. Vanity alone
unloosed his purse-strings. He was quite capable of presenting Jenny
Fancy with a necklace costing five-and-twenty thousand francs for the
sake of seeing his generosity recorded in the Gaulois or the Figaro
the next day; but he would refuse to give a trifle to the mother of a
starving family. Besides, it was his ambition to be regarded as the most
swindled man in Europe. But though he was shamefully imposed upon, it
was not voluntarily--for there was a strong dose of Arabian avarice and
distrust in his composition.

“Frankly, prince,” said the baron, “your story sounds like one of the
wild legends of your native land. Valorsay is certainly no fool. How is
it possible that he could have been guilty of so gross a fraud--a fraud
which might be, which could not fail to be discovered in twenty-four
hours--and which, once proven, would dishonor him forever?”

“Before perpetrating such a piece of deception upon any one else,
he would have thought twice; but upon me it’s different. Isn’t it an
established fact that a person incurs no risk in robbing Kami-Bey?”

“Had I been in your place I should have quietly instituted an
investigation.”

“What good would that have done? Besides, the sale was only conditional,
and took place under the seal of secrecy. The marquis reserved the right
to take his horses back on payment of a stipulated sum, and the time he
was to have for consideration only expired on the day before yesterday.”

“Eh! why didn’t you tell us that at first?” cried the baron.

The marquis’s rascality was now easily explained. Finding himself in a
desperate strait, and feeling that his salvation was certain if he
could only gain a little time, he had yielded to temptation, saying
to himself, like unfaithful cashiers when they first appropriate their
employers’ money: “I will pay it back, and no one will ever know it!”
However, when the day of settlement came he had found himself in as
deplorable a plight as on the day of the robbery, and he had been
compelled to yield to the force of circumstances.

“And what do you intend to do, prince?” asked Pascal.

“Ah! I am still in doubt. I have compelled the marquis to give me
the papers in which the exploits of these horses are recorded. These
statements will be of service in case of a law-suit. But shall I or
shall I not enter a complaint against him? If it were a mere question of
money I should let the matter drop; but he has defrauded and deceived me
so outrageously that it annoys me. On the other hand, to confess that
he has cheated me in this fashion would cover me with ridicule. Besides,
the man is a dangerous enemy. And what would become of me if I happened
to side against him? I should be compelled to leave Paris. Ah! I’d give
ten thousand francs to any one who’d settle this cursed affair for me!”

His perplexity was so great, and his anger so intense, for that once he
tore off his eternal fez and flung it on to the table, swearing like a
drayman. However, controlling himself at last, he exclaimed in a tone
of assumed indifference: “No matter, there’s been enough said on this
subject for one day--I’m here to play--so let us begin, baron. For we
are wasting precious time, as you so often remark.”

Pascal had nothing more to learn; so he shook hands with the baron, made
an appointment with him for the same evening, and went away.

It was only half-past two; a good hour and a half remained at his
disposal. “I will profit by this opportunity to eat something,” he
thought; a sudden faintness reminding him that he had taken nothing but
a cup of chocolate that day. Thereupon perceiving a cafe near by, he
entered it, ordered breakfast, and lingered there until it was time to
return to the Marquis de Valorsay’s. He would have gone there before
the appointed time if he had merely listened to the promptings of his
impatience, so thoroughly was he persuaded that this second interview
would be decisive. But prudence advised him not to expose himself to the
danger of an encounter with Madame Leon and Dr. Jodon.

“Well! Monsieur Maumejan,” cried the marquis, as soon as Pascal made his
appearance. He had been counting the seconds with intense anxiety, as
his tone of voice unmistakably revealed.

In reply Pascal gravely drew from his pocket twenty-four bank-notes, of
a thousand francs each, and he placed them upon the table, saying:
“Here is the amount, Monsieur le Marquis. I have, of course, deducted
my commission. Now, if you will write and sign a note for twenty-five
thousand francs, payable to my order two months hence, our business for
to-day will be concluded.”

M. de Valorsay’s hand trembled nervously as he penned the desired note,
for, until the very last moment, he had doubted the promises of this
unknown agent who had made his appearance so opportunely Then, when the
document was signed, he carelessly slipped the money into a drawer
and exclaimed: “So here’s the needful to pay my debt of honor; but my
embarrassment is none the less great. These twenty-four thousand francs
won’t take the place of the hundred thousand which Baron Trigault
promised me.”

And, as Pascal made no reply, the marquis began a desultory tramp up and
down the smoking-room. He was very pale, his brows were knit; he looked
like a man who was meditating a decisive step, and who was calculating
the consequences. But having no time to waste in hesitation, he soon
paused in front of Pascal, and exclaimed: “Since you have just lent me
twenty-four thousand francs, why won’t you lend me the rest?”

But Pascal shook his head. “One risks nothing by advancing twenty-five
thousand francs to a person in your position, Monsieur le Marquis.
Whatever happens, such a sum as that can always be gathered from
the wreck. But double or triple the amount! The deuce! that requires
reflection, and I must understand the situation thoroughly.”

“And if I told you that I am--almost ruined, what would you reply?”

“I shouldn’t be so very much surprised.”

M. de Valorsay had now gone too far to draw back. “Ah, well!” he
resumed, “the truth is this--my affairs are terribly involved.”

“The devil! You should have told me that sooner.”

“Wait; I am about to retrieve my fortune--to make it even larger than
it has ever been. I am on the point of contracting a marriage which will
make me one of the richest men in Paris; but I must have a little time
to bring the affair to a successful termination, and I need money--and
my creditors are pressing me unmercifully. You told me this morning that
you once assisted a man who was in a similar position. Will you help me?
You can set your own price on your services.”

More easily overcome by joy than by sorrow, Pascal almost betrayed
himself. He had attained his object. Still, he succeeded in conquering
his emotion, and it was in a perfectly calm voice that he replied:
“I can promise nothing until I understand the situation, Monsieur le
Marquis. Will you explain it to me? I am listening.”

XIV.

It was nearly midnight when M. Wilkie left the Hotel d’Argeles after the
terrible scene in which he had revealed his true character. On seeing
him pass out with haggard eyes, colorless lips, and disordered clothing,
the servants gathered in the vestibule took him at first for another of
those ruined gamblers who not unfrequently left the house with despair
in their hearts.

“Another fellow who’s had bad luck!” they remarked sneeringly to one
another.

“No doubt about that. He is pretty effectually used up, judging from
appearances,” one of them remarked.

It was not until some moments later that they learned a portion of the
truth through the servants who had been on duty upstairs, and who now
ran down in great terror, crying that Madame d’Argeles was dying, and
that a physician must be summoned at once.

M. Wilkie was already far away, hastening up the boulevard with an agile
step. Any one else would have been overcome with shame and sorrow--would
have been frightened by the thought of what he had done, and have
striven to find some way to conceal his disgrace; but he, not in the
least. In this frightful crisis, he was only conscious of one fact--that
just as he raised his hand to strike Madame Lia d’Argeles, his mother, a
big, burly individual had burst into the room, like a bombshell, caught
him by the throat, forced him upon his knees, and compelled him to ask
the lady’s pardon. He, Wilkie, to be humiliated in this style! He would
never endure that. This was an affront he could not swallow, one of
those insults that cry out for vengeance and for blood. “Ah! the great
brute shall pay for it,” he repeated, again and again, grinding his
teeth. And if he hastened up the boulevard, it was only because he
hoped to meet his two chosen friends, M. Costard and the Viscount de
Serpillon, the co-proprietors of Pompier de Nanterre.

For he intended to place his outraged honor in their care. They should
be his seconds, and present his demand for satisfaction to the man
who had insulted him. A duel was the only thing that could appease his
furious anger and heal his wounded pride. And a great scandal, which he
would be the hero of, was not without a certain charm for him. What a
glorious chance to win notoriety at an epoch when newspapers have become
public laundries, in which every one washes his soiled linen and dries
it in the glare of publicity! He saw his already remarkable reputation
enhanced by the interest that always attaches to people who are talked
about, and he could hear in advance the flattering whisper which would
greet his appearance everywhere: “You see that young man?--he is the
hero of that famous adventure,” etc. Moreover, he was already twisting
and turning the terms of the notice which his seconds must have inserted
in the Figaro, hesitating between two or three equally startling
beginnings: “Another famous duel,” or “Yesterday, after a scandalous
scene, an encounter,” etc., etc.

Unfortunately, he did not meet either M. Costard or the Viscount de
Serpillon. Strange to say, they were not in any of the cafes, where
the flower of French chivalry usually congregates, in the company of
golden-haired young women, from nine in the evening until one o’clock in
the morning. This disappointment grieved M. Wilkie sorely, although
he derived some benefit from it, for his disordered attire attracted
attention at each place he entered, and acquaintances eagerly inquired:
“Where have you come from, and what has happened to you?” Whereupon
he replied with an air of profound secrecy: “Pray don’t speak of it. A
shocking affair! If it were noised abroad I should be inconsolable.”

At last the cafes began to close, and promenaders became rare. M.
Wilkie, much to his regret, was obliged to go home. When he had locked
his door and donned his dressing-gown, he sat down to think over the
events of the day, and collect his scattered wits. What most troubled
and disquieted him was not the condition in which he had left Madame Lia
d’Argeles, his mother, who was, perhaps, dying, through his fault! It
was not the terrible sacrifice that this poor woman had made for him in
a transport of maternal love! It was not the thought of the source from
which the money he had squandered for so many years had been derived.
No, M. Wilkie was quite above such paltry considerations--good enough
for commonplace and antiquated people. “He was too clever for that. Ah!
yes. He had a stronger stomach, and was up with the times!” If he
were sorely vexed in spirit it was because he thought that the immense
property which he had believed his own had slipped, perhaps for ever,
from his grasp. For rising threateningly between the Chalusse millions
and himself, he pictured the form of his father, this man whom he did
not know, but whose very name had made Madame d’Argeles shudder.

M. Wilkie was seized with terror when he looked his actual situation
in the face. What was to become of him? He was certain that Madame
d’Argeles would not give him another sou. She could not--he recognized
that fact. His intelligence was equal to that. On the other hand, if
he ever obtained anything from the count’s estate, which was more than
doubtful, would he not be obliged to wait a long time for it? Yes, in
all probability such would be the case. Then how should he live, how
would he be able to obtain food in the meantime? His despair was so
poignant that tears came to his eyes; and he bitterly deplored the step
he had taken. Yes, he actually sighed for the past; he longed to live
over again the very years in which he had so often complained of his
destiny. Then, though not a millionaire by any means, he at least
wanted for nothing. Every quarter-day a very considerable allowance
was promptly paid him, and, in great emergencies, he could apply to
Mr. Patterson, who always sent a favorable answer if not drawn upon too
heavily. Yes, he sighed for that time! Ah! if he had only then realized
how fortunate he was! Had he not been one of the most opulent members
of the society in which he moved? Had he not been flattered and admired
more than any of his companions? Had he not found the most exquisite
happiness in his part ownership of Pompier de Nanterre!

Now, what remained? Nothing, save anxiety concerning the future, and all
sorts of uncertainties and terrors! What a mistake! What a blunder he
had made! Ah! if he could only begin again. He sincerely wished that the
great adversary of mankind had the Viscount de Coralth in his clutches.
For, in his despair, it was the once dear viscount that he blamed,
accused, and cursed.

He was in this ungrateful frame of mind when a loud, almost savage, ring
came at his door. As his servant slept in an attic upstairs, Wilkie was
quite alone in his rooms, so he took the lamp and went to open the door
himself. At this hour of the night, the visitor could only be M. Costard
or the Viscount de Serpillon, or perhaps both of them. “They have
heard that I was looking for them, and so they have hastened here,” he
thought.

But he was mistaken. The visitor was neither of these gentlemen, but M.
Ferdinand de Coralth in person. Prudence had compelled the viscount to
leave Madame d’Argeles’s card-party one of the last, but as soon as he
was out of the house he had rushed to the Marquis de Valorsay’s to hold
a conference with him, far from suspecting that he was followed, and
that an auxiliary of Pascal Ferailleur and Mademoiselle Marguerite
was even then waiting for him below--an enemy as formidable as he was
humble--Victor Chupin.

At sight of the man who had so long been his model--the friend who had
advised what he styled his blunder--Wilkie was so surprised that he
almost dropped his lamp. Then as his wrath kindled, “Ah! so it’s you!”
he exclaimed, angrily. “You come at a good time!”

But M. de Coralth was too much exasperated to notice Wilkie’s strange
greeting. Seizing him roughly by the arm, and closing the door with a
kick, he dragged Wilkie back into the little drawing-room. “Yes, it’s
I,” he said, curtly. “It’s I--come to inquire if you have gone mad?”

“Viscount!”

“I can find no other explanation of your conduct! What! You choose
Madame d’Argeles’s reception day, and an hour when there are fifty
guests in her drawing-room to present yourself!”

“Ah, well! it wasn’t from choice. I had been there twice before, and had
the doors shut in my face.”

“You ought to have gone back ten times, a hundred times, a thousand
times, rather than have accomplished such an idiotic prank as this.”

“Excuse me.”

“What did I recommend? Prudence, calmness and moderation, persuasive
gentleness, sentiments of the loftiest nature, tenderness, a shower of
tears----”

“Possibly, but----”

“But instead of that, you fall upon this woman like a thunderbolt, and
set the whole household in the wildest commotion. What could you be
thinking of, to make such an absurd and frightful scene? For you
howled and shrieked like a street hawker, and we could hear you in the
drawing-room. If all is not irretrievably lost, there must be a special
Providence for the benefit of fools!”

In his dismay, Wilkie endeavored to falter some excuses, but he was
only able to begin a few sentences which died away, uncompleted in his
throat. The violence shown by M. de Coralth, who was usually as cold and
as polished as marble, quieted his own wrath. Still toward the last he
felt disposed to rebel against the insults that were being heaped upon
him. “Do you know, viscount, that I begin to think this very strange,”
he exclaimed. “If any one else had led me into such a scrape, I should
have called him to account in double-quick time.”

M. de Coralth shrugged his shoulders with an air of contempt, and
threateningly replied: “Understand, once for all, that you had better
not attempt to bully me! Now, tell me what passed between your mother
and yourself?”

“First I should like----”

“Dash it all! Do you suppose that I intend to remain here all night?
Tell me what occurred, and be quick about it. And try to speak the
truth.”

It was one of M. Wilkie’s greatest boasts that he had an indomitable
will--an iron nature. But the viscount exercised powerful influence over
him, and, to tell the truth, inspired him with a form of emotion which
was nearly akin to fear. Moreover, a glimmer of reason had at last
penetrated his befogged brain: he saw that M. de Coralth was right--that
he had acted like a fool, and that, if he hoped to escape from the
dangers that threatened him, he must take the advice of more experienced
men than himself. So, ceasing his recriminations, he began to describe
what he styled his explanation with Madame d’Argeles. All went well at
first; for he dared not misrepresent the facts.

But when he came to the intervention of the man who had prevented him
from striking his mother, he turned crimson, and rage again filled his
heart. “I’m sorry I let myself get into such a mess!” he exclaimed. “You
should have seen my condition. My shirt-collar was torn, and my
cravat hung in tatters. He was much stronger than I--the contemptible
scoundrel!--ah! if it hadn’t been for that---- But I shall have my
revenge. Yes, he shall learn that he can’t trample a man under foot
with impunity. To-morrow two of my friends will call upon him; and if he
refuses to apologize or to give me satisfaction, I’ll cane him.”

It was evident enough that M. de Coralth had to exercise considerable
constraint to listen to these fine projects. “I must warn you that you
ought to speak in other terms of an honorable and honored gentleman,” he
interrupted, at last.

“Eh! what! You know him then?”

“Yes, Madame d’Argeles’s defender is Baron Trigault.”

M. Wilkie’s heart bounded with joy, as he heard this name. “Ah! this
is capital!” he exclaimed. “What! So it was Baron Trigault--the noted
gambler--who owns such a magnificent house in the Rue de la Ville
l’Eveque, the husband of that extremely stylish lady, that notorious
cocotte----”

The viscount sprang from his chair, and interrupting M. Wilkie: “I
advise you, for the sake of your own safety,” he said, measuring his
words to give them greater weight, “never to mention the Baroness
Trigault’s name except in terms of the most profound respect.”

There was no misunderstanding M. de Coralth’s tone, and his glance said
plainly that he would not allow much time to pass before putting his
threat into execution. Having always lived in a lower circle to that in
which the baroness sparkled with such lively brilliancy, M. Wilkie was
ignorant of the reasons that induced his distinguished friend to defend
her so warmly; but he DID understand that it would be highly imprudent
to insist, or even to discuss the matter. So, in his most persuasive
manner, he resumed: “Let us say no more about the wife, but give our
attention to the husband. So it was the baron who insulted me! A duel
with him--what good luck! Well! he may sleep in peace to-night, but as
soon as he is up in the morning he will find Costard and Serpillon on
hand. Serpillon has not an equal as a second. First, he knows the best
places for a meeting; then he lends the combatants weapons when they
have none; he procures a physician; and he is on excellent terms with
the journalists, who publish reports of these encounters.”

The viscount had never had a very exalted opinion of Wilkie’s
intelligence, but now he was amazed to see how greatly he had
overestimated it. “Enough of such foolishness,” he interrupted, curtly.
“This duel will never take place.”

