Chapter 3

Baron Trigault still held Madame de Fondege a prisoner in the hall. What
did he say to her in justification of the expedient he had improvised?
His own agitation was so great that he scarcely knew, and it mattered
but little after all, for the good lady did not even pretend to listen
to his apologies. Although by no means overshrewd, she suspected some
great mystery, some bit of scandal, perhaps, and her eyes never once
wandered from the door leading to the boudoir. At last this door opened
and Mademoiselle Marguerite reappeared. “Great heavens!” exclaimed
Madame de Fondege; “what has happened to my poor child?”

For the unfortunate girl advanced with an automatic tread, her eyes
fixed on vacancy, and her hands outstretched, as if feeling her way. It
indeed seemed to her as if the floor swayed to and fro under her feet,
as if the walls tottered, as if the ceiling were about to fall and crush
her.

Madame de Fondege sprang forward. “What is the matter, my dearest?”

Alas! the poor girl was utterly overcome. “It is but a trifle,” she
faltered. But her eyes closed, her hands clutched wildly for some
support, and she would have fallen to the ground if the baron had not
caught her in his arms and carried her to a sofa. “Help!” cried Madame
de Fondege, “help, she is dying!--a physician!”

But there was no need of a physician. One of the maids came with
some fresh water and a bottle of smelling salts, and Marguerite soon
recovered sufficiently to sit up, and cast a frightened glance around
her, while she mechanically passed her hand again and again over her
cold forehead. “Do you feel better my darling?” inquired Madame de
Fondege at last.

“Yes.”

“Ah! you gave me a terrible fright; see how I tremble.” But the worthy
lady’s fright was as nothing in comparison with the curiosity that
tortured her. It was so powerful, indeed, that she could not control it.
“What has happened?” she asked.

“Nothing, madame, nothing.”

“But----”

“I am subject to such attacks. I was very cold, and the heat of the room
made me feel faint.”

Although she could only speak with the greatest difficulty, the baron
realized by her tone that she would never reveal what had taken place,
and his attitude and relief knew no bounds. “Don’t tire the poor child,”
he said to Madame de Fondege. “The best thing you can do would be to
take her home and put her to bed.”

“I agree with you; but unfortunately, I have sent away my brougham with
orders not to return for me until one o’clock.”

“Is that the only difficulty? If so, you shall have a carriage at
once, my dear madame.” So saying, the baron made a sign to one of the
servants, and the man started on his mission at once.

Madame de Fondege was silent but furious. “He is actually putting me out
of doors,” she thought. “This is a little too much! And why doesn’t the
baroness make her appearance--she must certainly have heard my voice?
What does it all mean? However, I’m sure Marguerite will tell me when we
are alone.”

But Madame de Fondege was wrong, for she vainly plied the girl with
questions all the way from the Rue de la Ville l’Eveque to the Rue
Pigalle. She could only obtain this unvarying and obstinate reply:
“Nothing has happened. What do you suppose could have happened?”

Never in her whole life had Madame de Fondege been so incensed. “The
blockhead!” she mentally exclaimed. “Who ever saw such obstinacy!
Hateful creature!--I could beat her!”

She did not beat her, but on reaching the house she eagerly asked: “Do
you feel strong enough to go up stairs alone?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Then I will leave you. You know Van Klopen expects me again at one
o’clock precisely; and I have not breakfasted yet. Remember that my
servants are at your disposal, and don’t hesitate to call them. You are
at home, recollect.”

It was not without considerable difficulty--not without being compelled
to stop and rest several times on her way up stairs--that Mademoiselle
Marguerite succeeded in reaching the apartments of the Fondege family.
“Where is madame?” inquired the servant who opened the door.

“She is still out.”

“Will she return to dinner?”

“I don’t know.”

“M. Gustave has been here three times already; he was very angry when he
found that there was no one at home--he went on terribly. Besides, the
workmen have turned everything topsy-turvy.”

However, Marguerite had already reached her own room, and thrown herself
on the bed. She was suffering terribly. Her brave spirit still retained
its energy; but the flesh had succumbed. Every vein and artery throbbed
with violence, and while a chill seemed to come to her heart, her head
burned as if it had been on fire. “My Lord,” she thought, “am I going
to fall ill at the last moment, just when I have most need of all my
strength?”

She tried to sleep, but was unable to do so. How could she free herself
from the thought that haunted her? Her mother! To think that such a
woman was her mother! Was it not enough to make her die of sorrow and
shame? And yet this woman must be saved--the proofs of her crime must be
annihilated with her letters. Marguerite asked herself whether the
old magistrate would have it in his power to help her in this respect.
Perhaps not, and then what could she do? She asked herself if she had
not been too cruel, too severe. Guilty or not, the baroness was still
her mother. Had she the right to be pitiless, when by stretching out
her hand she might, perhaps, have rescued the wretched woman from her
terrible life.

Thus thinking, the young girl sat alone and forgotten in her little
room. The hours went by, and daylight had begun to wane, when suddenly a
shrill whistle resounded in the street, under her windows. “Pi-ouit.” It
came upon her like an electric shock, and with a bound she sprang to
her feet. For this cry was the signal that had been agreed upon between
herself and the young man who had so abruptly offered to help her on the
occasion of her visit to M. Fortunat’s office. Was she mistaken? No--for
on listening she heard the cry resound a second time, even more shrill
and prolonged than before.

This was no time for hesitation, and so she went down-stairs at once.
Hope sent new blood coursing through her veins and endowed her with
invincible energy. On reaching the street-door, she paused and looked
around her. At a short distance off she perceived a young fellow clad in
a blouse, who was apparently engaged in examining the goods displayed in
a shop window. Despite his position, he hurriedly exclaimed: “Follow me
at a little; distance in the rear until I stop.”

Marguerite, obeyed him in breathless suspense. The young fellow was
our friend Victor Chupin, now somewhat the worse for his encounter with
Vantrasson that same morning. His face was considerably disfigured, and
one of his eyes was black and swollen; nevertheless he was in a state
of ecstatic happiness. Happy, and yet anxious; for, as he preceded
Mademoiselle Marguerite, he said to himself: “How shall I tell her
that I have succeeded? There must be no folly. If I tell her the news
suddenly, she will most likely faint, so I must break the news gently.”

