M. Isidore Fortunat resided at No. 27 Place de la Bourse, on the
third floor. He had a handsome suite of apartments: a drawing-room, a
dining-room, a bed-room, a large outer office where his clerks
worked, and a private one, which was the sanctuary of his thoughts and
meditations. The whole cost him only six thousand francs a year, a mere
trifle as rents go nowadays. His lease entitled him, moreover, to the
use of a room ten feet square, up under the eaves, where he lodged his
servant, Madame Dodelin, a woman of forty-six or thereabouts, who had
met with reverses of fortune, and who now took such good charge of his
establishment, that his table--for he ate at home--was truly fit for a
sybarite.
Having been established here for five years or more, M. Fortunat was
very well known in the neighborhood, and, as he paid his rent promptly,
and met all his obligations without demur, he was generally respected.
Besides, people knew very well from what source M. Fortunat derived his
income. He gave his attention to contested claims, liquidations, the
recovery of legacies, and so on, as was shown by the inscription in
large letters which figured on the elegant brass plate adorning his
door. He must have had a prosperous business, for he employed six
collectors in addition to the clerks who wrote all day long in his
office; and his clients were so numerous that the concierge was often
heard to complain of the way they ran up and down the stairs, declaring
that it was worse than a procession.
To be just, we must add that M. Fortunat’s appearance, manners
and conduct were of a nature to quiet all suspicions. He was some
thirty-eight years of age, extremely methodical in his habits, gentle
and refined in his manner, intelligent, very good-looking, and always
dressed in perfect taste. He was accused of being, in business matters,
as cold, as polished, and as hard as one of the marble slabs of the
Morgue; but then, no one was obliged to employ him unless they chose
to do so. This much is certain: he did not frequent cafes or places of
amusement. If he went out at all after dinner, it was only to pass
the evening at the house of some rich client in the neighborhood. He
detested the smell of tobacco, and was inclined to be devout--never
failing to attend eight o’clock mass on Sunday mornings. His housekeeper
suspected him of matrimonial designs, and perhaps she was right.
On the evening that the Count de Chalusse was struck with apoplexy M.
Isidore Fortunat had been dining alone and was sipping a cup of tea when
the door-bell rang, announcing the arrival of a visitor. Madame Dodelin
hastened to open the door, and in walked Victor Chupin, breathless from
his hurried walk. It had not taken him twenty-five minutes to cover
the distance which separates the Rue de Courcelles from the Place de la
Bourse.
“You are late, Victor,” said M. Fortunat, quietly.
“That’s true, monsieur, but it isn’t my fault. Everything was in
confusion down there, and I was obliged to wait.”
“How is that? Why?”
“The Count de Chalusse was stricken with apoplexy this evening, and he
is probably dead by this time.”
M. Fortunat sprang from his chair with a livid face and trembling lips.
“Stricken with apoplexy!” he exclaimed in a husky voice. “I am ruined!”
Then, fearing Madame Dodelin’s curiosity, he seized the lamp and rushed
into his office, crying to Chupin: “Follow me.”
Chupin obeyed without a word, for he was a shrewd fellow, and knew how
to make the best of a trying situation. He was not usually allowed
to enter this private room, the floor of which was covered with a
magnificent carpet; and so, after carefully closing the door, he
remained standing, hat in hand, and looking somewhat intimidated. But
M. Fortunat seemed to have forgotten his presence. After depositing the
lamp on the mantel-shelf, he walked several times round and round the
room like a hunted beast seeking for some means of egress.
“If the count is dead,” he muttered, “the Marquis de Valorsay is lost!
Farewell to the millions!”
The blow was so cruel, and so entirely unexpected, that he could not,
would not believe in its reality. He walked straight to Chupin, and
caught him by the collar, as if the young fellow had been the cause
of this misfortune. “It isn’t possible,” said he; “the count CANNOT
be dead. You are deceiving me, or they deceived you. You must have
misunderstood--you only wished to give some excuse for your delay
perhaps. Speak, say something!”
As a rule, Chupin was not easily impressed, but he felt almost
frightened by his employer’s agitation. “I only repeated what M. Casimir
told me, monsieur,” was his reply.
He then wished to furnish some particulars, but M. Fortunat had already
resumed his furious tramp to and fro, giving vent to his wrath and
despair in incoherent exclamations. “Forty thousand francs lost!” he
exclaimed. “Forty thousand francs, counted out there on my desk! I see
them yet, counted and placed in the hand of the Marquis de Valorsay in
exchange for his signature. My savings for a number of years, and I have
only a worthless scrap of paper to show for them. That cursed marquis!
And he was to come here this evening, and I was to give him ten thousand
francs more. They are lying there in that drawer. Let him come, the
wretch, let him come!”
Anger had positively brought foam to M. Fortunat’s lips, and any one
seeing him then would subsequently have had but little confidence in his
customary good-natured air and unctuous politeness. “And yet the marquis
is as much to be pitied as I am,” he continued. “He loses as much,
even more! And such a sure thing it seemed, too! What speculation can a
fellow engage in after this? And a man must put his money somewhere; he
can’t bury it in the ground!”
