M. Fortunat left the restaurant, almost on the run, for he feared that he might be pursued and overtaken by M. Casimir. But after he had gone a couple of hundred paces, he paused, not so much to take breath, as to collect his scattered wits; and though the weather was cold, he seated himself on a bench to reflect.
Never in all his changeful life had he known such intense anxiety and torturing suspense as he had just experienced in that little room in the restaurant. He had longed for positive information and he had obtained it; but it had upset all his plans and annihilated all his hopes. Imagining that the count’s heirs had been lost sight of, he had determined to find them and make a bargain with them, before they learned that they were worth their millions. But on the contrary, these heirs were close at hand, watching M. de Chalusse, and knowing their rights so well that they were ready to fight for them. “For it was certainly the count’s sister who wrote the letter which I have in my pocket,” he murmured. “Not wishing to receive him at her own home, she prudently appointed a meeting at a hotel. But what about this name of Huntley? Is it really hers, or is it only assumed for the occasion? Is it the name of the man who enticed her from home, or is it the name given to the son from whom she has separated herself?”
But after all what was the use of all these conjectures? There was but one certain and positive thing, and this was that the money he had counted upon had escaped him; and he experienced as acute a pang as if he had lost forty thousand francs a second time. Perhaps, at that moment, he was sorry that he had severed his connection with the marquis. Still, he was not the man to despond, however desperate his plight might appear, without an attempt to better his situation. He knew how many surprising and sudden changes in fortune have been brought about by some apparently trivial action. “I must discover this sister,” he said to himself—“I must ascertain her position and her plans. If she has no one to advise her, I will offer my services; and who knows——”
A cab was passing; M. Fortunat hailed it, and ordered the Jehu to drive him to the Rue du Helder, No. 43, Hotel de Homburg.
Was it by chance or premeditation that this establishment had received the name of one of the gambling dens of Europe? Perhaps the following information may serve to answer the question. The Hotel de Homburg was one of those flash hostelries frequented by adventurers of distinction, who are attracted to Paris by the millions that are annually squandered there. Spurious counts and questionable Russian princesses were sure to find a cordial welcome there with princely luxury, moderate prices, and—but very little confidence. Each person was called by the title which it pleased him to give on his arrival—Excellency or Prince, according to his fancy. He could also find numerous servants carefully drilled to play the part of old family retainers, and carriages upon which the most elaborate coat-of-arms could be painted at an hour’s notice. Nor was there any difficulty whatever in immediately procuring all the accessories of a life of grandeur—all that is needful to dazzle the unsuspecting, to throw dust in people’s eyes, and to dupe one’s chance acquaintances. All these things were provided without delay, by the month, by the day or by the hour, just as the applicant pleased. But there was no such thing as credit there. Bills were presented every evening, to those lodgers who did not pay in advance: and he who could not, or would not, settle the score, even if he were Excellency or Prince, was requested to depart at once, and his trunks were held as security.
When M. Fortunat entered the office of the hotel, a woman, with a crafty looking face, was holding a conference with an elderly gentleman, who had a black velvet skullcap on his head, and a magnifying glass in his hand. They applied their eyes to the glass in turn, and were engaged in examining some very handsome diamonds, which had no doubt been offered in lieu of money by some noble but impecunious foreigner. On hearing M. Fortunat enter, the woman looked up.
“What do you desire, monsieur?” she inquired, politely.
“I wish to see Madame Lucy Huntley.”
The woman did not reply at first, but raised her eyes to the ceiling, as if she were reading there the list of all the foreigners of distinction who honored the Hotel de Homburg by their presence at that moment. “Lucy Huntley!” she repeated. “I don’t recollect that name! I don’t think there’s such a person in the house—Lucy Huntley! What kind of a person is she?”
For many reasons M. Fortunat could not answer. First of all, he did not know. But he was not in the least disconcerted, and he avoided the question without the slightest embarrassment, at the same time trying to quicken the woman’s faulty memory. “The person I wished to see was here on Friday, between three and six in the afternoon; and she was waiting for a visitor with an anxiety which could not possibly have escaped your notice.”
This detail quickened the memory of the man with the magnifying glass—none other than the woman’s husband and landlord of the hotel. “Ah! the gentleman is speaking of the lady of No. 2—you remember—the same who insisted upon having the large private room.”
“To be sure,” replied the wife; “where could my wits have been!” And turning to M. Fortunat: “Excuse my forgetfulness,” she added. “The lady is no longer in the house; she only remained here for a few hours.”
This reply did not surprise M. Fortunat—he had expected it; and yet he assumed an air of the utmost consternation. “Only a few hours!” he repeated, like a despairing echo.
“Yes, monsieur. She arrived here about eleven o’clock in the morning, with only a large valise by way of luggage, and she left that same evening at eight o’clock.”
“Alas! and where was she going?”
“She didn’t tell me.”
You might have sworn that M. Fortunat was about to burst into tears. “Poor Lucy!” said he, in a tragical tone; “it was for me, madame, that she was waiting. But it was only this morning that I received her letter appointing a meeting here. She must have been in despair. The post can’t be depended on!”
The husband and wife simultaneously shrugged their shoulders, and the expression of their faces unmistakably implied: “What can we do about it? It is no business of ours. Don’t trouble us.”
But M. Fortunat was not the man to be dismayed by such a trifle.
“She was taken to the railway station, no doubt,” he insisted.
“Really, I know nothing about it.”
“You told me just now that she had a large valise, so she could not have left your hotel on foot. She must have asked for a vehicle. Who was sent to fetch it? One of your boys? If I could find the driver I should, perhaps, be able to obtain some valuable information from him.”
The husband and wife exchanged a whole volume of suspicions in a single glance. M. Isidore Fortunat’s appearance was incontestably respectable, but they were well aware that those strange men styled detectives are perfectly conversant with the art of dressing to perfection. So the hotelkeeper quickly decided on his course. “Your idea is an excellent one,” he said to M. Fortunat. “This lady must certainly have taken a vehicle on leaving; and what is more, it must have been a vehicle belonging to the hotel. If you will follow me, we will make some inquiries on the subject.”
And rising with a willingness that augured well for their success, he led the agent into the courtyard, where five or six vehicles were stationed, while the drivers lounged on a bench, chatting and smoking their pipes “Which of you was employed by a lady yesterday evening at about eight o’clock?”
“What sort of a person was she?”