On reaching the Rue Boursault, he turned the corner, and paused,
waiting for Mademoiselle Marguerite to join him. “What is the news?” she
anxiously asked.

“Everything is progressing finely--slowly, but finely.”

“You know something, monsieur! Speak! Don’t you see how anxious I am?”

He did see it only too well; and his embarrassment increased to such a
pitch that he began to scratch his head furiously. At last he decided
on a plan. “First of all, mademoiselle, brace yourself against the wall,
and now stand firm. Yes, like that. Now, are you all right? Well, I have
found M. Ferailleur!”

Chupin’s precaution was a wise one, for Marguerite tottered. Such a
success, so quickly gained, was indeed astounding. “Is it possible?” she
murmured.

“So possible that I have a letter for you from M. Ferailleur in my
pocket mademoiselle. Here it is--I am to wait for an answer.”

She took the note he handed her, broke the seal with trembling hand, and
read as follows:

“We are approaching the end, my dearest. One step more and we shall
triumph. But I must see you to-day at any risk. Leave the house this
evening at eight o’clock. My mother will be waiting for you in a cab,
at the corner of the Rue Pigalle and the Rue Boursault. Come, and let
no fear of arousing suspicions of the Fondeges deter you. They are
henceforth powerless to injure you.”

“PASCAL”

“I will go!” replied Marguerite at once, careless of the obstacles that
might impede the fulfilment of her promise. For it was quite possible
that serious difficulties might arise. Madame Leon, who had been
invisible since the morning, might suddenly reappear, or the General
and his wife might return to dinner. And what could Marguerite answer if
they asked her where she wanted to go alone, and at such an hour of
the evening? And if they attempted to prevent her from keeping her
appointment, how could she resist? All these were weighty questions and
yet she did not hesitate. Pascal had spoken, that sufficed, and she was
determined to obey him implicitly, cost what it might. If he advised
such a step, it was because he deemed it best and necessary; and she
willingly submitted to the instructions of the man in whom she felt such
unbounded confidence.

Having told Chupin that she might be relied upon for the evening, she
was retracing her way home, when suddenly the thought occurred to her
that she ought not to neglect this opportunity to place a decisive
weapon in Pascal’s hands. She was close to the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette
and so without more ado she hurried to the establishment of Carjat the
photographer. He was fortunately disengaged, and she at once obtained
from him a proof of the compromising letter written by the Marquis de
Valorsay to Madame Leon. She placed it carefully in her pocket, thanked
the photographer, and then hurried back to the Rue Pigalle to wait
for the hour appointed in Pascal’s letter. Fortunately none of her
unpleasant apprehensions were realized. The dinner-hour came and passed,
and still the house remained deserted. The workmen had gone off and the
laughter and chatter of the servants in the kitchen were the only sounds
that broke the stillness. Faint for want of food--for she had taken no
nourishment during the day--Marguerite had considerable difficulty in
obtaining something to eat from the servants. At last, however, they
gave her some soup and cold meat, served on a corner of the bare table
in the dining-room. It was half-past seven when she finished this
frugal meal. She waited a moment, and then fearing she might keep Madame
Ferailleur waiting, she went down into the street.

A cab was waiting at the corner of the Rue Boursault, as indicated. Its
windows were lowered, and in the shade one could discern the face and
white hair of an elderly lady. Glancing behind her to assure herself
that she had not been followed, Marguerite eagerly approached the
vehicle, whereupon a kindly voice exclaimed: “Jump in quickly,
mademoiselle.”

Marguerite obeyed, and the door was scarcely closed behind her before
the driver had urged his horse into a gallop. He had evidently received
his instructions in advance, as well as the promise of a magnificent
gratuity.

Sitting side by side on the back seat, the old lady and the young girl
remained silent, but this did not prevent them from casting stealthy
glances at each other, and striving to distinguish one another’s
features whenever the vehicle passed in front of some brilliantly
lighted shop. They had never met before, and their anxiety to become
acquainted was intense, for they each felt that the other would exert
a decisive influence upon her life. All of Madame Ferailleur’s friends
would undoubtedly have been surprised at the step she had taken, and
yet it was quite in accordance with her character. As long as she had
entertained any hope of preventing this marriage she had not hesitated
to express and even exaggerate her objections and repugnance. But her
point of view was entirely changed when conquered by the strength of her
son’s passion, she at last yielded a reluctant consent. The young girl
who was destined to be her daughter-in-law at once became sacred in her
eyes; and it seemed to her an act of duty to watch over Marguerite, and
shield her reputation. Having considered the subject, she had decided
that it was not proper for her son’s betrothed to run about the streets
alone in the evening. Might it not compromise her honor? and later on
might it not furnish venomous Madame de Fondege with an opportunity to
exercise her slanderous tongue? Thus the puritanical old lady had come
to fetch Marguerite, so that whenever occasion required she might be
able to say: “I was there!”

As for Marguerite, after the trials of the day, she yielded without
reserve to the feeling of rest and happiness that now filled her heart.
Again and again had Pascal spoken of his mother’s prejudices and the
inflexibility of her principles. But he had also spoken of her dauntless
energy, the nobility of her nature, and of her love and devotion to
him. With Marguerite, moreover, one consideration--one which she
would scarcely have admitted, perhaps--outweighed all others: Madame
Ferailleur was Pascal’s mother. For that reason alone, if for no other,
she was prepared to worship her. How fervently she blessed this noble
woman, who, a widow, and ruined in fortune by an unprincipled scoundrel,
had bravely toiled to educate her son, making him the man whom
Marguerite had freely chosen from among all others. She would have knelt
before this grand but simple-hearted mother had she dared; she would
have kissed her hands. And a poignant regret came to her heart when she
remembered her own mother, Baroness Trigault, and compared her with this
matchless woman.

