Other People's Money 30 – Gaboriau · Verses Across
Literature · Detective Fiction
Other People's Money 30Part 1 · Chapter 30
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Literature · Detective Fiction
Other People's Money 30
Part 1 · Chapter 30
GaboriauEnglish
Two o’clock struck as Mlle. Lucienne and Maxence left the office of the commissary of police, she pensive and agitated, he gloomy and irritated. They reached the Hotel des Folies without exchanging a word. Mme. Fortin was again at the door, speechifying in the midst of a group with indefatigable volubility. Indeed, it was a perfect godsend for her, the fact of lodging the son of that cashier who had stolen twelve millions, and had thus suddenly become a celebrity. Seeing Maxence and Mlle. Lucienne coming, she stepped toward them, and, with her most obsequious smile,
“Back already?” she said.
But they made no answer; and, entering the narrow corridor, they hurried to their fourth story. As he entered his room, Maxence threw his hat upon his bed with a gesture of impatience; and, after walking up and down for a moment, he returned to plant himself in front of Mlle. Lucienne.
“Well,” he said, “are you satisfied now?”
She looked at him with an air of profound commiseration, knowing his weakness too well to be angry at his injustice.
“Of what should I be satisfied?” she asked gently.
“I have done what you wished me to.”
“You did what reason dictated, my friend.”
“Very well: we won’t quarrel about words. I have seen your friend the commissary. Am I any better off?”
She shrugged her shoulders almost imperceptibly.
“What did you expect of him, then?” she asked. “Did you think that he could undo what is done? Did you suppose, that, by the sole power of his will, he would make up the deficit in the Mutual Credit’s cash, and rehabilitate your father?”
“No, I am not quite mad yet.”
“Well, then, could he do more than promise you his most ardent and devoted co-operation?”
But he did not allow her to proceed.
“And how do I know,” he exclaimed, “that he is not trifling with me? If he was sincere, why his reticence and his enigmas? He pretends that I may rely on him, because to serve me is to serve you. What does that mean? What connection is there between your situation and mine, between your enemies and those of my father? And I--I replied to all his questions like a simpleton. Poor fool! But the man who drowns catches at straws; and I am drowning, I am sinking, I am foundering.”
He sank upon a chair, and, hiding his face in his hands,
“Ah, how I do suffer!” he groaned.
Mlle. Lucienne approached him, and in a severe tone, despite her emotion,
“Are you, then, such a coward?” she uttered. “What! at the first misfortune that strikes you,--and this is the first real misfortune of your life, Maxence,--you despair. An obstacle rises, and, instead of gathering all your energy to overcome it, you sit down and weep like a woman. Who, then, is to inspire courage in your mother and in your sister, if you give up so?”
At the sound of these words, uttered by that voice which was all-powerful over his soul, Maxence looked up.
“I thank you, my friend,” he said. “I thank you for reminding me of what I owe to my mother and sister. Poor women! They are wondering, doubtless, what has become of me.”
“You must return to them,” interrupted the girl.
He got up resolutely.
“I will,” he replied. “I should be unworthy of you if I could not raise my own energy to the level of yours.”
And, having pressed her hand, he left. But it was not by the usual route that he reached the Rue St. Gilles. He made a long detour, so as not to meet any of his acquaintances.
“Here you are at last,” said the servant as she opened the door. “Madame was getting very uneasy, I can tell you. She is in the parlor, with Mlle. Gilberte and M. Chapelain.”
It was so. After his fruitless attempt to reach M. de Thaller, M. Chapelain had breakfasted there, and had remained, wishing, he said, to see Maxence. And so, as soon as the young man appeared, availing himself of the privileges of his age and his old intimacy,
“How,” said he, “dare you leave your mother and sister alone in a house where some brutal creditor may come in at any moment?”
“I was wrong,” said Maxence, who preferred to plead guilty rather than attempt an explanation.
“Don’t do it again then,” resumed M. Chapelain. “I was waiting for you to say that I was unable to see M. de Thaller, and that I do not care to face once more the impudence of his valets. You will, therefore, have to take back the fifteen thousand francs he had brought to your father. Place them in his own hands; and don’t give them up without a receipt.”
After some further recommendations, he went off, leaving Mme. Favoral alone at last with her children. She was about to call Maxence to account for his absence, when Mlle. Gilberte interrupted her.
“I have to speak to you, mother,” she said with a singular precipitation, “and to you also, brother.”
And at once she began telling them of M. Costeclar’s strange visit, his inconceivable audacity, and his offensive declarations.
Maxence was fairly stamping with rage.