“She was a handsome woman, between thirty and forty years’ old, very fair, rather stout, and dressed in black. She had a large Russia-leather travelling-bag.”
“I took her,” answered one of the drivers promptly. M. Fortunat advanced toward the man with open arms, and with such eagerness that it might have been supposed he meant to embrace him. “Ah, my worthy fellow!” he exclaimed, “you can save my life!”
The driver looked exceedingly pleased. He was thinking that this gentleman would certainly requite his salvation by a magnificent gratuity. “What do you want of me?” he asked.
“Tell me where you drove this lady?”
“I took her to the Rue de Berry.”
“To what number?”
“Ah, I can’t tell. I’ve forgotten it.”
But M. Fortunat no longer felt any anxiety. “Very good,” said he. “You’ve forgotten it—that’s not at all strange. But you would know the house again, wouldn’t you?”
“Undoubtedly I should.”
“Will you take me there?”
“Certainly, sir. This is my vehicle.”
The hunter of missing heirs at once climbed inside; but it was not until the carriage had left the courtyard that the landlord returned to his office. “That man must be a detective,” he remarked to his wife.
“So I fancy.”
“It’s strange we’re not acquainted with him. He must be a new member of the force.”
But M. Fortunat was quite indifferent as to what impression he had left behind him at the Hotel de Homburg, for he never expected to set foot there again. The one essential thing was that he had obtained the information he wished for, and even a description of the lady, and he felt that he was now really on the track. The vehicle soon reached the Rue de Berry, and drew up in front of a charming little private house. “Here we are, monsieur,” said the driver, bowing at the door.
M. Fortunat sprang nimbly on to the pavement, and handed five francs to the coachman, who went off growling and swearing, for he thought the reward a contemptibly small one, coming as it did from a man whose life had been saved, according to his own confession. However, the person the Jehu anathematized certainly did not hear him. Standing motionless where he had alighted, M. Fortunat scrutinized the house in front of him with close attention. “So she lives here,” he muttered. “This is the place; but I can’t present myself without knowing her name. I must make some inquiries.”
There was a wine-shop some fifty paces distant, and thither M. Fortunat hastened, and ordered a glass of currant syrup. As he slowly sipped the beverage, he pointed to the house in question, with an air of well-assumed indifference, and asked: “Whom does that pretty dwelling belong to?”
“To Madame Lia d’Argeles,” answered the landlady.
M. Fortunat started. He well remembered that this was the name the Marquis de Valorsay had mentioned when speaking of the vile conspiracy he had planned. It was at this woman’s house that the man whom Mademoiselle Marguerite loved had been disgraced! Still he managed to master his surprise, and in a light, frank tone he resumed: “What a pretty name! And what does this lady do?”
“What does she do? Why, she amuses herself.”
M. Fortunat seemed astonished. “Dash it!” said he. “She must amuse herself to good purpose to have a house like that. Is she pretty?”
“That depends on taste. She’s no longer young, at any rate; but she has superb golden hair. And, oh! how white she is—as white as snow, monsieur—as white as snow! She has a fine figure as well, and a most distinguished bearing—pays cash, too, to the very last farthing.”
There could no longer be any doubt. The portrait sketched by the wine-vendor fully corresponded with the description given by the hotelkeeper in the Rue de Helder. Accordingly, M. Fortunat drained his glass, and threw fifty centimes on the counter. Then, crossing the street, he boldly rang at the door of Madame d’Argeles’s house. If any one had asked him what he proposed doing and saying if he succeeded in effecting an entrance, he might have replied with perfect sincerity, “I don’t know.” The fact is, he had but one aim, one settled purpose in his mind. He was obstinately, FURIOUSLY resolved to derive some benefit, small or great, from this mysterious affair. As for the means of execution, he relied entirely on his audacity and sang-froid, convinced that they would not fail him when the decisive moment came. “First of all, I must see this lady,” he said to himself. “The first words will depend solely upon my first impressions. After that, I shall be guided by circumstances.”
An old serving-man, in a quiet, tasteful livery, opened the door, whereupon M. Fortunat, in a tone of authority, asked: “Madame Lia d’Argeles?”
“Madame does not receive on Friday,” was the reply.
With a petulant gesture, M. Fortunat rejoined: “All the same I must speak with her to-day. It is on a matter of the greatest importance. Give her my card.” So saying, he held out a bit of pasteboard, on which, below his name, were inscribed the words: “Liquidations. Settlements effected for insolvent parties.”
“Ah! that’s a different thing,” said the servant. “Will monsieur take the trouble to follow me?”
M. Fortunat did take the trouble; and he was conducted into a large drawing-room where he was requested to sit down and await madame’s coming. Left to himself, he began an inventory of the apartment, as a general studies the ground on which he is about to give battle. No trace remained of the unfortunate scene of the previous night, save a broken candelabrum on the chimney-piece. It was the one which Pascal Ferailleur had armed himself with, when they talked of searching him, and which he had thrown down in the courtyard, as he left the house. But this detail did not attract M. Fortunat’s attention. The only thing that puzzled him was the large reflector placed above the chandelier, and it took him some time to fathom with what object it was placed there. Without precisely intimidating him, the luxurious appointments of the house aroused his astonishment. “Everything here is in princely style,” he muttered, “and this shows that all the lunatics are not at Charenton yet. If Madame d’Argeles lacked bread in days gone by, she does so no longer—that’s evident.”
Naturally enough this reflection led him to wonder why such a rich woman should become the Marquis de Valorsay’s accomplice, and lend a hand in so vile and cowardly a plot, which horrified even him—Fortunat. “For she must be an accomplice,” he thought.
And he marvelled at the freak of fate which had connected the unfortunate man who had been sacrificed with the unacknowledged daughter, and the cast-off sister, of the Count de Chalusse. A vague presentiment, the mysterious voice of instinct, warned him, moreover, that his profit in the affair would depend upon the antagonism, or alliance, of Mademoiselle Marguerite and Madame d’Argeles. But his meditations were suddenly interrupted by the sound of a discussion in an adjoining room. He stepped eagerly forward, hoping to hear something, and he did hear a man saying in a coarse voice: “What! I leave an interesting game, and lose precious time in coming to offer you my services, and you receive me like this! Zounds! madame, this will teach me not to meddle with what doesn’t concern me, in future. So, good-bye, my dear lady. You’ll learn some day, to your cost, the real nature of this villain of a Coralth whom you now defend so warmly.”