Meanwhile the cab had passed the outer boulevards, and was now whirling
along the Route d’Asnieres, as fast as the horse could drag it. “We are
almost there,” remarked Madame Ferailleur, speaking for the first time.

Marguerite’s response was inaudible, she was so overcome with emotion.
The driver had just turned the corner of the Route de la Revolte; and it
was not long before he checked his panting horse. “Look, mademoiselle,”
said Madame Ferailleur again, “this is our home.”

Upon the threshold, bareheaded, and breathless with impatience and hope,
stood a man who was counting the seconds with the violent throbbings
of his heart. He did not wait for the cab to stop, but springing to
the door, he opened it; and then, catching Marguerite in his arms, he
carried her into the house with a cry of joy. She had not even time to
look around her, ere he had placed her in an arm-chair, and fallen on
his knees before her. “At last I see you again, my beloved Marguerite,”
he exclaimed. “You are mine--nothing shall part us again!”

They sobbed in each other’s arms. They could bear adversity unmoved; but
their composure deserted them in this excess of happiness; and standing
in the door-way, Madame Ferailleur felt the tears come to her eyes as
she stood watching them.

“How can I tell you all that I have suffered!” said Pascal, whose voice
was hoarse with feeling. “The papers have told you all the details, I
suppose. How I was accused of cheating at cards; how the vile epithet
‘thief’ was cast in my face; how they tried to search me; how my most
intimate friends deserted me; how I was virtually expelled from the
Palais de Justice. All this is terrible, is it not? Ah, well! it
is nothing in comparison with the intense, unendurable anguish I
experienced in thinking that you believed the infamous calumny which
disgraced me.”

Marguerite rose to her feet. “You thought that!” she exclaimed. “You
believed that I doubted you? I! Like you, I have been accused of robbery
myself. Do you believe me guilty?”

“Good God! I suspect you!”

“Then why----”

“I was mad, Marguerite, my only love, I was mad! But who would not have
lost his senses under such circumstances? It was the very day after this
atrocious conspiracy. I had seen Madame Leon, and had trusted her with
a letter for you in which I entreated you to grant me five minutes’
Conversation.”

“Alas! I never received it.”

“I know that now; but then I was deceived. I went to the little garden
gate to await your coming, but it was Madame Leon who appeared. She
brought me a note written in pencil and signed with your name, bidding
me an eternal farewell. And, fool that I was, I did not see that the
note was a forgery!”

Mademoiselle Marguerite was amazed. The veil was now torn aside, and the
truth revealed to her. Now she remembered Madame Leon’s embarrassment
when she met her returning from the garden on the night following the
count’s death. “Ah, well! Pascal,” she said, “do you know what I was
doing at almost the same moment? Alarmed at having received no news from
you, I hastened to the Rue d’Ulm, where I learned that you had sold your
furniture and started for America. Any other woman might have believed
herself deserted under such circumstances, but not I. I felt sure that
you had not fled in ignominious fashion. I was convinced that you had
only concealed yourself for a time in order to strike your enemies more
surely.”

“Do not shame me, Marguerite. It is true that of us two I showed myself
the weaker.”

Lost in the rapture of the present moment, they had forgotten the past
and the future, the agony they had endured, the dangers that still
threatened them, and even the existence of their enemies.

But Madame Ferailleur was watching. She pointed to the clock, and
earnestly exclaimed: “Time is passing, my son. Each moment that
is wasted endangers our success. Should any suspicion bring Madame
Vantrasson here, all would be lost.”

“She cannot come upon us unawares, my dear mother. Chupin has promised
not to lose sight of her. If she stirs from her shop, he will hasten
here and throw a stone against the shutters to warn us.”

But even this did not satisfy Madame Ferailleur.

“You forget, Pascal.” she insisted, “that Mademoiselle Marguerite must
be at home again by ten o’clock, if she consents to the ordeal you feel
obliged to impose upon her.”

This was the voice of duty recalling Pascal to the stern realities of
life. He slowly rose, conquered his emotion, and, after reflecting for
a moment, said: “First of all, Marguerite, I owe you the truth and an
exact statement of our situation. Circumstances have compelled me to act
without consulting you. Have I done right or wrong? You shall judge.”
And without stopping to listen to the girl’s protestations, he rapidly
explained how he had managed to win M. de Valorsay’s confidence,
discover his plans, and become his trusted accomplice. “This scoundrel’s
plan is very simple,” he continued. “He is determined to marry you.
Why? Because, though you are not aware of it, you are rich, and the
sole heiress to the fortune of the Count de Chalusse, your father. This
surprises you, does it not? Very well! listen to me. Deceived by the
Marquis de Valorsay, the Count de Chalusse had promised him your hand.
These arrangements were nearly completed, though you had not been
informed of them. In fact, everything had been decided. At the outset,
however, a grave difficulty had presented itself. The marquis wished
your father to acknowledge you before your marriage, but this he refused
to do. ‘It would expose me to the most frightful dangers,’ he declared.
‘However, I will recognize Marguerite as my daughter in my will, and, at
the same time, leave all my property to her.’ But the marquis would not
listen to this proposal. ‘I don’t doubt your good intentions, my dear
count,’ said he,’ but suppose this will should be contested, your
property might pass into other hands.’ This difficulty put a stop to the
proceedings for some time. The marquis asked for guarantees; the other
refused to give them--until, at last, M. de Chalusse discovered an
expedient which would satisfy both parties. He confided to M. de
Valorsay’s keeping a will in which he recognized you as his daughter,
and bequeathed you his entire fortune. This document, the validity of
which is unquestionable, has been carefully preserved by the marquis.
He has not spoken of its existence; and he would destroy it rather than
restore it to you at present. But as soon as you became his wife,
he intended to produce it and thus obtain possession of the count’s
millions.”

“Ah! the old justice of the peace was not mistaken,” murmured
Mademoiselle Marguerite.

Pascal did not hear her. All his faculties were absorbed in the attempt
he was making to give a clear and concise explanation, for he had much
to say, and it was growing late. “As for the enormous sum you have been
accused of taking,” he continued, “I know what has become of it; it is
in the hands of M. de Fondege.”