“I should like to know who will prevent it?”

“I will, if you persist in such an absurd idea. You ought to have sense
enough to know that the baron would kick Serpillon out of the house, and
that you would only cover yourself with ridicule. So, between your duel
and my help make your choice, and quickly.”

The prospect of sending his seconds to demand satisfaction from Baron
Trigault was certainly a very attractive one. But, on the other hand,
Wilkie could not afford to dispense with M. de Coralth’s services. “But
the baron has insulted me,” he urged.

“Well, you can demand satisfaction when you obtain possession of your
property: but the least scandal now would spoil your last chances.”

“I will abandon the project, then,” sighed Wilkie, despondently; “but
pray advise me. What do you think of my situation?”

M. de Coralth seemed to consider a moment, and then gravely replied:
“I think that, UNASSISTED, you have no chance whatever. You have no
standing, no influential connections, no position--you are not even a
Frenchman.”

“Alas! that is precisely what I have said to myself.”

“Still, I am convinced that with some assistance you might overcome your
mother’s resistance, and even your father’s pretentions.”

“Yes, but where could I find protectors?”

The viscount’s gravity seemed to increase. “Listen to me,” said he; “I
will do for you what I would not do for any one else. I will endeavor to
interest in your cause one of my friends, who is all powerful by reason
of his name, his fortune, and his connections--the Marquis de Valorsay,
in fact.”

“The one who is so well known upon the turf?”

“The same.”

“And you will introduce me to him?”

“Yes. Be ready to-morrow at eleven o’clock, and I will call for you and
take you to his house. If he interests himself in your cause, it is as
good as gained.” And as his companion overwhelmed him with thanks,
he rose, and said: “I must go now. No more foolishness, and be ready
to-morrow at the appointed time.”

Thanks to the surprising mutability of temper which was the most
striking characteristic of his nature, M. Wilkie was already consoled
for his blunder.

He had received M. de Coralth as an enemy; but he now escorted him to
the door with every obsequious attention--in fact, just as if he looked
upon him as his preserver. A word which the viscount had dropped during
the conversation had considerably helped to bring about this sudden
revulsion of feelings. “You cannot fail to understand that if the
Marquis de Valorsay espouses your cause, you will want for nothing. And
if a lawsuit is unavoidable, he will be perfectly willing to advance the
necessary funds.” How could M. Wilkie lack confidence after that? The
brightest hopes, the most ecstatic visions had succeeded the gloomy
forebodings of a few hours before. The mere thought of being presented
to M. de Valorsay, a nobleman celebrated for his adventures, his horses,
and his fortune, more than sufficed to make him forget his troubles.
What rapture to become that illustrious nobleman’s acquaintance,
perhaps his friend! To move in the same orbit as this star of the first
magnitude which would inevitably cast some of its lustre upon him! Now
he would be a somebody in the world. He felt that he had grown a
head taller, and Heaven only knows with what disdain poor Costard
and Serpillon would have been received had they chanced to present
themselves at that moment.

It is needless to say that Wilkie dressed with infinite care on the
following morning, no doubt in the hope of making a conquest of the
marquis at first sight. He tried his best to solve the problem of
appearing at the same time most recherche but at ease, excessively
elegant and yet unostentatious; and he devoted himself to the task so
unreservedly that he lost all conception of the flight of time: so
that on seeing M. de Coralth enter his rooms, he exclaimed in unfeigned
astonishment: “You here already?”

It seemed to him that barely five minutes had elapsed since he took his
place before the looking-glass to study attitudes and gestures, with
a new and elegant mode of bowing and sitting down, like an actor
practising the effects which are to win him applause.

“Why do you say ‘already?’” replied the viscount. “I am a quarter of an
hour behind time. Are you not ready?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Let us start at once, then; my brougham is outside.”

The drive was a silent one. M. Ferdinand de Coralth, whose smooth white
skin would ordinarily have excited the envy of a young girl, did not
look like himself. His face was swollen and covered with blotches, and
there were dark blue circles round his eyes. He seemed, moreover, to be
in a most savage humor. “He hasn’t had sleep enough,” thought M. Wilkie,
with his usual discernment; “he hasn’t a bronze constitution like
myself.”

M. Wilkie himself was insensible to fatigue, and although he had
not closed his eyes the previous night, he only felt that nervous
trepidation which invariably attacks debutants, and makes the throat so
marvellously dry. For the first, and probably the last time in his life,
M. Wilkie distrusted his own powers, and feared that he was not “quite
up to the mark,” as he elegantly expressed it.

The sight of the Marquis de Valorsay’s handsome mansion was not likely
to restore his assurance. When he entered the courtyard, where the
master’s mail-phaeton stood in waiting; when through the open doors
of the handsome stables he espied the many valuable horses neighing in
their stalls, and the numerous carriages shrouded in linen covers; when
he counted the valets on duty in the vestibule, and when he ascended the
staircase behind a lackey attired in a black dress-coat, and as serious
in mien as a notary; when he passed through the handsome drawing-rooms,
filled to overflowing with pictures, armor, statuary, and all the
trophies gained by the marquis’s horses upon the turf, M. Wilkie
mentally acknowledged that he knew nothing of high life, and that what
he had considered luxury was scarcely the shadow of the reality. He
felt actually ashamed of his own ignorance. This feeling of inferiority
became so powerful that he was almost tempted to turn and fly, when the
man clothed in black opened the door and announced, in a clear voice:
“M. le Vicomte de Coralth!--M. Wilkie.”

With a most gracious and dignified air--the air of a true GRAND
seigneur--the only portion of his inheritance which he had preserved
intact, the marquis rose to his feet, and, offering his hand to M. de
Coralth, exclaimed: “You are most welcome, viscount. This gentleman is
undoubtedly the young friend you spoke of in the note I received from
you this morning?”

“The same; and really he stands greatly in need of your kindness. He
finds himself in an extremely delicate position, and knows no one who
can lend him a helping hand.”

“Ah, well, I will lend him one with pleasure, since he is your friend.
But I must know the circumstances before I can act. Sit down, gentlemen,
and enlighten me.”

M. Wilkie had prepared his story in advance, a touching and witty
narrative; but when the moment came to begin it, he found himself unable
to speak. He opened his mouth, but no sound issued from his lips, and it
seemed as if he had been stricken dumb. Accordingly it was M. de Coralth
who made a statement of the case, and he did it well. The narrative
thus gained considerably in clearness and precision; and even M. Wilkie
noticed that his friend understood how to present the events in their
most favorable light, and how to omit them altogether when his heartless
conduct would have appeared too odious. He also noticed--and he
considered it an excellent omen--that M. de Valorsay was listening with
the closest attention.

Worthy marquis! if his own interests had been in jeopardy he could not
have appeared more deeply concerned. When the viscount had concluded
his story, he gravely exclaimed: “Your young friend is indeed in a most
critical position, a position from which he cannot escape without being
terribly victimized, if he’s left dependent on his own resources.”

“But it is understood that you will help him, is it not?”

M. de Valorsay reflected for a little, and then, addressing M. Wilkie,
replied: “Yes, I consent to assist you, monsieur. First, because your
cause seems to me just, and, also, because you are M. de Coralth’s
friend. I promise you my aid on one condition--that you will follow my
advice implicitly.”

The interesting young man lifted his hand, and, by dint of a powerful
effort, he succeeded in articulating: “Anything you wish!--upon my
sacred word!”

“You must understand that when I engage in an enterprise, it must
not fail. The eye of the public is upon me, and I have my PRESTIGE to
maintain. I have given you a great mark of confidence, for in lending
you my influence I become, in some measure at least, your sponsor. But
I cannot accept this great responsibility unless I am allowed absolute
control of the affair.”

“And I think that we ought to begin operations this very day. The main
thing is to circumvent your father, the terrible man with whom your
mother has threatened you.”

“Ah! but how?”

“I shall dress at once and go to the Hotel de Chalusse, in order to
ascertain what has occurred there. You on your side must hasten to
Madame d’Argeles and request her politely, but firmly, to furnish you
with the necessary proofs to assert your rights. If she consents, well
and good! If she refuses, we will consult some lawyer as to the next
step. In any case, call here again at four o’clock.”

But the thought of meeting Madame d’Argeles again was anything but
pleasing to Wilkie. “I would willingly yield that undertaking to some
one else,” said he. “Cannot some one else go in my place?”

Fortunately M. de Coralth knew how to encourage him. “What! are you
afraid?” he asked.

Afraid! he?--never! It was easy to see that by the way he settled his
hat on his head and went off, slamming the door noisily behind him.

“What an idiot!” muttered M. de Coralth. “And to think that there are
ten thousand in Paris built upon the very same plan!”

M. de Valorsay gravely shook his head. “Let us thank fortune that he is
as he is. No youth who possessed either heart or intelligence would play
the part that I intend for him, and enable me to obtain proud Marguerite
and her millions. But I fear he won’t go to Madame d’Argeles’s house.
You noticed his repugnance!”

“Oh, you needn’t trouble yourself in the least on that account--he’ll
go. He would go to the devil if the noble Marquis de Valorsay ordered
him to do so.”

M. de Coralth understood Wilkie perfectly. The fear of being considered
a coward by a nobleman like the Marquis de Valorsay was more than
sufficient, not only to divest him of all his scruples, but even to
induce him to commit any act of folly, or actually a crime. For if he
had looked upon M. de Coralth as an oracle, he considered the marquis to
be a perfect god.

Accordingly, as he hastened toward Madame d’Argeles’s residence, he said
to himself: “Why shouldn’t I go to her house? I’ve done her no injury.
Besides, she won’t eat me.” And remembering that he should be obliged to
render a report of this interview, he resolved to assert his superiority
and to remain cool and unmoved, as he had seen M. de Coralth do so
often.

However, the unusual aspect of the house excited his surprise, and
puzzled him not a little. Three huge furniture vans, heavily laden, were
standing outside the gate. In the courtyard there were two more vehicles
of the same description, which a dozen men or so were busily engaged
in loading. “Ah, ha!” muttered M. Wilkie, “it was fortunate that
I came--very fortunate; so she was going to run away!” Thereupon,
approaching a group of servants who were in close conference in the
hall, he demanded, in his most imperious manner: “Madame d’Argeles!”

The servants remembered the visitor perfectly; they now knew who
he really was, and they could not understand how he could have the
impudence and audacity to come there again so soon after the shameful
scene of the previous evening. “Madame is at home,” replied one of the
men, in anything but a polite tone; “and I will go and see if she will
consent to see you. Wait here.”

He went off, leaving M. Wilkie in the vestibule to settle his collar and
twirl his puny mustaches, with affected indifference; but in reality he
was far from comfortable. For the servants did not hesitate to stare
at him, and it was quite impossible not to read their contempt in their
glances. They even sneered audibly and pointed at him; and he heard five
or six epithets more expressive than elegant which could only have been
meant for himself. “The fools!” thought he, boiling with anger. “The
scoundrels! Ah! if I dared. If a gentleman like myself was allowed to
notice such blackguards, how I’d chastise them!”

But the valet who had gone to warn Madame d’Argeles soon reappeared
and put an end to his sufferings. “Madame will see you,” said the man,
impudently. “Ah! if I were in her place----”

“Come, make haste,” rejoined Wilkie, indignantly, and following the
servant, he was ushered into a room which had already been divested of
its hangings, curtains, and furniture. He here found Madame d’Argeles
engaged in packing a large trunk with household linen and sundry
articles of clothing.

By a sort of miracle the unfortunate woman had survived the terrible
shock which had at first threatened to have an immediately fatal
effect. Still she had none the less received her death-blow. It was
only necessary to look at her to be assured of that. She was so greatly
changed that when M. Wilkie’s eyes first fell on her, he asked himself
if this were really the same person whom he had met on the previous
evening. Henceforth she would be an old woman. You would have taken her
for over fifty, so terrible had been the sufferings caused her by the
shameful conduct of her son. In this sad-eyed, haggard-faced woman, clad
in black, no one would have recognized the notorious Lia d’Argeles, who,
only the evening before, had driven round the lake, reclining on the
cushions of her victoria, and eclipsing all the women around her by the
splendor of her toilette. Nothing now remained of the gay worldling but
the golden hair which she was condemned to see always the same, since
its tint had been fixed by dyes as indelible as the stains upon her
past.

She rose with difficulty when M. Wilkie entered, and in the
expressionless voice of those who are without hope, she asked: “What do
you wish of me?”

As usual, when the time came to carry out his happiest conceptions, his
courage failed him. “I came to talk about our affairs, you know,” he
replied, “and I find you moving.”

“I am not moving.”

“Nonsense! you can’t make me believe that! What’s the meaning of these
carts in the courtyard?”

“They are here to convey all the furniture in the house to the
auction-rooms.”

Wilkie was struck dumb for a moment, but eventually recovering himself a
little, he exclaimed: “What! you are going to sell everything?”

“Yes.”

“Astonishing, upon my honor! But afterward?”

“I shall leave Paris.”

“Bah! and where are you going?”

With a gesture of utter indifference, she gently replied: “I don’t know;
I shall go where no one will know me, and where it will be possible for
me to hide my shame.”

A terrible disquietude seized hold of Wilkie. This sudden change of
residence, this departure which so strongly resembled flight, this cold
greeting when he expected passionate reproaches, seemed to indicate that
Madame d’Argeles’s resolution would successfully resist any amount of
entreaty on his part. “The devil,” he remarked, “I don’t think this at
all pleasant! What is to become of me? How am I to obtain possession of
the Count de Chalusse’s estate? That’s what I am after! It’s rightfully
mine, and I’m determined to have it, as I told you once before. And when
I’ve once taken anything into my head----”

He paused, for he could no longer face the scornful glances that Madame
d’Argeles was giving him. “Don’t be alarmed,” she replied bitterly,
“I shall leave you the means of asserting your right to my parents’
estate.”

“Ah--so----”

“Your threats obliged me to decide contrary to my own wishes. I felt
that no amount of slander or disgrace would daunt you.”

“Of course not, when so many millions are at stake.”

“I reflected, and I saw that nothing would arrest you upon your downward
path except a large fortune. If you were poor and compelled to earn your
daily bread--a task which you are probably incapable of performing--who
can tell what depths of degradation you might descend to? With your
instincts and your vices, who knows what crime you wouldn’t commit to
obtain money? It wouldn’t be long before you were in the dock, and I
should hear of you only through your disgrace. But, on the other hand,
if you were rich, you would probably lead an honest life, like many
others, who, wanting for nothing, are not tempted to do wrong, who, in
fact, show virtue in which there is nothing worthy of praise. For real
virtue implies temptation--a struggle and victory.”

Although he did not understand these remarks very well, M. Wilkie
evinced a desire to offer some objections; but Madame d’Argeles had
already resumed: “So I went to my notary this morning. I told him
everything; and by this time my renunciation of my rights to the estate
of the Count de Chalusse is already recorded.”

“What! your renunciation. Oh! no.”

“Allow me to finish since you don’t understand me. As soon as I renounce
the inheritance it becomes yours.”

“Truly?”

“I have no wish to deceive you. I only desire that the name of Lia
d’Argeles should not be mentioned. I will give you the necessary proofs
to establish your identity; my marriage contract and your certificate of
birth.”

It was joy that made M. Wilkie speechless now. “And when will you give
me these documents?” he faltered, after a short pause.

“You shall have them before you leave this house; but first of all I
must talk with you.”

XV.

Agitated and excited though he was, M. Wilkie had not once ceased to
think of M. de Coralth and the Marquis de Valorsay. What would they
do in such a position, and how should he act to conform himself to the
probable example of these models of deportment? Manifestly he ought to
assume that stolid and insolent air of boredom which is considered a
sure indication of birth and breeding. Convinced of this, and seized
with a laudable desire to emulate such distinguished examples, he had
perched himself upon a trunk, where he still sat with his legs crossed.
He now pretended to suppress a yawn, as he growled, “What! some more
long phrases--and another melodramatic display?”

Absorbed in the memories she had invoked, Madame d’Argeles paid no heed
to Wilkie’s impertinence. “Yes, I must talk with you,” she said, “and
more for your sake than for my own. I must tell you who I am, and
through what strange vicissitudes I have passed. You know what family
I belong to. I will tell you, however--for you may be ignorant of the
fact--that our house is the equal of any in France in lineage, splendor
of alliance, and fortune. When I was a child, my parents lived at the
Hotel de Chalusse, in the Faubourg Saint Germain, a perfect palace,
surrounded by one of those immense gardens, which are no longer seen in
Paris--a real park, shaded with century-old trees. Certainly everything
that money could procure, or vanity desire, was within my reach; and
yet my youth was wretchedly unhappy. I scarcely knew my father, who
was devoured by ambition, and had thrown himself body and soul into
the vortex of politics. Either my mother did not love me, or thought
it beneath her dignity to make any display of sensibility; but at all
events her reserve had raised a wall of ice between herself and me. As
for my brother he was too much engrossed in pleasure to think of a
mere child. So I lived quite alone, too proud to accept the love and
friendship of my inferiors--abandoned to the dangerous inspirations of
solitude, and with no other consolation than my books--books which had
been chosen for me by my mother’s confessor, and which were calculated
to fill my imagination with visionary and romantic fancies. The only
conversation I heard dealt with the means of leaving all the family
fortune to my brother, so that he might uphold the splendor of the name,
and with the necessity of marrying me to some superannuated nobleman who
would take me without a dowry, or of compelling me to enter one of those
aristocratic convents, which are the refuge, and often the prison, of
poor girls of noble birth.