This name of Coralth was also one of those which were engraven upon M. Fortunat’s memory; and yet he did not notice it at the moment. His attention was so absorbed by what he had just heard that he could not fix his mind upon the object of his mission; and he only abandoned his conjectures on hearing a rustling of skirts against the panels of the door leading into the hall.
The next moment Madame Lia d’Argeles entered the room. She was arrayed in a very elegant dressing-gown of gray cashmere, with blue satin trimmings, her hair was beautifully arranged, and she had neglected none of the usual artifices of the toilette-table; still any one would have considered her to be over forty years of age. Her sad face wore an expression of melancholy resignation; and there were signs of recent tears in her swollen eyes, surrounded by bluish circles. She glanced at her visitor, and, in anything but an encouraging tone exclaimed: “You desired to speak with me, I believe?”
M. Fortunat bowed, almost disconcerted. He had expected to meet one of those stupid, ignorant young women, who make themselves conspicuous at the afternoon promenade in the Bois de Boulogne; and he found himself in the presence of an evidently cultivated and imperious woman, who, even in her degradation, retained all her pride of race, and awed him, despite all his coolness and assurance. “I do, indeed, madame, wish to confer with you respecting some important interests,” he answered.
She sank on to a chair; and, without asking her visitor to take a seat: “Explain yourself,” she said, briefly.
M. Fortunat’s knowledge of the importance of the game in which he had already risked so much had already restored his presence of mind. He had only needed a glance to form a true estimate of Madame d’Argeles’s character; and he realized that it would require a sudden, powerful, and well-directed blow to shatter her composure. “I have the unpleasant duty of informing you of a great misfortune, madame,” he began. “A person who is very dear to you, and who is nearly related to you, was a victim of a frightful accident yesterday evening and died this morning.”
This gloomy preamble did not seem to produce the slightest effect on Madame d’Argeles. “Whom are you speaking of?” she coldly asked.
M. Fortunat assumed his most solemn manner as he replied: “Of your brother, madame—of the Count de Chalusse.”
She sprang up, and a convulsive shudder shook her from head to foot. “Raymond is dead!” she faltered.
“Alas! yes, madame. Struck with death at the very moment he was repairing to the appointment you had given him at the Hotel de Homburg.”
This clever falsehood, which was not entirely one, would, so the agent thought, be of advantage to him, since it would prove he was acquainted with previous events. But Madame d’Argeles did not seem to notice, or even to hear the remark. She had fallen back in her arm-chair, paler than death. “How did he die?” she asked.
“From an attack of apoplexy.”
“My God!” exclaimed the wretched woman, who now suspected the truth; “my God, forgive me. It was my letter that killed him!” and she wept as if her heart were breaking—this woman who had suffered and wept so much.
It is needless to say that M. Fortunat was moved with sympathy; he always evinced a respectful sympathy for the woes of others; but in the present instance, his emotion was greatly mitigated by the satisfaction he felt at having succeeded so quickly and so completely. Madame d’Argeles had confessed everything! This was indeed a victory, for it must be admitted that he had trembled lest she should deny all, and bid him leave the house. He still saw many difficulties between his pocket and the Count de Chalusse’s money; but he did not despair of conquering them after such a successful beginning. And he was muttering some words of consolation, when Madame d’Argeles suddenly looked up and said: “I must see him—I will see him once more! Come, monsieur!” But a terrible memory rooted her to the spot and with a despairing gesture, and in a voice quivering with anguish she exclaimed:
“No, no—I cannot even do that.”
M. Fortunat was not a little disturbed; and it was with a look of something very like consternation that he glanced at Madame d’Argeles, who had reseated herself and was now sobbing violently, with her face hidden on the arm of her chair. “What prevents her?” he thought. “Why this sudden terror now that her brother is dead? Is she unwilling to confess that she is a Chalusse? She must make up her mind to it, however, if she wishes to receive the count’s property—and she must make up her mind to it, for my sake, if not for her own.”
He remained silent, until it seemed to him that Madame d’Argeles was calmer, then: “Excuse me, madame,” he began, “for breaking in upon your very natural grief, but duty requires me to remind you of your interests.”
With the passive docility of those who are wretched, she wiped away her tears, and replied, gently: “I am listening, monsieur.”
He had had time to prepare his discourse. “First of all, madame,” he remarked, “I must tell you that I was the count’s confidential agent. In him I lose a protector. Respect alone prevents me from saying a friend. He had no secrets from me.” M. Fortunat saw so plainly that Madame d’Argeles did not understand a word of this sentimental exordium that he thought it necessary to add: “I tell you this, not so much to gain your consideration and good-will, as to explain to you how I became acquainted with these matters relating to your family—how I became aware of your existence, for instance, which no one else suspected.” He paused, hoping for some reply, a word, a sign, but not receiving this encouragement, he continued: “I must, first of all, call your attention to the peculiar situation of M. de Chalusse, and to the circumstances which immediately preceded and attended his departure from life. His death was so unexpected that he was unable to make any disposition of his property by will, or even to indicate his last wishes. This, madame, is fortunate for you. M. de Chalusse had certain prejudices against you, as you are aware. Poor count. He certainly had the best heart in the world, and yet hatred with him was almost barbaric in its intensity. There can be no doubt whatever, that he had determined to deprive you of your inheritance. With this intention he had already begun to convert his estates into ready money, and had he lived six months longer you would not have received a penny.”
With a gesture of indifference, which was difficult to explain after the vehemence and the threatening tone of her letter, Madame d’Argeles murmured:
“Ah, well! what does it matter?”
“What does it matter?” repeated M. Fortunat. “I see, madame, that your grief prevents you from realizing the extent of the peril you have escaped. M. de Chalusse had other, and more powerful reasons even than his hatred for wishing to deprive you of your share of his property. He had sworn that he would give a princely fortune to his beloved daughter.”
For the first time, Madame d’Argeles’s features assumed an expression of surprise. “What, my brother had a child?”
“Yes, madame, an illegitimate daughter, Mademoiselle Marguerite, a lovely and charming girl whom I had the pleasure of restoring to his care some years ago. She has been living with him for six months or so; and he was about to marry her, with an enormous dowry, to a nobleman bearing one of the proudest names in France, the Marquis de Valorsay.”
The name shook Madame d’Argeles as if she had experienced the shock of an electric battery, and springing to her feet, with flashing eyes: “You say that my brother’s daughter was to marry M. de Valorsay?” she asked.
“It was decided—the marquis adored her.”
