Baptiste Mascarin had been in so many strange situations, from which he had extricated himself with safety and credit, that he had the fullest self-confidence, but as he ascended the wide staircase of the Hotel de Mussidan, he felt his heart beat quicker in anticipation of the struggle that was before him. It was twilight out of doors, but all within was a blaze of light. The library into which he was ushered was a vast apartment, furnished in severe taste. At the sound of the unaristocratic name of Mascarin, which seemed as much out of place as a drunkard’s oath in the chamber of sleeping innocence, M. de Mussidan raised his head in sudden surprise. The Count was seated at the other end of the room, reading by the light of four candles placed in a magnificently wrought candelabra. He threw down his paper, and raising his glasses, gazed with astonishment at Mascarin, who, with his hat in his hand and his heart in his mouth, slowly crossed the room, muttering a few unintelligible apologies. He could make nothing, however, of his visitor, and said, “Whom do you wish to see, sir?”
“The Count de Mussidan,” stuttered Mascarin; “and I hope that you will forgive this intrusion.”
The Count cut his excuse short with a haughty wave of his hand. “Wait,” said he imperiously. He then with evident pain rose from his seat, and crossing the room, rang the bell violently, and then reseated himself. Mascarin, who still remained in the centre of the room, inwardly wondered if after all he was to be turned out of the house. In another second the door opened, and the figure of the faithful Florestan appeared.
“Florestan,” said the Count, angrily, “this is the first time that you have permitted any one to enter this room without my permission; if this occurs again, you leave my service.”
“I assure your lordship,” began the man.
“Enough! I have spoken; you know what to expect.”
During this brief colloquy, Mascarin studied the Count with the deepest attention.
The Count Octave de Mussidan in no way resembled the man sketched by Florestan. Since the time of Montaigne, a servant’s portrait of his employer should always be distrusted. The Count looked fully sixty, though he was but fifty years of age; he was undersized, and he looked shrunk and shrivelled; he was nearly bald, and his long whiskers were perfectly white. The cares of life had imprinted deep furrows on his brow, and told too plainly the story of a man who, having drained the chalice of life to the bottom, was now ready to shiver the goblet. As Florestan left the room the Count turned to Mascarin, and in the same glacial tone observed, “And now, sir, explain this intrusion.”
Mascarin had often been rebuffed, but never so cruelly as this. His vanity was sorely wounded, for he was vain, as all are who think that they possess some hidden influence, and he felt his temper giving way.
“Pompous idiot!” thought he; “we will see how he looks in a short time;” but his face did not betray this, and his manner remained cringing and obsequious. “You have heard my name, my lord, and I am a general business agent.”
The Count was deceived by the honest accents which long practice had taught Mascarin to use, and he had neither a suspicion nor a presentiment.
“Ah!” said he majestically, “a business agent, are you? I presume you come on behalf of one of my creditors. Well, sir, as I have before told these people, your errand is a futile one. Why do they worry me when I unhesitatingly pay the extravagant interest they are pleased to demand? They know that they are all knaves. They are aware that I am rich, for I have inherited a great fortune, which is certainly without encumbrance; for though I could raise a million to-morrow upon my estates in Poitiers, I have up to this time not chosen to do so.”
Mascarin had at length so recovered his self-command that he listened to this speech without a word, hoping to gain some information from it.
“You may tell this,” continued the Count, “to those by whom you are employed.”
“Excuse me, my lord--”
“But what?”
“I cannot allow--”
“I have nothing more to say; all will be settled as I promised, when I pay my daughter’s dowry. You are aware that she will shortly be united to M. de Breulh-Faverlay.”
There was no mistaking the order to go, contained in these words, but Mascarin did not offer to do so, but readjusting his spectacles, remarked in a perfectly calm voice,--
“It is this marriage that has brought me here.”
The Count thought that his ears had deceived him. “What are you saying?” said he.
“I say,” repeated the agent, “that I am sent to you in connection with this same marriage.”
Neither the doctor nor Florestan had exaggerated the violence of the Count’s temper. Upon hearing his daughter’s name and marriage mentioned by this man, his face grew crimson and his eyes gleamed with a lurid fire.
“Get out of this!” cried he, angrily.
But this was an order that Mascarin had no intention of obeying.
“I assure you that what I have to say is of the utmost importance,” said he.
This speech put the finishing touch to the Count’s fury.
“You won’t go, won’t you?” said he; and in spite of the pain that at the moment evidently oppressed him, he stepped to the bell, but was arrested by Mascarin, uttering in a warning voice the words,--
“Take care; if you ring that bell, you will regret it to the last day of your life.”