“And I was not here,” he exclaimed, “to put him out of the house!”
But another was there; and this was just what Mlle. Gilberte wished to come to. But the avowal was difficult, painful even; and it was not without some degree of confusion that she resumed at last,
“You have suspected for a long time, mother, that I was hiding something from you. When you questioned me, I lied; not that I had any thing to blush for, but because I feared for you my father’s anger.”
Her mother and her brother were gazing at her with a look of blank amazement.
“Yes, I had a secret,” she continued. “Boldly, without consulting any one, trusting the sole inspirations of my heart, I had engaged my life to a stranger: I had selected the man whose wife I wished to be.”
Mme. Favoral raised her hands to heaven.
“But this is sheer madness!” she said.
“Unfortunately,” went on the girl, “between that man, my affianced husband before God, and myself, rose a terrible obstacle. He was poor: he thought my father very rich; and he had asked me a delay of three years to conquer a fortune which might enable him to aspire to my hand.”
She stopped: all the blood in her veins was rushing to her face.
“This morning,” she said, “at the news of our disaster, he came . . .”
“Here?” interrupted Maxence.
“Yes, brother, here. He arrived at the very moment, when, basely insulted by M. Costeclar, I commanded him to withdraw, and, instead of going, he was walking towards me with outstretched arms.”
“He dared to penetrate here!” murmured Mme. Favoral.
“Yes, mother: he came in just in time to seize M. Costeclar by his coat-collar, and to throw him at my feet, livid with fear, and begging for mercy. He came, notwithstanding the terrible calamity that has befallen us. Notwithstanding ruin, and notwithstanding shame, he came to offer me his name, and to tell me, that, in the course of the day, he would send a friend of his family to apprise you of his intentions.”
Here she was interrupted by the servant, who, throwing open the parlor-door, announced,
“The Count de Villegre.”
If it had occurred to the mind of Mme. Favoral or Maxence that Mlle. Gilberte might have been the victim of some base intrigue, the mere appearance of the man who now walked in must have been enough to disabuse them.
He was of a rather formidable aspect, with his military bearing, his bluff manners, his huge white mustache, and the deep scar across his forehead.
But in order to be re-assured, and to feel confident, it was enough to look at his broad face, at once energetic and debonair, his clear eye, in which shone the loyalty of his soul, and his thick red lips, which had never opened to utter an untruth.
At this moment, however, he was hardly in possession of all his faculties.
That valiant man, that old soldier, was timid; and he would have felt much more at ease under the fire of a battery than in that humble parlor in the Rue St. Gilles, under the uneasy glance of Maxence and Mme. Favoral.
Having bowed, having made a little friendly sign to Mlle. Gilberte, he had stopped short, two steps from the door, his hat in his hand.
Eloquence was not his forte. He had prepared himself well in advance; but though he kept coughing: hum! broum! though he kept running his finger around his shirt-collar to facilitate his delivery, the beginning of his speech stuck in his throat.
Seeing how urgent it was to come to his assistance,
“I was expecting you, sir,” said Mlle. Gilberte. With this encouragement, he advanced towards Mme. Favoral, and, bowing low,
“I see that my presence surprises you, madame,” he began; “and I must confess that--hum!--it does not surprise me less than it does you. But extraordinary circumstances require exceptional action. On any other occasion, I would not fall upon you like a bombshell. But we had no time to waste in ceremonious formalities. I will, therefore, ask your leave to introduce myself: I am General Count de Villegre.”
Maxence had brought him a chair.
“I am ready to hear you, sir,” said Mme. Favoral. He sat down, and, with a further effort,
“I suppose, madame,” he resumed, “that your daughter has explained to you our singular situation, which, as I had the honor of telling you--hum!--is not strictly in accordance with social usage.”
Mlle. Gilberte interrupted him.
“When you came in, general, I was only just beginning to explain the facts to my mother and brother.”
The old soldier made a gesture, and a face which showed plainly that he did not much relish the prospect of a somewhat difficult explanation--broum! Nevertheless, making up his mind bravely,
“It is very simple,” he said: “I come in behalf of M. de Tregars.”
Maxence fairly bounced upon his chair. That was the very name which he had just heard mentioned by the commissary of police.
“Tregars!” he repeated in a tone of immense surprise.
“Yes,” said M. de Villegre. “Do you know him, by chance?”
“No, sir, no!”