“I do not pretend to justify my fault, I am only explaining it. I
thought myself the most unfortunate being in the world--and such I
really was, since I honestly believed it--when I happened to meet Arthur
Gordon, your father. I saw him for the first time at a fete given at the
house of the Comte de Commarin. How he, a mere adventurer, had succeeded
in forcing his way into the most exclusive society in the world, is a
point which I have never been able to explain. But, alas! it is only too
true that when our glances met for the first time, my heart was stirred
to its inmost depths; I felt that it was no longer mine--that I was no
longer free! Ah! why does not God allow a man’s face to reflect at
least something of his nature? This man, who was a corrupt and audacious
hypocrite, had that air of apparent nobility and frankness which
inspires you with unlimited confidence, and the melancholy expression on
his features seemed to indicate that he had known sorrow, and had good
cause to rail at destiny. In his whole appearance there was certainly
a mysterious and fatal charm. I afterward learned that this was only a
natural result of the wild life he had led. He was only twenty-six, and
he had already been the commander of a slave ship, and had fought in
Mexico at the head of one of those guerilla bands which make politics an
excuse for pillage and murder. He divined only too well the impression
he had made upon my heart. I met him twice afterward in society. He did
not speak to me; he even pretended to avoid me, but standing a little
on one side, he watched my every movement with burning eyes in which
I fancied I could read a passion as absorbing as my own. At last he
ventured to write to me. The moment a letter addressed to me in an
unknown hand was covertly handed me by my maid, I divined that it came
from him. I was frightened, and my first impulse was to take it, not
to my mother--whom I regarded as my natural enemy--but to my father.
However, he chanced to be absent; I kept the letter, I read it, I
answered it--and he wrote again.

“Alas! from that moment my conduct was inexcusable. I knew that it was
worse than a fault to continue this clandestine correspondence. I knew
my parents would never give my hand in marriage to a man who was not of
noble birth. I knew that I was risking my reputation, the spotless honor
of our house, my happiness, and life! Still I persisted--I was possessed
with a strange madness that made me ready to brave every danger.
Besides, he gave me no time to breathe, or reflect. Everywhere,
constantly, every instant, he compelled me to think of him. By some
miracle of address and audacity, he had discovered a means of intruding
upon my presence, even in my father’s house. For instance, every morning
I found the vases in my room full of choice flowers, though I was never
able to discover what hands had placed them there. Ah! how can one help
believing in an omnipresent passion which one inhales with the very air
one breathes! How can one resist it?

“I only discovered Arthur Gordon’s object when it was too late. He
had come to Paris with the fixed determination of trapping some rich
heiress, and forcing her family to give her to him with a large
dowry, after one of those disgraceful scandals which render a marriage
inevitable. At the very same time he was pursuing two other rich young
girls, persuaded that one of the three would certainly become his
victim.

“I was the first to yield. One of those unforeseen events which are
the work of Providence, was destined to decide my fate. Several times,
already, in compliance with Arthur’s urgent entreaties, I had met him at
night time in a little pavilion in our garden. This pavilion contained
a billiard-room and a spacious gallery in which my brother practised
fencing and pistol shooting with his masters and friends. There, thanks
to the liberty I enjoyed, we thought ourselves perfectly secure from
observation, and we were imprudent enough to light the candles. One
night when I had just joined Arthur in the pavilion, I thought I heard
the sound of hoarse, heavy breathing behind me. I turned round in a
fright and saw my brother standing on the threshold. Oh! then I realized
how guilty I had been! I felt that one or the other of these two men--my
lover or my brother--would not leave that room alive.

“I tried to speak, to throw myself between them, but I found I could
neither speak nor move; it was as if I had been turned to stone. Nor did
they exchange a word at first. But at last my brother drew two swords
from their scabbards, and throwing one at Arthur’s feet, exclaimed: ‘I
have no wish to assassinate you. Defend yourself, and save your life if
you can!’ And as Arthur hesitated, and seemed to be trying to gain time
instead of picking up the weapon that was lying on the floor near him,
my brother struck him in the face with the flat side of his sword, and
cried: ‘Now will you fight, you coward! In an instant it was all over.
Arthur caught up the sword, and springing upon my brother, disarmed him,
and wounded him in the breast. I saw this. I saw the blood spurt out
upon my lover’s hands. I saw my brother stagger, beat the air wildly
with his hands, and fall apparently lifeless to the floor. Then I, too,
lost consciousness and fell!”

Any one who had seen Madame d’Argeles as she stood there recoiling in
horror, with her features contracted, and her eyes dilated, would
have realized that by strength of will she had dispelled the mists
enshrouding the past, and distinctly beheld the scene she was
describing. She seemed to experience anew the same agony of terror she
had felt twenty years before; and this lent such poignant intensity to
the interest of her narrative that if M. Wilkie’s heart was not exactly
touched, he was, as he afterward confessed, at least rather interested.
But Madame d’Argeles seemed to have forgotten his existence. She wiped
away the foam-flecked blood which had risen to her lips, and in the same
mournful voice resumed her story.

“When I regained my senses it was morning, and I was lying, still
dressed, on a bed in a strange room. Arthur Gordon was standing at the
foot of the bed anxiously watching my movements. He did not give me time
to question him. ‘You are in my house,’ said he. ‘Your brother is dead!’
Almighty God! I thought I should die as well. I hoped so. I prayed
for death. But, in spite of my sobs, he pitilessly continued: ‘It is a
terrible misfortune which I shall never cease to regret. And yet, it was
his own fault. You, who witnessed the scene, know that it was so.
You can still see on my face the mark of the blow he dealt me. I only
defended myself and you.’ I was ignorant then of the accepted code of
duelling. I did not know that by throwing himself upon my brother before
he was on guard, Arthur Gordon had virtually assassinated him. He relied
upon my ignorance for the success of the sinister farce he was playing.
‘When I saw your brother fall,’ he continued, ‘I was wild with terror;
and not knowing what I did, I caught you up in my arms and brought you
here. But don’t tremble, I know that you are not in my house of your own
free will. A carriage is below and awaits your orders to convey you
to your parents’ home. It will be easy to find an explanation for last
night’s catastrophe. Slander will not venture to attack such a family
as yours.’ He spoke in the constrained tone, and with that air which a
brave man, condemned to death, would assume in giving utterance to his
last wishes. I felt as if I were going mad. ‘And you!’ I exclaimed,
‘you! What will become of you?’ He shook his head, and with a look
of anguish, replied: ‘Me! What does it matter about me! I am ruined
undoubtedly. So much the better. Nothing matters now that I must live
apart from you’! Ah! he knew my heart. He knew his power! Swayed by an
emotion which was madness rather than heroism, I sprang toward him, and
clasped him in my arms: ‘Then I, too, am lost!’ I cried. ‘Since fate
united us, nothing but death shall separate us. I love you. I am your
accomplice. Let the curse fall upon both!’

“A keen observer would certainly have detected a gleam of fiendish joy
in his eyes. But he protested, or pretended to protest. With feigned
energy he refused to accept such a sacrifice. He could not link my
destiny to his, for misery had ever been his lot; and now that this last
and most terrible misfortune had overtaken him, he was more than ever
convinced that there was a curse hanging over him! He would not suffer
me to bring misery upon myself, and eternal remorse upon him. But the
more he repulsed me, the more obstinately I clung to him. The more
forcibly he showed the horror of the sacrifice, the more I was convinced
that my honor compelled me to make it. So at last he yielded, or seemed
to yield, with transports of gratitude and love. ‘Well! yes, I accept
your sacrifice, my darling!’ he exclaimed. ‘I accept it; and before the
God who is looking down upon us, I swear that I will do all that is in
human power to repay such sublime and marvellous devotion.’ And, bending
over me, he printed a kiss upon my forehead. ‘But we must fly!’ he
resumed, quickly. ‘I have my happiness to defend now! I will not suffer
any one to discover us and separate us now. We must start at once,
without losing a moment, and gain my native land, America. There, we
shall be safe. For rest assured they will search for us. Who knows but
even now the officers of the law are upon our track? Your family is
all-powerful--I am a mere nobody--we should be crushed if they discover
us. They would bury you in a gloomy cloister, and I should be tried as
a common thief, or as a vile assassin.’ My only answer was: ‘Let us go!
Let us go at once!’

“It had been easy for him to foresee what the result of this interview
would be. A vehicle was indeed waiting at the door, but not for
the purpose of conveying me to the Hotel de Chalusse--as was proved
conclusively by the fact that his trunks were already strapped upon it.
Besides, the coachman must have received his instructions in advance for
he drove us straight to the Havre Railway station without a word. It
was not until some months afterward that these trifles, which entirely
escaped my notice at the time, opened my eyes to the truth. When we
reached the station we found a train ready to start, and we took our
places in it. I tried to quiet my conscience with miserable sophistries.
Remembering that God has said to woman: To follow thy husband thou shalt
abandon all else, native land, paternal home, parents and friends, I
told myself that this was the husband whom my heart had instinctively
chosen, and that it was my duty to follow him and share his destiny. And
thus I fled with him, although I thought I left a corpse behind me--the
corpse of my only brother.”

M. Wilkie was actually so much interested that he forgot his anxiety
concerning his attitude, and no longer thought of M. de Coralth and the
Marquis de Valorsay. He even sprang up, and exclaimed: “Amazing!”

But Madame d’Argeles had already resumed: “Such was my great,
inexcusable, irreparable fault. I have told you the whole truth, without
trying either to conceal or justify anything. Listen to my chastisement!
On our arrival at Le Havre the next day, Arthur confessed that he was
greatly embarrassed financially. Owing to our precipitate flight, he had
not had time to realize the property he possessed--at least so he told
me--a banker, on whom he had depended, had moreover failed him, and he
had not sufficient money to pay our passage to New York. This amazed
me. My education had been absurd, like that of most young girls in
my station. I knew nothing of real life, of its requirements and
difficulties. I knew, of course, that there were rich people and poor
people, that money was a necessity, and that those who did not possess
it would stoop to any meanness to obtain it. But all this was not very
clear in my mind, and I never suspected that a few francs more or
less would be a matter of vital importance. So I was not in the least
prepared for the request to which this confession served as preface, and
Arthur Gordon was obliged to ask me point-blank if I did not happen to
have some money about me, or some jewelry which could be converted into
money. I gave him all I had, my purse containing a few louis, a ring and
a necklace, with a handsome diamond cross attached to it. However,
the total value was comparatively small, and such was Arthur’s
disappointment that he made a remark which frightened me even then,
though I did not fully understand its shameful meaning until afterward:
‘A woman who repairs to a rendezvous should always have all the
valuables she possesses about her. One never knows what may happen.’

“Want of money was keeping us prisoners at Le Havre, when Arthur Gordon
chanced to meet an old acquaintance, who was the captain of an American
sailing vessel. He confided his embarrassment to his friend, and the
latter, whose vessel was to sail at the end of the same week, kindly
offered us a free passage. The voyage was one long torture to me, for it
was then that I first served my apprenticeship in shame and disgrace.
By the captain’s offensive gallantry, the lower officers’ familiarity of
manner, and the sailors’ ironical glances whenever I appeared on deck, I
saw that my position was a secret for no one. Everybody knew that I was
the mistress and not the wife of the man whom I called my husband: and,
without being really conscious of it, perhaps, they made me cruelly
expiate my fault. Moreover, reason had regained its ascendency, my eyes
were gradually opening to the truth, and I was beginning to learn the
real character of the scoundrel for whom I had sacrificed all that makes
life desirable.

“Not that he had wholly ceased to practise dissimulation. But after the
evening meal he often lingered at table smoking and drinking with
his friend the captain, and when he joined me afterward, heated with
alcohol, he shocked me by advocating theories which were both novel
and repulsive to me. Once, after drinking more than usual, he entirely
forgot his assumed part, and revealed himself in his true character.
He declared he bitterly regretted that our love affair had ended so
disastrously. It was deplorable to think that so happily conceived and
so skilfully conducted a scheme should have terminated in bloodshed. And
the blow had fallen just as he fancied he had reached the goal; just as
he thought he would reap the reward of his labor. In a few weeks’ more
time he would undoubtedly have gained sufficient influence over me to
persuade me to elope with him. This would, of course, have caused a
great scandal; the next day there would have been a family conclave; a
compromise would have been effected, and finally, a marriage arranged
with a large dowry, to hush up the affair. ‘And I should now be a
rich man,’ he added, ‘a very rich man--I should be rolling through the
streets of Paris in my carriage, instead of being on board this cursed
ship, eating salt cod twice a day, and living on charity.’

“Ah! it was no longer possible to doubt. The truth was as clear as
daylight. I had never been loved, not even an hour, not even a moment.
The loving letters which had blinded me, the protestations of affection
which had deceived me, had been addressed to my father’s millions, not
to myself. And not unfrequently I saw Arthur Gordon’s face darken, as he
talked with evident anxiety about what he could do to earn a living for
himself and me in America. ‘I have had trouble enough to get on alone,’
he grumbled. ‘What will it be now? To burden myself with a penniless
wife! What egregious folly! And yet I couldn’t have acted differently--I
was compelled to do it.’ Why had he been compelled to do it? why had
he not acted differently?--that was what I vainly puzzled my brain
to explain. However, his gloomy fears of poverty were not realized. A
delightful surprise awaited him at New York. A relative had recently
died, leaving him a legacy of fifty thousand dollars--a small fortune.
I hoped that he would now cease his constant complaints, but he seemed
even more displeased than before. ‘Such is the irony of fate,’ he
repeated again and again. ‘With this money, I might easily have married
a wife worth a hundred thousand dollars, and then I should be rich at
last!’ After that, I had good reason to expect that I should soon be
forsaken--but no, shortly after our arrival, he married me. Had he done
so out of respect for his word? I believed so. But, alas! this marriage
was the result of calculation, like everything else he did.

“We were living in New York, when one evening he came home, looking very
pale and agitated. He had a French newspaper in his hand. ‘Read this,’
he said, handing it to me. I took the paper as he bade me, and read
that my brother had not been killed, that he was improving, and that
his recovery was now certain. And as I fell on my knees, bursting into
tears, and thanking God for freeing me from such terrible remorse, he
exclaimed: ‘We are in a nice fix! I advise you to congratulate yourself!
‘From that time forward, I noticed he displayed the feverish anxiety of
a man who feels that he is constantly threatened with some great danger.
A few days afterward, he said to me: ‘I cannot endure this! Have our
trunks ready to-morrow, and we will start South. Instead of calling
ourselves Gordon, we’ll travel under the name of Grant.’ I did not
venture to question him. He had quite mastered me by his cruel tyranny,
and I was accustomed to obey him like a slave in terror of the lash.
However, during our long journey, I learned the cause of our flight and
change of name.

“‘Your brother, d--n him,’ he said, one day, ‘is hunting for me
everywhere! He wants to kill me or to deliver me up to justice, I don’t
know which. He pretends that I tried to murder him!’ It was strange;
but Arthur Gordon, who was bravery personified, and who exposed himself
again and again to the most frightful dangers, felt a wild, unreasoning,
inconceivable fear of my brother. It was this dread that had decided
him to burden himself with me. He feared that if he left me, lying
unconscious beside my brother’s lifeless form, I might on recovering my
senses reveal the truth, and unconsciously act as his accuser. You were
born in Richmond, Wilkie, where we remained nearly a month, during which
time I saw but little of your father. He had formed the acquaintance
of several rich planters, and spent his time hunting and gambling with
them. Unfortunately, fifty thousand dollars could not last long at this
rate; and, in spite of his skill as a gambler, he returned home one
morning ruined. A fortnight later when he had sold our effects, and
borrowed all the money he could, we embarked again for France. It
was not until we reached Paris that I discovered the reasons that had
influenced him in returning to Europe. He had heard of my father and
mother’s death, and intended to compel me to claim my share of the
property. He dared not appear in person on account of my brother. At
last the hour of my vengeance had arrived; for I had taken a solemn oath
that this scoundrel who had ruined me should never enjoy the fortune
which had been his only object in seducing me. I had sworn to die inch
by inch and by the most frightful tortures rather than give him one
penny of the Chalusse millions. And I kept my word.

“When I told him that I was resolved not to assert my rights, he seemed
utterly confounded. He could not understand how the down-trodden slave
dared to revolt against him. And when he found that my decision was
irrevocable, I thought he would have an attack of apoplexy. It made him
wild with rage to think that he was only separated from this immense
fortune--the dream of his life--by a single word of mine, and to find
that he had not the power to extort that word from me. Then began a
struggle between us, which became more and more frightful as the
money he possessed gradually dwindled away. But it was in vain that he
resorted to brutal treatment; in vain that he struck me, tortured me,
and dragged me about the floor by the hair of my head! The thought that
I was avenged, that his sufferings equalled mine, increased my courage
a hundredfold, and made me almost insensible to physical pain. He
would certainly have been the first to grow weary of the struggle, if
a fiendish plan had not occurred to him. He said to himself that if
he could not conquer the wife, he COULD conquer the mother and he
threatened to turn his brutality to you, Wilkie. To save you--for I knew
what he was capable of--I pretended to waver, and I asked twenty-four
hours for reflection. He granted them. But the next day I left him
forever, flying from him with you in my arms.”