Chupin listened with an air of profound commiseration; but it was only
assumed. He was inwardly jubilant, for his interest in the affair was in
direct opposition to that of his employer. Indeed, if M. Fortunat lost
forty thousand francs by the Count de Chalusse’s death, Chupin expected
to make a hundred francs commission on the funeral.
“Still, he may have made a will!” pursued M. Fortunat. “But no, I’m
sure he hasn’t. A poor devil who has only a few sous to leave behind him
always takes this precaution. He thinks he may be run over by an omnibus
and suddenly killed, and he always writes and signs his last wishes.
But millionaires don’t think of such things; they believe themselves
immortal!” He paused to reflect for a moment, for power of reflection
had returned to him. His excitement had quickly spent itself by reason
of its very violence. “This much is certain,” he resumed, slowly, and
in a more composed voice, “whether the count has made a will or not,
Valorsay will lose the millions he expected from Chalusse. If there
is no will, Mademoiselle Marguerite won’t have a sou, and then, good
evening! If there is one, this devil of a girl, suddenly becoming
her own mistress, and wealthy into the bargain, will send Monsieur de
Valorsay about his business, especially if she loves another, as he
himself admits--and in that case, again good evening!”
M. Fortunat drew out his handkerchief, and, pausing in front of the
looking-glass, wiped the perspiration from his brow, and arranged his
disordered hair. He was one of those men who may be stunned, but never
crushed, by a catastrophe. “In conclusion,” he muttered, “I must enter
my forty thousand francs as an item in the profit and loss account. It
only remains to be seen if it would not be possible to regain them in
the same affair.” He was again master of himself, and never had his mind
been more clear. He seated himself at his desk, leant his elbows upon
it, rested his head on his hands, and remained for some time perfectly
motionless; but there was triumph in his gesture when he at last looked
up again.
“I am safe,” he muttered, so low that Chupin could not hear him. “What a
fool I was! If there is no will a fourth of the millions shall be mine!
Ah, when a man knows his ground, he never need lose the battle! But I
must act quickly,” he added, “very quickly.” And so speaking, he rose
and glanced at the clock. “Nine o’clock,” said he. “I must open the
campaign this very evening.”
Motionless in his dark corner, Chupin still retained his commiserating
attitude; but he was so oppressed with curiosity that he could scarcely
breathe. He opened his eyes and ears to the utmost, and watched his
employer’s slightest movements with intense interest.
Prompt to act when he had once decided upon his course, M. Fortunat now
drew from his desk a large portfolio, crammed full of letters, receipts,
bills, deeds of property, and old parchments. “I can certainly discover
the necessary pretext here,” he murmured, rummaging through the mass of
papers. But he did not at once find what he sought, and he was growing
impatient, as could be seen by his feverish haste, when all at once he
paused with a sigh of relief. “At last!”
He held in his hand a soiled and crumpled note of hand, affixed by a
pin to a huissier’s protest, thus proving conclusively that it had been
dishonored. M. Fortunat waved these strips of paper triumphantly, and
with a satisfied air exclaimed: “It is here that I must strike; it is
here--if Casimir hasn’t deceived me--that I shall find the indispensable
information I need.”
He was in such haste that he did not wait to put his portfolio in order.
He threw it with the papers it had contained into the drawer of his
desk again, and, approaching Chupin, he asked, “It was you, was it not,
Victor, who obtained that information respecting the solvency of the
Vantrassons, husband and wife, who let out furnished rooms?”
“Yes, monsieur, and I gave you the answer: nothing to hope for----”
“I know; but that doesn’t matter. Do you remember their address?”
“Perfectly. They are now living on the Asnieres Road, beyond the
fortifications, on the right hand side.”
“What is the number?”
Chupin hesitated, reflected for a moment, and then began to scratch
his head furiously, as he was in the habit of doing whenever his memory
failed him and he wished to recall it to duty. “I’m not sure whether the
number is eighteen or forty-six,” he said, at last; “that is----”
“Never mind,” interrupted M. Fortunat. “If I sent you to the house could
you find it?”
“Oh--yes, m’sieur--at once--with my eyes shut. I can see the place
perfectly--a rickety old barrack. There is a tract of unoccupied land on
one side, and a kitchen-garden in the rear.”
“Very well; you shall accompany me there.”
Chupin seemed astonished by this strange proposal. “What, m’sieur,” said
he, “do you think of going there at this time of night?”
“Why not? Shall we find the establishment closed?”
“No; certainly not. Vantrasson doesn’t merely keep furnished rooms; he’s
a grocer, and sells liquor too. His place is open until eleven o’clock
at least. But if you are going there to present a bill, it’s perhaps
a little late. If I were in your place, m’sieur, I should wait
till to-morrow. It’s raining, and the streets are deserted. It’s an
out-of-the-way place too; and in such cases, a man has been known to
settle his account with whatever came handiest--with a cudgel, or a
bullet, for instance.”
“Are you afraid?”
This question seemed so utterly absurd to Chupin that he was not in
the least offended by it; his only answer was a disdainful shrug of the
shoulders.
“Then we will go,” remarked M. Fortunat. “While I’m getting ready, go
and hire a cab, and see that you get a good horse.”
Chupin was off in an instant, tearing down the staircase like a tempest.
There was a cab-stand only a few steps from the house, but he preferred
to run to the jobmaster’s stables in the Rue Feydeau.
“Cab, sir!” shouted several men, as they saw him approaching.