“But she—she did not love him—confess that she did not love him.”
M. Fortunat did not know what to reply. The question took him completely by surprise; and feeling that his answer would have a very considerable influence upon what might follow, he hesitated.
“Will you answer me?” insisted Madame d’Argeles, imperiously. “She loved another, did she not?”
“To tell the truth, I believe she did,” the agent stammered. “But I have no proof of it, madame.”
“Ah! the wretch!” she exclaimed with a threatening gesture; “the traitor! the infamous scoundrel! Now I understand it all. And to think that it occurred in my house. But no; it was best so, I can still repair everything.” And darting to the bell-rope, she pulled it violently.
A servant at once appeared. “Job,” she said, “hasten after Baron Trigault—he left the house a moment ago and bring him back. I must speak with him. If you do not overtake him, go to his club, to his house, to the houses of his friends, go to every place where there is any chance of finding him. Make haste, and do not return without him.”
And as the man turned to obey, she added: “My carriage must be in the courtyard. Take it.”
Meanwhile M. Fortunat’s expression of countenance had undergone a marked change. “Well!” thought he, “I have just made a mess of it! M. Valorsay is unmasked; and now, may I be hung, if he ever marries Mademoiselle Marguerite. Certainly, I do not owe much to the scoundrel, for he has defrauded me of forty thousand francs, but what will he say when he discovers what I’ve done? He will never believe me if I tell him that it was an involuntary blunder, and Heaven only knows what revenge he will plan! A man of his disposition, knowing that he is ruined, is capable of anything! So much the worse for me. Before night I shall warn the commissary of police in my district, and I shall not go out unarmed!”
The servant went off, and Madame d’Argeles then turned to her visitor again. But she seemed literally transfigured by the storm of passion which was raging in her heart and mind; her cheeks were crimson, and an unwonted energy sparkled in her eyes. “Let us finish this business,” she said, curtly; “I am expecting some one.”
M. Fortunat bowed with a rather pompous, but at the same time obsequious air. “I have only a few more words to say,” he declared. “M. de Chalusse having no other heir, I have come to acquaint you with your rights.”
“Very good; continue, if you please.”
“You have only to present yourself, and establish your identity, to be put in possession of your brother’s property.”
Madame d’Argeles gave the agent a look of mingled irony and distrust; and after a moment’s reflection, she replied: “I am very grateful for your interest, monsieur; but if I have any rights, it is not my intention to urge them.”
It seemed to M. Fortunat as if he were suddenly falling from some immense height. “You are not in earnest,” he exclaimed, “or you are ignorant of the fact that M. de Chalusse leaves perhaps twenty millions behind him.”
“My course is decided on, monsieur; irrevocably decided on.”
“Very well, madame; but it often happens that the court institutes inquiries for the heirs of large fortunes, and this may happen in your case.”
“I should reply that I was not a member of the Chalusse family, and that would end it. Startled by the news of my brother’s death, I allowed my secret to escape me. I shall know how to keep it in future.”
Anger succeeded astonishment in M. Fortunat’s mind. “Madame, madame, what can you be thinking of?” he cried, impetuously. “Accept—in Heaven’s name—accept this inheritance; if not for yourself, for the sake of——”
In his excitement, he was about to commit a terrible blunder. He saw it in time, and checked himself.
“For the sake of whom?” asked Madame d’Argeles, in an altered voice.
“For the sake of Mademoiselle Marguerite, madame; for the sake of this poor child, who is your niece. The count never having acknowledged her as his daughter, she will be left actually without bread, while her father’s millions go to enrich the state.”
“That will suffice, monsieur; I will think of it. And now, enough!”
The dismissal was so imperious that M. Fortunat bowed and went off, completely bewildered by this denouement. “She’s crazy!” he said to himself. “Crazy in the fullest sense of the word. She refuses the count’s millions from a silly fear of telling people that she belongs to the Chalusse family. She threatened her brother, but she would never have carried her threats into execution. And she prefers her present position to such a fortune. What lunacy!” But, although he was disappointed and angry, he did not by any means despair. “Fortunately for me,” he thought, “this proud and haughty lady has a son somewhere in the world. And she’ll do for him what she would not consent to do for herself. Through her, with a little patience and Victor Chupin’s aid, I shall succeed in discovering this boy. He must be an intelligent youth—and we’ll see if he surrenders his millions as easily as his mamma does.”
It is a terrible task to break suddenly with one’s past, without even having had time for preparation; to renounce the life one has so far lived, to return to the starting point, and begin existence anew; to abandon everything—the position one has gained, the work one has become familiar with, every fondly cherished hope, and friend, and habit; to forsake the known to plunge into the unknown, to leave the certain for the uncertain, and desert light for darkness; to cast one’s identity aside, assume a strange individuality, become a living lie, change name, position, face, and clothes—in one phrase, to cease to be one’s self, in order to become some one else.
This is indeed, a terrible ordeal, and requires an amount of resolution and energy which few human beings possess. The boldest hesitate before such a sacrifice, and many a man has surrendered himself to justice rather than resort to this last extremity. And yet this was what Pascal Ferailleur had the courage to do, on the morrow of the shameful conspiracy that had deprived him of his good name. When his mother’s exhortations and Baron Trigault’s encouraging words had restored his wonted clearness of perception, the only course he felt disposed to pursue was to disappear and fly from the storm of slander and contempt; and then, in a secure hiding-place, to watch for the time and opportunity of rehabilitation and revenge.
Madame Ferailleur and her son made all needful arrangements. “I shall start out at once,” said Pascal, “and before two hours have elapsed I shall have found a modest lodging, where we must conceal ourselves for the present. I know a locality that will suit us, and where no one will certainly ever think of looking for us.”
“And I,” asked Madame Ferailleur, “what shall I do in the meantime?”
“You, mother; you must, at once, sell all that we possess here—everything—even my books. You will only keep such of our linen and clothes as you can pack in three or four trunks. We are undoubtedly watched; and so it is of the utmost importance that every one should imagine I have left Paris, and that you are going to join me.”
“And when everything is sold, and my trunks are ready?”
“Then, mother, you must send some one for a cab, and order the driver to take you to the Western Railway Station, where you will have the trunks removed from the cab and placed in the baggage-room, as if you did not intend to leave Paris till the next day.”
“Very good, I will do so; even if any one is watching us, he won’t be likely to suspect this ruse. But afterward?”
