“ATHENAIS DE FONDEGE.”
Mademoiselle Marguerite was thunderstruck, for the writer of this epistle was a lady whom she had only met five or six times, who had never visited her, and with whom she had scarcely exchanged twenty words. Moreover, she well remembered certain glances with which Madame de Fondege had, on one occasion, tried to crush her—glances so full of cruel contempt that they had drawn bitter tears of sorrow, shame, and anger, from the poor girl. The count himself had said to her at the time: “Don’t be so childish, Marguerite, as to trouble yourself about this foolish and impudent woman.”
And now this same woman sent her a letter overflowing with sympathy, and claimed her affection and confidence in the tone of an old and tried friend. Was such a change natural? Not being what is called a credulous person, Mademoiselle Marguerite was unable to believe it. She divined that Madame de Fondege must have had some hidden motive in writing such a letter—but what motive was it? Alas! she divined this also only too well. The General, suspecting that she had stolen the missing money, had imparted his suspicions to his wife; and she, being as avaricious and as unscrupulous as himself, was doing her best to secure the booty for her son. Such a calculation is a common one nowadays. Steal yourself? Fie. never! You would not dare. Besides, you are honest. But it is quite a different thing to profit by other people’s rascality. Besides, there are no risks to be encountered.
On perusing the letter a second time, it seemed to Mademoiselle Marguerite that she could hear the General and his wife discussing the means of obtaining a share of the two millions. She could hear Madame de Fondege saying to her husband: “You are a block-head! You frightened the girl by your precipitancy and roughness. But fortunately, I’m here. Let me manage the affair; and I’ll prove that women are far more clever than men.” And, thereupon, she had seized her pen, and commenced this letter. In Mademoiselle Marguerite’s opinion, the epistle betrayed the joint efforts of the pair. She could have sworn that the husband had dictated the sentence: “The General feels that he should be insulting and betraying the memory of a man who was his dearest friend for thirty years, if he did not become your second father.” On the other hand, the phrase, “I shall find a way to persuade you to love us, and to allow yourself to be loved,” was unmistakably the wife’s work. The writer’s insincerity was fully revealed by one passage of the letter. “You will fill the place of the beloved daughter I have lost,” wrote Madame de Fondege. It is true that she had once had a daughter; but the child had died of croup when only six months old, and more than twenty-five years previously.
It was strange, moreover, that this letter had not been sent until ten o’clock in the evening; but, on reflection, Mademoiselle Marguerite was able to explain this circumstance satisfactorily to herself. Before taking any decided step, M. and Madame de Fondege had wished to consult their son; and they had been unable to see him until late in the evening. However, as soon as the brilliant hussar had approved the noble scheme concocted by his parents, a servant had been dispatched with the letter. All these surmises were surely very plausible; but it was difficult to reconcile them with the opinion advanced by the magistrate—that M. de Fondege must know what had become of the missing millions.
Mademoiselle Marguerite did not think of this, however. She was losing her presence of mind at thought of the odious suspicions which rested on her, suspicions which she had seemed to read in the eyes of all who approached her, from Dr. Jodon to the Marquis de Valorsay. It is true that the magistrate had taken her defence; he had silenced the servants, but would that suffice? Would she not remain branded by an abominable accusation? And even the consciousness of her innocence did not reassure her, for Pascal’s case warned her that innocence is not a sufficient safeguard against slander.
Could she hope to escape when he had succumbed? She could tell by the agony that was torturing her own heart, how much he must have suffered. Where was he now? Beyond the frontiers of France? They had told her so, but she did not, could not believe it. Knowing him as she knew him, it seemed to her impossible that he had accepted his fate so quickly and without a struggle. A secret presentiment told her that his absence was only feigned, that he was only biding his time, and that M. Fortunat would not have far to go in search of him. It was in M. de Chalusse’s bedroom that she thus reflected, but a few steps from the bed on which reposed all that was mortal of the man whose weakness had made her life one long martyrdom, whose want of foresight had ruined her future, but whom she had not the heart to censure. She was standing in front of the window with her burning forehead resting against the glass. At that very moment Pascal was waiting, seated on the curbstone opposite the mansion. At that very moment he was watching the shadow on the window-curtain, wondering if it were not Marguerite’s. If the night had been clear she might have discerned the motionless watcher in the street below, and divined that it was Pascal. But how could she suspect his presence? How could she suspect that he had hastened to the Rue de Courcelles as she had hastened to the Rue d’Ulm?