M. Wilkie turned white, and a cold chill crept up his spine. However,
it was not pity for his mother’s sufferings, nor shame for his father’s
infamy that agitated him, but ever the same terrible fear of incurring
the enmity of this dangerous coveter of the Chalusse millions. Would
he be able to hold his father at bay even with the assistance of M. de
Coralth and the Marquis de Valorsay? A thousand questions rose to his
lips, for he was eager to hear the particulars of his mother’s flight;
but Madame d’Argeles hurried on with her story as if she feared her
strength would fail before she reached the end.

“I was alone with you, Wilkie, in this great city,” she resumed. “A
hundred francs was all that I possessed. My first care was to find a
place of shelter. For sixteen francs a month, which I was compelled to
pay in advance, I found a small, meagrely furnished room in the Faubourg
Saint Martin. It was badly ventilated and miserably lighted, but still
it was shelter. I said to myself that we could live there together by my
work, Wilkie. I was a proficient in feminine accomplishments; I was an
excellent musician, and I thought I should have no difficulty in earning
the four or five francs a day which I considered absolutely necessary
for our subsistence. Alas! I discovered only too soon what chimerical
hopes I had cherished. To give music lessons it is necessary to obtain
pupils. Where should I find them? I had no one to recommend me, and I
scarcely dared show myself in the streets, so great was my fear that
your father would discover our hiding-place. At last, I decided to try
to find some employment in needlework, and timidly offered my services
at several shops. Alas! it is only those who have gone about from door
to door soliciting work who know the misery of the thing. To ask alms
would be scarcely more humiliating. People sneered at me, and replied
(when they deigned to reply at all) that ‘there was no business doing,
and they had all the help they wanted.’ My evident inexperience was
probably the cause of many of these refusals, as well as my attire, for
I still had the appearance of being a rich woman. Who knows what they
took me for? Still the thought of you sustained me, Wilkie, and nothing
daunted me.

“I finally succeeded in obtaining some bands of muslin to embroider, and
some pieces of tapestry work to fill in. Unremunerative employment, no
doubt, especially to one ignorant of the art of working quickly, rather
than well. By rising with daylight, and working until late at night,
I scarcely succeeded in earning twenty sous a day. And it was not long
before even this scanty resource failed me. Winter came, and the cold
weather with it. One morning I changed my last five-franc piece--it
lasted us a week. Then I pawned and sold everything that was not
absolutely indispensable until nothing was left me but my patched dress
and a single skirt. And soon an evening came when the owner of our
miserable den turned us into the street because I could no longer pay
the rent.

“This was the final blow! I tottered away, clinging to the walls for
support; too weak from lack of food to carry you. The rain was falling,
and chilled us to the bones. You were crying bitterly. And all that
night and all the next day, aimless and hopeless, we wandered about the
streets. I must either die of want or return to your father. I preferred
death. Toward evening--instinct having led me to the Seine--I sat down
on one of the stone benches of the Point-Neuf, holding you on my knees
and watching the flow of the dark river below. There was a strange
fascination--a promise of peace in its depths--that impelled me almost
irresistibly to plunge into the flood. If I had been alone in the world,
I should not have stopped to consider a second, but on your account,
Wilkie, I hesitated.”

Moved by the thought of the danger he had escaped, M. Wilkie shuddered.
“B-r-r-r!” he growled. “You did well to hesitate.”

She did not even hear him, but continued: “I at last decided that it
was best to put an end to this misery, and rising with difficulty, I was
approaching the parapet, when a gruff voice beside us exclaimed: ‘What
are you doing there?’ I turned, thinking some police officer had spoken,
but I was mistaken. By the light of the street lamp, I perceived a man
who looked some thirty years of age, and had a frank and rather genial
face. Why this stranger instantly inspired me with unlimited confidence
I don’t know. Perhaps it was an unconscious horror of death that made me
long for any token of human sympathy. However it may have been, I told
him my story, but not without changing the names, and omitting many
particulars. He had taken a seat beside me on the bench, and I saw big
tears roll down his cheeks as I proceeded with my narrative. ‘It is
ever so! it is ever so!’ he muttered. ‘To love is to incur the risk of
martyrdom. It is to offer one’s self as a victim to every perfidy, to
the basest treason and ingratitude.’ The man who spoke in this fashion
was Baron Trigault. He did not allow me to finish my story. ‘Enough!’ he
suddenly exclaimed, ‘follow me!’ A cab was passing, he made us get in,
and an hour later we were in a comfortable room, beside a blazing fire,
with a generously spread table before us. The next day, moreover, we
were installed in a pleasant home. Alas! why wasn’t the baron generous
to the last? You were saved, Wilkie, but at what a price!”

She paused for a moment, her face redder than fire; but soon mastering
her agitation, she resumed: “There was one great cause of dissension
between the baron and myself. I wished you to be educated, Wilkie,
like the son of a noble family, while he desired you should receive the
practical training suited to a youth who would have to make his own way
in the world, and win position, fortune, and even name for himself.
Ah! he was a thousand times right, as events have since proved only too
well! But maternal love blinded me, and, after an angry discussion,
he went away, declaring he would not see me again until I became more
reasonable. He thought that reflection would cure me of my folly.
Unfortunately, he was not acquainted with the fatal obstinacy which is
the distinguishing characteristic of the Chalusse family. While I was
wondering how I could find the means of carrying the plans I had formed
for you into execution, two of the baron’s acquaintances presented
themselves, with the following proposal: Aware of the enormous profits
derived by clandestine gambling dens, they had conceived the project of
opening a public establishment on a large scale, where any Parisian or
foreigner, if he seemed to be a gentleman, and possessed of means,
would find no difficulty in obtaining admission. By taking certain
precautions, and by establishing this gambling den in a private
drawing-room, they believed the scheme practicable, and came to suggest
that I should keep the drawing-room in question, and be their partner
in the enterprise. Scarcely knowing what I pledged myself to, I accepted
their offer, influenced--I should rather say decided--by the
exalted positions which both these gentlemen occupied, by the public
consideration they enjoyed, and the honored names they bore. And that
same week this house was rented and furnished, and I was installed in it
under the name of Lia d’Argeles.

“But this was not all. There still remained the task of creating
for myself one of those scandalous reputations that attract public
attention. This proved an easy task, thanks to the assistance of my
silent partners, and the innocent simplicity of several of their friends
and certain journalists. As for myself, I did my best to insure the
success of the horrible farce which was to lend infamous notoriety
to the name of Lia d’Argeles. I had magnificent equipages and superb
dresses, and I made myself conspicuous at the theatres and all places of
public resort. As is generally the case when one is acting contrary to
conscience, I called the most absurd sophistries to my assistance. I
tried to convince myself that appearances are nothing, that reality is
everything, and that it did not matter if I were known as a courtesan
since rumor lied, and my life WAS really chaste. When the baron hastened
to me and tried to rescue me from the abyss into which I had flung
myself; it was too late. I had discovered that the business would prove
successful; and for your sake, I longed for money as passionately, as
madly, as any miser. Last year my gaming-room yielded more than one
hundred and fifty thousand francs clear profit, and I received as my
share the thirty-five thousand francs which you squandered. Now you know
me as I really am. My associates, my partners, the men whose secret
I have faithfully kept, walk the streets with their heads erect. They
boast of their unsullied honor, and they are respected by every one.
Such is the truth, and I have no reason to make their disgrace known.
Besides, if I proclaimed it from the house-tops, no one would believe
me. But you are my son, and I owe you the truth, the whole truth!”

In any age but the present, Madame d’Argeles’s story would have seemed
absolutely incredible. Nowadays, however, such episodes are by no means
rare. Two men--two men of exalted rank and highly respected, to use a
common expression--associate in opening a gaming-house under the very
eyes of the police, and in coining money out of a woman’s supposed
disgrace. ‘Tis after all but an everyday occurrence.

The unhappy woman had told her story with apparent coldness, and yet,
in her secret heart, she perhaps hoped that by disclosing her terrible
sacrifice and long martyrdom, she would draw a burst of gratitude and
tenderness from her son, calculated to repay her for all her sufferings.
But the hope was vain. It would have been easier to draw water from a
solid rock than to, extract a sympathetic tear from Wilkie’s eyes.
He was only alive to the practical side of this narrative, and what
impressed him most was the impudent assurance of Madame d’Argeles’s
business associates. “Not a bad idea; not bad at all,” he exclaimed.
And, boiling over with curiosity, he continued: “I would give something
handsome to know those men’s names. Really you ought to tell me. It
would be worth one’s while to know.”

Any other person than this interesting young man would have been
crushed by the look his mother gave him--a look embodying the deepest
disappointment and contempt. “I think you must be mad,” she remarked
coldly. And as he sprang up, astonished that any one should doubt his
abundant supply of good sense, “Let us put an end to this,” she sternly
added.

Thereupon she hastily went into the adjoining room, reappearing a moment
later with a roll of papers in her hand. “Here,” she remarked, “is
my marriage certificate, your certificate of birth, and a copy of my
renunciation--a perfectly valid document, since the court has authorized
it, owing to my husband’s absence. All these proofs I am ready and
willing to place at your disposal, but on one condition.”

This last word fell like a cold shower-bath upon Wilkie’s exultant joy.
“What is this condition?” he anxiously inquired.

“It is that you should sign this deed, which has been drawn up by my
notary--a deed by which you pledge yourself to hand me the sum of two
million francs on the day you come into possession of the Chalusse
property.”

Two millions! The immensity of the sum struck Wilkie dumb with
consternation. Nor did he forget that he would be compelled to give
the Viscount de Coralth the large reward he had promised him--a reward
promised in writing, unfortunately. “I shall have nothing left,” he
began, piteously.

But with a disdainful gesture Madame d’Argeles interrupted him. “Set
your mind at rest,” said she. “You will still be immensely rich. All the
estimates which have been made are far below the mark. When I was a girl
I often heard my father say that his income amounted to more than eight
hundred thousand francs a year. My brother inherited the whole property,
and I would be willing to swear that he never spent more than half of
his income.”

Wilkie’s nerves had never been subjected to so severe a shock. He
tottered and his brain whirled. “Oh! oh!” he stammered. This was all he
could say.

“Only I must warn you of a more than probable deception,” pursued Madame
d’Argeles. “As my brother was firmly resolved to deprive me even of
my rightful portion of the estate, he concealed his fortune in every
possible way. It will undoubtedly require considerable time and trouble
to gain possession of the whole. However I know a man, formerly the
Count de Chalusse’s confidential agent, who might aid you in this task.”

“And this man’s name?”

“Is Isidore Fortunat. I saved his card for you. Here it is.”

M. Wilkie took it up, placed it carefully in his pocket, and then
exclaimed: “That being the case, I consent to sign, but after this
you need not complain. Two millions at five per cent. ought to greatly
alleviate one’s sufferings.”

Madame d’Argeles did not deign to notice this delicate irony. “I will
tell you in advance to what purpose I intend to apply this sum,” she
said.

“Ah!”

“I intend one of these two millions to serve as the dowry of a young
girl who would have been the Count de Chalusse’s sole legatee, if his
death had not been so sudden and so unexpected.”

“And the other one?”

“The other I intend to invest for you in such a way that you can only
touch the interest of it, so that you will not want for bread after you
have squandered your inheritance, even to the very last penny.”

This wise precaution could not fail to shock such a brilliant young man
as M. Wilkie. “Do you take me for a fool?” he exclaimed. “I may appear
very generous, but I am shrewd enough, never you fear.”

“Sign,” interrupted Madame d’Argeles, coldly.

But he attempted to prove that he was no fool by reading and rereading
the contract before he would consent to append his name to it. At last,
however, he did so, and stowed away the proofs which insured him the
much-coveted property.

“Now,” said Madame d’Argeles, “I have one request to make of you.
Whenever your father makes his appearance and lays claim to this
fortune, I entreat you to avoid a lawsuit, which would only make your
mother’s shame and the disgrace attached to the hitherto stainless name
of Chalusse still more widely known. Compromise with him. You will be
rich enough to satisfy his greed without feeling it.”

M. Wilkie remained silent for a moment, as if he were deliberating upon
the course he ought to pursue. “If my father is reasonable, I will be
the same,” he said at last. “I will choose as an arbiter between us one
of my friends--a man who acts on the square, like myself--the Marquis de
Valorsay.”

“My God! do you know him?”

“He is one of my most intimate friends.”

Madame d’Argeles had become very pale. “Wretched boy!” she exclaimed.
“You don’t know that it’s the marquis----” She paused abruptly. One word
more and she would have betrayed Pascal Ferailleur’s secret plans, with
which she had been made acquainted by Baron Trigault. Had she a right
to do this, even to put her son on his guard against a man whom she
considered the greatest villain in the world?

“Well?” insisted M. Wilkie, in surprise.

But Madame d’Argeles had recovered her self-possession. “I only wished
to warn you against too close a connection with the Marquis de Valorsay.
He has an excellent position in society, but yours will be far more
brilliant. His star is on the wane; yours is just rising. All that he is
regretting, you have a right to hope for. Perhaps even now he is jealous
of you, and wishes to persuade you to take some false step.”

“Ah! you little know him!”

“I have warned you.”

M. Wilkie took up his hat, but, though he was longing to depart,
embarrassment kept him to the spot. He vaguely felt that he ought not to
leave his mother in this style. “I hope I shall soon have some good news
to bring you,” he began.

“Before night I shall have left this house,” she answered.

“Of course. But you are going to give me your new address.”

“No.”

“What?--No!”

She shook her head sadly, and in a scarcely audible voice responded: “It
is not likely that we shall meet again.”

“And the two millions that I am to turn over to you?”

“Mr. Patterson will collect the money. As for me, say to yourself
that I’m dead. You have broken the only link that bound me to life, by
proving the futility of the most terrible sacrifices. However, I am a
mother, and I forgive you.” Then as he did not move, and as she felt
that her strength was deserting her, she dragged herself from the room,
murmuring, “Farewell!”

XVI.

Stupefied with astonishment, M. Wilkie stood for a moment silent and
motionless. “Allow me,” he faltered at last; “Allow me--I wish to
explain.” But Madame d’Argeles did not even turn her head; the door
closed behind her and he was left alone.

However strong a man’s nature may be, he always has certain moments of
weakness. For instance, at the present moment Wilkie was completely at
a loss what to do. Not that he repented, he was incapable of that; but
there are hours when the most hardened conscience is touched, and when
long dormant instincts at last assert their rights. If he had obeyed his
first impulse, he would have darted after his mother and thrown himself
on his knees before her. But reflection, remembrance of the Viscount de
Coralth, and the Marquis de Valorsay, made him silent the noblest voice
that had spoken in his soul for many a long day. So, with his head
proudly erect, he went off, twirling his mustaches and followed by
the whispers of the servants--whispers which were ready to change into
hisses at any moment.

But what did he care for the opinion of these plebeians! Before he was
a hundred paces from the house his emotion had vanished, and he was
thinking how he could most agreeably spend the time until the hour
appointed for his second interview with M. de Valorsay. He had not
breakfasted, but “his stomach was out of sorts,” as he said to himself,
and it would really have been impossible for him to swallow a morsel.
Thus not caring to return home, he started in quest of one of his former
intimates, with the generous intention of overpowering him with the
great news. Unfortunately he failed to find this friend, and eager
to vent the pride that was suffocating him, in some way or other, he
entered the shop of an engraver, whom he crushed by his importance,
and ordered some visiting cards bearing the inscription W. de
Gordon-Chalusse, with a count’s coronet in one of the corners.

Thus occupied, time flew by so quickly that he was a trifle late in
keeping his appointment with his dear friend the marquis. Wilkie found
M. de Valorsay as he had left him--in his smoking-room, talking with
the Viscount de Coralth. Not that the marquis had been idle, but it had
barely taken him an hour to set in motion the machinery which he had had
in complete readiness since the evening before. “Victory!” cried Wilkie,
as he appeared on the threshold. “It was a hard battle, but I asserted
my rights. I am the acknowledged heir! the millions are mine!” And
without giving his friends time to congratulate him, he began to
describe his interview with Madame d’Argeles, presenting his conduct in
the most odious light possible, pretending he had indulged in all sorts
of harsh rejoinders, and making himself out to be “a man of bronze,” or
“a block of marble,” as he said.

“You are certainly more courageous than I fancied,” said M. de Valorsay
gravely, when the narrative was ended.

“Is that really so?”

“It is, indeed. Now the world is before you. Let your story be noised
abroad--and it will be noised abroad--and you will become a hero.
Imagine the amazement of Paris when it learns that Lia d’Argeles was a
virtuous woman, who sacrificed her reputation for the sake of her son--a
martyr, whose disgrace was only a shameful falsehood invented by two men
of rank to increase the attractions of their gambling-den! It will take
the newspapers a month to digest this strange romance. And whom will all
this notoriety fall upon? Upon you, my dear sir; and as your millions
will lend an additional charm to the romance, you will become the lion
of the season.”

M. Wilkie was really too much overwhelmed to feel elated. “Upon my
word, you overpower me, my dear marquis--you quite overpower me,” he
stammered.