“Afterward, mother, you must go to the waiting-room upstairs, and you will find me there. I will then take you to the rooms I shall have rented, and to-morrow we’ll send a messenger with the receipt the railway people will give you, to fetch our luggage for us.”
Madame Ferailleur approved of this plan, deeming herself fortunate in this great calamity that despair had not destroyed her son’s energy and resources of mind. “Shall we retain our name, Pascal?”
“Oh, no. That would be an unpardonable imprudence.”
“What name shall we take, then? I must know, for they may ask me at the station.”
He reflected for a moment and then said: “We’ll take your maiden name, mother. It will bring us good luck. Our new lodgings shall be hired in the name of the Widow Maumejan.”
They talked for some time longer, anxious to take every precaution that prudence could suggest. And when they were convinced that they had forgotten nothing, Madame Ferailleur suggested that Pascal should start off. But before doing so he had a sacred duty to perform. “I must warn Marguerite,” he muttered. And seating himself at his desk, he wrote his beloved a concise and exact account of the events which had taken place. He told her of the course he intended to pursue; and promised her that she should know his new abode as soon as he knew it himself. In conclusion, he entreated her to grant him an interview, in which he could give her the full particulars of the affair and acquaint her with his hopes. As for exculpating himself, even by so much as a single word—as for explaining the snare he had been the victim of, the idea never once occurred to him. He was worthy of Mademoiselle Marguerite; he knew that not a doubt would disturb the perfect faith she had in his honor.
Leaning over her son’s shoulder, Madame Ferailleur read what he had written. “Do you intend to trust this letter to the post?” she inquired. “Are you sure, perfectly sure, that it will reach Mademoiselle Marguerite, and not some one else who might use it against you?”
Pascal shook his head. “I know how to insure its safe receipt,” he replied. “Some time ago, Marguerite told me that if ever any great peril threatened us, I might call for the housekeeper at the Chalusse mansion and intrust my message to her. The danger is sufficiently great to justify such a course in the present instance. So I shall pass down the Rue de Courcelles, ask to see Madame Leon, and give her this letter. Have no fear, my dear mother.”
As he spoke, he began to pack all the legal documents which had been confided to him into a large box, which was to be carried to one of his former friends, who would distribute the papers among the people they belonged to. He next made a small bundle of the few important private papers and valuables he possessed; and then, ready for the sacrifice, he took a last survey of the pleasant home where success had smiled so favorably upon his efforts, where he had been so happy, and where he had cherished such bright dreams of the future. Overcome by a flood of recollections, the tears sprang to his eyes. He embraced his mother, and fled precipitately from the house.
“Poor child!” murmured Madame Ferailleur; “poor Pascal!”
Was she not also to be pitied? This was the second time within twenty years that a thunderbolt had fallen on her in the full sunlight of happiness. And yet now, as on the day following her husband’s death, she found in her heart the robust energy and heroic maternal constancy which enable one to rise above every misfortune. It was in a firm voice that she ordered her servant to go in search of the nearest furniture dealer, no matter which, provided he would pay cash. And when the man arrived she showed him through the rooms with stoical calmness. God alone knew how intensely she was suffering. And yet while she was waiting for the dealer, each piece of furniture had acquired an extraordinary value in her eyes. It seemed to her as if each object were a part of herself, and when the man turned and twisted a chair or a table she almost considered it a personal affront.
The rich, who are accustomed from birth to the luxury that surrounds them, are ignorant of the terrible sufferings which attend such cases as these. The persons who do suffer are those of the middle classes, not the parvenus, but those who bid fair to become parvenus when misfortune overtook them. Their hearts bleed when inexorable necessity deprives them of all the little comforts with which they had gradually surrounded themselves, for there is not an object that does not recall a long ungratified desire, and the almost infantile joy of possession. What happiness they felt on the day when they purchased that large arm-chair! How many times they had gone to admire those velvet curtains in the shop windows before buying them! Those carpets represented months of self-denial. And that pretty clock—ah! they had fancied it would only herald the flight of prosperous and pleasant hours. And all these things the dealer handles, and shakes, and jeers at, and depreciates. He will scarcely condescend to purchase. Who would care to buy such trash? He knows that the owner is in need of money, and he profits by this knowledge. It is his business. “How much did this cost you?” he asks, as he inspects one piece of furniture after another.
“So much.”
“Well, you must have been terribly cheated.”
You know very well that if there is a cheat in the world, it is this same man; but what can you say? Any other dealer you might send for would act in the same way. Now, Madame Ferailleur’s furniture had cost some ten thousand francs; and, although it was no longer new, it was worth at least a third of that sum. But she obtained only seven hundred and sixty francs for it. It is true, however, that she was in haste, and that she was paid cash.
Nine o’clock was striking when her trunks were at last piled on a cab, and she called out to the driver: “Take me to the Place du Havre—to the railway station.” Once before, when defrauded by a scoundrel, she had been obliged to part with all her household treasures. Once before she had left her home, taking merely the wreck of her fortune with her. But what a difference between then and now!
Then, the esteem and sympathy of all who knew her was hers, and the admiring praise she received divested the sacrifice of much of its bitterness, and increased her courage two-fold. Now, she was flying secretly, and alone, under an assumed name, trembling at the thought of pursuit or recognition—flying as a criminal flies at thought of his crime, and fear of punishment. She had far less suffered on the day, when, with her son upon her knees, she journeyed to the cemetery, following all that was mortal of the man who had been her only thought, her love, her pride, her happiness, and hope. Though crushed by the sense of her irreparable loss, she had not rebelled against the hand that struck her; but now it was human wickedness that assailed her through her son, and her suffering was like that of the innocent man who perishes for want of power to prove his innocence. Her husband’s death had not caused her such bitter tears as her son’s dishonor. She who was so proud, and who had such good reason to be proud, she could note the glances of scorn she was favored with as she left her home. She heard the insulting remarks made by some of her neighbors, who, like so many folks, found their chief delight in other people’s misfortunes.
“Crocodile tears,” some had exclaimed. “She is going to meet her son; and with what he has stolen they will live like princes in America.” Rumor, which enlarges and misrepresents everything, had, indeed, absurdly exaggerated the affair at Madame d’Argeles’s house. It was reported in the Rue d’Ulm that Pascal had spent every night at the gaming table for more than five years; and that, being an incomparable trickster, he had stolen millions.