This was too much for the Count’s patience, and letting go the bell rope, he snatched up a walking cane that was leaning against the chimneypiece, and made a rush toward his visitor. But Mascarin did not move or lift his hand in self-defence, contenting himself with saying calmly,--
“No violence, Count; remember Montlouis.”
At this name the Count grew livid, and dropping the cane from his nerveless hand staggered back a pace or two. Had a spectre suddenly stood up before him with threatening hand, he could not have been more horrified.
“Montlouis!” he murmured; “Montlouis!”
But now Mascarin, thoroughly assured of the value of his weapon, had resumed all his humbleness of demeanor.
“Believe me, my lord,” said he, “that I only mentioned this name on account of the immediate danger that threatens you.”
The Count hardly seemed to pay attention to his visitor’s words.
“It was not I,” continued Mascarin, “who devised the project of bringing against you an act which was perhaps a mere accident. I am only a plenipotentiary from persons I despise, to you, for whom I entertain the very highest respect.”
By this time the Count had somewhat recovered himself.
“I really do not understand you,” said he, in a tone he vainly endeavored to render calm. “My sudden emotion is only too easily explained. I had a sad misfortune. I accidentally shot my secretary, and the poor young man bore the name you just now mentioned; but the court acquitted me of all blame in the matter.”
The smile upon Mascarin’s face was so full of sarcasm that the Count broke off.
“Those who sent me here,” remarked the agent, slowly, “are well acquainted with the evidence produced in court; but unfortunately, they know the real facts, which certain honorable gentlemen had sense to conceal at any risk.”
Again the Count started, but Mascarin went on implacably,--
“But reassure yourself, your friend did not betray you voluntarily. Providence, in her inscrutable decrees----”
The Count shuddered.
“In short, sir, in short----”
Up to this time Mascarin had remained standing, but now that he saw that his position was fully established, he drew up a chair and sat down. The Count grew more livid at this insolent act, but made no comment, and this entirely removed any doubts from the agent’s mind.
“The event to which I have alluded has two eye-witnesses, the Baron de Clinchain, and a servant, named Ludovic Trofin, now in the employ of the Count du Commarin.”
“I did not know what had become of Trofin.”
“Perhaps not, but my people do. When he swore to keep the matter secret, he was unmarried, but a few years later, having entered the bonds of matrimony, he told all to his young wife. This woman turned out badly; she had several lovers, and through one of them the matter came to my employer’s ears.”
“And it was on the word of a lackey, and the gossip of a dissolute woman, that they have dared to accuse me.”
No word of direct accusation had passed, and yet the Count sought to defend himself.
Mascarin saw all this, and smiled inwardly, as he replied, “We have other evidence than that of Ludovic.”
“But,” said the Count, who was sure of the fidelity of his friend, “you do not, I suppose, pretend that the Baron de Clinchain has deceived me?”
The state of mental anxiety and perturbation into which this man of the world had been thrown must have been very intense for him not to have perceived that every word he uttered put a fresh weapon in his adversary’s hands.
“He has not denounced you by word of mouth,” replied the agent. “He has done far more; he has written his testimony.”
“It is a lie,” exclaimed the Count.
Mascarin was not disturbed by this insult.
“The Baron has written,” repeated he, “though he never thought that any eye save his own would read what he had penned. As you are aware, the Baron de Clinchain is a most methodical man, and punctilious to a degree.”
“I allow that; continue.”
“Consequently you will not be surprised to learn that from his earliest years he has kept a diary, and each day he puts down in the most minute manner everything that has occurred, even to the different conditions of his bodily health.”
The Count knew of his friend’s foible, and remembered that when they were young many a practical joke had been played upon his friend on this account, and now he began to perceive the dangerous ground upon which he stood.
“On hearing the facts of the case from Ludovic’s wife’s lover,” continued Mascarin, “my employers decided that if the tale was a true one, some mention of it would be found in the Baron’s diary; and thanks to the ingenuity and skill of certain parties, they have had in their possession for twenty-four hours the volume for the year 1842.”
“Scoundrels!” muttered the Count.
“They find not only one, but three distinct statements relating to the affair in question.”
The Count started again to his feet with so menacing a look, that the worthy Mascarin pushed back his chair in anticipation of an immediate assault.
“Proofs!” gasped the Count. “Give me proofs.”
“Everything has been provided for, and the three leaves by which you are so deeply compromised have been cut from the book.”