“I know that, Pascal--I’m sure of it; but the proof, the proof!”

“The proof exists, and, like the will, it is in the hands of the Marquis
de Valorsay.”

“Is it possible! Great Heavens! You are sure you are not deceived?”

“I have seen the proof, and it is overpowering, irrefutable! I have
touched it--I have held it in my hands. And it explains everything which
may have seemed strange and incomprehensible to you. The letter which M.
de Chalusse received on the day of his death was written by his sister.
She asked in it for her share of the family estate, threatening him with
a terrible scandal if he refused to comply with her request. Had the
count decided to brave this scandal rather than yield? We have good
reason to suppose so. However, this much is certain: he had a terrible
hatred, not so much for his sister, perhaps, as for the man who had
seduced her, and afterward married her, actuated by avaricious motives
alone. He had sworn thousands of times that neither husband nor wife
should ever have a penny of the large fortune which really belonged
to them. Believing that a lawsuit was now inevitable, and wishing to
conceal his wealth, he was greatly embarrassed by the large amount of
money he had on hand. What should he do with it? Where could he hide it?
He finally decided to intrust it to the keeping of M. de Fondege, who
was known as an eccentric man, but whose honesty seemed to be above
suspicion. So, when he left home, on the afternoon of his illness, he
took the package of bank-notes and bonds, which you had noticed in the
escritoire that morning, away with him. We shall never know what passed
between your father and the General--we can only surmise. But what I do
know, and what I shall be able to prove, is that M. de Fondege accepted
the trust, and that he gave an acknowledgment of it in the form of a
letter, which read as follows:

“‘MY DEAR COUNT DE CHALUSSE--I hereby acknowledge the receipt, on
Thursday, October 15, 186-, of the sum of two millions, two
hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I shall deposit, in my
name, at the Bank of France, subject to the orders of Mademoiselle
Marguerite, your daughter, on the day she presents this letter.
And believe, my dear count, in the absolute devotion of your old
comrade,

“GENERAL DE FONDEGE.’”

Mademoiselle Marguerite was thunderstruck. “Who can have furnished you
with these particulars?” she inquired.

“The Marquis de Valorsay, my dearest; and I will explain how he was
enabled to do so. M. de Fondege wrote the address of his ‘old comrade’
on this letter, which was folded and sealed, but not enclosed in an
envelope. M. de Chalusse proposed to post it himself, so that the
official stamp might authenticate its date. But on reflection, he became
uneasy. He felt that this tiny, perishable scrap of paper would be
the only proof of the deposit which he had confided to M. de Fondege’s
honor. This scrap might be lost, burned, or stolen. Then what would
happen? He had so often seen trustees betray the confidence of which
they had seemed worthy. So M. de Chalusse racked his brains to discover
a means of protection from an improbable but possible misfortune. He
found it. Passing a stationer’s shop, he went in, purchased one of those
letter-presses which merchants use in their correspondence, and, under
pretext of trying it, took a copy of M. de Fondege’s letter. Having
done this, he placed the copy in an envelope addressed to the Marquis de
Valorsay, and, with his heart relieved of all anxiety, posted it at the
same time as the original letter. A few moments later he got into the
cab in which he was stricken down with apoplexy.”

Extraordinary as Pascal’s explanations must have seemed to her,
Marguerite did not doubt their accuracy in the least. “Then it is the
copy of this letter which you saw in the possession of the Marquis de
Valorsay?”

“Yes.”

“And the original?”

“M. de Fondege alone can tell what has become of that. It is evident
that he has somehow succeeded in obtaining possession of it. Would he
have dared to squander money as he has done if he had not been convinced
that there was no proof of his guilt in existence? Perhaps on hearing
of the count’s sudden death he bribed the concierge at the Hotel de
Chalusse to watch for this letter and return it to him. But on this
subject I have only conjectures to offer. If they wish you to marry
their son, it is probably because it seems too hard that you should be
left in abject poverty while they are enjoying the fortune they have
stolen from you. The vilest scoundrels have their scruples. Besides,
a marriage with their son would protect them against any possible
mischance in the future.”

He was silent for a moment, and then more slowly resumed: “You see,
Marguerite, we have clear, palpable, and irrefutable proofs of YOUR
innocence; but in my efforts to clear my own name of disgrace, I have
been far less fortunate. I have tried in vain to collect material proofs
of the conspiracy against me. It is only by proving the guilt of the
Marquis de Valorsay and the Viscount de Coralth that I can establish my
innocence, and so far I am powerless to do so.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite’s face brightened with supreme joy. “Then I can
serve you, in my turn, my only love,” she exclaimed. “Ah! blessed be God
who inspired me, and who thus rewards me for an hour of courage. My
poor father’s plan also occurred to me, Pascal. Was it not strange? The
material proof of your innocence which you have sought for in vain, is
in my possession, written and signed by the Marquis de Valorsay. Like
M. de Fondege, he believes that the letter which proves his guilt is
annihilated. He burned it himself, and yet it exists.” So saying, she
drew from her bosom one of the copies which she had received from Carjat
the photographer, and handed it to Pascal, adding, “Look!”

Pascal eagerly perused the marvellous facsimile of the letter which the
marquis had written to Madame Leon. “Ah! this is the scoundrel’s death
warrant.” he exclaimed, exultantly. And approaching Madame Ferailleur,
who still stood leaning against the door, silent and motionless: “Look,
mother,” he repeated, “look!”

And he pointed to this paragraph which was so convincing and so
explicit, that the most exacting jury would have asked for no further
evidence. “I have formed a plan which will completely efface all
remembrance of that cursed P. F., in case any one could condescend to
think of him, after the disgrace we fastened upon him the other evening
at the house of Madame d’A----.”

“Nor is this all,” resumed Mademoiselle Marguerite. “There are other
letters which will prove that this plot was the marquis’s work and which
give the name of his accomplice, Coralth. And these letters are in the
possession of a man of dubious integrity, who was once the marquis’s
ally, but who has now become his enemy. He is known as Isidore Fortunat,
and lives in the Place de la Bourse.”

