Two hours after Andre had left the Avenue de Matignon, one of Mascarin’s most trusty emissaries was at his heels, who could watch his actions with the tenacity of a bloodhound. Andre, however, now that he had heard of Sabine’s convalescence, had entirely recovered the elasticity of his spirits, and would never have noticed that he was being followed. His heart, too, was much rejoiced at the friendship of M. de Breulh and the promise of assistance from the Viscountess de Bois Arden; and with the assistance of these two, he felt that he could end his difficulties.
“I must get to work again,” muttered he, as he left M. de Breulh’s hospitable house. “I have already lost too much time. To-morrow, if you look up at the scaffolding of a splendid house in the Champs Elysees, you will see me at work.”
Andre was busy all night with his plans for the rich contractor, M. Gandelu, who wanted as much ornamental work on the outside of his house as he had florid decorations within. He rose with the lark, and having gazed for a moment on Sabine’s portrait, started for the abode of M. Gandelu, the proud father of young Gaston. This celebrated contractor lived in a splendid house in the Rue Chasse d’Antin, until his more palatial residence should be completed.
When Andre presented himself at the door, an old servant, who knew him well, strongly urged him not to go up.
“Never,” said he, “in all the time that I have been with master, have I seen him in such a towering rage. Only just listen!”
It was easy to hear the noise alluded to, mingled with the breaking of glass and the smashing of furniture.
“The master has been at this game for over an hour,” remarked the servant, “ever since his lawyer, M. Catenac, has left him.”
Andre, however, decided not to postpone his visit. “I must see him in spite of everything; show me up,” said he.
With evident reluctance the domestic obeyed, and threw open the door of a room superbly furnished and decorated, in the centre of which stood M. Gandelu waving the leg of a chair frantically in his hand. He was a man of sixty years of age, but did not look fifty, built like a Hercules, with huge hands and muscular limbs which seemed to fret under the restraint of his fashionable garments. He had made his enormous fortune, of which he was considerably proud, by honest labor, and no one could say that he had not acted fairly throughout his whole career. He was coarse and violent in his manner, but he had a generous heart and never refused aid to the deserving and needy. He swore like a trooper, and his grammar was faulty; but for all that, his heart was in the right place, and he was a better man than many who boast of high birth and expensive education.
“What idiot is coming here to annoy me?” roared he, as soon as the door was opened.
“I have come by appointment,” answered Andre, and the contractor’s brow cleared as he saw who his visitor was.
“Ah, it is you, is it? Take a seat; that is, if there is a sound chair left in the room. I like you, for you have an honest face and don’t shirk hard work. You needn’t color up, though; modesty is no fault. Yes, there is something in you, and when you want a hundred thousand francs to go into business with, here it is ready for you; and had I a daughter, you should marry her, and I would build your house for you.”
“I thank you much,” said Andre; “but I have learned to depend entirely on myself.”
“True,” returned Gandelu, “you never knew your parents; you never knew what a kind father would do for his child. Do you know my son?” asked he, suddenly turning upon Andre.
This question at once gave Andre the solution of the scene before him. M. Gandelu was irritated at some folly that his son had committed. For a moment Andre hesitated; he did not care to say anything that might revive the old man’s feeling of anger, and therefore merely replied that he had only met his son Gaston two or three times.
“Gaston,” cried the old man, with a bitter oath; “do not call him that. Do you think it likely that old Nicholas Gandelu would ever have been ass enough to call his son Gaston? He was called Peter, after his grandfather, but it wasn’t a good enough one for the young fool; he wanted a swell name, and Peter had too much the savor of hard work in it for my fine gentleman. But that isn’t all; I could let that pass,” continued the old man. “Pray have you seen his cards? Over the name of Gaston de Gandelu is a count’s coronet. He a count indeed! the son of a man who has carried a hod for years!”
“Young people will be young people,” Andre ventured to observe; but the old man’s wrath would not be assuaged by a platitude like this.
“You can find no excuse for him, only the fellow is absolutely ashamed of his father. He consorts with titled fools and is in the seventh heaven if a waiter addresses him as ‘Count,’ not seeing that it is not he that is treated with respect, but the gold pieces of his old father, the working man.”
Andre’s position was now a most painful one, and he would have given a good deal not to be the recipient of a confidence which was the result of anger.
“He is only twenty, and yet see what a wreck he is,” resumed Gandelu. “His eyes are dim, and he is getting bald; he stoops, and spends his nights in drink and bad company. I have, however, only myself to blame, for I have been far too lenient; and if he had asked me for my head, I believe that I should have given it to him. He had only to ask and have. After my wife’s death, I had only the boy. Do you know what he has in this house? Why, rooms fit for a prince, two servants and four horses. I allow him monthly, fifteen hundred francs, and he goes about calling me a niggard, and has already squandered every bit of his poor mother’s fortune.” He stopped, and turned pale, for at that moment the door opened, and young Gaston, or rather Peter, slouched into the room.