“Where are these pages?”
Mascarin at once put on an air of injured innocence.
“I have not seen them, but the leaves have been photographed, and a print has been entrusted to me, in order to enable you to recognize the writing.”
As he spoke he produced three specimens of the photographic art, wonderfully clear and full of fidelity. The Count examined them with the utmost attention, and then in a voice which trembled with emotion, he said, “True enough, it is his handwriting.”
Not a line upon Mascarin’s face indicated the delight with which he received this admission.
“Before continuing the subject,” he observed placidly, “I consider it necessary for you to understand the position taken up by the Baron de Clinchain. Do you wish, my lord, to read these extracts, or shall I do so for you?”
“Read,” answered the Count, adding in a lower voice, “I cannot see to do so.”
Mascarin drew his chair nearer to the lights on the table. “I perceive,” said he, “that the first entry was made on the evening after the--well, the accident. This is it: ‘October 26, 1842. Early this morning went out shooting with Octave de Mussidan. We were accompanied by Ludovic, a groom, and by a young man named Montlouis, whom Octave intends one day to make his steward. It was a splendid day, and by twelve o’clock I had killed a leash of hares. Octave was in excellent spirits, and by one o’clock we were in a thick cover not far from Bevron. I and Ludovic were a few yards in front of the others, when angry voices behind attracted our attention. Octave and Montlouis were arguing violently, and all at once the Count struck his future steward a violent blow. In another moment Montlouis came up to me. ‘What is the matter?’ cried I. Instead of replying to my question, the unhappy young man turned back to his master, uttering a series of threats. Octave had evidently been reproaching him for some low intrigue he had been engaged in, and was reflecting upon the character of the woman. ‘At any rate,’ cried Montlouis, ‘she is quite as virtuous as Madame de Mussidan was before her marriage.’”
“‘As Octave heard these words, he raised the loaded gun he held in his hand and fired. Montlouis fell to the ground, bathed in blood. We all ran up to him, but he was quite dead, for the charge of shot had penetrated his heart. I was almost beside myself, but Octave’s despair was terrible to witness. Tearing his hair, he knelt beside the dead man. Ludovic, however, maintained his calmness. “We must say that it was an accident,” observed he quickly. “Thinking that Montlouis was not near, my master fired into cover.”
“‘This was agreed to, and we carefully arranged what we should say. It was I who went before the magistrate and made a deposition, which was unhesitatingly received. But, oh, what a fearful day! My pulse is at eighty, and I feel I shall not sleep all night. Octave is half mad, and Heaven knows what will become of him.’”
The Count, from the depths of his armchair, listened without apparent emotion to this terrible revelation. He was quite crushed, and was searching for some means to exorcise the green spectre of the past, which had so suddenly confronted him. Mascarin never took his eyes off him. All at once the Count roused himself from his prostration, as a man awakes from a hideous dream. “This is sheer folly,” cried he.
“It is folly,” answered Mascarin, “that would carry much weight with it.”
“And suppose I were to show you,” returned the Count, “that all these entries are the offspring of a diseased mind?”
Mascarin shook his head with an air of affected grief. “There is no use, my lord, in indulging in vain hopes. We,” he continued, wishing to associate himself with the Count, “we might of course admit that the Baron de Clinchain had made this entry in his diary in a moment of temporary insanity, were it not for the painful fact that there were others. Le me read them.”
“Go on; I am all attention.”
“We find the following, three days later: ‘Oct. 29th, 1842. I am most uneasy about my health. I feel shooting pains in all my joints. The derangement of my system arises entirely from this business of Octave’s. I had to run the gauntlet of a second court, and the judge’s eyes seemed to look me through and through. I also saw with much alarm that my second statement differs somewhat from the first one, so I have now learned it by heart. Ludovic is a sharp fellow, and quite self-possessed. I would like to have him in my household. I keep myself shut up in my house for fear of meeting friends who want to hear all the details of the accident. I believe I may say that I have repeated the story more than a couple of dozen times.’ Now, my lord,” added Mascarin, “what do you say to this?”
“Continue the reading of the extracts.”