“I too have been at work,” resumed the marquis. “And I have made
numerous inquiries, in accordance with my promise. I almost regret it,
for what I have discovered is--very singular, to say the least. I was
just saying so to Coralth when you came in. What I have learned makes
it extremely unpleasant for me, to find myself mixed up in the affair;
accordingly, I have requested the persons who gave me this information
to call here. You shall hear their story, and then you must decide
for yourself.” So saying, he rang the bell, and as soon as a servant
answered the summons, he exclaimed: “Show M. Casimir in.”

When the lackey had retired to carry out this order, the marquis
remarked: “Casimir was the deceased count’s valet. He is a clever
fellow, honest, intelligent, and well up in his business--such a man
as you will need, in fact, and I won’t try to conceal the fact that the
hope of entering your service has aided considerably in unloosening his
tongue.”

M. Casimir, who was irreproachably clad in black, with a white cambric
tie round his neck, entered the room at this very moment, smiling
and bowing obsequiously. “This gentleman, my good fellow,” said M. de
Valorsay, pointing to Wilkie, “is your former master’s only heir. A
proof of devotion might induce him to keep you with him. What you told
me a little while ago is of great importance to him; see if you can
repeat it now for his benefit.”

In his anxiety to secure a good situation, M. Casimir had ventured to
apply to the Marquis de Valorsay; he had talked a good deal, and the
marquis had conceived the plan of making him an unsuspecting accomplice.
“I never deny my words,” replied the valet, “and since monsieur is the
heir to the property, I won’t hesitate to tell him that immense sums
have been stolen from the late count’s estate.”

M. Wilkie bounded from his chair. “Immense sums!” he exclaimed. “Is it
possible!”

“Monsieur shall judge. On the morning preceding his death, the count
had more than two millions in bank-notes and bonds stowed away in
his escritoire, but when the justice of the peace came to take the
inventory, the money could not be found. We servants were terribly
alarmed, for we feared that suspicion would fall upon us.”

Ah! if Wilkie had only been alone he would have given vent to his true
feelings. But here, under the eyes of the marquis and M. de Coralth,
he felt that he must maintain an air of stoical indifference. He ALMOST
succeeded in doing so, and in a tolerably firm voice he remarked: “This
is not very pleasant news. Two millions! that’s a good haul. Tell me, my
friend, have you any clue to the thief?”

The valet’s troubled glance betrayed an uneasy conscience, but he had
gone too far to draw back. “I shouldn’t like to accuse an innocent
person,” he replied, “but there was some one who constantly had access
to that escritoire.”

“And who was that?”

“Mademoiselle Marguerite.”

“I don’t know the lady.”

“She’s a young girl who is--at least people say--the count’s
illegitimate daughter. Her word was law in the house.”

“What has become of her?”

“She has gone to live with General de Fondege, one of the count’s
friends. She wouldn’t take her jewels and diamonds away with her, which
seemed very strange, for they are worth more than a hundred thousand
francs. Even Bourigeau said to me: ‘That’s unnatural, M. Casimir.’
Borigeau is the concierge of the house, a very worthy man. Monsieur will
not find his equal.”

Unfortunately, this tribute to the merits of the valet’s friend was
interrupted by the arrival of a footman, who, after tapping respectfully
at the door, entered the room and exclaimed: “The doctor is here, and
desires to speak with Monsieur le Marquis.”

“Very well,” replied M. de Valorsay, “ask him to wait. When I ring, you
can usher him in.” Then addressing M. Casimir, he added:

“You may retire for the present, but don’t leave the house. M. Wilkie
will acquaint you with his intentions by and by.”

The valet thereupon backed out of the room, bowing profoundly.

“There is a story for you!” exclaimed M. Wilkie as soon as the door was
closed. “A robbery of two millions!”

The marquis shook his head, and remarked, gravely: “That’s a mere
nothing. I suspect something far more terrible.”

“What, pray? Upon my word! you frighten me.”

“Wait! I may be mistaken. Even the doctor may lie deceived. But you
shall judge for yourself.” As he spoke, he pulled the bell-rope, and an
instant after, the servant announced: “Dr. Jodon.”

It was, indeed, the same physician who had annoyed Mademoiselle
Marguerite by his persistent curiosity and impertinent questions, at
the Count de Chalusse’s bedside; the same crafty and ambitious man,
constantly tormented by covetousness, and ready to do anything to
gratify it--the man of the period, in short, who sacrificed everything
to the display by which he hoped to deceive other people, and who was
almost starving in the midst of his mock splendor.

M. Casimir was an innocent accomplice, but the doctor knew what he was
doing. Interviewed on behalf of the Marquis de Valorsay by Madame Leon,
he had fathomed the whole mystery at once. These two crafty natures had
read and understood each other. No definite words had passed between
them--they were both too shrewd for that; and yet, a compact had been
concluded by which each had tacitly agreed to serve the other according
to his need.

As soon as the physician appeared, M. de Valorsay rose and shook hands
with him; then, offering him an arm-chair, he remarked: “I will not
conceal from you, doctor, that I have in some measure prepared this
gentleman”--designating M. Wilkie--“for your terrible revelation.”

By the doctor’s attitude, a keen observer might have divined the secret
trepidation that always precedes a bad action which has been conceived
and decided upon in cold blood.

“To tell the truth,” he began, speaking slowly, and with some
difficulty, “now that the moment for speaking has come, I almost
hesitate. Our profession has painful exigencies. Perhaps it is now too
late. If there had been any of the count’s relatives in the house, or
even an heir at the time, I should have insisted upon an autopsy. But
now----”

On hearing the word “autopsy,” M. Wilkie looked round with startled
eyes. He opened his lips to interrupt the speaker, but the physician
had already resumed his narrative. “Besides, I had only suspicions,”
he said, “suspicions based, it is true, upon strange and alarming
circumstances. I am a man, that is to say, I am liable to error. In
the kingdom of science it would be unpardonable temerity on my part to
affirm----”

“To affirm what?” interrupted M. Wilkie.

The physician did not seem to hear him, but continued in the same
dogmatic tone. “The count apparently died from an attack of apoplexy,
but certain poisons produce similar and even identical symptoms which
are apt to deceive the most experienced medical men. The persistent
efforts of the count’s intellect, his muscular rigidity alternating with
utter relaxation, the dilation of the pupils of his eyes, and more than
aught else the violence of his last convulsions, have led me to ask
myself if some criminal had not hastened his end.”

Whiter than his shirt, and trembling like a leaf, M. Wilkie sprang
from his chair. “I understand!” he exclaimed. “The count was
murdered--poisoned.”

But the physician replied with an energetic protest. “Oh, not so fast!”
said he. “Don’t mistake my conjectures for assertions. Still, I ought
not to conceal the circumstances which awakened my suspicions. On
the morning preceding his attack, the count took two spoonfuls of the
contents of a vial which the people in charge could not or would not
produce. When I asked what this vial contained, the answer was: ‘A
medicine to prevent apoplexy.’ I don’t say that this is false, but prove
it. As for the motive that led to the crime, it is apparent at once.
The escritoire contained two millions of francs, and the money has
disappeared. Show me the vial, find the money, and I will admit that I
am wrong. But until then, I shall have my suspicions.”

He did not speak like a physician but like an examining magistrate, and
his alarming deductions found their way even to M. Wilkie’s dull brain.
“Who could have committed the crime?” he asked.

“It could only have been the person likely to profit by it; and only one
person besides the count knew that the money was in the house, and had
possession of the key of this escritoire.”

“And this person?”

“Is the count’s illegitimate daughter, who lived in the house with
him--Mademoiselle Marguerite.”

M. Wilkie sank into his chair again, completely overwhelmed. The
coincidence between the doctor’s deposition and M. Casimir’s testimony
was too remarkable to pass unnoticed. Further doubt seemed impossible.
“Ah! this is most unfortunate!” faltered Wilkie. “What a pity! Such
difficulties never assail any one but me! What am I to do?” And in his
distress he glanced from the doctor to the Marquis de Valorsay, and then
at M. de Coralth, as if seeking inspiration from each of them.

“My profession forbids my acting as an adviser in such cases,” replied
the physician, “but these gentlemen have not the same reasons for
keeping silent.”

“Excuse me,” interrupted the marquis quickly; “but this is one of those
cases in which a man must be left to his own inspirations. The most
I can do, is to say what course I should pursue if I were one of the
deceased count’s relatives or heirs.”

“Pray tell me, my dear marquis,” sighed Wilkie. “You would render me an
immense service by doing so.”

M. de Valorsay seemed to reflect for a moment; and then he solemnly
exclaimed: “I should feel that my honor required me to investigate every
circumstance connected with this mysterious affair. Before receiving a
man’s estate, one must know the cause of his death, so as to avenge him
if he has been foully murdered.”

For M. Wilkie the oracle had spoken. “Such is my opinion exactly,” he
declared. “But what course would you pursue, my dear marquis? How would
you set about solving this mystery?”

“I should appeal to the authorities.”

“Ah!”

“And this very day, this very hour, without losing a second, I should
address a communication to the public prosecutor, informing him of the
robbery which is patent to any one, and referring to the possibility of
foul play.”

“Yes, that would be an excellent idea; but there is one slight
drawback--I don’t know how to draw up such a communication.”

“I know no more about it than you do yourself; but any lawyer or notary
will give you the necessary information. Are you acquainted with any
such person? Would you like me to give you the address of my business
man? He is a very clever fellow, who has almost all the members of my
club as his clients.”

This last reason was more than sufficient to fix M. Wilkie’s choice.
“Where can I find him?” he inquired.

“At his house--he is always there at this hour. Come! here is a scrap
of paper and a pencil. You had better make a note of his address. Write:
‘Maumejan, Route de la Revolte.’ Tell him that I sent you, and he will
treat you with the same consideration as he would show to me. He lives a
long way off, but my brougham is standing in the courtyard; so take it,
and when your consultation is over, come back and dine with me.”

“Ah! you are too kind!” exclaimed M. Wilkie. “You overpower me, my dear
marquis, you do, upon my word! I shall fly and be back in a moment.”

He went off looking radiant; and a moment later the carriage which was
to take him to M. Maumejan’s was heard rolling out of the courtyard.

The doctor had already taken up his hat and cane.

“You will excuse me for leaving you so abruptly, Monsieur le Marquis,”
said he, “but I have an engagement to discuss a business matter.”

“Indeed!”

“I am negotiating for the purchase of a dentist’s establishment.”

“What, you?”

“Yes, I. You may tell me that this is a downfall, but I will answer,
‘It will give me a living.’ Medicine is becoming a more and more
unremunerative profession. However hard a physician may work, he can
scarcely pay for the water he uses in washing his hands. I have an
opportunity of purchasing the business of a well-established and
well-known dentist, in an excellent neighborhood. Why not avail myself
of it? Only one thing worries me--the lack of funds.”

The marquis had expected the doctor would require remuneration for his
services. Before compromising himself any further, M. Jodon wished to
knew what compensation he was to receive. The marquis was so sure of
this, that he quickly exclaimed: “Ah, my dear doctor, if you have need
of twenty thousand francs, I shall be only too happy to offer them to
you.”

“Really?”

“Upon my honor!”

“And when can you let me have the money?”

“In three or four days’ time.”

The bargain was concluded. The doctor was now ready to find traces of
any poison whatsoever in the Count de Chalusse’s exhumed remains. He
pressed the marquis’s hand and then went off, exclaiming: “Whatever
happens you can count upon me.”

Left alone with the Viscount de Coralth, and consequently freed from all
restraint, M. de Valorsay rose with a long-drawn sigh of relief. “What
an interminable seance!” he growled. And, approaching his acolyte, who
was sitting silent and motionless in an arm-chair, he slapped him on
the shoulder, exclaiming: “Are you ill that you sit there like that, as
still as a mummy?”

The viscount turned as if he had been suddenly aroused from slumber.
“I’m well enough,” he answered somewhat roughly. “I was only thinking.”

“Your thoughts are not very pleasant, to judge from the look on your
face.”

“No. I was thinking of the fate that you are preparing for us.”

“Oh! A truce to disagreeable prophecies, please! Besides, it’s too late
to draw back, or to even think of retreat. The Rubicon is passed.”

“Alas! that is the cause of my anxiety. If it hadn’t been for my
wretched past, which you have threatened me with like a dagger, I should
long ago have left you to incur this danger alone. You were useful to
me in times past, I admit. You presented me to the Baroness Trigault, to
whose patronage I owe my present means, but I am paying too dearly
for your services in allowing myself to be made the instrument of your
dangerous schemes. Who aided you in defrauding Kami-Bey? Who bet for you
against your own horse Domingo? Who risked his life in slipping those
cards in the pack which Pascal Ferailleur held? It was Coralth, always
Coralth.”

A gesture of anger escaped the marquis, but resolving to restrain
himself, he made no rejoinder. It was not until after he had walked five
or six times round the smoking-room and grown more calm that he returned
to the viscount’s side. “Really, I don’t recognize you,” he began. “Is
it really you who have turned coward? And at what a moment, pray? Why,
on the very eve of success.”

“I wish I could believe you.”

“Facts shall convince you. This morning I might have doubted, but now,
thanks to that vain idiot who goes by the name of Wilkie, I am sure,
perfectly, mathematically sure of success. Maumejan, who is entirely
devoted to me, and who is the greediest, most avaricious scoundrel
alive, will draw up such a complaint that Marguerite will sleep in
prison. Moreover, other witnesses will be summoned. By what Casimir has
said, you can judge what the other servants will say. This testimony
will be sufficient to convict her of the robbery. As for the poisoning,
you heard Dr. Jodon. Can I depend upon him? Evidently, if I pay without
haggling. Very well; I shall pay.”

But all this did not reassure M. de Coralth. “The accusation will fall
to the ground,” said he, “as soon as the famous vial from which M. de
Chalusse took two spoonfuls is found.”

“Excuse me; it won’t be found.”

“But why?”

“Because I know where it is, my dear friend. It is in the count’s
escritoire, but it won’t be there any longer on the day after
to-morrow.”

“Who will remove it?”

“A skilful fellow whom Madame Leon has found for me. Everything has been
carefully arranged. To-morrow night at the latest Madame Leon will let
this man into the Hotel de Chalusse by the garden gate, which she has
kept the key of. Vantrasson, as the man is called, knows the management
of the house, and he will break open the escritoire and take the vial
away. You may say that there are seals upon the furniture, placed there
by the justice of the peace. That’s true, but this man tells me that he
can remove and replace them in such a way as to defy detection; and
as the lock has been forced once already--the day after the count’s
death--a second attempt to break the escritoire open will not be
detected.”

The viscount remarked, with an ironical air: “All that is perfect; but
the autopsy will reveal the falseness of the accusation.”

“Naturally--but an autopsy will require time, and that will suit my
plans admirably. After eight or ten days’ solitary confinement and
several rigid examinations, Mademoiselle Marguerite’s energy and courage
will flag. What do you think she will reply to the man who says to her:
‘I love you, and for your sake I will attempt the impossible. Swear to
become my wife and I will establish your innocence?’”

“I think she will say: ‘Save me and I will marry you!’”

M. de Valorsay clapped his hands. “Bravo!” he exclaimed; “you have
spoken the truth. Remember, now, that your dark forebodings are only
chimeras! Yes, she will swear it, and I know she is the woman to keep
her vow, even if she died of sorrow. And the very next day I will go to
the examining magistrate and say to him: ‘Marguerite a thief! Ah, what
a frightful mistake. A robbery has been committed, it’s true; but I know
the real culprit--a scoundrel who fancied that by destroying a single
letter he would annihilate all traces of the breach of fidelity he had
committed. Fortunately, the Count de Chalusse distrusted this man, and
proof of his breach of trust is in existence. I have this proof in
my hands.’ And I will show a letter establishing the truth of my
assertion.”

No forebodings clouded the marquis’s joy; he saw no obstacles; it seemed
to him as if he had already triumphed. “And the day following,” he
resumed, “when Marguerite becomes my wife, I shall take from a certain
drawer a certain document, given to me by M. de Chalusse when I was
on the point of becoming his son-in-law, and in which he recognizes
Marguerite as his daughter, and makes her his sole legatee. And this
document is perfectly en regle, and unattackable. Maumejan, who has
examined it, guarantees that the value of the count’s estate cannot be
less than ten millions. Five will go to Madame d’Argeles, or her son
Wilkie, as their share of the property. The remaining five will be mine.
Come, confess that the plan is admirable!”

“Admirable, undoubtedly; but terribly complicated. When there are so
many wheels within wheels, one of them is always sure to get out of
order.”

“Nonsense!”

“Besides, you have I don’t know how many accomplices--Maumejan, the
doctor, Madame Leon, and Vantrasson, not counting myself. Will all these
people perform their duties satisfactorily?”

“Each of them is as much interested in my success as I am myself.”

“But we have enemies--Madame d’Argeles, Fortunat----”

“Madame d’Argeles is about to leave Paris. If Fortunat is troublesome I
will purchase his silence; Maumejan has promised me money.”

But M. de Coralth had kept his strongest argument until the last. “And
Pascal Ferailleur?” said he. “You have forgotten him.”

No; M. de Valorsay had not forgotten him. You do not forget the man you
have ruined and dishonored. Still, it was in a careless tone that ill
accorded with his state of mind that the marquis replied: “The poor
devil must be en route for America by this time.”