He made no reply, but began to examine the horses with the air of a
connoisseur, until at last he found an animal that suited him. Thereupon
he beckoned to the driver, and going to the little office where a woman
sat reading: “My five sous, if you please,” he said, authoritatively.
The woman looked at him. Most jobmasters are in the habit of giving five
sous to any servant who comes in search of a cab for his master; and
this was the custom here. But the keeper of the office, who felt sure
that Chupin was not a servant, hesitated; and this made the young fellow
angry. “Make haste,” he cried, imperiously. “If you don’t, I shall run
to the nearest stand.”
The woman at once threw him five sous, which he pocketed with a
satisfied grin. They were his--rightfully his--since he had taken the
trouble to gain them. He then hastily returned to the office to inform
his employer that the cab was waiting at the door, and found himself
face to face with a sight which made him open his eyes to their widest
extent.
M. Fortunat had profited by his clerk’s absence, not to disguise
himself--that would be saying too much--but to make some changes in his
appearance. He had arrayed himself in a long overcoat, shiny with grease
and wear, and falling below his knees; in place of his elegant satin
cravat he had knotted a gaudy silk neckerchief about his throat; his
boots were worn, and out of shape; and his hat would have been treated
with contempt even by a dealer in old clothes. Of the prosperous
Fortunat, so favorably known round about the Place de la Bourse, naught
remained save his face and his hands. Another Fortunat had taken his
place, more than needy in aspect--wretched, famished, gaunt with hunger,
ready for any desperate deed. And, yet, he seemed at ease in this garb;
it yielded to his every movement, as if he had worn it for a long time.
The butterfly had become a chrysalis again. Chupin’s admiring smile must
have repaid him for his trouble. Since the young clerk evinced approval,
M. Fortunat felt sure that Vantrasson would take him for what he wished
to appear--a poor devil of an agent, who was acting on some other
person’s behalf. “Let us start at once,” said he.
But just as he was leaving the ante-room, he remembered an order of
great importance which he wished to give. He called Madame Dodelin, and
without paying the slightest heed to her astonishment at seeing him thus
attired: “If the Marquis de Valorsay comes, in my absence,” said
he--“and he WILL come--ask him to wait for me. I shall return
before midnight. Don’t take him into my office--he can wait in the
drawing-room.”
This last order was certainly unnecessary, since M. Fortunat had closed
and double-locked his office door and placed the key carefully in his
own pocket. But perhaps he had forgotten this circumstance. There
were now no traces of his recent anger and disappointment. He was in
excellent humor; and you might have supposed that he was starting on an
enterprise from which he expected to derive both pleasure and profit.
Chupin was climbing to a place on the box beside the driver when his
employer bade him take a seat inside the vehicle. They were not long in
reaching their destination, for the horse was really a good one, and the
driver had been stimulated by the promise of a magnificent gratuity. In
fact, M. Fortunat and his companion reached the Asnieres Road in less
than forty minutes.
In obedience to the orders he had received before starting, the cabman
drew up on the right hand side of the road, at about a hundred paces
from the city gate, beyond the fortifications. “Well, sir, here you are!
Are you satisfied?” he inquired, as he opened the door.
“Perfectly satisfied,” replied M. Fortunat. “Here is your promised
gratuity. Now, you have only to wait for us. Don’t stir from this place.
Do you understand?”
But the driver shook his head. “Excuse me,” he said, “but if it’s all
the same to you, I will station myself over there near the gate. Here,
you see, I should be afraid to go to sleep, while over there----”
“Very well; suit yourself,” M. Fortunat replied.
This precaution on the driver’s part convinced him that Chupin had not
exaggerated the evil reputation of this quarter of the Parisian suburbs.
And, indeed, there was little of a reassuring character in the aspect
of this broad road, quite deserted at this hour, and shrouded in the
darkness of a tempestuous night. The rain had ceased falling, but the
wind blew with increased violence, twisting the branches off the trees,
tearing slates from the roofs, and shaking the street-lamps so furiously
as to extinguish the gas. They could not see a step before them; the mud
was ankle-deep, and not a person, not a solitary soul was visible.
“Are we almost there?” M. Fortunat asked every ten paces.
“Almost there, m’sieur.”
Chupin said this; but to tell the truth, he knew nothing about it.
He tried to discover where he was, but did not succeed. Houses were
becoming scanty, and vacant plots of building ground more numerous;
it was only with the greatest difficulty that one could occasionally
discern a light. At last, however, after a quarter of an hour’s hard
struggling, Chupin uttered a joyful cry. “Here we are, m’sieur--look!”
said he.
A large building, five stories high, sinister of aspect, and standing
quite alone, could just be distinguished in the darkness. It was already
falling to pieces, and yet it was not entirely completed. Plainly
enough, the speculator who had undertaken the enterprise had not been
rich enough to complete it. On seeing the many closely pierced windows
of the facade, a passer-by could not fail to divine for what purpose
the building had been erected; and in order that no one should remain in
ignorance of it, this inscription: “Furnished Rooms,” figured in
letters three feet high, between the third and fourth floors. The inside
arrangements could be easily divined: innumerable rooms, all small and
inconvenient, and let out at exorbitant rentals.