It was almost midnight when a slight noise, a sound of stealthy footsteps, made her turn. Madame Leon was leaving the room, and a moment later Marguerite heard the house-door leading into the garden open and shut again. There was nothing extraordinary about such an occurrence, and yet a strange misgiving assailed her. Why, she could not explain; but many trivial circumstances, suddenly invested with a new and alarming significance, recurred to her mind. She remembered that Madame Leon had been restless and nervous all the evening. The housekeeper, who was usually so inactive, who lounged in her arm-chair for hours together, had been moving uneasily about, going up and down stairs at least a dozen times, and continually glancing at her watch or the clock. Twice, moreover, had the concierge come to tell her that some one wished to see her. “Where can she be going now, at midnight?” thought Mademoiselle Marguerite; “she who is usually so timid?”
At first, the girl resisted her desire to solve the question; her suspicions seemed absurd to her, and, besides, it was distasteful to her to play the spy. Still, she listened, waiting to hear Madame Leon re-enter the house. But more than a quarter of an hour elapsed, and yet the door did not open or close again. Either Madame Leon had not left the house at all, or else she was still outside. “This is very strange!” thought Mademoiselle Marguerite. “Was I mistaken? I must convince myself.” And, obeying a mysterious influence, stronger than her own will, she left the room and went down the stairs. She had reached the hall, when the garden door suddenly opened, and Madame Leon came in. The lights in the hall were burning brightly, so that it was easy to observe the housekeeper’s manner and countenance. She was panting for breath, like a person who had been running. She was very pale, and her dress was disordered. Her cap-strings were untied, and her cap had slipped from her head and was hanging over her shoulders. “What is the matter with you?” asked Mademoiselle Marguerite in astonishment. “Where have you been?”
On seeing the girl Madame Leon recoiled. Should she fly off or remain? She hesitated for an instant; and it was easy to read her hesitation in her eyes. She decided to remain; but it was with a constrained smile and in an unnatural voice that she replied: “Why do you speak to me like that, my dear young lady? One might suppose you were angry with me. You must know very well that I’ve been in the garden!”
“At this hour of the night?”
“MON DIEU! yes—and not for pleasure, I assure you—not by any means—I—I——” She was evidently seeking for some excuse; and, for a moment or two, she stammered forth one incoherent sentence after another, trying to gain time and imploring Heaven to grant her an inspiration.
“Well?” insisted Mademoiselle Marguerite, impatiently. “Why did you go out?”
“Ah! I—I—thought I heard Mirza barking in the garden. I thought she had been forgotten in all the confusion, and that the poor creature had been shut out, so I summoned all my courage, and——”
Mirza was an old spaniel that M. de Chalusse had been very fond of, and the animal’s caprices were respected by all the inmates of the house.
“That’s very strange,” remarked Mademoiselle Marguerite, “for when you rose to leave the room, half an hour ago, Mirza was sleeping at your feet.”
“What—really—is it possible?”
“It’s certain.”
But the worthy woman had already recovered her self-possession and her accustomed loquacity at the same time. “Ah! my dear young lady,” she said, bravely, “I’m in such sorrow that I’m losing my senses completely. Still, it was only from the kindest of motives that I ventured into the garden, and I had scarcely entered it before I saw something white run away from me—I felt sure it was Mirza—and so I ran after it. But I could find nothing. I called ‘Mirza! Mirza!’ and still nothing. I searched under all the trees, and yet I could not find her. It was as dark as pitch, and suddenly a terrible fear seized hold of me—such a terrible fright that I really believe I called for help, and I ran back to the house half crazed.”
Any one hearing her would have sworn that she was telling the truth. But, unfortunately, her earlier manner had proved her guilt.
Mademoiselle Marguerite was not deceived when she said to herself: “I am on the track of some abominable act.” However, she had sufficient self-control to conceal her suspicions; and she pretended to be perfectly satisfied with the explanation which the house-keeper had concocted. “Ah, my dear Leon, you are altogether too timid; it’s absurd,” she said, kindly.
The housekeeper hung her head. “I know that I make myself ridiculous,” she said, humbly. “But how can I help it? When a person’s frightened, she can’t reason. And that white object which I saw, as plainly as I see you, what could it have been?” And, convinced that her fable was believed, she grew bolder, and ventured to add: “Oh, my dear young lady, I shall tremble all night if the garden isn’t searched. Pray send the servants out to look. There are so many thieves and rascals in Paris!”
Under any other circumstances Mademoiselle Marguerite would have refused to listen to this ridiculous request; but, determined to repay the hypocrite in her own coin, she replied. “Very well; it shall be done.” And calling M. Casimir and Bourigeau, the concierge, she ordered them to take a lantern and explore the garden carefully.
They obeyed, though with rather bad grace, not being particularly courageous, either of them, and, of course, they found nothing.