Meanwhile, Madame Ferailleur was approaching the station. The cab horse soon slackened its pace to climb the acclivity of the Rue d’Amsterdam; and shortly afterward the vehicle drew up in the courtyard of the railway station. Faithfully observing the directions which had been given her, the worthy woman had her trunks taken to the baggage-room, declaring that she should not leave Paris until the next day, whereupon she received a receipt from the man in charge of the room. She was oppressed by vague apprehensions, and looked closely at every one who passed her; fearing the presence of spies, and knowing full well that the most profound secrecy could alone insure the success of Pascal’s plans. However, she did not see a single suspicious looking person. Some Englishmen—those strange travellers, who are at the same time so foolishly prodigal and so ridiculously miserly—were making a great hue and cry over the four sous gratuity claimed by a poor commissionaire; but these were the only persons in sight.
Partially reassured, Madame Ferailleur hastily ascended the staircase, and entered the large waiting-room. It was here that Pascal had promised to meet her; but, though she looked round on all sides, she did not perceive him. Still, this delay did not alarm her much; nor was it at all strange, since Pascal had scarcely known what he would have to do when he left the house. She seated herself on a bench, as far back in the shade as possible and gazed sadly at the ever-changing throng, when all of a sudden she was startled by a man, who abruptly paused in front of her. This man proved to be Pascal. But his hair had been closely cut, and he had shaved off his beard. And thus shorn, with his smooth face, and with a brown silk neckerchief in lieu of the white muslin tie he usually wore, he was so greatly changed that for an instant his own mother did not recognize him. “Well?” asked Madame Ferailleur, as she realized his identity.
“I have succeeded. We have secured such rooms as I wished for.”
“Where?”
“Ah!—a long way off, my poor mother—many a league from those we have known and loved—in a thinly populated part of the suburbs, on the Route de la Revolte, just outside the fortifications, and almost at the point where it intersects the Asnieres road. You will not be very comfortable there, but you will have the pleasure of a little garden.”
She rose, summoning all her energy. “What does it matter where or what our abode is?” she interrupted, with forced gayety. “I am confident that we shall not remain there long.”
But it seemed as if her son did not share her hopes, for he remained silent and dejected; and as his mother observed him closely, she fancied by the expression of his eyes, that some new anxiety had been added to all his other troubles.
“What is the matter?” she inquired, unable to master her alarm—“what has happened?”
“Ah! a great misfortune!”
“My God! still another?”
“I have been to the Rue de Courcelles; and I have spoken to Madame Leon.”
“What did she say?”
“The Count de Chalusse died this morning.”
Madame Ferailleur drew a long breath, as if greatly relieved. She was certainly expecting to hear something very different, and she did not understand why this death should be a great misfortune to them personally. One point, however, she did realize, that it was imprudent, and even dangerous, to carry on this conversation in a hall where a hundred persons were passing and repassing every minute. So she took her son’s arm, and led him away, saying: “Come, let us go.”
Pascal had kept the cab which he had been using during the afternoon; and having installed his mother inside, he got in himself, and gave his new address to the driver. “Now tell me all,” said Madame Ferailleur.
Poor Pascal was in that state of mind in which it costs one actual suffering to talk; but he wished to mitigate his mother’s anxiety as much as possible; and moreover, he did not like her to suppose him wanting in endurance. So, with a powerful effort, he shook off the lethargy that was creeping over him, and in a voice loud enough to be heard above the noise of the carriage wheels, he began: “This is what I have done, mother, since I left you. I remembered that some time ago, while I was appraising some property, I had seen three or four houses on the Route de la Revolte, admirably suited to our present wants. Naturally I went there first. A suite of rooms was vacant in one of these houses. I have taken it; and in order that nothing may interfere with the liberty of my movements, I have paid six months’ rent in advance. Here is the receipt, drawn up in the name we shall henceforth bear.” So saying, he showed his mother a document in which the landlord declared that he had received from M. Maumejan the sum of three hundred and fifty francs for two quarters’ rent, etc. “My bargain concluded,” he resumed, “I returned into Paris, and entered the first furniture shop I saw. I meant to hire the necessary things to furnish our little home, but the dealer made all sorts of objections. He trembled for his furniture, he wanted a sum of money to be deposited as security, or the guarantee of three responsible business men. Seeing this, and knowing that I had no time to lose, I preferred to purchase such articles as were absolutely necessary. One of the conditions of the purchase was that everything should be in the house and in its place by eleven o’clock to-night. As I stipulated in writing that the dealer should forfeit three hundred francs in case he failed to fulfil his agreement, I can rely upon his punctuality; I confided the key of our lodgings to him, and he must now be there waiting for us.”
So, before thinking of his love, and Mademoiselle Marguerite, Pascal had taken the necessary measures for the execution of his plan to regain his lost honor. Madame Ferailleur had scarcely supposed him capable of so much courage and firmness, and she rewarded him with a warm pressure of the hand. Then, as he was silent: “When did you see Madame Leon, then?” she asked.
“When all the household arrangements were completed, mother. On leaving the furniture-shop, I found that I had still an hour and a quarter before me. I could defer no longer, and at the risk of obliging you to wait for me, I hastened to the Rue de Courcelles.”
It was evident that Pascal felt extreme embarrassment in speaking of Mademoiselle Marguerite. There is an instinctive delicacy and dislike of publicity in all deep passion, and true and chaste love is ever averse to laying aside the veil with which it conceals itself from the inquisitive. Madame Ferailleur understood this feeling; but she was a mother, and as such, jealous of her son’s tenderness, and anxious for particulars concerning this rival who had suddenly usurped her place in the heart where she had long reigned supreme. She was also a woman—that is to say, distrustful and suspicious in reference to all other women. So, without taking pity on Pascal’s embarrassment, she urged him to continue.