However, Victor Chupin’s memory had misled him. This establishment was
not on the right, but on the left-hand side of the road, a perfect mire
through which M. Fortunat and his companion were obliged to cross. Their
eyes having become accustomed to the darkness, they could discern sundry
details as they approached the building. The ground floor comprised
two shops, one of which was closed, but the other was still open, and a
faint light gleamed through the soiled red curtains. Over the frontage
appeared the shop-keeper’s name, Vantrasson, while on either side, in
smaller letters, were the words: “Groceries and Provisions--Foreign and
French Wines.” Everything about this den denoted abject poverty and low
debauchery.
M. Fortunat certainly did not recoil, but before entering the shop
he was not sorry to have an opportunity to reconnoitre. He approached
cautiously, and peered through the window at a place where a rent in
the curtain allowed him some view of the interior. Behind the counter
a woman who looked some fifty years of age was seated, mending a soiled
dress by the light of a smoking lamp. She was short and very stout.
She seemed literally weighed down, and puffed out by an unwholesome
and unnatural mass of superfluous flesh; and she was as white as if her
veins had been filled with water, instead of blood. Her hanging
cheeks, her receding forehead, and her thin lips, imparted an alarming
expression of wickedness and cunning to her countenance. At the farther
end of the store Fortunat could vaguely discern the figure of a man
seated on a stool. He seemed to be asleep, for his crossed arms rested
on a table, with his head leaning on them.
“Good luck!” whispered Chupin in his employer’s ear; “there is not
a customer in the place. Vantrasson and his wife are alone.” This
circumstance was by no means displeasing to M. Fortunat, as could be
seen by his expression of face. “So, m’sieur,” continued Chupin, “you
need have no fears. I’ll remain here and watch, while you go in.”
M. Fortunat did so. On hearing the door open and shut, the woman laid
down her work. “What can I do for monsieur?” she asked, in a wheedling
voice.
M. Fortunat did not reply at once; but he drew the note with which
he had provided himself from his pocket, and displayed it. “I am a
huissier’s clerk,” he then exclaimed; “and I called in reference to this
little matter--a note of hand for five hundred and eighty-three francs,
value received in goods, signed Vantrasson, and made payable to the
order of a person named Barutin.”
“An execution!” said the woman, whose voice suddenly soured.
“Vantrasson, wake up, and come and see about this.”
This summons was unnecessary. On hearing the words “note of hand,”
the man had lifted his head; and at the name of Barutin, he rose and
approached with a heavy, uncertain step, as if he had not yet slept
off his intoxication. He was younger than his wife, tall, with a
well-proportioned and athletic form. His features were regular, but the
abuse of alcohol and all sorts of excesses had greatly marred them, and
their present expression was one of ferocious brutishness. “What’s that
you are talking about?” he asked in a harsh, grating voice. “Is it to
mock people that you come and ask for money on the 15th of October--rent
day? Where have you seen any money left after the landlord has made his
round? Besides, what is this bill? Give it me to look at.”
M. Fortunat was not guilty of such folly; he did not intrust the paper
to Vantrasson’s hand, but held it a little distance from him, and then
read it aloud.
When he had finished: “That note fell due eighteen months ago,” declared
Vantrasson. “It is worth nothing now.”
“You are mistaken--a note of this kind is of value any time within five
years after the day it goes to protest.”
“Possibly; but as Barutin has failed, and gone no one knows where, I am
released----”
“Another mistake on your part. You owe these five hundred and
eighty-three francs to the person who bought this note at Barutin’s
sale, and who has given my employer orders to prosecute----”
The blood had risen to Vantrasson’s face. “And what of that? Do you
suppose I’ve never been sued for debts before? Even the king can’t take
anything from a person who possesses nothing; and I own nothing. My
furniture is all pawned or mortgaged, and my stock is not worth a
hundred francs. When your employer finds it useless to waste money in
worrying me, he’ll let me alone. You can’t injure a man like me.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Unfortunately you are again mistaken, for although the holder of the
note doesn’t care so very much about obtaining his dues, he’ll spend his
own money like water to make trouble for you.” And thereupon M. Fortunat
began to draw a vivid and frightful picture of a poor debtor pursued
by a rich creditor who harassed him, and tortured him, and hounded him
everywhere, until not even a change of clothing was left him.
Vantrasson rolled his eyes and brandished his formidable fist in the
most defiant manner; but his wife was evidently much alarmed. At last
she could bear it no longer, and rising hastily she led her husband to
the rear of the shop, saying: “Come, I must speak with you.”
He followed her, and they remained for some little time conversing
together in a low tone, but with excited gestures. When they returned,
the woman opened the conversation. “Alas! sir,” she said to M. Fortunat,
“we have no money just now; business is so very bad, and if you
prosecute us, we are lost. What can be done? You look like an honest
man; give us your advice.”
M. Fortunat did not reply at once; he was apparently absorbed in
thought, but suddenly he exclaimed: “One owes a duty to unfortunate
folks, and I’m going to tell you the exact truth. My employer, who isn’t
a bad man at heart, hasn’t the slightest desire for revenge. He said to
me: ‘Go and see these Vantrassons, and if they seem to be worthy people,
propose a compromise. If they choose to accept it, I shall be quite
satisfied.’”
“And what is this compromise?”