“Marius de Tregars is the son of the most honest man I ever knew, of the best friend I ever had,--of the Marquis de Tregars, in a word, who died of grief a few years ago, after--hum!--some quite inexplicable--broum!--reverses of fortune. Marius could not be dearer to me, if he were my own son. He has lost his parents: I have no relatives; and I have transferred to him all the feelings of affection which still remained at the bottom of my old heart.
“And I can say that never was a man more worthy of affection. I know him. To the most legitimate pride and the most scrupulous integrity, he unites a keen and supple mind, and wit enough to get the better of the toughest rascal. He has no fortune for the reason that--hum!--he gave up all he had to certain pretended creditors of his father. But whenever he wishes to be rich, he shall be; and --broum!--he may be so before long. I know his projects, his hopes, his resources.”
But, as if feeling that he was treading on dangerous ground, the Count de Villegre stopped short, and, after taking breath for a moment,
“In short,” he went on, “Marius has been unable to see Mlle. Gilberte, and to appreciate the rare qualities of her heart, without falling desperately in love with her.”
Mme. Favoral made a gesture of protest,
“Allow me, sir,” she began.
But he interrupted her.
“I understand you, madame,” he resumed. “You wonder how M. de Tregars can have seen your daughter, have known her, and have appreciated her, without your seeing or hearing any thing of it. Nothing is more simple, and, if I may venture to say--hum!--more natural.”
And the worthy old soldier began to explain to Mme. Favoral the meetings in the Place-Royale, his conversations with Marius, intended really for Mlle. Gilberte, and the part he had consented to play in this little comedy. But he became embarrassed in his sentences, he multiplied his hum! and his broum! in the most alarming manner; and his explanations explained nothing.
Mlle. Gilberte took pity on him; and, kindly interrupting him, she herself told her story, and that of Marius.
She told the pledge they had exchanged, how they had seen each other twice, and how they constantly heard of each other through the very innocent and very unconscious Signor Gismondo Pulei.
Maxence and Mme. Favoral were dumbfounded. They would have absolutely refused to believe such a story, had it not been told by Mlle. Gilberte herself.
“Ah, my dear sister!” thought Maxence, “who could have suspected such a thing, seeing you always so calm and so meek!”
“Is it possible,” Mme. Favoral was saying to herself; “that I can have been so blind and so deaf?”
As to the Count de Villegre, he would have tried in vain to express the gratitude he felt towards Mlle. Gilberte for having spared him these difficult explanations.
“I could not have done half as well myself, by the eternal!” he thought, like a man who has no illusions on his own account.
But, as soon as she had done, addressing himself to Mme. Favoral,
“Now, madame,” he said, “you know all; and you will understand that the irreparable disaster that strikes you has removed the only obstacle which had hitherto stood in the way of Marius.”
He rose, and in a solemn tone, without any hum or broum, this time,
“I have the honor, madame,” he uttered, “to solicit the hand of Mlle. Gilberte, your daughter, for my friend Yves-Marius de Genost, Marquis de Tregars.”
A profound silence followed this speech. But this silence the Count de Villegre doubtless interpreted in his own favor; for, stepping to the parlor-door, he opened it, and called, “Marius!”
Marius de Tregars had foreseen all that had just taken place, and had so informed the Count de Villegre in advance.
Being given Mme. Favoral’s disposition, he knew what could be expected of her; and he had his own reasons to fear nothing from Maxence. And, if he mistrusted somewhat the diplomatic talents of his ambassador, he relied absolutely upon Mlle. Gilberte’s energy.
And so confident was he of the correctness of his calculations, that he had insisted upon accompanying his old friend, so as to be on hand at the critical moment.
When the servant had opened the door to them, he had ordered her to introduce M. de Villegre, stating that he would himself wait in the dining-room. This arrangement had not seemed entirely natural to the girl; but so many strange things had happened in the house for the past twenty-four hours, that she was prepared for any thing.
Besides recognizing Marius as the gentleman who had had a violent altercation in the morning with M. Costeclar, she did as he requested, and, leaving him alone in the dining-room, went to attend to her duties.
He had taken a seat, impassive in appearance, but in reality agitated by that internal trepidation of which the strongest men cannot free themselves in the decisive moments of their life.
To a certain extent, the prospects of his whole life were to be decided on the other side of that door which had just closed behind the Count de Villegre. To the success of his love, other interests were united, which required immediate success.
And, counting the seconds by the beatings of his heart,
“How very slow they are!” he thought.
And so, when the door opened at last, and his old friend called him, he jumped to his feet, and collecting all his coolness and self-possession, he walked in.
Maxence had risen to receive him; but, when he saw him, he stepped back, his eyes glaring in utter surprise.
“Ah, great heavens!” he muttered in a smothered voice.