“No matter,” said Madame Leon, “I feel safe now.” And she did indeed feel more tranquil in mind. “I had a lucky escape!” she said to herself. “What would have become of me, if Mademoiselle Marguerite had discovered the truth?”
But the housekeeper congratulated herself on her victory too soon. Mademoiselle Marguerite not only suspected her of treason, but she was endeavoring to procure proofs of it. She felt certain that the plausible housekeeper had deceived her, and cruelly wronged her as well. But what she could not understand was, how Madame Leon had been able to do so. She had spent a long time in fruitless conjectures, when suddenly she remembered the little garden gate. “The deceitful creature must have used that gate,” she thought.
It was easy for her to verify her suspicion. The little gate had not been exactly condemned, but many months had elapsed since it had been used; so it would be a very simple matter to ascertain whether it had been recently opened or not. “And I will know for certain before an hour has passed,” said Mademoiselle Marguerite to herself.
Having come to this conclusion, she feigned sleep, keeping a sharp watch over Madame Leon from between her half-closed eyelids. The housekeeper, after twisting uneasily in her arm-chair, at last became quiet again; and it was soon evident that she was sleeping soundly. Thereupon Mademoiselle Marguerite rose to her feet and stole noiselessly from the room downstairs into the garden. She had provided herself with a candle and some matches, and as soon as she struck a light, she saw that her surmises were correct. The little gate had just been opened and closed again. The cobwebs round about the bolts were torn and broken; the rust which had filled the keyhole had been removed, and on the dust covering the lock the impress of a hand could be detected. “And I have confided my most precious secrets to this wicked woman!” thought Mademoiselle Marguerite. “Fool that I was!”
Already thoroughly convinced, she extinguished her candle. Still, having discovered so much, she wished to pursue her investigation to the end, and so she opened the little gate. The ground outside had been soaked by the recent rains, and had not yet dried, and by the light of the neighboring street-lamp, she plainly distinguished a number of well-defined footprints on the muddy soil. An experienced observer would have realized by the disposition of these footprints that something like a struggle had taken place here; but Mademoiselle Marguerite was not sufficiently expert for that. She only understood what a child would have understood—that two people had been standing here for some time. Poor girl! She had not seen Pascal when he was sitting in front of the mansion some hours before! And now no presentiment warned her that these footprints were his. In her opinion, the man who had been talking with Madame Leon was either M. de Fondege, or the Marquis de Valorsay—that is to say, Madame Leon was hired to watch her and to render an account of all she said and did.
Her first impulse was to denounce and dismiss this miserable hypocrite; but as she was returning to the house, an idea which an old diplomatist need not have been ashamed of entered her mind. She said to herself that as Madame Leon was unmasked she was no longer to be feared; so why should she be sent away? “A known spy can undoubtedly be made a most valuable auxiliary. Why shouldn’t I make use of this wicked woman?” thought Mademoiselle Marguerite. “I can conceal from her what I don’t wish her to know, and with a little skill I can make her carry to her employers such information as will serve my plans. By watching her, I shall soon discover my enemy; and who knows if, by this means, I may not succeed in finding an explanation of the fatality that pursues me?”
When Mademoiselle Marguerite returned to her place beside the count’s bedside, she had calmly and irrevocably made up her mind. She would not only retain Madame Leon in her service, but she would display even greater confidence in her than before. Such a course was most repugnant to Marguerite’s loyal, truthful nature; but reason whispered to her that in fighting with villains, it is often necessary to use their weapons; and she had her honor, her life, and her future to defend. A strange and but imperfectly defined suspicion had entered her mind. To-night, for the first time, she thought she could discover a mysterious connection between Pascal’s misfortunes and her own. Was it mere chance which had struck them at the same time, and in much the same manner? Who would have profited by the abominable crime which had dishonored her lover, had it not been for M. de Chalusse’s death and her own firmness? Evidently the Marquis de Valorsay, for whom Pascal’s flight had left the field clear.
All these thoughts were well calculated to drive away sleep; but the poor girl was only twenty, and it was the second night she had watched by the count’s bedside. Thus at last fatigue overcame her, and she fell asleep.
In the morning, about seven o’clock, Madame Leon was obliged to shake her to rouse her from the kind of lethargy into which she had fallen. “Mademoiselle,” said the housekeeper, in her honeyed voice; “dear mademoiselle, wake up at once!”
“What is the matter? What is it?”
“Ah! how can I explain? My dear young lady, the undertaker’s men have come to make arrangements for the ceremony.”