“I gave the driver five francs on condition that he would hurry his horses,” he resumed, “and we were rattling along at a rapid rate, when, suddenly, near the Hotel de Chalusse, I noticed a change in the motion of the vehicle. I looked out and saw that we were driving over a thick layer of straw which had been spread across the street. I can scarcely describe my feelings on seeing this. A cold perspiration came over me—I fancied I saw Marguerite in agony, dying—far from me, and calling me in vain. Without waiting for the vehicle to stop, I sprang to the ground, and was obliged to exercise all my self-control to prevent myself from rushing into the concierge’s lodge, and wildly asking: ‘Who is dying here?’ But an unforeseen difficulty presented itself. It was evident that I ought not to go in person to inquire for Madame Leon. Whom could I send? There were no commissionaires at the street corners, and nothing would have induced me to confide the message to any of the lads in the neighboring wine-shops. Fortunately, my driver—the same who is driving us now—is an obliging fellow, and I intrusted him with the commission, while I stood guard over his horses. Ten minutes later, Madame Leon left the house and came to meet me. I knew her at once, for I had seen her a hundred times with Marguerite when they lived near the Luxembourg; and having seen me pass and repass so often, she recognized me in spite of my changed appearance. Her first words, ‘M. de Chalusse is dead,’ relieved my heart of a terrible weight. I could breathe again. But she was in such haste that she could not stop to tell me any particulars. Still I gave her my letter, and she promised me a prompt reply from Marguerite. Everybody will be up and moving about the house to-night, and she said she could easily make her escape for a few moments. So, at half-past twelve to-night she will be at the little garden gate, and if I am promptly at hand, I shall have a reply from Marguerite.”
Madame Ferailleur seemed to be expecting something more, and as Pascal remained silent, she remarked: “You spoke of a great misfortune. In what does it consist? I do not perceive it.”
With an almost threatening gesture, and in a gloomy voice, he answered: “The misfortune is this: if it had not been for this abominable conspiracy, which has dishonored me, Marguerite would have been my wife before a month had elapsed, for now she is free, absolutely free to obey the dictates of her own will and heart.”
“Then why do you complain?”
“Oh, mother! don’t you understand? How can I marry her? Would it be right for me to think of offering her a dishonored name? It seems to me that I should be guilty of a most contemptible act—of something even worse than a crime—if I dared speak to her of my love and our future before I have crushed the villains who have ruined me.”
Regret, anger, and the consciousness of his present powerlessness drew from him tears which fell upon Madame Ferailleur’s heart like molten lead; but she succeeded in concealing her agony. “All the more reason,” she answered, almost coldly, “why you should not lose a second, but devote all your energy and intelligence to the work of justification.”
“Oh, I shall have my revenge, never fear. But in the meantime, what is to become of HER? Think, mother, she is alone in the world, without a single friend. It is enough to drive one mad!”
“She loves you, you tell me. What have you to fear? Now she will be freed from the persecutions of the suitor they intended to force upon her, whom she has spoken to you about—the Marquis de Valorsay, is it not?”
This name sent Pascal’s blood to his brain. “Ah, the scoundrel!” he exclaimed. “If there was a God in heaven——”
“Wretched boy!” interrupted Madame Ferailleur; “you blaspheme when Providence has already interposed on your behalf. And who suffers most at this moment, do you think?—you, strong in your innocence, or the marquis, who realizes that he has committed an infamous crime in vain?”
The sudden stopping of the cab put an end to their conversation. Leaving the Route d’Asnieres, the driver had turned into the Route de la Revolte, and had drawn up in front of an unpretentious two-storied house which stood entirely alone. “We have arrived, mother,” said Pascal.
A man, who was standing on the threshold, stepped forward to open the cab door. It was the furniture-dealer. “Here you are at last, M. Maumejan,” said he. “Come in, and you’ll see that I’ve strictly fulfilled the conditions of our contract.” His words proved true. He was paid the sum stipulated, and went away satisfied.
“Now, my dear mother,” said Pascal, “allow me to do the honors of the poor abode I have selected.”
He had taken only the ground floor of this humble dwelling. The story above, which had an independent entrance and staircase, was occupied by the quiet family of the owner. Although the space was small, the architect had made the most of it. He had divided it into four small rooms, separated by a corridor; and the kitchen looked out upon a little garden about four times as large as an ordinary sheet. The furniture which Pascal had purchased was more than plain; but it was well suited to this humble abode. It had just been brought in, but any one would have supposed it had been in its place for a couple of years.
“We shall be very comfortable here,” declared Madame Ferailleur. “Yes, very comfortable. By to-morrow evening you won’t recognize the place. I have saved a few trifles from the wreck—some curtains, a couple of lamps, a clock—you’ll see. It’s wonderful how much four trunks can be made to hold.”
When his mother set him such a noble example Pascal would have blushed to allow himself to be outdone. He very quietly explained the reasons which had influenced him in choosing these rooms, the principal one being that there was no concierge, and he was therefore assured absolute liberty in his movements, as well as entire immunity from indiscreet gossip. “Certainly, my dear mother,” he added, “it is a lonely and unattractive neighborhood; but you will find all the necessaries of life near at hand. The owner of the house lives on the floor above. I have talked with the wife—they seem to be honest, quiet people—and she will pilot you about. I inquired for some one to do the heavy work, and she mentioned a poor woman named Vantrasson, who lives in the neighborhood, and who is anxious to obtain employment. They were to inform her this evening, and you will see her to-morrow. And above all, don’t forget that you are henceforth Madame Maumejan.”
Occupied with these arrangements for the future, he was still talking, when Madame Ferailleur, drawing out her watch, gently remarked: “And your appointment? You forget that the cab is waiting at the door.”
It was true; he had forgotten it. He caught up his hat, hastily embraced his mother, and sprang into the vehicle. The horses were almost exhausted, but the driver was so willing that he found a means of making them trot as far as the Rue de Courcelles. However, on arriving there, he declared that his animals and himself could endure no more, and after receiving the amount due to him, he departed.
The air was chilly, the night dark, and the street deserted. The gloomy silence was only disturbed at long intervals by the opening or shutting of a door, or by the distant tread of some belated pedestrian. Having at least twenty minutes to wait, Pascal sat down on the curbstone opposite the Hotel de Chalusse, and fixed his eyes upon the building as if he were striving to penetrate the massive walls, and see what was passing within. Only one window—that of the room where the dead man was lying—was lighted up, and he could vaguely distinguish the motionless form of a woman standing with her forehead pressed against the pane of glass. A prey to the indescribable agony which seizes a man when he feels that his life is at stake—that his future is about to be irrevocably decided—Pascal counted the seconds as they passed by. He found it impossible to reflect, to deliberate, to decide on any plan of action. He forgot the tortures he had endured during the last twenty-four hours; Coralth, Valorsay, Madame d’Argeles, the baron, no longer existed for him. He forgot his loss of honor and position, and the disgrace attached to his name. The past was annihilated, as it were, and he could think of no future beyond the next few moments. His physical condition undoubtedly contributed to his mental weakness. He had taken no food that day, and he was faint from want of nourishment. He had come without an overcoat, moreover, and the cold night air chilled him to the bone. There was a strange ringing in his ears, and a mist swam before his eyes. At last the bell at the Beaujon Hospital tolled the appointed hour, and roused him from his lethargy. He seemed to hear a voice crying to him in the darkness, “Up! the hour has come!”