“It is this: you must write an acknowledgment of the debt on a sheet of
stamped paper, together with a promise to pay a little on account each
month. In exchange I will give you this note of hand.”
The husband and wife exchanged glances, and it was the woman who said:
“We accept.”
But to carry out this arrangement it was necessary to have a sheet of
stamped paper, and the spurious clerk had neglected to provide himself
with some. This circumstance seemed to annoy him greatly, and you might
almost have sworn that he regretted the concession he had promised. Did
he think of going? Madame Vantrasson feared so, and turning eagerly
to her husband, she exclaimed: “Run to the tobacco shop in the Rue de
Levis; you will find some paper there!”
He started off at once, and M. Fortunat breathed freely again. He had
certainly retained his composure admirably during the interview, but
more than once he had fancied that Vantrasson was about to spring on
him, crush him with his brawny hands, tear the note from him, burn it,
and then throw him, Fortunat, out into the street, helpless and nearly
dead. But now that danger had passed and Madame Vantrasson, fearing he
might tire of waiting, was prodigal in her attentions. She brought
him the only unbroken chair in the establishment, and insisted that he
should partake of some refreshment--a glass of wine at the very least.
While rummaging among the bottles, she alternately thanked him and
complained, declaring she had a right to repine, since she had known
better days--but fate had been against her ever since her marriage,
though she had little thought she would end her days in such misery,
after having been so happy in the Count de Chalusse’s household many
years before.
To all appearance, M. Fortunat listened with the mere superficial
interest which ordinary politeness requires one to show, but in reality
his heart was filled with intense delight. Coming here without any
clearly-defined plan, circumstances had served him a thousand times
better than he could reasonably have hoped. He had preserved his
power over the Vantrassons, had won their confidence, had succeeded
in obtaining a tete-a-tete with the wife, and to crown all, this woman
alluded, of her own accord, to the very subject upon which he was
longing to question her.
“Ah! if I were only back in the Count’s household again,” she exclaimed.
“Six hundred francs a year, and gifts worth double that amount. Those
were good times for me. But you know how it is--one is never content
with one’s lot, and then the heart is weak----”
She had not succeeded in finding the sweet wine which she proposed to
her guest; so in its place she substituted a mixture of ratafia and
brandy in two large glasses which she placed upon the counter. “One
evening, to my sorrow,” she resumed, “I met Vantrasson at a ball. It was
the 13th day of the month. I might have known no good would come of it.
Ah, you should have seen him at that time, in full uniform. He belonged
to the Paris Guards then. All the women were crazy about soldiers, and
my head was turned, too----” Her tone, her gestures, and the compression
of her thin lips, revealed the bitterness of her disappointment and her
unavailing regret. “Ah, these handsome men!” she continued; “don’t
talk to me about them! This one had heard of my savings. I had nineteen
thousand francs, so he begged me to marry him, and I was fool enough
to consent. Yes, fool--for I was forty, and he was only thirty. I might
have known it was my money that he wanted, and not me. However, I gave
up my situation, and even purchased a substitute for him, in order that
I might have him all to myself.”
She had gradually warmed with her theme, as she described her confidence
and blind credulity, and then, with a tragic gesture, as if she desired
to drive away these cruel memories, she suddenly seized her glass and
emptied it at a draught.
Chupin, who was still at his post outside, experienced a thrill of
envy, and involuntarily licked his lips. “A mixed ratafia,” he said,
longingly. “I shouldn’t object to one myself.”
However, this choice compound seemed to inspire Madame Vantrasson with
renewed energy, for, with still greater earnestness, she resumed: “At
first, all went well. We employed my savings in purchasing the Hotel des
Espagnes, in the Rue Notre Dame des Victoires, and business prospered;
there was never a vacant room. But any person who has drank, sir, will
drink again. Vantrasson kept sober for a few months, but gradually he
fell into his old habits. He was in such a condition most of the time
that he was scarcely able to ask for food. And if that had been all!
But, unfortunately, he was too handsome a man to be a good husband. One
night he didn’t come home, and the next day, when I ventured to reproach
him--very gently, I assure you--he answered me with an oath and a blow.
All our happiness was over! Monsieur declared that he was master, and
would do as he liked. He drank and carried away all the wine from the
cellar--he took all the money--he remained away for weeks together; and
if I complained--more blows!”
Her voice trembled, and a tear gathered in her eye; but, wiping it away
with the back of her hand, she resumed: “Vantrasson was always drunk,
and I spent my time in crying my very eyes out. Business became very
bad, and soon everybody left the house. We were obliged to sell it.
We did so, and bought a small cafe. But by the end of the year we lost
that. Fortunately, I still had a little money left, and so I bought a
stock of groceries in my own name; but in less than six months the stock
was eaten up, and we were cast into the street. What was to be done?
Vantrasson drank worse than ever; he demanded money when he knew that I
had none to give him, and he treated me even more cruelly than before.
I lost courage--and yet one must live! Oh, you wouldn’t believe it if
I told you how we have lived for the past four years.” She did not tell
him, but contented herself with adding, “When you begin to go down hill,
there is no such thing as stopping; you roll lower and lower, until you
reach the bottom, as we have done. Here we live, no one knows how; we
have to pay our rent each week, and if we are driven from this place, I
see no refuge but the river.”
“If I had been in your position, I should have left my husband,” M.