Those in charge of the last rites had indeed arrived, and their heavy tread could be heard in the hall and in the courtyard. M. Casimir, who was bursting with self-sufficiency, hurried here, there? and everywhere, indicating, with an imperious gesture, where he wished the black hangings, embroidered with silver and emblazoned with the De Chalusse arms, to be suspended. As the magistrate had given him carte-blanche, he deemed it proper, as he remarked to Concierge Bourigeau, to have everything done in grand style. But he took good care not to reveal the fact that he had exacted a very handsome commission from all the people he employed. The hundred francs derived from Chupin had only whetted his appetite for more. At all events, he had certainly spared no pains in view of having everything as magnificent as possible; and it was not until he considered the display thoroughly satisfactory that he went to warn Mademoiselle Marguerite. “I come to beg mademoiselle to retire to her own room,” he said.
“Retire—why?”
He did not reply by words, but pointed to the bed on which the body was lying, and the poor girl realized that the moment of eternal separation had come. She rose, and dragged herself to the bedside. Death had now effaced all traces of the count’s last agony. His face wore its accustomed expression again, and it might have been fancied that he was asleep. For a long time Mademoiselle Marguerite stood looking at him, as if to engrave the features she would never behold again upon her memory. “Mademoiselle,” insisted M. Casimir; “mademoiselle, do not remain here.”
She heard him, and summoning all her strength, she leaned over the bed, kissed M. de Chalusse, and went away. But she was too late, for in passing through the hall she encountered the undertakers, who carried on their shoulders a long metallic case enclosed in two oaken ones. And she had scarcely reached her own room before a smell of resin told her that the men were closing the coffin which contained all that was mortal of M. de Chalusse, her father.
So, none of those terrible details, which so increase one’s grief, were spared her. But she had already suffered so much that she had reached a state of gloomy apathy, almost insensibility; and the exercise of her faculties was virtually suspended. Whiter than marble, she fell, rather than seated herself, on a chair, scarcely perceiving Madame Leon, who had followed her.
The worthy housekeeper was greatly excited, and not without cause. As there were no relations, it had been decided that M. de Fondege, the count’s oldest friend, should do the honors of the mansion to the persons invited to attend the funeral; and he had sworn that he would be under arms at daybreak, and that they might positively depend upon him. But the hour fixed for the ceremony was approaching, several persons had already arrived, and yet M. de Fondege had not put in an appearance. “It is incomprehensible,” exclaimed Madame Leon. “The General is usually punctuality personified. He must have met with some accident.” And in her anxiety she stationed herself at the window, whence she could command a view of the courtyard, carefully scrutinizing every fresh arrival.
At last, about half-past nine o’clock, she suddenly exclaimed: “Here he is! Do you hear, mademoiselle, here’s the General!”
A moment later, indeed, there was a gentle rap at the door, and M. de Fondege entered. “Ah, I’m late!” he exclaimed; “but, dash it all! it’s not my fault!” And, struck by Mademoiselle Marguerite’s immobility, he advanced and took her hand. “And you, my dear little one, what is the matter with you?” he asked. “Have you been ill? You are frightfully pale.”
She succeeded in shaking off the torpor which was stealing over her, and replied in a faint voice; “I am not ill, monsieur.”
“So much the better, my dear child, so much the better. It is our little heart that is suffering, is it not? Yes—yes—I understand. But your old friends will console you. You received my wife’s letter, did you not? Ah, well! what she told you, she will do—she will do it. And to prove it, in spite of her illness, she followed me—in fact, she is here!”
Mademoiselle Marguerite sprang to her feet, quivering with indignation. Her eyes sparkled and her lips trembled as she threw back her head with a superb gesture of scorn, which loosened her beautiful dark hair, and caused it to fall in rippling masses over her shoulders. “Ah! Madame de Fondege is here!” she repeated, in a tone of crushing contempt—“Madame de Fondege, your wife, here!”
It seemed to her an impossibility to receive the hypocrite who had written the letter of the previous evening—the accomplice of the scoundrels who took advantage of her wretchedness and isolation. Her heart revolted at the thought of meeting this woman, who had neither conscience nor shame, who could stoop so low as to intrigue for the millions which she fancied had been stolen. Mademoiselle Marguerite was about to forbid her to enter, or to retire herself, when the thought of her determination to act stealthily restrained her. She instantly realized her imprudence, and, mastering herself with a great effort, she murmured: “Madame de Fondege is too kind! How can I ever express my gratitude?”