The viscount shook his head. “That’s what I’ve in vain been trying to
convince myself of,” said he. “Do you know that Pascal was virtually
expelled from the Palais de Justice, and that his name has been struck
off the list of advocates? If he hasn’t blown his brains out, it is only
because he hopes to prove his innocence. Ah! if you knew him as well as
I do, you wouldn’t be so tranquil in mind!”

He stopped short for the door had suddenly opened. The interruption
made the marquis frown, but anger gave way to anxiety when he perceived
Madame Leon, who entered the room out of breath and extremely red in the
face.

“There wasn’t a cab to be had!” she groaned. “Just my luck. I came on
foot, and ran the whole way. I’m utterly exhausted;” and so saying, she
sank into an arm-chair.

M. de Valorsay had turned very pale. “Defer your complaints until
another time,” he said, harshly. “What has happened? Tell me.”

The estimable woman raised her hands to heaven, as she plaintively
replied: “There is so much to tell? First, Mademoiselle Marguerite has
written two letters, but I have failed to discover to whom they were
sent. Secondly, she remained for more than an hour yesterday evening
in the drawing-room with the General’s son, Lieutenant Gustave, and,
on parting, they shook hands like a couple of friends, and said, ‘It is
agreed.’”

“And is that all?”

“One moment and you’ll see. This morning Mademoiselle went out with
Madame de Fondege to call on the Baroness Trigault. I do not know what
took place there, but there must have been a terrible scene; for they
brought Mademoiselle Marguerite back unconscious, in one of the baron’s
carriages.”

“Do you hear that, viscount?” exclaimed M. de Valorsay.

“Yes! You shall have the explanation to-morrow,” answered M. de Coralth.

“And last, but not least,” resumed Madame Leon, “on returning home this
evening at about five o’clock, I fancied I saw Mademoiselle Marguerite
leave the house and go up the Rue Pigalle. I had thought she was ill
and in bed, and I said to myself, ‘This is very strange.’ So I hastened
after her. It was indeed she. Of course, I followed her. And what did I
see? Why, Mademoiselle paused to talk with a vagabond, clad in a blouse.
They exchanged notes, and Mademoiselle Marguerite returned home. And
here I am. She must certainly suspect something. What is to be done?”

If M. de Valorsay were frightened, he did not show it. “Many thanks for
your zeal, my dear lady,” he replied, “but all this is a mere nothing.
Return home at once; you will receive my instructions to-morrow.”

XVII.

Mademoiselle Marguerite had been greatly surprised on the occasion
of her visit to M. Fortunat when she saw Victor Chupin suddenly step
forward and eagerly exclaim: “I shall be unworthy of the name I bear if
I do not find M. Ferailleur for you in less than a fortnight.”

It is true that M. Fortunat’s clerk did not appear to the best advantage
on this occasion. In order to watch M. de Coralth, he had again arrayed
himself in his cast-off clothes, and with his blouse and his worn-out
shoes, his “knockers” and his glazed cap, he looked the vagabond to
perfection. Still, strange as it may seem, Mademoiselle Marguerite
did not once doubt the devotion of this strange auxiliary. Without an
instant’s hesitation she replied, “I accept your services, monsieur.”

Chupin felt at least a head taller as he heard this beautiful young girl
speak to him in a voice as clear and as sonorous as crystal. “Ah!
you are right to trust me,” he rejoined, striking his chest with his
clinched hand, “for I have a heart--but----”

“But what, monsieur?”

“I am wondering if you would consent to do what I wish. It would be a
very good plan, but if it displeases you, we will say no more about it.”

“And what do you wish?”

“To see you every day, so as to tell you what I’ve done, and to obtain
such directions as I may require. I’m well aware that I can’t go to M.
de Fondege’s door and ask to speak to you; but there are other ways
of seeing each other. For instance, every evening at five o-clock
precisely, I might pass along the Rue Pigalle, and warn you of my
presence by such a signal as this: ‘Pi-ouit!’” So saying he gave vent to
the peculiar call, half whistle, half ejaculation, which is familiar to
the Parisian working-classes. “Then,” he resumed, “you might come down
and I would tell you the news; besides, I might often help you by doing
errands.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite reflected for a moment, and then bowing her
head, she replied:

“What you suggest is quite practicable. On and after to-morrow evening I
will watch for you; and if I don’t come down at the end of half an hour,
you will know that I am unavoidably detained.”

Chupin ought to have been satisfied. But no, he had still another
request to make; and instinct, supplying the lack of education, told him
that it was a delicate one. Indeed, he dared not present his petition;
but his embarrassment was so evident, and he twisted his poor cap so
despairingly, that at last the young girl gently asked him: “Is there
anything more?”

He still hesitated, but eventually, mustering all his courage, he
replied: “Well, yes, mademoiselle. I’ve never seen Monsieur Ferailleur.
Is he tall or short, light or dark, stout or thin? I do not know. I
might stand face to face with him without being able to say, ‘It’s he.’
But it would be quite a different thing if I only had a photograph of
him.”

A crimson flush spread over Mademoiselle Marguerite’s face. Still she
answered, unaffectedly, “I will give you M. Ferailleur’s photograph
to-morrow, monsieur.”

“Then I shall be all right!” exclaimed Chupin. “Have no fears,
mademoiselle, we shall outwit these scoundrels!”

So far a silent witness of this scene, M. Fortunat now felt it his duty
to interfere. He was not particularly pleased by his clerk’s suddenly
increased importance; and yet it mattered little to him, for his only
object was to revenge himself on Valorsay. “Victor is a capable and
trustworthy young fellow, mademoiselle,” he declared; “he has grown up
under my training, and I think you will find him a faithful servant.”

A “have you finished, you old liar?” rose to Chupin’s lips, but respect
for Mademoiselle Marguerite prevented him from uttering the words.
“Then everything is decided,” she said, pleasantly. And with a smile she
offered her hand to Chupin as one does in concluding a bargain.

If he had yielded to his first impulse he would have thrown himself on
his knees and kissed this hand of hers, the whitest and most beautiful
he had ever seen. As it was, he only ventured to touch it with his
finger-tips, and yet he changed color two or three times. “What a
woman!” he exclaimed, when she had left them. “A perfect queen! A man
would willingly allow himself to be chopped in pieces for her sake; and
she’s as good and as clever as she’s handsome. Did you notice, monsieur,
that she did not offer to pay me. She understood that I offered to work
for her for my own pleasure, for my own satisfaction and honor. Heavens!
how I should have chafed if she had offered me money. How provoked I
should have been!”

Chupin was so fascinated that he wished no reward for his toil! This was
so astonishing that M. Fortunat remained for a moment speechless with
surprise. “Have you gone mad, Victor?” he inquired at last.

“Mad! I?--not at all; I’m only becoming----” He stopped short. He was
going to add: “an honest man.” But it is scarcely proper to talk about
the rope in the hangman’s house, and there are certain words which
should never be pronounced in the presence of certain people. Chupin
knew this, and so he quickly resumed: “When I become rich, when I’m a
great banker, and have a host of clerks who spend their time in counting
my gold behind a grating, I should like to have a wife of my own like
that. But I must be off about my business now, so till we meet again,
monsieur.”

The foregoing conversation will explain how it happened that Madame Leon
chanced to surprise her dear young lady in close conversation with
a vagabond clad in a blouse. Victor Chupin was not a person to make
promises and then leave them unfulfilled. Though he was usually
unimpressionable, like all who lead a precarious existence, still, when
his emotions were once aroused, they did not spend themselves in
empty protestations. It became his fixed determination to find Pascal
Ferailleur, and the difficulties of the task in no wise weakened his
resolution. His starting point was that Pascal had lived in the Rue
d’Ulm, and had suddenly gone off with his mother, with the apparent
intention of sailing for America. This was all he knew positively, and
everything else was mere conjecture. Still Mademoiselle Marguerite had
convinced him that instead of leaving Paris, Pascal was really still
there, only waiting for an opportunity to establish his innocence, and
to wreak his vengeance upon M. de Coralth and the Marquis de Valorsay.
On the other hand, with such a slight basis to depend upon, was it not
almost madness to hope to discover a man who had such strong reasons for
concealing himself? Chupin did not think so in fact, when he declared
his determination to perform this feat, his plan was already perfected.

On leaving M. Fortunat’s office, he hastened straight to the Rue d’Ulm,
at the top of his speed. The concierge of the house where Pascal had
formerly resided was by no means a polite individual. He was the very
same man who had answered Mademoiselle Marguerite’s questions so rudely;
but Chupin had a way of conciliating even the most crabbish doorkeeper,
and of drawing from him such information as he desired. He learned that
at nine o’clock on the sixteenth of October Madame Ferailleur, after
seeing her trunks securely strapped on to a cab had entered the vehicle,
ordering the driver to take her to the Railway Station in the Place
du Havre! Chupin wished to ascertain the number of the cab, but the
concierge could not give it. He mentioned, however, that this cab had
been procured by Madame Ferailleur’s servant-woman, who lived only a few
steps from the house. A moment later Chupin was knocking at this
woman’s door. She was a very worthy person, and bitterly regretted the
misfortunes which had befallen her former employers. She confirmed the
doorkeeper’s story, but unfortunately she, too, had quite forgotten the
number of the vehicle. All she could say was that she had hired it at
the cab stand in the Rue Soufflot, and that the driver was a portly,
pleasant-faced man.

Chupin repaired at once to the Rue Soufflot, where he found the man
in charge of the stand in the most savage mood imaginable. He began by
asking Chupin what right he had to question him, why he wished to do so,
and if he took him for a spy. He added that his duty only consisted in
noting the arrivals and departures of the drivers, and that he could
give no information whatever. There was evidently nothing to be gained
from this ferocious personage; and yet Chupin bowed none the less
politely as he left the little office. “This is bad,” he growled, as
he walked away, for he was really at a loss what to do next; and if not
discouraged, he was at least extremely disconcerted and perplexed. Ah!
if he had only had a card from the prefecture of police in his pocket,
or if he had been more imposing in appearance, he would have encountered
no obstacles; he might then have tracked this cab through the streets
of Paris as easily as he could have followed a man bearing a lighted
lantern through the darkness. But poor and humble, without letters of
recommendation, and with no other auxiliaries than his own shrewdness
and experience, he had a great deal to contend against. Pausing in his
walk, he had taken off his cap and was scratching his head furiously,
when suddenly he exclaimed: “What an ass I am!” in so loud a tone that
several passers-by turned to see who was applying this unflattering
epithet to himself.

Chupin had just remembered one of M. Isidore Fortunat’s debtors, a man
whom he often visited in the hope of extorting some trifling amount
from him, and who was employed in the Central office of the Paris Cab
Company. “If any one can help me out of this difficulty, it must be that
fellow,” he said to himself. “I hope I shall find him at his desk! Come,
Victor, my boy, you must look alive!”

However, he could not present himself at the office in the garb he
then wore, and so, much against his will, he went home and changed
his clothes. Then he took a cab at his own expense, and drove with all
possible speed to the main office of the Cab Company, in the Avenue de
Segur. Nevertheless it was already ten o’clock when he arrived there.
He was more fortunate than he had dared to hope. The man he wanted
had charge of a certain department, and was compelled to return to the
office every evening after dinner. He was there now.

He was a poor devil who, while receiving a salary of fifteen hundred
francs a year, spent a couple of thousand, and utilized his wits in
defending his meagre salary from his creditors. On perceiving Chupin,
he made a wrathful gesture, and his first words were: “I haven’t got a
penny.”

But Chupin smiled his most genial smile. “What!” said he, “do you fancy
I’ve come to collect money from you here, and at this hour? You don’t
know me. I merely came to ask a favor of you.”

The clerk’s clouded face brightened. “Since that is the case, pray take
a seat, and tell me how I can serve you,” he replied.

“Very well. At nine o’clock in the evening, on the sixteenth of October,
a lady living in the Rue d’Ulm sent to the stand in the Rue Soufflot for
a cab. Her baggage was placed upon it, and she went away no one knows
where. However, this lady is a relative of my employer, and he so much
wishes to find her that he would willingly give a hundred francs
over and above the amount you owe him, to ascertain the number of the
vehicle. He pretends that you can give him this number if you choose;
and it isn’t an impossibility, is it?”

“On the contrary, nothing could be easier,” replied the clerk, glad of
an opportunity to explain the ingenious mechanism of the office to an
outsider. “Have you ten minutes to spare?”

“Ten days, if necessary,” rejoined Chupin.

“Then you shall see.” So saying the clerk rose and went into the
adjoining room, whence a moment later he returned carrying a large green
box. “This contains the October reports sent in every evening by the
branch offices,” he remarked in explanation. He next opened the box,
glanced over the documents it contained, and joyfully exclaimed: “Here
we have it. This is the report sent in by the superintendent of the
cab-stand in the Rue Soumot on the 16th October. Here is a list of the
vehicles that arrived or left from a quarter to nine o’clock till a
quarter past nine. Five cabs came in, but we need not trouble ourselves
about them. Three went out bearing the numbers 1781, 3025, and 2140. One
of these three must have taken your employer’s relative.”

“Then I must question the three drivers.”

The clerk shrugged his shoulders. “What is the use of doing that?” he
said, disdainfully. “Ah! you don’t understand the way in which we manage
our business! The drivers are artful, but the company isn’t a fool. By
expending a hundred and fifty thousand francs on its detective force
every year, it knows what each cab is doing at each hour of the day. I
will now look for the reports sent in respecting these three drivers.
One of the three will give us the desired information.”

This time the search was a considerably longer one, and Chupin was
beginning to grow impatient, when the clerk waved a soiled and crumpled
sheet of paper triumphantly in the air, and cried: “What did I tell you?
This is the report concerning the driver of No. 2140. Listen: Friday, at
ten minutes past nine, sent to the Rue d’Ulm---- do you think of that?”

“It’s astonishing! But where can I find this driver?”

“I can’t say, just at this moment; he’s on duty now. But as he belongs
to this division he will be back sooner or later, so you had better
wait.”

“I will wait then; only as I’ve had no dinner, I’ll go out and get a
mouthful to eat. I can promise you that M. Fortunat will send you back
your note cancelled.”

Chupin was really very hungry, and so he rushed off to a little
eating-house which he had remarked on his way to the office. There
for eighteen sous he dined, or rather supped, like a prince; and as he
subsequently treated himself to a cup of coffee and a glass of brandy,
as a reward for his toil, some little time had elapsed when he returned
to the office. However, No. 2140 had not returned in his absence, so he
stationed himself at the door to wait for it.

His patience was severely tried, for it was past midnight when Chupin
saw the long-looked-for vehicle enter the courtyard. The driver slowly
descended from his box and then went into the cashier’s office to pay
over his day’s earnings, and hand in his report. Then he came out again
evidently bound for home. As the servant-woman had said, he was a stout,
jovial-faced man, and he did not hesitate to accept a glass of “no
matter what” in a wine-shop that was still open. Whether he believed the
story that Chupin told to excuse his questions or not, at all events he
answered them very readily. He perfectly remembered having been sent
to the Rue d’Ulm, and spoke of his “fare” as a respectable-looking old
lady, enumerated the number of her trunks, boxes, and packages, and even
described their form. He had taken her to the railway station, stopping
at the entrance in the Rue d’Amsterdam; and when the porters inquired,
as usual, “Where is this baggage to go?” the old lady had answered, “To
London.”

Chupin felt decidedly crestfallen on hearing this. He had fancied that
Madame Ferailleur had merely announced her intention of driving to the
Havre railway station so as to set possible spies on the wrong track,
and he would have willingly wagered anything, that after going a short
distance she had given the cabman different instructions. Not so,
however, he had taken her straight to the station. Was Mademoiselle
Marguerite deceived then? Had Pascal really fled from his enemies
without an attempt at resistance? Such a course seemed impossible on his
part. Thinking over all this, Chupin slept but little that night, and
the next morning, before five o’clock, he was wandering about the
Rue d’Amsterdam peering into the wine-shops in search of some railway
porter. It did not take him long to find one, and having done so, he
made him the best of friends in less than no time. Although this porter
knew nothing about the matter himself, he took Chupin to a comrade who
remembered handling the baggage of an old lady bound for London, on the
evening of the sixteenth. However, this baggage was not put into the
train after all; the old lady had left it in the cloak-room, and the
next day a fat woman of unprepossessing appearance had called for the
things, and had taken them away, after paying the charges for storage.
This circumstance had been impressed on the porter’s mind by the fact
that the woman had not given him a farthing gratuity, although he had
been much more obliging than the regulations required. However, when
she went off, she remarked in a honeyed voice, but with an exceedingly
impudent air: “I’ll repay you for your kindness, my lad. I keep a
wine-shop on the Route d’Asnieres, and if you ever happen to pass that
way with one of your comrades, come in, and I’ll reward you with a
famous drink!”

What had exasperated the porter almost beyond endurance, was the
certainty he felt that she was mocking him. “For she didn’t give me her
name or address, the old witch!” he growled. “She had better look out,
if I ever get hold of her again!”

But Chupin had already gone off, unmoved by his informant’s grievances.
Now that he had discovered the stratagem which Madame Ferailleur had
employed to elude her pursuers, his conjectures were changed into
certainties. This information proved that Pascal WAS concealed somewhere
in Paris; but where? If he could only find out this woman who had called
for the trunks, it would lead to the discovery of Madame Ferailleur and
her son but how was he to ascertain the woman’s whereabouts? She had
said that she kept a wine-shop on the Route d’Asnieres. Was this true?
Was it not more likely that this vague direction was only a fresh
precaution?