“It is the common fate of fathers to be disappointed in their offspring, and to see the sons who ought to have been their honor and glory the scourge to punish their worldly aspirations,” exclaimed the old man.
“Good! that is really a very telling speech,” murmured Gaston approvingly, “considering that you have not made a special study of elocution.”
Fortunately his father did not catch these words, and continued in a voice broken by emotion, “That, M. Andre, is my son, who for twenty years has been my sole care. Well, believe it or not, as you like, he has been speculating on my death, as you might speculate on a race-horse at Vincennes.”
“No, no,” put in Gaston, but his father stopped him with a disdainful gesture.
“Have at least the courage to acknowledge your fault. You thought me blind because I said nothing, but your past conduct has opened my eyes.”
“But, father!”
“Do not attempt to deny it. This very morning my man of business, M. Catenac, wrote to me, and with that real courage which only true friends possess, told me all. I must tell you, M. Andre,” resumed the contractor, “I was ill. I had a severe attack of the gout, such as a man seldom recovers from, and my son was constant in his attendance at my sick couch. This consoled me. ‘He loves me after all,’ said I. But it was only my testamentary arrangements that he wanted to discover, and he went straight to a money-lender called Clergot and raised a hundred thousand francs assuring the blood-sucker that I had not many hours to live.”
“It is a lie!” cried Gaston, his face crimsoning with shame.
The old man raised the leg of the chair in his hand, and made so threatening a movement that Andre flung himself between father and son. “Great heavens!” cried he, “think what you are doing, sir, and forbear.”
The old man paused, passed his hand round his brow, and flung the weapon into a remote corner of the room. “I thank you,” said he, grasping Andre’s hand; “you have saved me from a great crime. In another moment I should have murdered him.”
Gaston was no coward, and he still retained the position he had been in before.
“This is quite romantic,” muttered he. “The governor seems to be going in for infanticide.”
Andre did not allow him to finish the sentence, for, grasping the young man’s wrist, he whispered fiercely, “Not another word; silence!”
“But I want to know what it all means?” answered the irrepressible youth.
“I had in my hands,” said the old man, addressing Andre, and ignoring the presence of his son, “the important paper he had copied. Yes; not more than an hour ago I read it. These were the terms: if I died within eight days from the date of signature, my son agreed to pay a bonus of thirty thousand francs; but if I lived for one month, he would take up the bill by paying one hundred and fifty thousand. If, however, by any unforeseen chance, I should recover entirely, he bound himself to pay Clergot the hundred thousand francs.”
The old man tore the cravat from his swelling throat, and wiped the beads of cold sweat that bedewed his brow.
“When this man recovers his self-command,” thought Andre, “he will never forgive me for having been the involuntary listener to this terrible tale.” But in this Andre was mistaken, for unsophisticated nature requires sympathy, and Nichols Gandelu would have said the same to the first comer.
“Before, however, delivering the hundred thousand francs, the usurer wished to make himself more secure, and asked for a certificate from some one who had seen me. This person was his friend. He spoke to me of a medical man, a specialist, who would understand my case at once. Would I not see him? Never had I seen my son so tender and affectionate. I yielded to his entreaties at last, and one evening I said to him, ‘Bring in this wonderful physician, if you really think he can do anything for me,’ and he did bring him.
“Yes, M. Andre, he found a medical man base and vile enough to become the tool of my son, and a money-lender; and if I choose, I can expose him to the loathing of the world, and the contempt of his brethren.
“The fellow came, and his visit lasted nearly an hour. I can see him now, asking questions and feeling my pulse. He went away at last, and my son followed him. They both met Clergot, who was waiting in the street. ‘You can pay him the cash; the old man won’t last twenty-four hours longer,’ said the doctor; and then my son came back happy and radiant, and assured me that I should soon be well again. And strange as it may seem, a change for the better took place that very night. Clergot had asked for forty-eight hours in which to raise the sum required. He heard of my convalescence, and my son lost the money.
“Was it courage you lacked?” asked the old man, turning for the first time to his son. “Did you not know that ten drops instead of one of the medicine I was taking would have freed you from me for ever?”
Gaston did not seem at all overwhelmed. Indeed, he was wondering how the matter had reached his father’s ears, and how Catenac had discovered the rough draft of the agreement.
The contractor had imagined that his son would implore forgiveness; but seeing that he remained obdurate, his violence burst forth again. “And do you know what use my son would make of my fortune? He would squander it on a creature he picked up out of the streets,--a woman he called Madame de Chantemille,--a fit companion for a noble count!”