Madame de Fondege must have heard this, for at the same moment she entered the room. She was short, and very stout—a faded blonde, with her complexion spoilt by a multitude of freckles. She had very large hands, broad, thick feet, and a shrill voice; and the vulgarity of her appearance was all the more noticeable on account of her pretensions to elegance. For although her father had been a wood-merchant, she boasted of her exalted birth, and endeavored to impress people with the magnificence of her style of living, though her fortune was problematical, and her household conducted in the most frugal style. Her attire suggested a continual conflict between elegance and economy—between real poverty and feigned prodigality. She wore a corsage and overskirt of black satin; but the upper part of the underskirt, which was not visible, was made of lute-string costing thirty sous a yard, and her laces were Chantilly only in appearance. Still, her love of finery had never carried her so far as shop-lifting, or induced her to part with her honor for gewgaws—irregularities which are so common nowadays, even among wives and mothers of families, that people are no longer astonished to hear of them.
No—Madame de Fondege was a faithful wife, in the strict and legal sense of the word. But how she revenged herself! She was “virtuous;” but so dangerously virtuous that one might have supposed she was so against her will, and that she bitterly regretted it. She ruled her husband with a rod of iron. And he who was so terrible in appearance, he who twirled his ferocious mustaches in such a threatening manner, he who swore horribly enough to make an old hussar blush, became more submissive than a child, and more timid than a lamb when he was beside his wife. He trembled when she turned her pale blue eyes upon him in a certain fashion. And woe to him if he ventured to rebel. She suppressed his pocket-money, and during these penitential seasons he was reduced to the necessity of asking his friends to lend him twenty-franc pieces, which he generally forgot to return.
Madame de Fondege was, as a rule, most imperious, envious, and spiteful in disposition; but on coming to the Hotel de Chalusse she had provided herself with any amount of sweetness and sensibility, and when she entered the room, she held her handkerchief to her lips as if to stifle her sobs. The General led her toward Mademoiselle Marguerite, and, in a semi-solemn, semi-sentimental tone, he exclaimed: “Dear Athenais, this is the daughter of my best and oldest friend. I know your heart—I know that she will find in you a second mother.”
Mademoiselle Marguerite stood speechless and rigid. Persuaded that Madame de Fondege was about to throw her arms round her neck and kiss her, she was imposing the most terrible constraint upon herself, in order to conceal her horror and aversion. But she was unnecessarily alarmed. The hypocrisy of the General’s wife was superior to that of Madame Leon. Madame de Fondege contented herself with pressing Mademoiselle Marguerite’s hands and faltering: “What a misfortune! So young—so sudden! It is frightful!” And, as she received no reply, she added, with an air of sorrowful dignity: “I dare not ask your full confidence, my dear unfortunate child. Confidence can be born only of long acquaintance and mutual esteem. But you will learn to know me. You will give me that sweet name of mother when I shall have deserved it.”
Standing at a little distance off, the General listened with the air of a man who has a profound respect for his wife’s ability. “Now the ice is broken,” he thought, “it will be strange if Athenais doesn’t do whatever she pleases with that little savage.”
His hopes were so brightly reflected upon his countenance, that Madame Leon, who was furtively watching him, became alarmed. “Ah! what do these people want?” she said to herself; “and what do all these endearments mean? Upon my word, I must warn my patron at once.” And, fancying that no one noticed her, she slipped quietly and noiselessly from the room.
But Mademoiselle Marguerite was on the watch. Determined to fathom the plotting that was going on around her, and frustrate it, she realized that everything depended upon her watchfulness and her ability to profit even by the most futile incidents. She had noticed the General’s triumphant smile, and the look of anxiety that had suddenly clouded Madame Leon’s face. So, without troubling herself about “the proprieties,” she asked M. and Madame de Fondege to excuse her for a second, and darted alter the housekeeper. Ah! she did not need to go far. Leaning over the banisters, she saw Madame Leon and the Marquis de Valorsay in earnest conversation in the hall below; the marquis as phlegmatic and as haughty as usual, but the house-keeper fairly excited. Marguerite at once understood that as Madame Leon knew that the marquis was among the funeral guests, she had gone to warn him of Madame de Fondege’s presence. This trivial circumstance proved that M. de Fondege’s interests were opposed to those of M. de Valorsay; that they must, therefore, hate each other, and that, with a little patience and skill, she might utilize them, one against the other. It also proved that Madame Leon was the Marquis de Valorsay’s paid spy and that he must therefore have long been aware of Pascal’s existence. But she lacked the time to follow out this train of thought. Her absence might awaken the Fondeges’ suspicions; and her success depended on letting them suppose that she was their dupe. She therefore returned to them as soon as possible, excusing herself for her abrupt departure as well as she could; but she was not accustomed to deceive, and her embarrassment might have betrayed her had it not been for the General, who fortunately interrupted her by saying: “I, too, must excuse myself, my dear child; but Madame de Fondege will remain with you. I must fulfil a sacred duty. They are waiting for me downstairs, and they are no doubt becoming impatient. It is the first time in my life that I was ever behind time.”