“The third allusion, though it is short, is still very important: ‘November 3rd, 1842. Thank Heaven! all is over. I have just returned from the court. Octave has been acquitted. Ludovic had behaved wonderfully. He explained the reason of the misadventure in a way that was really surprising in an uneducated man, and there was not an atom of suspicion among judge, jury, or spectators. I have changed my mind; I would not have a fellow like Ludovic in my service; he is much too sharp. When I had been duly sworn, I gave my evidence. Though I was much agitated, I went through it all right; but when I got home I felt very ill, and discovered that my pulse was down to fifty. Ah, me! what terrible misfortunes are wrought by a momentary burst of anger. I now write this sentence in my diary: “Never give way to first impulses.”’ These words,” continued Mascarin, “were inscribed on every one of the pages following,--at least so those who examined the entries informed me.”
Mascarin persisted in representing himself as the agent of others, but still the Count made no allusion to the persons in the background.
After a few moments the Count rose and limped up and down, as though he hoped by this means to collect his ideas, or perhaps in order to prevent his visitor from scanning his face too closely.
“Have you done?” asked he, all at once.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Have you thought what an impartial judge would say?”
“I think I have.”
“He would say,” broke in the Count, “that no sane man would have written such things down, for there are certain secrets which we do not whisper even to ourselves, and it is hardly likely that any man would make such compromising entries in a diary which might be lost or stolen, and which would certainly be read by his heir. Do you think that a man of high position would record his perjury, which is a crime that would send him to penal servitude?”
Mascarin gazed upon the Count with an air of pity.
“You are not going the right way, my lord, to get out of your trouble. No lawyer would adopt your theory. If the remaining volumes of M. de Clinchain’s diaries were produced in court, I imagine that other equally startling entries would be found in them.”
The Count now appeared to have arrived at some decision, and to continue the conversation simply for the purpose of gaining time.
“Well,” said he, “I will give up this idea; but how do I know that these documents are not forgeries? Nowadays, handwritings are easily facsimilied, when even bankers find it hard to distinguish between their own notes and counterfeit ones.”
“That can be settled by seeing if certain leaves are missing from the Baron’s diary.”
“That does not prove much.”
“Pardon me, it proves a great deal. This new line of argument, I assure you, will avail you as little as the other. I am perfectly aware that the Baron de Clinchain will utter whatever words you may place in his mouth. Let us suppose that the leaves which have been torn out should fit into the book exactly. Would not that be a strong point?”
The Count smiled ironically, as though he had a crushing reply in reserve.
“And so this is your opinion, is it?” said he.
“It is indeed.”
“Then all I have to do is to plead guilty. I did kill Montlouis, just as Clinchain describes, but----” and as he spoke he took a heavy volume from a shelf, and opening it at a certain place laid it before Mascarin, remarking,--“this is the criminal code; read. ‘All proceedings in criminal law shall be cancelled after a lapse of ten years.’”
The Count de Mussidan evidently thought that he had crushed his adversary by this shattering blow; but it was not so, for instead of exhibiting any surprise, Mascarin’s smile was as bland as ever.
“I, too, know a little of the law,” said he. “The very first day this matter was brought to me, I turned to this page and read what you have just shown me to my employers.”
“And what did they say?”
“That they knew all this, but that you would be glad to compromise the affair, even at the expense of half your fortune.”
The agent’s manner was so confident that the Count felt they had discovered some means of turning this crime of his early days to advantage; but he was still sufficiently master of himself to show no emotion.
“No,” replied he, “it is not such an easy matter as you think to get hold of half my fortune. I fancy that your friends’ demands will assume a more modest tone, the more so when I repeat that these morsels of paper, stolen from my friend’s diary, are absolutely worthless.”
“Do you think so?”
“Certainly, for the law on this matter speaks plainly enough.”
Mascarin readjusted his glasses, a sure indication that he was going to make an important reply.
“You are quite right, my lord,” said he, slowly. “There is no intention of taking you before any court, for there is no penalty now for a crime committed twenty-three years ago; but the miserable wretches whom I blush to act for have arranged a plan which will be disagreeable in the highest degree both for you and the Baron.”
“Pray tell me what this clever plan is.”
“Most certainly. I came here to-day for this very purpose. Let us first conclude that you have rejected the request with which I approached you.”
“Do you call this style of thing a request?”
“What is the use of quarrelling over words. Well, to-morrow, my clients--though I am ashamed to speak of them as such--will send to a well known morning paper a tale, with the title, ‘Story of a Day’s Shooting.’ Of course only initials will be used for the names, but no doubt will exist as to the identity of the actors in the tragedy.”
“You forget that in actions for libel proofs are not admitted.”
Mascarin shrugged his shoulders.