This much was certain: Chupin, who knew every wine-shop on the Route
d’Asnieres, did not remember any such powerful matron as the porter had
described. He had not forgotten Madame Vantrasson. But to imagine any
bond of interest between Pascal and such a woman as she was, seemed
absurd in the extreme. However, as he found himself in such a plight and
could not afford to let any chance escape, he repaired merely for form’s
sake to the Vantrasson establishment. It had not changed in the least
since the evening he visited it in company with M. Fortunat--but seen
in the full light of day, it appeared even more dingy and dilapidated.
Madame Vantrasson was not in her accustomed place, behind the counter,
between her black cat--her latest idol--and the bottles from which she
prepared her ratafia, now her supreme consolation here below. There was
no one in the shop but the landlord. Seated at a table, with a lighted
candle near him, he was engaged in an occupation which would have set
Chupin’s mind working if he had noticed it. Vantrasson had taken some
wax from a sealed bottle, and, after melting it at the flame of the
candle, he let it drop slowly on to the table. He then pressed a sou
upon it, and when the wax had become sufficiently cool and stiff, he
removed it from the table without destroying the impression, by means of
a thin bladed knife similar to those which glaziers use. However, Chupin
did not remark this singular employment. He was engaged in mentally
ejaculating, “Good! the old woman isn’t here.” And as his plan of
campaign was already prepared, he entered without further hesitation.

As Vantrasson heard the door turn upon its hinges, he rose so awkwardly,
or rather so skilfully, as to let all his implements, wax, knife, and
impressions, fall on the floor behind the counter. “What can I do to
serve you?” he asked, in a husky voice.

“Nothing. I wished to speak with your wife.”

“She has gone out. She works for a family in the morning.”

This was a gleam of light. Chupin had not thought of the only hypothesis
that could explain what seemed inexplicable to him. However, he knew how
to conceal his satisfaction, and so with an air of disappointment, he
remarked: “That’s too bad! I shall be obliged to call again.”

“So you have a secret to tell my wife?”

“Not at all.”

“Won’t I do as well, then?”

“I’ll tell you how it is. I’m employed in the baggage room of the
western railway station, and I wanted to know if your wife didn’t call
there a few days ago for some trunks?”

The landlord’s features betrayed the vague perturbation of a person who
can count the days by his mistakes, and it was with evident hesitation
that he replied:

“Yes, my wife went to the Havre station for some baggage last Sunday.”

“I thought so. Well, this is my errand: either the clerk forgot to ask
her for her receipt, or else he lost it. He can’t find it anywhere. I
came to ask your wife if she hadn’t kept it. When she returns, please
deliver my message; and if she has the receipt, pray send it to me
through the post.”

The ruse was not particularly clever, but it was sufficiently so to
deceive Vantrasson. “To whom am I to send this receipt?” he asked.

“To me, Victor Chupin, Faubourg Saint Denis,” was the reply.

Imprudent youth! alas, he little suspected what a liberty M. Fortunat
had taken with his name on the evening he visited the Vantrassons. But
on his side the landlord of the Model Lodging House had not forgotten
the name mentioned by the agent. He turned pale with anger on beholding
his supposed creditor, and quickly slipping between the visitor and the
door, he said: “So your name is Victor Chupin?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“And you are in the employment of the Railway Company?”

“As I just told you.”

“That doesn’t prevent you from acting as a collector, does it?”

Chupin instinctively recoiled, convinced that he had betrayed himself
by some blunder, but unable to discover in what he had erred. “I did do
something in that line formerly,” he faltered.

Vantrasson doubted no longer. “So you confess that you are a vile
scoundrel!” he exclaimed. “You confess that you purchased an old
promissory note of mine for fourpence, and then sent a man here to seize
my goods! Ah! you’d like to trample the poor under foot, would you! Very
well. I have you now, and I’ll settle your account! Take that!” And so
saying, he dealt his supposed creditor a terrible blow with his clinched
fist that sent him reeling to the other end of the shop.

Fortunately, Chupin was very nimble. He did not lose his footing, but
sprung over a table and used it as a rampart to shield himself from his
dangerous assailant. In the open field, he could easily have protected
himself; but here in this narrow space, and hemmed in a corner, he felt
that despite this barrier he was lost. “What a devil of a mess!” he
thought, as with wonderful agility he avoided Vantrasson’s fist, a fist
that would have felled an ox. He had an idea of calling for assistance.
But would any one hear him? Would any one reply? And if help came, would
not the police be sure to hear of the broil? And if they did, would
there not be an investigation which would perhaps disturb Pascal’s
plans? Fearing to injure those whom he wished to serve, he resolved to
let himself be hacked to pieces rather than allow a cry to escape him;
but he changed his tactics, and instead of attempting to parry the blows
as he had done before, he now only thought of gaining the door, inch by
inch.

He had almost reached it, not without suffering considerable injury,
when it suddenly opened, and a young man clad in black, with a smooth
shaven face, entered the shop, and sternly exclaimed: “Why! what’s all
this?”

The sight of the newcomer seemed to stupefy Vantrasson. “Ah! it is you,
Monsieur Maumejan?” he faltered, with a crestfallen air. “It’s nothing;
we were only in fun.”

M. Maumejan seemed perfectly satisfied with this explanation; and in the
indifferent tone of a man who is delivering a message, the meaning of
which he scarcely understood, he said: “A person who knows that your
wife is in my employ requested me to ask you if you would be ready to
attend to that little matter she spoke of.”

“Certainly. I was preparing for it a moment ago.”

Chupin heard no more. He had hurried out, his clothes in disorder, and
himself not a little hurt; but his delight made him lose all thought of
his injuries. “That’s M. Ferailleur,” he muttered, “I’m sure of it, and
I’m going to prove it.” So saying he hid himself in the doorway of a
vacant house a few paces distant from the Vantrassons’, and waited.

Then as soon as M. Maumejan emerged from the Model Lodging House, he
followed him. The young man with the clean shaven face walked up the
Route d’Asnieres, turned to the right into the Route de la Revolte, and
at last paused before a house of humble aspect. At that moment Chupin
darted toward him, and softly called, “M’sieur Ferailleur!”

The young man turned instinctively. Then seeing his mistake, and feeling
that he had betrayed himself, he sprang upon Chupin, and caught him by
the wrists: “Scoundrel! who are you?” he exclaimed. “Who has hired you
to follow me! What do you want of me?”

“Not so fast, m’sieur! Don’t be so rough! You hurt me. I’m sent by
Mademoiselle Marguerite!”

XVIII.

“O God! send Pascal to my aid,” prayed Mademoiselle Marguerite, as she
left M. Fortunat’s house. Now she understood the intrigue she had been
the victim of; but, instead of reassuring her the agent had frightened
her, by revealing the Marquis de Valorsay’s desperate plight. She
realized what frenzied rage must fill this man’s heart as he felt
himself gradually slipping from the heights of opulence, down into
the depths of poverty and crime. What might he not dare, in order to
preserve even the semblance of grandeur for a year, or a month, or a
day longer! Had they measured the extent of his villainy? Would he even
hesitate at murder? And the poor girl asked herself with a shudder if
Pascal were still living; and a vision of his bleeding corpse, lying
lifeless in some deserted street, rose before her. And who could tell
what dangers threatened her personally? For, though she knew the past,
she could not read the future. What did M. de Valorsay’s letter mean?
and what was the fate that he held in reserve for her, and that made
him so sanguine of success? The impression produced upon her mind was so
terrible that for a moment she thought of hastening to the old justice
of the peace to ask for his protection and a refuge. But this weakness
did not last long. Should she lose her energy? Should her will fail her
at the decisive moment? “No, a thousand times no!” she said to herself
again and again. “I will die if needs be, but I will die fighting!” And
the nearer she approached the Rue Pigalle, the more energetically she
drove away her apprehension, and sought for an excuse calculated to
satisfy any one who might have noticed her long absence.

An unnecessary precaution. She found the house as when she left it,
abandoned to the mercy of the servants--the strangers sent the evening
before from the employment office. Important matters still kept the
General and his wife from home. The husband had to show his horses; and
the wife was intent upon shopping. As for Madame Leon, most of her time
seemed to be taken up by the family of relatives she had so suddenly
discovered. Alone, free from all espionage, and wishing to ward off
despondency by occupation, Mademoiselle Marguerite was just beginning
a letter to her friend the old magistrate, when a servant entered and
announced that her dressmaker was there and wished to speak with her.
“Let her come in,” replied Marguerite, with unusual vivacity. “Let her
come in at once.”

A lady who looked some forty years of age, plainly dressed, but of
distinguished appearance, was thereupon ushered into the room. Like any
well-bred modiste, she bowed respectfully while the servant was
present, but as soon as he had left the room she approached Mademoiselle
Marguerite and took hold of her hands: “My dear young lady,” said she,
“I am the sister-in-law of your old friend, the magistrate. Having an
important message to send to you, he was trying to find a person whom
he could trust to play the part of a dressmaker, as had been agreed upon
between you, when I offered my services, thinking he could find no one
more trusty than myself.”

Tears glittered in Mademoiselle Marguerite’s eyes. The slightest token
of sympathy is so sweet to the heart of the lonely and unfortunate! “How
can I ever thank you, madame?” she faltered.

“By not attempting to thank me at all, and by reading this letter as
soon as possible.”

The note she now produced ran as follows:

“MY DEAR CHILD--At last I am on the track of the thieves. By conferring
with the people from whom M. de Chalusse received the money a couple of
days before his death, I have been fortunate enough to obtain from them
some minute details respecting the missing bonds, as well as the numbers
of the bank-notes which were deposited in the escritoire. With this
information, we cannot fail to prove the guilt of the culprits sooner or
later. You write me word that the Fondeges are spending money lavishly;
try and find out the names of the people they deal with, and communicate
them to me. Once more, I tell you that I am sure of success. Courage!”

“Well!” said the spurious dressmaker, when she saw that Marguerite
had finished reading the letter. “What answer shall I take my
brother-in-law?”

“Tell him that he shall certainly have the information he requires
to-morrow. To-day, I can only give him the name of the carriage builder,
from whom M. de Fondege has purchased his new carriages.”

“Give it to me in writing, it is much the safest way.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite did so, and her visitor who, as a woman,
was delighted to find herself mixed up in an intrigue, then went off
repeating the old magistrate’s advice: “Courage!”

But it was no longer necessary to encourage Mademoiselle Marguerite.
The assurance of being so effectually helped, had already increased
her courage an hundredfold. The future that had seemed so gloomy only a
moment before, had now suddenly brightened. By means of the negative in
the keeping of the photographer, Carjat, she had the Marquis de
Valorsay in her power, and the magistrate, thanks to the numbers of the
bank-notes, could soon prove the guilt of the Fondeges. The protection
of Providence was made evident in an unmistakable manner. Thus it was
with a placid and almost smiling face that she successively greeted
Madame Leon, who returned home quite played out, then Madame de Fondege,
who made her appearance attended by two shop-boys overladen with
packages, and finally the General, who brought his son, Lieutenant
Gustave, with him to dinner.

The lieutenant was a good-looking fellow of twenty-seven, or
thereabouts, with laughing eyes and a heavy mustache. He made a great
clanking with his spurs, and wore the somewhat theatrical uniform of the
13th Hussars rather ostentatiously. He bowed to Mademoiselle Marguerite
with a smile that was too becoming to be displeasing; and he offered her
his arm with an air of triumph to lead her to the dining-room, as soon
as the servant came to announce that “Madame la Comtesse was served.”

Seated opposite to him at table, the young girl could not refrain from
furtively watching the man whom they wished to compel her to marry.
Never had she seen such intense self-complacency coupled with such
utter mediocrity. It was evident that he was doing his best to produce
a favorable impression; but as the dinner progressed, his conversation
became rather venturesome. He gradually grew extremely animated; and
three or four adventures of garrison life which he persisted in relating
despite his mother’s frowns, were calculated to convince his hearers
that he was a great favorite with the fair sex. It was the good cheer
that loosened his tongue. There could be no possible doubt on that
score; and, indeed, while drinking a glass of the Chateau Laroze, to
which Madame Leon had taken such a liking, he was indiscreet enough to
declare that if his mother had always kept house in this fashion, he
should have been inclined to ask for more frequent leaves of absence.

However, strange to say, after the coffee was served, the conversation
languished till at last it died out almost entirely. Madame de Fondege
was the first to disappear on the pretext that some domestic affairs
required her attention. The General was the next to rise and go out, in
order to smoke a cigar; and finally Madame Leon made her escape without
saying a word. So Mademoiselle Marguerite was left quite alone with
Lieutenant Gustave. It was evident enough to the young girl that this
had been preconcerted; and she asked herself what kind of an opinion M.
and Madame de Fondege could have of her delicacy. The proceeding made
her so indignant that she was on the point of rising from the table and
of retiring like the others, when reason restrained her. She said to
herself that perhaps she might gain some useful information from this
young man, and so she remained.

His face was crimson, and he seemed by far the more embarrassed of
the two. He sat with one elbow resting on the table, and with his gaze
persistently fixed upon a tiny glass half full of brandy which he held
in his hand, as if he hoped to gain some sublime inspiration from it.
At last, after an interval of irksome silence, he ventured to exclaim:
“Mademoiselle, should you like to be an officer’s wife?”

“I don’t know,” answered Marguerite.

“Really! But at least you understand my motive in asking this question?”

“No.”

Any one but the complacent lieutenant would have been disconcerted by
Mademoiselle Marguerite’s dry tone; but he did not even notice it.
The effort that he was making in his intense desire to be eloquent and
persuasive absorbed the attention of all his faculties. “Then permit
me to explain, mademoiselle,” he resumed. “We meet this evening for the
first time, but our acquaintance is not the affair of a day. For I know
not how long my father and mother have continually been chanting your
praises. ‘Mademoiselle Marguerite does this; Mademoiselle Marguerite
does that.’ They never cease talking of you, declaring that heart, wit,
talent, beauty, all womanly charms are united in your person. And they
have never wearied of telling me that the man whom you honored with your
preference would be the happiest of mortals. However, so far I had no
desire to marry, and I distrusted them. In fact, I had conceived a most
violent prejudice against you. Yes, upon my honor! I felt sure that I
should dislike you; but I have seen you and all is changed. As soon as
my eyes fell upon you, I experienced a powerful revulsion of feeling. I
was never so smitten in my life--and I said to myself, ‘Lieutenant, it
is all over--you are caught at last!’”

Pale with anger, astonished and humiliated beyond measure, the young
girl listened with her head lowered, vainly trying to find words
to express the feelings which disturbed her; but M. Gustave,
misunderstanding her silence, and congratulating himself upon the
effect he had produced, grew bolder, and with the tenderest and most
impassioned inflection he could impart to his voice, continued: “Who
could fail to be impressed as I have been? How could one behold, without
rapturous admiration, such beautiful eyes, such glorious black hair,
such smiling lips, such a graceful mien, such wonderful charms of person
and of mind? How would it be possible to listen, unmoved, to a voice
which is clearer and purer than crystal? Ah! my mother’s descriptions
fell far short of the truth. But how can one describe the perfections of
an angel? To any one who has the happiness or the misfortune of knowing
you, there can only be one woman in the world!”

He had gradually approached her chair, and now extended his hand to take
hold of Marguerite’s, and probably raise it to his lips. But she shrank
from the contact as from red-hot iron, and rising hurriedly, with her
eyes flashing, and her voice quivering with indignation: “Monsieur!” she
exclaimed, “Monsieur!”

He was so surprised that he stood as if petrified, with his eyes wide
open and his hand still extended. “Permit me--allow me to explain,” he
stammered. But she declined to listen. “Who has told you that you could
address such words to me with impunity?” she continued. “Your parents,
I suppose; I daresay they told you to be bold. And that is why they have
left us, and why no servant has appeared. Ah! they make me pay dearly
for the hospitality they have given me!” As she spoke the tears started
from her eyes and glistened on her long lashes. “Whom did you fancy you
were speaking to?” she added. “Would you have been so audacious if I had
a father or a brother to resent your insults?”

The lieutenant started as if he had been lashed with a whip. “Ah! you
are severe!” he exclaimed.

And a happy inspiration entering his mind, he continued: “A man does not
insult a woman, mademoiselle, when, while telling her that he loves her
and thinks her beautiful, he offers her his name and life.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite shrugged her shoulders ironically, and remained
for a moment silent. She was very proud, and her pride had been cruelly
wounded; but reason told her that a continuation of this scene would
render a prolonged sojourn in the General’s house impossible; and where
could she go, without exciting malevolent remarks? Whom could she ask
an asylum of? Still this consideration alone would not have sufficed to
silence her. But she remembered that a quarrel and a rupture with the
Fondeges would certainly imperil the success of her plans. “So I will
swallow even this affront,” she said to herself; and then in a tone of
melancholy bitterness, she remarked, aloud: “A man cannot set a very
high value on his name when he offers it to a woman whom he knows
absolutely nothing about.”

“Excuse me--you forget that my mother----”

“Your mother has only known me for a week.”

An expression of intense surprise appeared on the lieutenant’s face. “Is
it possible?” he murmured.