The General was right in losing no more time. At least a hundred and fifty guests had assembled in the reception-rooms on the ground floor, and they were beginning to think it very strange that they should be kept waiting in this style. And yet curiosity somewhat tempered their impatience. Some of the strange circumstances attending the count’s death had been noised abroad; and some well-informed persons declared that a fabulous sum of money had been stolen by a young girl. It is true, they did not think this embezzlement a positive crime. It certainly proved that the young lady in question possessed a strong and determined character; and many of the proudest among the guests would gladly have taken the place of De Valorsay, who, it was rumored, was about to marry the pretty thief and her millions.
The person who was most disturbed by the delay was the master of the ceremonies. Arrayed in his best uniform, his thin legs encased in black silk stockings, his mantle thrown gracefully over his shoulders, and his cocked hat under his arm, he was looking anxiously about for some one in the assembled crowd to whom he could give the signal for departure. He was already talking of starting off when M. de Fondege appeared. The friends of M. de Chalusse who were to hold the cords of the pall came forward. There was a moment’s confusion, then the hearse started, and the whole cortege filed out of the courtyard.
Deep silence followed, so deep that the noise made in closing the heavy gates came upon one with startling effect. “Ah!” moaned Madame de Fondege, “it is over.”
Marguerite’s only reply was a despairing gesture. It would have been impossible for her to articulate a syllable—her tears were choking her. What would she not have given to be alone at this moment—to have been able to abandon herself without constraint to her emotions! Alas! prudence condemned her to play a part even now. The thought of her future and her honor lent her strength to submit to the deceitful consolations of a woman whom she knew to be a dangerous enemy. And the General’s wife was by no means sparing of her consolatory phrases; in fact, it was only after a long homily on the uncertainty of life below that she ventured to approach the subject of her letter of the previous evening. “For it is necessary to face the inevitable,” she pursued. “The troublesome realities of life have no respect for our grief. So it is with you, my dear child; you would find a bitter pleasure in giving vent to your sorrow, but you are compelled to think of your future. As M. de Chalusse has no heirs, this house will be closed—you can remain here no longer.”
“I know it, madame.”
“Where will you go?”
“Alas! I don’t know.”
Madame de Fondege raised her handkerchief to her eyes as if to wipe a furtive tear away, and then, almost roughly, she exclaimed: “I must tell you the truth, my child. Listen to me. I see only two courses for you to adopt. Either to ask the protection of some respectable family, or to enter a convent. This is your only hope of safety.”
Mademoiselle Marguerite bowed her head, without replying. To learn the plans which the General’s wife had formed she must let her disclose them. However, the girl’s silence seemed to make Madame de Fondege uncomfortable, and at last she resumed: “Is it possible that you think of braving the perils of life alone? I cannot believe it! It would be madness. Young, beautiful, and attractive as you are, it is impossible for you to live unprotected. Even if you had sufficient strength of character to lead a pure and honest life, the world would none the less refuse you its esteem. Mere prejudice, you say? You are quite right; but it is nevertheless true that a young girl who braves public opinion is lost.”
It was easy to see by Madame de Fondege’s earnestness that she feared Mademoiselle Marguerite would avail herself of this opportunity of recovering her liberty. “What shall I do, then?” asked the girl.
“There is the convent.”
“But I love life.”
“Then ask the protection of some respectable family.”
“The idea of being in any one’s charge is disagreeable to me.”
Strange to say, Madame de Fondege did not protest, did not speak of her own house. She was too proud for that. Having once offered hospitality, she thought it would arouse suspicion if she insisted. So she contented herself with enumerating the arguments for and against the two propositions, remarking from time to time: “Come, you must decide! Don’t wait until the last moment!”
Mademoiselle Marguerite had already decided but before announcing her decision she wished to confer with the only friend she had in the world—the old justice of the peace. On the previous evening he had said to her: “Farewell until to-morrow,” and knowing that his work in the house had not been concluded, she was extremely surprised that he had not yet put in an appearance.
While conversing with Madame de Fondege she had dexterously avoided compromising herself in any way when suddenly a servant appeared and announced the magistrate’s arrival. He entered the room, with his usual benevolent smile upon his lips, but his searching eyes were never once taken off Madame de Fondege’s face. He bowed, made a few polite remarks, and then addressing Marguerite, he said: “I must speak with you, mademoiselle, at once. You may tell madame, however, that you will certainly return in less than a quarter of an hour.”