Fortunat ventured to remark.
“Yes--it would have been better, no doubt. People advised me to do
so, and I tried. Three or four times I went away, and yet I always
returned--it was stronger than myself. Besides, I’m his wife; I’ve paid
dearly for him; he’s mine--I won’t yield him to any one else. He beats
me, no doubt; I despise him, I hate him, and yet I----” She poured out
part of a glass of brandy, and swallowed it; then, with a gesture of
rage, she added: “I can’t give him up! It’s fate! As it is now, it will
be until the end, until he starves, or I----”
M. Fortunat’s countenance wore an expression of profound commiseration.
A looker-on would have supposed him interested and sympathetic to the
last degree; but in reality, he was furious. Time was passing, and the
conversation was wandering farther and farther from the object of his
visit. “I am surprised, madame,” said he, “that you never applied to
your former employer, the Count de Chalusse.”
“Alas! I did apply to him for assistance several times----”
“With what result?”
“The first time I went to him he received me; I told him my troubles,
and he gave me bank-notes to the amount of five thousand francs.”
M. Fortunat raised his hands to the ceiling. “Five thousand francs!” he
repeated, in a tone of astonishment; “this count must be very rich----”
“So rich, monsieur, that he doesn’t know how much he’s worth. He owns,
nobody knows how many houses in Paris, chateaux in every part of the
country, entire villages, forests--his gold comes in by the shovelful.”
The spurious clerk closed his eyes, as if he were dazzled by this vision
of wealth.
“The second time I went to the count’s house,” resumed Madame
Vantrasson, “I didn’t see him, but he sent me a thousand francs. The
third and last time they gave me twenty francs at the door, and told me
that the count had gone on a journey. I understood that I could hope for
no further help from him. Besides, all the servants had been changed.
One morning, without any apparent reason, M. de Chalusse dismissed all
the old servants, so they told me. He even sent away the concierge and
the housekeeper.”
“Why didn’t you apply to his wife?”
“M. de Chalusse isn’t married. He never has been married.”
From the expression of solicitude upon her guest’s features, Madame
Vantrasson supposed he was racking his brain to discover some mode of
escape from her present difficulties. “If I were in your place,” he
said, “I should try to interest his relatives and family in my case----”
“The count has no relatives.”
“Impossible!”
“He hasn’t, indeed. During the ten years I was in his service, I heard
him say more than a dozen times that he alone was left of all his
family--that all the others were dead. People pretend that this is the
reason why he is so immensely rich.”
M. Fortunat’s interest was no longer assumed; he was rapidly approaching
the real object of his visit. “No relatives!” he muttered. “Who, then,
will inherit his millions when he dies?”
Madame Vantrasson jerked her head. “Who can say?” she replied.
“Everything will go to the government, probably, unless---- But no,
that’s impossible.”
“What’s impossible?”
“Nothing. I was thinking of the count’s sister, Mademoiselle Hermine.”
“His sister! Why, you said just now that he had no relatives.”
“It’s the same as if he hadn’t; no one knows what has become of her,
poor creature! Some say that she married; others declare that she died.
It’s quite a romance.”
M. Isidore Fortunat was literally upon the rack; and to make his
sufferings still more horrible, he dared not ask any direct question,
nor allow his curiosity to become manifest, for fear of alarming the
woman. “Let me see,” said he; “I think--I am sure that I have heard--or
that I have read--I cannot say which--some story about a Mademoiselle de
Chalusse. It was something terrible, wasn’t it?”
“Terrible, indeed. But what I was speaking of happened a long time
ago--twenty-five or twenty-six years ago, at the very least. I was still
in my own part of the country--at Besancon. No one knows the exact truth
about the affair.”
“What! not even you?”
“Oh! I--that’s an entirely different thing. When I entered the count’s
service, six years later, there was still an old gardener who knew the
whole story, and who told it to me, making me swear that I would never
betray his confidence.”
Lavish of details as she had been in telling her own story, it was
evident that she was determined to exercise a prudent reserve in
everything connected with the De Chalusse family; and M. Fortunat
inwardly cursed this, to him, most unseasonable discretion. But he was
experienced in these examinations, and he had at his command little
tricks for loosening tongues, which even an investigating magistrate
might have envied. Without seeming to attach the slightest importance to
Madame Vantrasson’s narrative, he rose with a startled air, like a
man who suddenly realizes that he has forgotten himself. “Zounds!” he
exclaimed, “we sit here gossiping, and it’s growing late. I really can’t
wait for your husband. If I remain here any longer, I shall miss the
last omnibus; and I live on the other side of the river, near the
Luxembourg.”
“But our agreement, monsieur?”
“We will draw that up at some future time. I shall be passing again, or
I will send one of my colleagues to see you.”
It was Madame Vantrasson’s turn to tremble now. She feared, if she
allowed this supposed clerk to go without signing the agreement, that
the person who came in his stead might not prove so accommodating; and
even if he called again himself, he might not be so kindly disposed.
“Wait just a moment longer, monsieur,” she pleaded; “my husband will
soon be back, and the last omnibus doesn’t leave the Rue de Levis until
midnight.”
“I wouldn’t refuse, but this part of the suburbs is so lonely.”