“Your father has met me five or six times at the table of the Count
de Chalusse, who was his friend--but what does he know of me?” resumed
Mademoiselle Marguerite. “That I came to the Hotel de Chalusse a year
ago, and that the count treated me like a daughter--that is all! Who I
am, where I was reared, and how, and what my past life has been, these
are matters that M. de Fondege knows nothing whatever about.”

“My parents told me that you were the daughter of the Count de Chalusse,
mademoiselle.”

“What proof have they of it? They ought to have told you that I was an
unfortunate foundling, with no other name than that of Marguerite.”

“Oh!”

“They ought to have told you that I am poor, very poor, and that I
should probably have been reduced to the necessity of toiling for my
daily bread, if it had not been for them.”

An incredulous smile curved the lieutenant’s lips. He fancied that
Mademoiselle Marguerite only wished to prove his disinterestedness, and
this thought restored his assurance. “Perhaps you are exaggerating a
little, mademoiselle,” he replied.

“I am not exaggerating--I possess but ten thousand francs in the
world--I swear it by all that I hold sacred.”

“That would not even be the dowry required of an officer’s wife by law,”
muttered the lieutenant.

Was his incredulity sincere or affected? What had his parents really
told him? Had they confided everything to him, and was he their
accomplice? or had they told him nothing? All these questions flashed
rapidly through Marguerite’s mind. “You suppose that I am rich,
monsieur,” she resumed at last. “I understand that only too well. If I
was, you ought to shun me as you would shun a criminal, for I could only
be wealthy through a crime.”

“Mademoiselle----”

“Yes, through a crime. After M. de Chalusse’s death, two million francs
that had been placed in his escritoire for safe keeping, could not be
found. Who stole the money? I myself have been accused of the theft.
Your father must have told you of this, as well as of the cloud of
suspicion that is still hanging over me.”

She paused, for the lieutenant had become whiter than his shirt. “Good
God!” he exclaimed in a tone of horror, as if a terrible light had
suddenly broken upon his mind. He made a movement as if to leave the
room, but suddenly changing his mind, he bowed low before Mademoiselle
Marguerite, and said, in a husky voice: “Forgive me, mademoiselle, I did
not know what I was doing. I have been misinformed. I have been beguiled
by false hopes. I entreat you to say that you forgive me.”

“I forgive you, monsieur.”

But still he lingered. “I am only a poor devil of a lieutenant,” he
resumed, “with no other fortune than my epaulettes, no other prospects
than an uncertain advancement. I have been foolish and thoughtless. I
have committed many acts of folly; but there is nothing in my past life
for which I have cause to blush.” He looked fixedly at Mademoiselle
Marguerite, as if he were striving to read her inmost soul; and in a
solemn tone, that contrasted strangely with his usual levity of manner,
he added: “If the name I bear should ever be compromised, my prospects
would be blighted forever! The only course left for me would be to
tender my resignation. I will leave nothing undone to preserve my honor
in the eyes of the world, and to right those who have been wronged.
Promise me not to interfere with my plans.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite trembled like a leaf. She now realized her
terrible imprudence. He had divined everything. As she remained silent,
he continued wildly: “I entreat you. Do you wish me to beg you at your
feet?”

Ah! it was a terrible sacrifice that he demanded of her. But how could
she remain obdurate in the presence of such intense anguish? “I will
remain neutral,” she replied, “that is all I can promise. Providence
shall decide.”

“Thank you,” he said, sadly, suspecting that perhaps it was already too
late--“thank you.” Then he turned to go, and, in fact, he had already
opened the door, when a forlorn hope brought him back to Mademoiselle
Marguerite, whose hand he took, timidly faltering, “We are friends, are
we not?”

She did not withdraw her icy hand, and in a scarcely audible voice, she
repeated: “We are friends?”

Convinced that he could obtain nothing more from her than her promised
neutrality, the lieutenant thereupon hastily left the room, and she sank
back in her chair more dead than alive. “Great God! what is coming now?”
she murmured.

She thought she could understand the unfortunate young man’s intentions,
and she listened with a throbbing heart, expecting to hear a stormy
explanation between his parents and himself. In point of fact, she
almost immediately afterward heard the lieutenant inquire in a stern,
imperious voice: “Where is my father?”

“The General has just gone to his club.”

“And my mother?”

“A friend of hers called a few moments ago to take her to the opera.”

“What madness!”

That was all. The outer door opened and closed again with extreme
violence, and then Marguerite heard nothing save the sneering remarks of
the servants.

It was, indeed, madness on the part of M. and Madame de Fondege not
to have waited to learn the result of this interview, planned by
themselves, and upon which their very lives depended. But delirium
seemed to have seized them since, thanks to a still inexplicable crime,
they had suddenly found themselves in possession of an immense fortune.
Perhaps in this wild pursuit of pleasure, in the haste they displayed
to satisfy their covetous longings, they hoped to forget or silence
the threatening voice of conscience. Such was Mademoiselle Marguerite’s
conclusion; but she was not long left to undisturbed meditation. By the
lieutenant’s departure the restrictions which had been placed upon the
servants’ movements had evidently been removed, for they came in to
clear the table.

Having with some little difficulty obtained a candle from one of these
model servants, Mademoiselle Marguerite now retired to her own room. In
her anxiety, she forgot Madame Leon, but the latter had not forgotten
her; she was even now listening at the drawing-room door, inconsolable
to think that she had not succeeded in hearing at least part of the
conversation between the lieutenant and her dear young lady. Marguerite
had no wish to reflect over what had occurred. As she was determined
to keep the promise which Lieutenant Gustave had wrung from her, it
mattered little whether she had committed a great mistake in allowing
him to discover her knowledge of his parent’s guilt, and in listening
to his entreaties. A secret presentiment warned her that the punishment
which would overtake the General and his wife would be none the less
terrible, despite her own forbearance, and that they would find their
son more inexorable than the severest judge.

The essential thing was to warn the old magistrate; and so in a couple
of pages she summarized the scene of the evening, feeling sure that she
would find an opportunity to post her letter on the following day. This
duty accomplished, she took a book and went to bed, hoping to drive away
her gloomy thoughts by reading. But the hope was vain. Her eyes read the
words, followed the lines and crossed the pages, but her mind utterly
refused to obey her will, and in spite of all her efforts persisted in
turning to the shrewd youth who had solemnly sworn to find Pascal for
her. A little after midnight Madame de Fondege returned from the opera,
and at once proceeded to reprimand her maid for not having lighted a
fire. The General returned some time afterward, and he was evidently in
the best of spirits.

“They have not seen their son,” said Mademoiselle Marguerite to herself,
and this anxiety, combined with many others, tortured her so cruelly,
that she did not fall asleep until near daybreak. Even then she did not
slumber long. It was scarcely half-past seven when she was aroused by
a strange commotion and a loud sound of hammering. She was trying to
imagine the cause of all this uproar, when Madame de Fondege, already
arrayed in a marvellous robe composed of three skirts and an enormous
puff, entered the room. “I have come to take you away, my dear child,”
she exclaimed. “The owner of the house has decided to make some repairs,
and the workmen have already invaded our apartments. The General has
taken flight, let us follow his example--so make yourself beautiful and
we’ll go at once.”

Without a word, the young girl hastened to obey, while Madame de
Fondege expiated on the delightful drive they would take together in
the wonderful brougham which the General had purchased a couple of days
before. As for Lieutenant Gustave, she did not even mention his name.

Accustomed to the superb equipages of the Chalusse establishment,
Mademoiselle Marguerite did not consider the much-lauded brougham at
all remarkable. At the most, it was very showy, having apparently been
selected with a view to attracting as much attention as possible. Madame
de Fondege was not in a mood to consider an objection that morning. She
was evidently in a nervous state of mind, extremely restless and excited
indeed, it seemed impossible for her to keep still. In default of
something better to do, she visited at least a dozen shops, asking to
see everything, finding everything frightful, and purchasing without
regard to price. It might have been fancied that she wished to buy
all Paris. About ten o’clock she dragged Marguerite to Van Klopen’s.
Received as a habituee of the establishment, thanks to the numerous
orders she had given within the past few days, she was even allowed to
enter the mysterious saloon in which the illustrious ruler of Fashion
served such of his clients as had a predilection for absinthe or
madeira. On leaving the place, and before entering the carriage again,
Madame de Fondege turned to Marguerite and inquired: “Where shall we go
now? I have given the servants an ‘outing’ on account of the workmen,
and we cannot breakfast at home. Why can’t we go to a restaurant, we
two? Many of the most distinguished ladies are in the habit of doing
so. You will see how people will look at us! I am sure it will amuse you
immensely.”

“Ah! madame, you forget that it is not a fortnight since the count’s
death!”

Madame de Fondege was about to make an impatient reply, but she mastered
the impulse, and in a tone of hypocritical compassion, exclaimed: “Poor
child! poor, dear child! that’s true. I had forgotten. Well, such being
the case, we’ll go and ask Baroness Trigault to give us our breakfast.
You will see a lovely woman.” And addressing the coachman she instructed
him to drive to the Trigault mansion in the Rue de la Ville l’Eveque.

When Madame de Fondege’s brougham drew up before the door, the baron was
standing in the courtyard with a cigar between his teeth, examining a
pair of horses which had been sent him on approbation. He did not like
his wife’s friend, and he usually avoided her. But precisely because he
was acquainted with the General’s crime and Pascal’s plans, he thought
it politic to seem amiable. So, on recognizing Madame de Fondege through
the carriage window, he hastened forward with outstretched hand to
assist her in alighting. “Did you come to take breakfast with us?” he
asked. “That would be a most delightful----”

The remainder of the sentence died unuttered upon his lips. His face
became crimson, and the cigar he was holding slipped from his fingers.
He had just perceived Mademoiselle Marguerite, and his consternation was
so apparent that Madame de Fondege could not fail to remark it; however,
she attributed it to the girl’s remarkable beauty. “This is Mademoiselle
de Chalusse, my dear baron,” said she, “the daughter of the noble and
esteemed friend whom we so bitterly lament.”

Ah! it was not necessary to tell the baron who this young girl was;
he knew it only too well. He was not overcome for long; a thought of
vengeance speedily flashed through his mind. It seemed to him that
Providence itself offered him the means of putting an end to an
intolerable situation. Regaining his self-control by a powerful effort,
he preceded Madame de Fondege through the magnificent apartments of
the mansion, lightly saying: “My wife is in her boudoir. She will be
delighted to see you. But first of all, I have a good secret to confide
to you. So let me take this young lady to the baroness, and you and
I can join them in a moment!” Thereupon, without waiting for any
rejoinder, he took Marguerite’s arm and led her toward the end of the
hall. Then opening a door, he exclaimed in a mocking voice: “Madame
Trigault, allow me to present to you the daughter of the Count de
Chalusse.” And adding in a whisper: “This is your mother, young girl,”
he pushed the astonished Marguerite into the room, closed the door, and
returned to Madame de Fondege.

Paler than her white muslin wrapper, the Baroness Trigault sprang from
her chair. This was the woman who, while her husband was braving death
to win fortune for her, had been dazzled by the Count de Chalusse’s
wealth, and who, later in life, when she was the richest of the rich,
had sunk into the very depths of degradation--had stooped, indeed, to
a Coralth! The baroness had once been marvellously beautiful, and even
now, many murmurs of admiration greeted her when she dashed through
the Champs Elysees in her magnificent equipage, attired in one of those
eccentric costumes which she alone dared to wear. She was a type of the
wife created by the customs of fashionable society; the woman who feels
elated when her name appears in the newspapers and in the chronicles of
Parisian “high life”; who has no thought of her deserted fireside, but
is ever tormented by a terrible thirst for bustle and excitement; whose
head is empty, and whose heart is dry--the woman who only exists for
the world; and who is devoured by unappeasable covetousness, and who, at
times, envies an actress’s liberty, and the notoriety of the leaders of
the demi-monde; the woman who is always in quest of fresh excitement,
and fails to find it; the woman who is blase, and prematurely old in
mind and body, and who yet still clings despairingly to her fleeting
youth.

Inaccessible to any emotion but vanity, the baroness had never shed a
tear over her husband’s sufferings. She was sure of her absolute power
over him. What did the rest matter? She even gloried in her knowledge
that she could make this man--who loved her in spite of everything--at
one moment furious with rage or wild with grief, and then an instant
afterward plunge him into the rapture of a senseless ecstasy by a word,
a smile, or a caress. For such was her power, and she often exercised it
mercilessly. Even after the frightful scene that Pascal had witnessed,
she had made another appeal to the baron, and he had been weak enough
to give her the thirty thousand francs which M. de Coralth needed to
purchase his wife’s silence.

However, this time the baroness trembled. Her usual shrewdness had
not deserted her, and she perfectly understood all that Marguerite’s
presence in that house portended. Since her husband brought this young
girl--her daughter--to her he must know everything, and have taken some
fatal resolution. Had she, indeed, exhausted the patience which she had
fancied inexhaustible? She was not ignorant of the fact that her husband
had disposed of his immense fortune in a way that would enable him to
say and prove that he was insolvent whenever occasion required; and if
he found courage to apply for a legal separation, what could she hope to
obtain from the courts? A bare living, almost nothing. In such a case,
how could she exist? She would be compelled to spend her last years
in the same poverty that had made her youth so wretched. She saw
herself--ah! what a frightful misfortune--turfed out of her princely
home, and reduced to furnished apartments rented for five hundred francs
a year!

Mademoiselle Marguerite was no less startled and horror-stricken than
Madame Trigault, and she stood rooted to the spot, exactly where the
baron had left her. Silent and motionless, they confronted each
other for a moment which seemed a century to both of them. The
resemblance--which had astonished Pascal could not fail to strike them,
for it was still more noticeable now that they stood face to face. But
anything was preferable to this torturing suspense, and so, summoning
all her courage, the baroness broke the silence by saying: “You are the
daughter of the Count de Chalusse?”

“I think so, but I have no proofs of it.”

“And--your mother?”

“I don’t know her; madame, and I have no desire to know her.”

Disconcerted by this brief but implacable reply, Madame Trigault hung
her head.

“What could I have to say to my mother?” continued Marguerite. “That I
hate her? My courage would fail me to do so. And yet, how can I think
without bitterness of the woman who, after abandoning me herself,
endeavored to deprive me of my father’s love and protection? I could
have forgiven anything but that. Ah! I have not always been so patient
and resigned! The laws of our country do not forbid illigitimate
children to search for their parents, and more than once I have said to
myself that I would discover my mother, and have my revenge.”

“But you have no means of discovering her?”

“In this you are greatly mistaken, madame. After the Count de Chalusse’s
death, a package of letters, a glove and some withered flowers were
found in one of the drawers of his escritoire.”

The baroness started back as if a yawning chasm had suddenly opened at
her feet. “My letters!” she exclaimed. “Ah! wretched woman that I am,
he kept them. It is all over! I am lost, for of course, they have been
read?”

“The ribbon securing them together has never been untied.”

“Is that true? Don’t deceive me! Where are they, then--where are they?”

“Under the protection of the seals affixed by the justice of the peace.”

Madame Trigault tottered, as if she were about to fall. “Then it is only
a reprieve,” she moaned, “and I am none the less ruined. Those cursed
letters will necessarily be read, and all will be discovered. They will
see----” The thought of what they would see endowed her with the energy
of despair, and clutching hold of Marguerite’s wrists: “Listen!” said
she, approaching so near that her hot breath scorched the girl’s cheeks,
“no one must be allowed to see those letters!--it must not be! I will
tell you what they contain. I hated my husband; I loved the Count de
Chalusse madly, and he had sworn that he would marry me if ever I became
a widow. Do you understand now? The name of the poison I obtained--how
I proposed to administer it, and what its effects would be--all this is
plainly written in my own handwriting and signed--yes, signed--with
my own name. The plot failed, but it was none the less real, positive,
palpable--and those letters are a proof of it. But they shall never be
read--no--not if I am obliged to set fire to the Hotel de Chalusse with
my own hand.”

Now the count’s constant terror, the fear with which this woman had
inspired him, were explained. He was an accomplice--he also had written
no doubt, and she had preserved his letters as he had preserved hers.
Crime had bound them indissolubly together.

Horrified beyond expression, Marguerite freed herself from Madame
Trigault’s grasp. “I swear to you, madame, that everything any human
being can do to save your letters shall be done by me,” she exclaimed.

“And have you any hope of success?”

“Yes,” replied the girl, remembering her friend, the magistrate.

Moved by a far more powerful emotion than any she had ever known before,
the baroness uttered an exclamation of joy. “Ah! how good you are!” she
exclaimed--“how generous! how noble! You take your revenge in giving me
back life, honor, everything--for you are my daughter; do you not know
it? Did they not tell you, before bringing you here, that I was the
hated and unnatural mother who abandoned you?”

She advanced with tearful eyes and outstretched arms, but Marguerite
sternly waved her back. “Spare yourself, madame, and spare me, the
humiliation of an unnecessary explanation.”

“Marguerite! Good God! you repulse me. After all you have promised to do
for me, will you not forgive me?”

“I will try to forget, madame,” replied the girl and she was already
stepping toward the door when the baroness threw herself at her feet,
crying, in a heart-rending tone: “Have pity, Marguerite, I am your
mother. One has no right to deny one’s own mother.”

But the young girl passed on. “My mother is dead, madame; I do not know
you!” And she left the room without even turning her head, without even
glancing at the baroness, who had fallen upon the floor in a deep swoon.