Marguerite followed him, and when they were alone in the count’s study and the doors had been carefully closed, the magistrate exclaimed: “I have been thinking a great deal of you, my child, a great deal; and it seems to me that I can explain certain things which worried you yesterday. But first of all, what has happened since I left you?”
Briefly, but with remarkable precision, Marguerite recounted the various incidents which had occurred—her useless journey to the Rue d’Ulm, Madame Leon’s strange midnight ramble and conversation with the Marquis de Valorsay, Madame de Fondege’s letter, and lastly, her visit and all that she had said.
The magistrate listened with his eyes fixed on his ring “This is very serious, very serious,” he said at last. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps M. Ferailleur is innocent. And yet, why should he abscond? why should he leave the country?”
“Ah! monsieur, Pascal’s flight is only feigned. He is in Paris—concealed somewhere—I’m sure of it; and I know a man who will find him for me. Only one thing puzzles me—his silence. To disappear without a word, without giving me any sign of life——”
The magistrate interrupted her by a gesture. “I see nothing surprising in that since your companion is the Marquis de Valorsay’s spy. How do you know that she has not intercepted or destroyed some letter from M. Pascal?”
Mademoiselle Marguerite turned pale. “Great Heavens! how blind I have been!” she exclaimed. “I did not think of that. Oh, the wretch! if one could only question her and make her confess her crime. It is horrible to think that if I wish to arrive at the truth, I must remain with her and treat her in the future just as I have treated her till now.”
But the magistrate was not the man to wander from the subject he was investigating. “Let us return to Madame de Fondege,” said he. “She is extremely unwilling to see you go out into the world alone. Why?—through affection? No. Why, then? This is what we must ascertain. Secondly, she seems indifferent as to whether you accept her hospitality or enter a convent.”
“She seems to prefer that I should enter a convent.”
“Very well. What conclusion can we draw from that? Simply, that the Fondege family don’t particularly care about keeping you with them, or marrying you to their son. If they don’t desire this, it is because they are perfectly sure that the missing money was not taken by you. Now, let me ask, how can they be so certain? Simply because they know where the missing millions are—and if they know——”
“Ah! monsieur, it is because they’ve stolen them!”
The magistrate was silent. He had turned the bezel of his ring inside, a sure sign of stormy weather, so his clerk would have said—and though he had his features under excellent control he could not entirely conceal some signs of a severe mental conflict he was undergoing. “Well, yes, my child,” he said, at last. “Yes, it is my conviction that the Fondeges possess the millions you saw in the count’s escritoire, and which we have been unable to find. How they obtained possession of the money I can’t conceive—but they have it, or else logic is no longer logic.” He paused again for a moment, and then he resumed, more slowly: “In acquainting you with my opinion on this subject, I have given you, a young girl, almost a child, a proof of esteem and confidence which, it seems to me, few men are worthy of; for I may be deceived, and a magistrate ought not to accuse a person unless he is absolutely certain of his guilt. So you must forget what I have just told you, Mademoiselle Marguerite.”
She looked at him with an air of utter astonishment. “You advise me to forget,” she murmured, “you wish me to forget.”
“Yes; you must conceal these suspicions in the deepest recesses of your heart, until the time comes when you have sufficient proof to convict the culprits. It is true that it will be a difficult task to collect such proofs; but it is not impossible, with the aid of time, which divulges so many crimes. And you may count upon me; I will give you the benefit of all my influence and experience. It shall never be said that I allowed a defenceless girl to be crushed while I saw any chance of saving her.”
Tears came to Mademoiselle Marguerite’s eyes. So the world was not composed entirely of scoundrels! “Ah! how kind you are, monsieur,” she said; “how kind you are!”
“To be sure!” he interrupted, in a benevolent tone. “But, my child, you must help yourself. Remember this: if the Fondeges suspect our suspicions, all is lost. Repeat this to yourself at every moment in the day—and be discreet, impenetrable; for people with unclean consciences and hands are always distrustful of others.”
There was no necessity to say anything more on this point; and so, with a sudden change of tone he asked: “Have you any plan?”
She felt that she could, and ought, to confide everything to this worthy old man, and so rising to her feet, with a look of energy and determination on her face, she replied in a firm voice: “My decision is taken, monsieur, subject, of course, to your approval. In the first place I shall keep Madame Leon with me, in whatever capacity she likes, it doesn’t matter what. Through her I shall no doubt be able to watch the Marquis de Valorsay, and perhaps eventually discover his hopes and his aim. In the second place, I shall accept the hospitality offered me by the General and his wife. With them, I shall be in the very centre of the intrigue, and in a position to collect proofs of their infamy.”
The magistrate gave vent to an exclamation of delight. “You are a brave girl, Mademoiselle Marguerite,” he said, “and at the same time a prudent one. Yes; that is the proper course to pursue.”