Marguerite felt that Madame Ferailleur’s keen glance was riveted
upon her. She intuitively divined what was passing in the mind of
the puritanical old lady, and realized that her whole future, and the
happiness of her entire wedded life, depended upon her conduct at that
moment. So, desirous of making a full confession, she hastily exclaimed:
“My conduct may have seemed strange in a young girl, Pascal. A timid,
inexperienced girl, who had been carefully kept from all knowledge of
life and evil, would have been crushed by such a burden of disgrace,
and could only have wept and prayed. I did weep and pray; but I also
struggled and fought. In the hour of peril I found myself endowed with
some of the courage and energy which distinguished the poor women of the
people among whom I formerly earned my bread. The teachings and miseries
of the past were not lost to me!” And as simply as if she were telling
the most natural thing in the world, she described the struggle she had
undertaken against the world, strong in her faith in Pascal and in his
love.

“Ah, you are a noble and courageous girl!” exclaimed Madame Ferailleur.
“You are worthy of my son, and you will proudly guard our honest name!”

For some little time already the obstinate old lady had been struggling
against the sympathetic emotion that filled her heart, and big tears
were coursing down her wrinkled cheeks.

Unable to restrain herself any longer, she now threw both arms around
Marguerite’s neck, and drew her toward her in a long embrace, murmuring:
“Marguerite, my daughter! Ah! how unjust my prejudices were!”

It might be thought that Pascal was transported with joy on hearing
this, but no: the lines of care on his forehead deepened, as he said:
“Happiness is so near! Why must a final test, another humiliation,
separate us from it?”

But Marguerite now felt strong enough to meet even martyrdom with a
smile. “Speak, Pascal!” said she, “don’t you see that it is almost ten
o’clock?”

He hesitated; there was grief in his eyes and his breath came quick and
hard, as he resumed: “For your sake and mine, we must conquer, at any
price. This is the only reason that can justify the horrible expedient
I have to suggest. M. de Valorsay, as you know, has boasted of his power
to overcome your resistance, and he really believes that he possesses
this power. Why I have not killed him again and again when he has been
at my mercy, I can scarcely understand. The only thing that gave me
power to restrain myself was my desire for as sure, as terrible, and
as public a revenge as the humiliation he inflicted on me. His plan for
your ruin is such as only a scoundrel like himself could conceive.
With the assistance of his vile tool, Coralth, he has formed a league,
offensive and defensive, with the son of the Count de Chalusse’s sister,
who is the only acknowledged heir at this moment--a young man destitute
of heart and intelligence, and inordinately vain, but neither better nor
worse than many others who figure respectably in society. His name is
Wilkie Gordon. The marquis has acquired great influence over him,
and has persuaded him that it is his duty to denounce you to the
authorities. He has, in short, accused you of defrauding the heirs of
the Chalusse estate of two millions of francs and also of poisoning the
count.”

The girl shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. “As for the robbery,
we have an answer to that,” she answered, “and as regards the
poisoning--really the accusation is too absurd!”

But Pascal still looked gloomy. “The matter is more serious than you
suppose,” he replied. “They have found a physician--a vile, cowardly
scoundrel--who for a certain sum has consented to appear in support of
the accusation.”

“Dr. Jodon, I presume!”

“Yes; and this is not all. The count’s escritoire contains the vial
of medicine of which he drank a portion on the day of his death. Well,
to-morrow night, Madame Leon will open the garden gate of the Hotel de
Chalusse and admit a rascal who will abstract the vial.”

Marguerite shuddered. Now she understood the fiendish cunning of the
plot. “It might ruin me!” she murmured.

Pascal nodded affirmatively. “M. de Valorsay wishes you to consider
yourself as irretrievably lost, and then he intends to offer to save you
on condition that you consent to marry him. I should say, however, that
M. Wilkie is ignorant of the atrocious projects he is abetting. They are
known only to the marquis and M. de Coralth; and it is I who, under the
name of Maumejan, act as their adviser. It was to me that the marquis
sent M. Wilkie for assistance in drawing up this accusation. I myself
wrote out the denunciation, which was as terrible and as formidable as
our bitterest enemy could possibly desire, combining, as it did, with
perfidious art, the reports of the valets and the suspicions of the
physician, and establishing the connection between the robbery and the
murder. It finished by demanding a thorough investigation. And M. Wilkie
copied and signed this document, and carried it to the prosecution
office himself.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite sank half-fainting into an arm-chair. “You have
done this!” she faltered.

“It was necessary, my daughter,” whispered Madame Ferailleur.

“Yes, it was necessary, absolutely necessary,” repeated Pascal, “as
you will see. Justice, which is a human institution, and limited in its
powers, cannot fathom motives, read thoughts, or interfere with plans,
however abominable they may be, or however near realization. Before it
can interfere, the law must have material, tangible proof, convincing
to the senses. Until you are arrested, the crimes committed by M. de
Valorsay, and those associated with him, do not come within the reach
of human justice; but as soon as you are in prison, I can hasten to
our friend the justice of the peace, and we shall go at once to
the investigating magistrate and explain everything. Now, when your
innocence and the guilt of your accusers have been established, what
do you fancy the authorities will do? They will wait until your enemies
declare themselves, in order to capture them all at once, and prevent
the escape of a single one. To-morrow night some clever detectives will
watch the Hotel de Chalusse, and just as Madame Leon and the wretch with
her think themselves sure of success, they will be caught in the
very act and arrested. When they are examined by a magistrate, who
is conversant with the whole affair, can they deny their guilt? No;
certainly not. Acting upon their confession, the authorities will force
an entrance into Valorsay’s house, where they will find your father’s
will and the receipt given by M. de Fondege--in a word, all the proofs
of their guilt. And while this search is going on, all your enemies,
reassured by your arrest, will be at a grand soiree given by Baron
Trigault. I shall be there as well.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite had mastered her momentary weakness. She rose to
her feet, and in a firm voice exclaimed: “You have acted rightly.”