“Vantrasson will see you on your way.” And, resolved to detain him at
any cost, she poured out a fresh glass of liquor for him, and said:
“Where were we? Oh, yes! I was about to tell you Mademoiselle Hermine’s
story.”
Concealing his delight with an assumed air of resignation, M. Fortunat
reseated himself, to the intense disgust of Chupin, who was thoroughly
tired of waiting outside in the cold.
“I must tell you,” began Madame Vantrasson, “that when this happened--at
least twenty-five years ago--the De Chalusse family lived in the Rue
Saint-Dominique. They occupied a superb mansion, with extensive grounds,
full of splendid trees like those in the Tuileries gardens. Mademoiselle
Hermine, who was then about eighteen or nineteen years old, was,
according to all accounts, the prettiest young creature ever seen. Her
skin was as white as milk, she had a profusion of golden hair, and her
eyes were as blue as forget-me-nots. She was very kind and generous,
they say, only, like all the rest of the family, she was very haughty
and obstinate--oh, obstinate enough to allow herself to be roasted alive
over a slow fire rather than yield an inch. That’s the count’s nature
exactly. Having served him, I know something about it, to be sure,
and----”
“Excuse me,” interrupted M. Fortunat, who was determined to prevent
these digressions, “and Mademoiselle Hermine?”
“I was coming to her. Although she was very beautiful and immensely
rich, she had no suitors--for it was generally understood that she was
to marry a marquis, whose father was a particular friend of the family.
The parents had arranged the matter between them years before, and
nothing was wanting but the young lady’s consent; but Mademoiselle
Hermine absolutely refused to hear the marquis’s name mentioned.
“They did everything to persuade her to consent to this marriage; they
employed prayers and threats alike, but they might as well have talked
to a stone. When they asked her why she refused to marry the marquis,
she replied, ‘Because’--and that was all. In fact, at last she declared
she would leave home and take refuge in a convent, if they didn’t cease
to torment her. Her relatives were certain there must be some reason
for her refusal. It isn’t natural for a girl to reject a suitor who
is young, handsome, rich, and a marquis besides. Her friends suspected
there was something she wouldn’t confess; and M. Raymond swore that he
would watch his sister, and discover her secret.”
“M. Raymond is the present Count de Chalusse, I suppose?” inquired M.
Fortunat.
“Yes, monsieur. Such was the state of matters when, one night, the
gardener thought he heard a noise in the pavilion, at the end of the
garden. This pavilion was very large. I have seen it. It contained
a sitting-room, a billiard-room, and a large fencing-hall. Naturally
enough, the gardener got up to go and see what was the matter. As he
left the house, he fancied he saw two persons moving about among the
trees. He ran after them, but could find nothing. They had made their
escape through a small gate leading from the garden into the street.
When the gardener was telling me this story, he declared again and
again that he had fancied the noise he had heard was made by some of
the servants trying to leave the house secretly, and for this reason
he didn’t give the alarm. However, he hurried to the pavilion, but on
seeing no light there, he went back to bed with an easy mind.”
“And it was Mademoiselle Hermine eloping with a lover?” asked M.
Fortunat.
Madame Vantrasson seemed as disappointed as an actor who has been
deprived of an opportunity of producing a grand effect. “Wait a moment,”
she replied, “and you’ll see. The night passed, morning came, and
then the breakfast hour. But Mademoiselle Hermine did not make her
appearance. Some one was sent to rap at her door--there was no answer.
The door was opened--the young lady was not in her room, and the bed had
not even been disturbed. In a few moments the whole household was in
the wildest commotion; the mother weeping, and the father half wild
with rage and sorrow. Of course, the next thought was of Mademoiselle
Hermine’s brother, and he was sent for. But, he, too, was not in his
room, and his bed had not been touched. The excitement was becoming
frenzy, when it occurred to the gardener to mention what he had heard
and seen on the previous night. They hastened to the pavilion, and
discovered what? Why, M. Raymond stretched upon the ground, stiff, cold,
and motionless, weltering in his own blood. One of his rigid hands still
grasped a sword. They lifted him up, carried him to the house, laid him
upon his bed, and sent for a physician. He had received two dangerous
wounds; one in the throat, the other in the breast. For more than a
month he hung between life and death, and six weeks elapsed before he
had strength to relate what had happened. He was lighting a cigar at his
window when he thought he saw a woman’s form flit through the garden.
A suspicion that it might be his sister flashed through his mind; so he
hastened down, stole noiselessly into the pavilion, and there he found
his sister and a young man who was absolutely unknown to him. He might
have killed the intruder, but instead of doing so, he told him they
would fight then and there. Weapons were within reach, and they fought,
with the result that Raymond was wounded twice, in quick succession, and
fell. His adversary, supposing him dead, thereupon fled from the spot,
taking Mademoiselle Hermine with him.”
At this point in her narrative Madame Vantrasson evinced a desire to
pause and draw a breath, and perhaps partake of some slight refreshment;
but M. Fortunat was impatient. The woman’s husband might return at any
moment. “And, after that?” he inquired.
“After that--well--M. Raymond recovered, and in about three months’
time he was out again; but the parents, who were old folks, had received
their death-blow. They never rallied from the shock. Perhaps they felt
that it was their own hard-heartedness and obstinacy that had caused
their daughter’s ruin--and remorse is hard to bear. They waned
perceptibly from day to day, and during the following year they were
borne to the cemetery within two months of each other.”