But M. de Tregars seemed not to notice his stupor. Quite self-possessed, notwithstanding his emotion, he cast a rapid glance over the Count de Villegre, Mme. Favoral and Mlle. Gilberte. At their attitude, and at the expression of their countenance, he easily guessed the point to which things had come.
And, advancing towards Mme. Favoral, he bowed with an amount of respect which was certainly not put on.
“You have heard the Count de Villegre, madame,” he said in a slightly altered tone of voice. “I am awaiting my fate.”
The poor woman had never before in all her life been so fearfully perplexed. All these events, which succeeded each other so rapidly, had broken the feeble springs of her soul. She was utterly incapable of collecting her thoughts, or of taking a determination.
“At this moment, sir,” she stammered, taken unawares, “it would be impossible for me to answer you. Grant me a few days for reflection. We have some old friends whom I ought to consult.”
But Maxence, who had got over his stupor, interrupted her.
“Friends, mother!” he exclaimed. “And who are they? People in our position have no friends. What! when we are perishing, a man of heart holds out his hand to us, and you ask to reflect? To my sister, who bears a name henceforth disgraced, the Marquis de Tregars offers his name, and you think of consulting.”
The poor woman was shaking her head.
“I am not the mistress, my son,” she murmured; “and your father--”
“My father!” interrupted the young man,--“my father! What rights can he have over us hereafter?” And without further discussion, without awaiting an answer, he took his sister’s hand, and, placing it in M. de Tregars’ hand,
“Ah! take her, sir,” he uttered. “Never, whatever she may do, will she acquit the debt of eternal gratitude which we this day contract towards you.”
A tremor that shook their frames, a long look which they exchanged, betrayed alone the feelings of Marius and Mlle. Gilberte. They had of life a too cruel experience not to mistrust their joy.
Returning to Mme. Favoral,
“You do not understand, madame,” he went on, “why I should have selected for such a step the very moment when an irreparable calamity befalls you. One word will explain all. Being in a position to serve you, I wished to acquire the right of doing so.”
Fixing upon him a look in which the gloomiest despair could be read,
“Alas!” stammered the poor woman, “what can you do for me, sir? My life is ended. I have but one wish left,--that of knowing where my husband is hid. It is not for me to judge him. He has not given me the happiness which I had, perhaps, the right to expect; but he is my husband, he is unhappy: my duty is to join him wherever he may be, and to share his sufferings.”
She was interrupted by the servant, who was calling her at the parlor-door, “Madame, madame!”
“What is the matter?” inquired Maxence.
“I must speak to madame at once.”
Making an effort to rise and walk, Mme. Favoral went out. She was gone but a minute; and, when she returned, her agitation had further increased. “It is the hand of Providence, perhaps,” she said. The others were all looking at her anxiously. She took a seat, and, addressing herself more especially to M. de Tregars,
“This is what happens,” she said in a feeble voice. “M. Favoral was in the habit of always changing his coat as soon as he came home. As usual, he did so last evening. When they came to arrest him, he forgot to change again, and went off with the coat he had on. The other remained hanging in the room, where the girl took it just now to brush it, and put it away; and this portfolio, which my husband always carries with him, fell from its pocket.”
It was an old Russia leather portfolio, which had once been red, but which time and use had turned black. It was full of papers.
“Perhaps, indeed,” exclaimed Maxence, “we may find some information there.”
He opened it, and had already taken out three-fourths of its contents without finding any thing of any consequence, when suddenly he uttered an exclamation. He had just opened an anonymous note, evidently written in a disguised hand, and at one glance had read,
“I cannot understand your negligence. You should get through that Van Klopen matter. There is the danger.”
“What is that note?” inquired M. de Tregars.
Maxence handed it to him.
“See!” said he, “but you will not understand the immense interest it has for me.”
But having read it,
“You are mistaken,” said Marius. “I understand perfectly; and I’ll prove it to you.”
The next moment, Maxence took out of the portfolio, and read aloud, the following bill, dated two days before.
“Sold to ---- two leather trunks with safety locks at 220 francs each; say, francs 440.”
M. de Tregars started.
“At last,” he said, “here is doubtless one end of the thread which will guide us to the truth through this labyrinth of iniquities.”
And, tapping gently on Maxence’s shoulders,
“We must talk,” he said, “and at length. To-morrow, before you go to M. de Thaller’s with his fifteen thousand francs, call and see me: I shall expect you. We are now engaged upon a common work; and something tells me, that, before long, we shall know what has become of the Mutual Credit’s millions.”