“Ah! there was no other way. And yet I wished to see you, to learn if
this course were too repugnant to you.”

She interrupted him with a gesture. “When shall I be arrested?” she
asked, quietly.

“This evening or to-morrow.” was his answer.

“Very well! I have only one request to make. The Fondeges have a son who
has no hand in the affair, but who will be more severely punished than
his parents, if we do not spare them. Could you not----”

“I can do nothing, Marguerite. I am powerless now.”

Everything was soon arranged. Marguerite raised her forehead to Pascal
for his parting kiss, and went away accompanied by Madame Ferailleur,
who escorted her to the corner of the Rue Boursault. The General and his
wife had returned home in advance of Marguerite. She found them sitting
in the drawing-room, with distorted faces and teeth chattering with
fear. With them was a bearded man who, as soon as she appeared,
exclaimed:

“You are Mademoiselle Marguerite, are you not? I arrest you in the name
of the law. There is my warrant.” And without more ado he led her away.

XX.

Money, which nowadays has taken the place of the good fairies of former
times, had gratified M. Wilkie’s every longing in a single night.
Without any period of transition, dreamlike as it were, he had passed
from what he called “straitened circumstances” to the splendid enjoyment
of a princely fortune. Madame d’Argeles’s renunciation had been
so correctly drawn up, that as soon as he presented his claims and
displayed his credentials he was placed in possession of the Chalusse
estate. It is true that a few trifling difficulties presented
themselves. For instance, the old justice of the peace who had affixed
the seals refused to remove them from certain articles of furniture,
especially from the late count’s escritoire, without an order from the
court, and several days were needed to obtain this. But what did that
matter to M. Wilkie? The house, with its splendid reception-rooms,
pictures, statuary and gardens, was at his disposal, and he installed
himself therein at once. Twenty horses neighed and stamped in his
stables; there were at least a dozen carriages in the coach-house. He
devoted his attention exclusively to the horses and vehicles; but acting
upon the advice of Casimir, who had become his valet and oracle, he
retained all the former servants of the house, from Bourigeau the
concierge down to the humblest scullery maid. Still, he gave them
to understand that this was only a temporary arrangement. A man like
himself, living in this progressive age, could scarcely be expected to
content himself with what had satisfied the Count de Chalusse. “For I
have my plans,” he remarked to Casimir, “but let Paris wait awhile.”

He repudiated his former friends. Costard and Serpillon, pretended
viscounts though they were, were quite beneath the notice of a
Gordon-Chalusse, as M. Wilkie styled himself on his visiting cards.
However, he purchased their share of Pompier de Nanterre, feeling
convinced that this remarkable steeplechaser had a brilliant future
before him. He did not trouble himself to any great extent about his
mother. Like every one else, he knew that she had disappeared, but
nothing further. On the other hand, the thought of his father, the
terrible chevalier d’industrie, hung over his joy like a pall; and each
time the great entrance bell announced a visitor, he trembled, turned
pale, and muttered: “Perhaps it’s he!”

Tortured by this fear, he clung closely to the Marquis de Valorsay as if
he felt that this distinguished friend was a powerful support. Besides,
people of rank and distinction naturally exercised a powerful attraction
over him, and he fancied he grew several inches taller when, in some
public place, in the street, or a restaurant, he was able to call out,
“I say, Valorsay, my good friend,” or, “Upon my word! my dear marquis!”

M. de Valorsay received these effusions graciously enough, although,
in point of fact, he was terribly bored by the platitudes of his new
acquaintance. He intended to send him to Coventry later on, but just now
M. Wilkie was too useful to be ignored. So he had introduced him to his
club, and was seen with him everywhere--in the Bois, at the restaurants,
and the theatres. At times, some of his friends inquired: “Who is that
queer little fellow?” with a touch of irony in their tone, but when
the marquis carelessly answered: “A poor devil who has just come into
possession of a property worth twenty millions!” they became serious,
and requested the pleasure and honor of an introduction to this
fortunate young man.

So M. de Valorsay had invited Gordon-Chalusse to accompany him to Baron
Trigault’s approaching fete. It was to be an entertainment for gentlemen
only, a monster card-party; but every one knew the wealthy baron, and
no doubt with a view of stimulating curiosity he had declared, and
the Figaro had repeated, that he had a great surprise in store for his
guests. Oh! such a surprise! They could have no idea what it was! This
fete was to take place on the second day after Mademoiselle Marguerite’s
arrest; and on the appointed evening, between nine and ten o’clock,
M. de Valorsay and his friend Coralth sat together in the former’s
smoking-room waiting for Wilkie to call for them, as had been
agreed upon. They were both in the best of spirits. The viscount’s
apprehensions had been entirely dispelled; and the marquis had quite
forgotten the twinges of pain in his injured limb. “Marguerite will only
leave prison to marry me,” said M. de Valorsay, triumphantly; and he
added: “What a willing tool this Wilkie is! A single word sufficed to
make him give all his servants leave of absence. The Hotel de Chalusse
will be deserted, and Madame Leon and Vantrasson can operate at their
leisure.”

It was ten o’clock when M. Wilkie made his appearance. “Come, my good
friends!” said he, “my carriage is below.”

They started off at once, and five minutes later they were ushered into
the presence of Baron Trigault, who received M. Wilkie as if he had
never seen him before. There was quite a crowd already. At least three
or four hundred people had assembled in the Baron’s reception-rooms, and
among them were several former habitues of Madame d’Argeles’s house;
one could also espy M. de Fondege ferociously twirling his mustaches
as usual, together with Kami-Bey, who was conspicuous by reason of
his portly form and eternal red fez. However, among these men, all
noticeable for their studied elegance of attire and manner, and all
of them known to M. de Valorsay, there moved numerous others of very
different appearance. Their waistcoats were less open, and their clothes
did not fit them as perfectly; on the other hand, there was something
else than a look of idiotic self-complacency on their faces. “Who can
these people be?” whispered the marquis to M. de Coralth. “They look
like lawyers or magistrates.” But although he said this he did not
really believe it, and it was without the slightest feeling of anxiety
that he strolled from group to group, shaking hands with his friends and
introducing M. Wilkie.