Nothing now remained save to make arrangements for her departure. She possessed some very handsome diamonds and other costly jewels; should she keep them? “They are undoubtedly mine,” said she; “but after the infamous accusations levelled at me, I can’t consent to take them away with me. They are worth a very handsome amount. I shall leave them with you, monsieur. If the courts restore them to me later—well—I shall take them—and not without pleasure, I frankly confess.” Then as the magistrate questioned her anxiously as to her resources, she replied: “Oh! I’m not without money. M. de Chalusse was generosity itself, and my tastes are very simple. From the money he gave me for my clothes I saved more than eight thousand francs in less than six months. That is more than sufficient to maintain me for a year.”
The magistrate then explained that when the court took possession of this immense estate, it would surely allow her a certain sum. For whether the count was her father or not, he was at any rate her officially appointed guardian, and she would be considered a minor. And in support of his assertion, he quoted Article 367 of the Civil Code, which says: “In the event of the officially appointed guardian dying without adopting, his ward, the said ward shall be furnished during her minority with the means of subsistence from the said guardian’s estate,” etc., etc.
“An additional reason why I should give up my jewels,” said Mademoiselle Marguerite.
The only point that now remained was to decide upon some plan by which she could communicate with her friend, the magistrate, without the knowledge of the General or his wife. The magistrate accordingly explained a system of correspondence which would defy the closest surveillance, and then added: “Now, make haste back to your visitor. Who knows what suspicions your absence may have caused her?”
But Mademoiselle Marguerite had one more request to make. She had often seen in M. de Chalusse’s possession a little note-book, in which he entered the names and addresses of the persons with whom he had business transactions. M. Fortunat’s address must be there, so she asked and obtained permission to examine this note-book, and to her great joy, under the letter “F,” she found the entry: “Fortunat (Isidore), No. 28 Place de la Bourse.” “Ah! I’m sure that I shall find Pascal now!” she exclaimed. And after once more thanking the magistrate, she returned to her room again.
Madame de Fondege was awaiting her with feverish impatience. “How long you stayed!” she cried.
“I had so many explanations to give, madame.”
“How you are tormented, my poor child!”
“Oh, shamefully!”
This furnished Madame de Fondege with another excuse for proffering her advice. But Mademoiselle Marguerite would not allow herself to be convinced at once. She raised a great many objections, and parleyed for a long time before telling Madame de Fondege that she would be happy to accept the hospitality which had been offered her. And her consent was by no means unconditional. She insisted on paying her board, and expressed the wish to retain the services of Madame Leon to whom she was so much attached. The worthy housekeeper was present at this conference. For an instant she had feared that Mademoiselle Marguerite suspected her manoeuvres but her fears were now dispelled, and she even congratulated herself on her skilfulness. Everything was arranged, and the agreement had been sealed with a kiss, when the General returned about four o’clock. “Ah, my dear!” cried his wife, “what happiness! We have a daughter!”
But even this intelligence was scarcely sufficient to revive her husband’s drooping spirits. He had almost fainted when he heard the earth falling on M. de Chalusse’s coffin; and this display of weakness on the part of a man adorned with such terrible and ferocious mustaches had excited no little comment. “Yes, it is a great happiness!” he now replied. “But thunder and lightning! I never doubted the dear girl’s heart!”
Still both he and his wife could scarcely conceal their disappointment when the magistrate informed them that their beloved daughter would not take her diamonds. “Dash it!” growled the General. “I recognize her father in this! What delicacy! almost too much, perhaps!”
However, when the magistrate informed him that the court would undoubtedly order the restitution of the jewels, his face brightened again, and he went down to superintend the removal of Mademoiselle Marguerite’s trunks, which were being loaded on one of the vehicles of the establishment.
Then the moment of departure came. Mademoiselle Marguerite acknowledged the parting remarks of the servants, who were secretly delighted to be freed from her presence, and then, before entering the carriage, she cast a long, sad look upon this princely mansion which she had once had the right to believe her own, but which she was, alas! now leaving, in all probability, for ever.
The conclusion of this narrative will be found in the volume called “Baron Trigault’s Vengeance.”
1 (return)[ French gamblers use this expression which they explain by the fact that Charlemagne departed this life with all his possessions intact, having always added to his dominions without ever experiencing a loss. Historically this is no doubt incorrect, but none the less, the expression prevails in France.—TRANS.]
2 (return)[ See “Lecoq the Detective” by Emile Gaboriau]
3 (return)[ The body of hired applauders who are employed at most Parisian theatres to stimulate the enthusiasm of the audience.—Trans.]