The shaft had penetrated the impassability which Gaston had up to this displayed. “You should not insult Zora,” said he.
“I shall not,” returned his father with a grim laugh, “take the trouble to do that; you are not of age, and I shall clap your friend Madame de Chantemille into prison.”
“You would not do that!”
“Would I not? You are a minor; but your Zora, whose real name is Rose, is much older; the law is wholly on my side.”
“But father--”
“There is no use in crying; my lawyer has the matter in hand, and by nightfall your Zora will be securely caged.”
This blow was so cruel and unexpected, that the young man could only repeat,--
“Zora in prison!”
“Yes, in the House of Correction, and from thence to Saint Lazare. Catenac told me the very things to be done.”
“Shameful!” exclaimed Gaston, “Zora in prison! Why, I and my friends will lay siege to the place. I will go to the Court, stand by her side, and depose that this all comes from your devilish malignity. I will say that I love and esteem her, and that as soon as I am of age I will marry her; the papers will write about us. Go on, go on; I rather like the idea.”
However great a man’s self-control may be, it has its limits. M. Gandelu had restrained himself even while he told his son of his villainous conduct; but these revolting threats were more than he could endure, and Andre seeing this, stepped forward, opened the door, and thrust the foolish youth into the corridor.
“What have you done” cried the contractor; “do you not see that he will go and warn that vile creature, and that she will escape from justice?”
And as Andre, fearing he knew not what, tried to restrain him, the old man, exerting all his muscular strength, thrust him on one side with perfect ease, and rushed from the room, calling loudly to his servants.
Andre was horrified at the scene at which, in spite of himself, he had been compelled to assist as a witness. He was not a fool, and had lived too much in the world of art not to have witnessed many strange scenes and met with many dissolute characters; but, as a rule, the follies of the world had amused rather than disgusted him. But this display of want of feeling on the part of a son toward a father absolutely chilled his blood. In a few minutes M. Gandelu appeared with a calmer expression upon his face.
“I will tell you how matters now stand,” said he, in a voice that quivered in spite of his efforts. “My son is locked up in his room, and a trustworthy servant whom he cannot corrupt has mounted guard over him.”
“Do you not fear, sir, that in his excitement and anger he may----?”
The contractor shrugged his shoulders.
“You do not know him,” answered he, “if you imagine that he resembles me in any way. What do you think that he is doing now? Lying on his bed, face downward, yelling for his Zora. Zora, indeed! As if that was a name fit for a Christian. How is it that these creatures are enabled to drug our boys and lead them anywhere? Had his mother not been a saint on earth, I should scarcely believe that he was my son.”
The contractor sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
“You are in pain, sir?” said Andre.
“Yes; my heart is deeply wounded. Up to this time I have only felt as a father; now I feel as a man. To-morrow I send for my family and consult with them; and I shall advertise that for the future I will not be responsible for any debts that my son may contract. He shall not have a penny, and will soon learn how society treats a man with empty pockets. As to the girl, she will disappear in double quick time. I have thoroughly weighed the consequences of sending this girl to gaol, and they are very terrible. My son will do as he has threatened, I am sure of that; and I can picture him tied to that infamous creature for life, looking into her face, and telling her that he adores her, and glorying in his dishonor, which will be repeated by every Parisian newspaper.”
“But is there no other way of proceeding?” asked Andre.
“No, none whatever. If all modern fathers had my courage, we should not have so many profligate sons. It is impossible that this conferring with the doctor and the money-lender could have originated in my son’s weak brain. He is a mere child, and some one must have put him up to it.”
The poor father was already seeking for some excuse for the son’s conduct.
“I must not dwell on this longer,” continued Gandelu, “or I shall get as mad as I was before. I will look at your plans another day. Now, let us get out of the house. Come and look at the new building in the Champs Elysees.”
The mansion in question was situated at the corner of the Rue de Chantilly, near the Avenue des Champs Elysees, and the frontage of it was still marked by scaffolding, so that but little of it could be seen. A dozen workmen, engaged by Andre, were lounging about. They had expected to see him early, and were surprised at his non-appearance, as he was usually punctuality itself. Andre greeted them in a friendly manner, but M. Gandelu, though he was always on friendly terms with his workmen, passed by them as if he did not even notice their existence. He walked through the different rooms and examined them carelessly, without seeming to take any interest in them, for his thoughts were with his son,--his only son.
After a short time he returned to Andre.
“I cannot stay longer,” said he; “I am not feeling well; I will be here to-morrow;” and he went away with his head bent down on his chest.
The workmen noticed his strange and unusual manner.
“He does not look very bright,” remarked one to his comrade. “Since his illness he has not been the same man. I think he must have had some terrible shock.”