A strange rumor was in circulation among the guests. Many of them
declared--where could they have heard such a thing?--that in consequence
of a quarrel with her husband, Madame Trigault had left Paris the
evening before. They even went so far as to repeat her parting words to
the Baron: “You will never see me again,” she had said. “You are amply
avenged. Farewell!” However, the best informed among the guests, the
folks who were thoroughly acquainted with all the scandals of the day,
declared the story false, and said that if the baroness had really fled,
handsome Viscount de Coralth would not appear so calm and smiling.

The report WAS true, however. But M. de Coralth did not trouble himself
much about the baroness now. Had he not got in his pocket M. Wilkie’s
signature insuring him upward of half a million? Standing near one of
the windows in the main reception-room, between the Marquis de Valorsay
and M. Wilkie, the brilliant viscount was gayly chatting with them,
when a footman, in a voice loud enough to interrupt all conversation,
suddenly announced: “M. Maumejan!”

It seemed such a perfectly natural thing to M. de Valorsay that
Maumejan, as one of the baron’s business agents, should be received at
his house, that he was not in the least disturbed. But M. de Coralth,
having heard the name, wished to see the man who had aided and advised
the marquius so effectually. He abruptly turned, and as he did so the
words he would have spoken died upon his lips. He became livid, his eyes
seemed to start from their sockets, and it was with difficulty that he
ejaculated: “He!”

“Who?” inquired the astonished marquis.

“Look!”

M. de Valorsay did so, and to his utter amazement he perceived a
numerous party in the rear of the man announced under the name of
Maumejan. First came Mademoiselle Marguerite, leaning on the arm of the
white-haired magistrate, and then Madame Ferailleur; next M. Isidore
Fortunat, and finally Chupin--Victor Chupin, resplendent in a handsome,
bran-new, black dress-suit.

The marquis could no longer fail to understand the truth. He realized
who Maumejan really was, and the audacious comedy he had been duped by.
He was so frightfully agitated that five or six persons sprang forward
exclaiming: “What is the matter, marquis? Are you ill?” But he made
no reply. He felt that he was caught in a trap, and he glanced wildly
around him seeking for some loophole of escape.

However, the word of command had evidently been given. Suddenly all the
guests scattered about the various drawing-rooms poured into the main
hall, and the doors were closed. Then, with a solemnity of manner
which no one had ever seen him display before, Baron Trigault took
the so-called Maumejan by the hand and led him into the centre of the
apartment opposite the lofty chimney-piece. “Gentlemen,” he began, in
a commanding tone, “this is M. Pascal Ferailleur, the honorable man who
was falsely accused of cheating at cards at Madame d’Argeles’s house.
You owe him a hearing.”

Pascal was greatly agitated. The strangeness of the situation, the
certainty of speedy and startling rehabilitation, perhaps the joy of
vengeance, the silence, which was so profound that he could hear his
own panting breath, and the many eyes riveted upon him, all combined to
unnerve him. But only for a moment. He swiftly conquered his weakness,
and surveying his audience with flashing eyes, he explained, in a clear
and ringing voice, the shameful conspiracy to obtain possession of the
count’s millions, and the abominable machinations by which Mademoiselle
Marguerite and himself had been victimized. Then when he had finished
his explanations he added, in a still more commanding voice, “Now look;
you can read the culprits’ guilt on their faces. One is the scoundrel
known to you as the Viscount de Coralth, but Paul Violaine is his true
name. He was formerly an accomplice of the notorious Mascarot; he is a
cowardly villain, for he is married, and leaves his wife and children to
die of starvation!” The Viscount de Coralth fairly bellowed with rage.
But Pascal did not heed him. “The other criminal is the Marquis de
Valorsay,” he added, in the same ringing tone. There was, moreover, a
third culprit who would have inspired mingled pity and disgust if any
one had noticed him shrinking into a corner, terrified and muttering:
“It wasn’t my fault, my wife compelled me to do it!” This was General de
Fondege.

Pascal did not mention his name. But it was not absolutely necessary
he should do so, and besides, he remembered Marguerite’s entreaty
respecting the son.

However, while the young lawyer was speaking, the marquis had summoned
all his energy and assurance to his aid. Desperate as his plight
might be, he would not surrender. “This is an infamous conspiracy,” he
exclaimed. “Baron, you shall atone for this. The man’s an impostor!--he
lies!--all that he says is false!”

“Yes, it is false!” echoed M. de Coralth.

But a clamor arose, drowning these protestations, and the most
opprobrious epithets could be heard on every side.

“How will you prove your assertion?” cried M. de Valorsay.

“Don’t try that dodge on us!” shouted Chupin. “Vantrasson and mother
Leon have confessed everything.”

“Who defrauded us all with Domingo?” cried several people; and, loud
above all the others, Kami-Bey bawled out: “To say nothing of the fact
that the sale of your racing stud was a complete swindle!”

Meanwhile, Pascal’s former friends and associates, his brother advocates
and the magistrates who had listened to his first efforts at the
bar, crowded round him, pressing his hands, embracing him almost to
suffocation, censuring themselves for having suspected him, the very
soul of honor, and pleading in self-justification the degenerate age in
which we live--an age in which we daily see those whom we had considered
immaculate suddenly yield to temptation. And a murmur of respectful
admiration rose from the throng when the excitement had subsided a
little, and the guests had an opportunity to observe Mademoiselle
Marguerite, whose eyes sparkled more brightly than ever through her
happy tears; and whose beauty acquired an almost sublime expression from
her deep emotion.