“My employers forget nothing,” remarked he; “and it is upon this very point that they have based their plans For this reason they introduce into the matter a fifth party, of course an accomplice, whose name is introduced into the story in the paper. Upon the day of its appearance, this man lodges a complaint against the journal, and insists on proving in a court of justice, that he did not form one of the shooting-party.”
“Well, what happens then?”
“Then, my lord, this man insists that the journal should give a retraction of the injurious statement and summons as witnesses both yourself and the Baron de Clinchain, and as a conclusion, Ludovic; and as he claims damages, he employs a lawyer, who is one of the confederates and behind the scenes. The lawyer will speak something to this effect: ‘That the Count de Mussidan is clearly a murderer; that the Baron de Clinchain is a perjurer, as proved by his own handwriting; Ludovic has been tampered with, but my client, an honorable man, must not be classed with these, etc., etc.’ Have I made myself understood?”
Indeed, he had, and with such cold and merciless logic that it seemed hopeless to expect to escape from the net that had been spread.
As these thoughts passed through the Count’s brain, he saw at a glance the whole terrible notoriety that the case would cause, and society gloating over the details. Yet such was the obstinacy of his disposition, and so impatient was he of control, that the more desperate his position seemed, the fiercer was his resistance. He knew the world well, and he also knew that the cutthroats who demanded his money with threats had every reason to dread the lynx eye of the law. If he refused to listen to them, as his heart urged him, perhaps they would not dare to carry out their threats. Had he alone been concerned in the matter, he would have resisted to the last, and fought it out to the last drop of his blood, and as a preliminary, would have beaten the sneering rogue before him to a jelly; but how dared he expose his friend Clinchain, who had already braved so much for him? As he paced up and down the library, these and many other thoughts swept across his brain, and he was undecided whether to submit to these extortions or throw the agent out of the window. His excited demeanor and the occasional interjections that burst from his lips showed Mascarin that the account of him was not exaggerated, and that when led by passion he would as soon shoot a fellow-creature as a rabbit. And yet, though he knew not whether he should make his exit by the door or the window, he sat twirling his fingers with the most unconcerned air imaginable. At last the Count gave ear to prudence. He stopped in front of the agent, and, taking no pains to hide his contempt, said,--
“Come, let us make an end of this. How much do you want for these papers?”
“Oh, my lord!” exclaimed Mascarin; “surely you do not think that I could be guilty----?”
M. de Mussidan shrugged his shoulders. “Pray, do not take me for a fool,” said he, “but name your sum.”
Mascarin seemed a little embarrassed, and hesitated. “We don’t want money,” answered he at length.
“Not money!” replied the Count.
“We want something that is of no importance to you, but of the utmost value to those who despatched me here. I am commissioned to inform you that my clients desire that you should break off the engagement between your daughter and M. de Breulh-Faverlay, and that the missing paper will be handed to you on the completion of her marriage with any else whom you may deem worthy of such an honor.”
This demand, which was utterly unexpected, so astonished the Count that he could only exclaim, “Why, this is absolute madness!”
“No; it is plain, good sense, and a bona fide offer.”
An idea suddenly flashed across the Count’s mind. “Is it your intention,” asked he, “to furnish me with a son-in-law too?”
“I am sure, my lord,” answered Mascarin, looking the picture of disinterested honesty, “that, even to save yourself, you would never sacrifice your daughter.”
“But--”
“You are entirely mistaken; it is M. de Breulh-Faverlay whom my clients wish to strike at, for they have taken an oath that he shall never wed a lady with a million for her dowry.”
So surprised was the Count, that the whole aspect of the interview seemed to have changed, and he now combated his own objections instead of those of his unwelcome visitor. “M. de Breulh-Faverlay has my promise,” remarked he; “but of course it is easy to find a pretext. The Countess, however, is in favor of the match, and the chief opposition to any change will come from her.”
Mascarin did not think it wise to make any reply, and the Count continued, “My daughter also may not view this rupture with satisfaction.”
Thanks to the information he had received from Florestan, Mascarin knew how much importance to attach to this. “Mademoiselle, at her age and with her tastes, is not likely to have her heart seriously engaged.” For fully a quarter of an hour the Count still hesitated. He knew that he was entirely at the mercy of those miscreants, and his pride revolted at the idea of submission; but at length he yielded.
“I agree,” said he. “My daughter shall not marry M. de Breulh-Faverlay.”
Even in his hour of triumph, Mascarin’s face did not change. He bowed profoundly, and left the room; but as he descended the stairs, he rubbed his hands, exclaiming, “If the doctor has made as good a job of it as I have, success is certain.”