Trembling, and with tottering limbs, he dragged himself to the little gate opening into the gardens of the Chalusse mansion. Soon it softly opened, and Madame Leon appeared. Ah! it was not she that Pascal had hoped to see. Unfortunate man! He had been listening to that mysterious echo of our own desires which we so often mistake for a presentiment; and it had whispered in his heart: “Marguerite herself will come!”
With the candor of wretchedness, he could not refrain from telling Madame Leon the hope he had entertained. But, on hearing him, the housekeeper recoiled with a gesture of outraged propriety, and reproachfully exclaimed: “What are you thinking of, monsieur? What! could you suppose that Mademoiselle Marguerite would abandon her place by her dead father’s bedside to come to a rendezvous? Ah! you should think better of her than that, the dear child!”
He sighed deeply, and in a scarcely audible voice, he asked: “Hasn’t she even sent me a reply?”
“Yes, monsieur, she has; and although it is a great indiscretion on my part, I bring you the letter. Here it is. Now, good-evening. I must go at once. What would become of me if the servants discovered my absence, and found that I had gone out alone——”
She was hurrying away, but Pascal detained her. “Pray wait until I see what she has written,” he said, imploringly. “I shall perhaps be obliged to send her some message in reply.”
Madame Leon obeyed, though with rather bad grace, and not without several times repeating: “Make haste!”—while Pascal ran to a street lamp near by. It was not a letter that Marguerite had sent him, but a short note, written on a scrap of crumpled paper, folded, and not sealed. It was written in pencil; and the handwriting was irregular and indistinct. Still, by the flickering light of the gas, Pascal deciphered the word “Monsieur.” It made him shudder. “Monsieur!” What did this mean? In writing to him of recent times, Marguerite had always said, “My dear Pascal,” or, “My friend.”
Nevertheless, he continued: “I have not had the courage to resist the entreaties made to me by the Count de Chalusse, my father, in his last agony. I have solemnly pledged myself to become the wife of the Marquis de Valorsay.
“One cannot break a promise made to the dying. I shall keep mine, even though my heart break. I shall do my duty. God will give me strength and courage. Forget her whom you loved. She is now the betrothed of another, and honor commands her to forget your very name. Once more, and for the last time, farewell! If you love me, you will not try to see me again. It would only add to my misery.
“Think as though she were dead—she who signs herself—MARGUERITE.”
The commonplace wording of this letter, and the mistakes in spelling that marred it, entirely escaped Pascal’s notice. He only understood one thing, that Marguerite was lost to him, and that she was on the point of becoming the wife of the vile scoundrel who had planned the snare which had ruined him at the Hotel d’Argeles. Breathless, despairing, and half crazed with rage, he sprang toward Madame Leon. “Marguerite, where is she?” he demanded, in a hoarse, unnatural voice; “I must see her!”
“Oh! monsieur, what do you ask? Is it possible? Allow me to explain to you——” But the housekeeper was unable to finish her sentence, for Pascal had caught her by the hands, and holding them in a vicelike grip, he repeated: “I must see Marguerite, and speak to her. I must tell her that she has been deceived; I will unmask the scoundrel who——”
The frightened housekeeper struggled with all her might, trying her best to reach the little gate which was standing open. “You hurt me!” she cried. “Are you mad? Let me go or I shall call for help?” And twice indeed she shouted in a loud voice, “Help! murder!”
But her cries were lost in the stillness of the night. If any one heard them, no one came; still they recalled Pascal to a sense of the situation, and he was ashamed of his violence. He released Madame Leon, and his manner suddenly became as humble as it had been threatening. “Excuse me,” he said, entreatingly. “I am suffering so much that I don’t know what I’m doing. I beseech you to take me to Mademoiselle Marguerite, or else run and beg her to come here. I ask but a moment.”
Madame Leon pretended to be listening attentively; but, in reality, she was quietly manoeuvring to gain the garden gate. Soon she succeeded in doing so, whereupon, with marvellous strength and agility, she pushed Pascal away, and sprang inside the garden, closing the gate after her, and saying as she did so, “Begone, you scoundrel!”
This was the final blow; and for more than a minute Pascal stood motionless in front of the gate, stupefied with mingled rage and sorrow. His condition was not unlike that of a man who, after falling to the bottom of a precipice, is dragging himself up, all mangled and bleeding, swearing that he will yet save himself, when suddenly a heavy stone which he had loosened in his descent, falls forward and crushes him. All that he had so far endured was nothing in comparison with the thought that Valorsay would wed Marguerite. Was such a thing possible? Would God permit such a monstrous iniquity? “No, that shall never be,” he muttered. “I will murder the scoundrel rather; and afterward justice may do whatever it likes with me.”
He experienced that implacable, merciless thirsting for vengeance which does not even recoil before the commission of a crime to secure satisfaction, and this longing inflamed him with such energy that, although he had been so utterly exhausted a few moments before—he was not half an hour in making his way back to his new home. His mother, who was waiting for him with an anxious heart, was surprised by the flush on his cheeks, and the light glittering in his eyes. “Ah, you bring good news,” she exclaimed.
His only answer was to hand her the letter which Madame Leon had given him, saying as he did so, “Read.”
Madame Ferailleur’s eyes fell upon the words: “Once more, and for the last time, farewell!” She understood everything, turned very pale, and in a trembling voice exclaimed: “Don’t grieve, my son; the girl did not love you.”
“Oh, mother! if you knew——”
But she checked him with a gesture, and lifting her head proudly, she said: “I know what it is to love, Pascal—it is to have perfect faith. If the whole world had accused your father of a crime, would a single doubt of his innocence have ever entered my mind? This girl has doubted you. They have told her that you cheated at cards—and she has believed it. You have failed to see that this oath at the bedside of the dying count is only an excuse.”
It was true; the thought had not occurred to Pascal. “My God!” he cried in agony; “are you the only one who believes in my innocence?”
“Without proofs—yes. It must be your task to obtain these proofs.”
“And I shall obtain them,” he rejoined, in a tone of determination. “I am strong now that I have Marguerite’s life to defend—for they have deceived her, mother, or she would never have given me up. Oh! don’t shake your head. I love her, and so I trust her.”