The wretched Valorsay felt that all was over--that he was irretrievably
lost. Seized by a blind fury like that which impels a hunted animal
to turn and face the hounds that pursue him, and bid them defiance, he
confronted the throng with his face distorted with passion, his eyes
bloodshot, and foam upon his lips; he was absolutely frightful in his
cynicism, hatred, and scorn. “Ah! well, yes!” he exclaimed--“yes, all
that you have just heard is true. I was sinking, and I tried to save
myself as best I could. Beggars cannot be choosers; I staked my all upon
a single die. If I had won, you would have been at my feet; but I have
lost and you spurn me. Cowards! hypocrites! that you are, insult me if
you like, but tell me how many among you all are sufficiently pure and
upright to have a right to despise me! Are there a hundred among you?
are there even fifty?”

A tempest of hisses momentarily drowned his voice, but as soon as the
uproar had ceased, he resumed, sneeringly: “Ah! the truth wounds you, my
dear friends. Pray, don’t pretend to be so distressingly virtuous! I
was ruined--that is the long and short of it. But what man of you is not
embarrassed? Who among you finds his income sufficient? Which one of you
is not encroaching upon his capital? And when you have come to your last
louis, you will do what I have done, or something worse. Do not deny it,
for not one among you has a more uncompromising conscience, more moral
firmness, or more generous aspirations than I once possessed. You are
pursuing what I pursued. You desire what I desired--a life of luxury,
brief if it must be, but happy--a life of gayety, wild excitement,
and dissipation. You, too, have a passion for pleasure and gambling,
race-horses, and notorious women, a table always bountifully spread,
glasses ever overflowing with wine, all the delights of luxury, and
everything that gratifies your vanity! But an abyss of shame awaits you
at the end of it all. I am in it now. I await you there, for there you
will surely, necessarily, inevitably come. Ah, ha! you will not then
think my downfall so very strange. Let me pass! make way! if you
please.”

He advanced with his head haughtily erect, and would actually have
made his escape if a frightened servant had not at that moment appeared
crying: “Monsieur--Monsieur le Baron! a commissary of police is
downstairs. He is coming up. He has a warrant!”

The marquis’s frenzied assurance deserted him. He turned even paler
than he already was if that were possible, and reeled like an ox
but partially stunned by the butcher’s hammer. Suddenly a desperate
resolution could be read in his eyes, the resolution of the condemned
criminal, who, knowing that he cannot escape the scaffold, ascends it
with a firm step.

He hastily approached Baron Trigault, and asked in a husky voice: “Will
you allow me to be arrested in your house, baron? me--a Valorsay!”

It might have been supposed that the baron had expected this reproach,
for without a word he led the marquis and M. de Coralth to a little room
at the end of the hall, pushed them inside, and closed the door again.

It was time he did so, for the commissary of police was already upon
the threshold. “Which of you gentlemen is the Marquis de Valorsay?” he
asked. “Which of you is Paul Violaine, alias the Viscount de----”

The sharp report of firearms suddenly interrupted him. Every one at once
rushed to the little room, where the wretched men had been conducted.
There extended, face upward, on the floor, lay the Marquis de Valorsay,
with his brains oozing from his fractured skull, and his right hand
still clutching a revolver. He was dead. “And the other!” cried the
throng; “the other!”

The open window, and a curtain rudely torn from its fastenings and
secured to the balustrade, told how M. de Coralth had made his escape.
It was not till later that people learned what precautions the baron
had taken. On the table in that room he had laid two revolvers, and
two packages containing ten thousand francs each. The viscount had not
hesitated.

* * * * *

Pascal Ferailleur and Mademoiselle Marguerite de Chalusse were married
at the church of Saint Etienne du Mont, only a few steps from the Rue
d’Ulm. Those who knew the mystery connected with the bride’s parentage
were greatly astonished when they saw Baron Trigault act as a witness on
this occasion, in company with the venerable justice of the peace. But
such was the fact, nevertheless. Treated more and more outrageously by
his daughter and her husband, separated from his wife, who had nearly
lost her reason, although her letters were saved, the baron has nowadays
found affection and a home with Pascal and his wife. He plays cards but
seldom now--only an occasional game of piquet with Madame Ferailleur,
and he amuses himself by making her start when she is too long in
discarding, by ejaculating, in a stentorian voice: “We are wasting
precious time!” Sometimes they go out together, to the great
astonishment of such as chance to meet the puritanical old lady leaning
on the baron’s arm. She often goes to visit and console the widow
Gordon, formerly known as Lia d’Argeles, who now keeps an establishment
near Montrouge, where she provides poor, betrayed and forsaken girls
with a home and employment. She has yet to receive any token of
remembrance from her son. As for her husband, she supposes he is dead or
incarcerated in some prison.

It is to Madame Gordon that the Fondeges are often indebted for bread.
Obliged to disgorge their plunder, and left with no resources save the
fifty francs a month allowed them by their son, who has been promoted
to the rank of captain, their poverty is necessarily extreme. Oh! those
Fondeges! M. Fortunat only speaks of them with horror. But he is loud
in his praises of Madame Marguerite, who repaid him the forty thousand
francs he had advanced to M. de Valorsay. He speaks in the highest terms
of Chupin also; but in this, he is scarcely sincere, for Victor, who
has been set up in business by Pascal, told him very plainly that he
was determined not to put his hand to any more dirty work, and that
expression, “dirty work,” rankles in M. Fortunat’s heart.

Chupin’s resolution did not, however, prevent him from attending the
trial of Vantrasson and Madame Leon--the former of whom was sentenced to
hard labor for life, and the latter to ten years’ imprisonment. Nothing
is known concerning M. de Coralth; but his wife has disappeared, to
the great disappointment of M. Mouchon. As a dentist, Dr. Jodon is
successful. As for M. Wilkie, you can learn anything you wish to
know concerning him in the newspapers, for his sayings, doings, and
movements, are constantly being chronicled. The reporters exhaust all
the resources of their vocabulary in describing his horses, carriages,
and stables, and the gorgeous liveries of his servants. His changes of
residence are always mentioned; his brilliant sayings are quoted. He
is a social success; he is admired, fondled, and flattered. He makes a
great stir in the fashionable world--in fact, he reigns over it like a
king. After all, assurance is the winning card in the game of life!