From the spurious clerk’s demeanor it was easy to see that he had ceased
thinking about his omnibus, and his hostess felt both reassured and
flattered. “And Mademoiselle Hermine?” he inquired, eagerly.
“Alas! monsieur, no one ever knew where she went, or what became of
her.”
“Didn’t they try to find her?”
“They searched for her everywhere, for I don’t know how long; all the
ablest detectives in France and in foreign countries tried to find her,
but not one of them succeeded in discovering the slightest trace of her
whereabouts. M. Raymond promised an enormous sum to the man who would
find his sister’s betrayer. He wished to kill him, and he sought for him
for years; but all in vain.”
“And did they never receive any tidings of this unfortunate girl?”
“I was told that they heard from her twice. On the morning following
her flight her parents received a letter, in which she implored their
forgiveness. Five or six months later, she wrote again to say that she
knew her brother was not dead. She confessed that she was a wicked,
ungrateful girl--that she had been mad; but she said that her punishment
had come, and it was terrible. She added that every link was severed
between herself and her friends, and she hoped they would forget her as
completely as if she had never existed. She went so far as to say that
her children should never know who their mother was, and that never in
her life again would she utter the name which she had so disgraced.”
It was the old, sad story of a ruined girl paying for a moment’s madness
with her happiness and all her after life. A terrible drama, no doubt;
but one that is of such frequent occurrence that it seems as commonplace
as life itself. Thus any one who was acquainted with M. Isidore Fortunat
would have been surprised to see how greatly he was moved by such a
trifle. “Poor girl!” said he, in view of saying something. And then, in
a tone of assumed carelessness, he inquired: “Did they never discover
what scoundrel carried Mademoiselle de Chalusse away?”
“Never. Who he was, whence he came, whether he was young or old, how he
became acquainted with Mademoiselle Hermine--these questions were never
answered. It was rumored at one time that he was an American, a captain
in the navy; but that was only a rumor. To tell the truth, they never
even discovered his name.”
“What, not even his name?”
“Not even his name.”
Unable to master his emotion, M. Fortunat had at least the presence of
mind to rise and step back into the darker part of the shop. But his
gesture of disappointment and the muttered oath that fell from his lips
did not escape Madame Vantrasson. She was startled, and from that moment
she looked upon the supposed clerk with evident distrust. It was not
long before he again resumed his seat nearer the counter, still a
trifle pale, perhaps, but apparently calm. Two questions more seemed
indispensable to him, and yet either one of them would be sure to arouse
suspicion. Nevertheless, he resolved to incur the risk of betraying
himself. And, after all, what would it matter now? Did he not possess
the information he had wished for, at least as much of it as it was in
this woman’s power to impart? “I can scarcely tell you, my dear madame,
how much your narrative has interested me,” he began. “I can confess
now that I am slightly acquainted with the Count de Chalusse, and that I
have frequently visited the house in the Rue de Courcelles, where he now
resides.”
“You!” exclaimed the woman, taking a hasty inventory of M. Fortunat’s
toilette.
“Yes, I--on the part of my employer, understand. Each time I’ve been
to visit M. de Chalusse’s I’ve seen a young lady whom I took for his
daughter there. I was wrong, no doubt, since he isn’t a married man--”
He paused. Astonishment and anger seemed to be almost suffocating his
hostess. Without understanding how or why, she felt convinced that she
had been duped; and if she had obeyed her first impulse she would have
attacked M. Isidore then and there. If she restrained this impulse, if
she made an effort to control herself, it was only because she thought
she held a better revenge in reserve.
“A young lady in the count’s house!” she said, thoughtfully. “That’s
scarcely possible. I’ve never seen her; I’ve never heard her spoken of.
How long has she been there?”
“For six or seven months?”
“In that case, I can’t absolutely deny it. It’s two years since I set
foot in the count’s house.”
“I fancied this young lady might be the count’s niece Mademoiselle
Hermine’s daughter.”
Madame Vantrasson shook her head. “Put that fancy out of your head,”
she remarked. “The count said that his sister was dead to him from the
evening of her flight.”
“Who CAN this young girl be, then?”
“Bless me! I don’t know. What sort of a looking person is she?”
“Very tall; a brunette.”
“How old is she?”
“Eighteen or nineteen.”
The woman made a rapid calculation on her fingers. “Nine and four are
thirteen,” she muttered, “and five are eighteen. Ah, ha!--why not? I
must look into this.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing; a little reflection I was making to myself. Do you know this
young lady’s name?”
“It’s Marguerite.”
The woman’s face clouded. “No; it can’t be then,” she muttered, in a
scarcely audible voice.
M. Fortunat was on coals of fire. It was evident that this frightful
creature, even if she knew nothing definite, had some idea, some vague
suspicion of the truth. How could he compel her to speak now that she
was on her guard? He had not time to ascertain, for the door suddenly
opened, and Vantrasson appeared on the threshold. He was scarcely sober
when he left the shop, but now he was fairly drunk; his heavy shamble
had become a stagger. “Oh, you wretch, you brigand!” howled his wife;
“you’ve been drinking again!”
He succeeded in maintaining his equilibrium, and, gazing at her with the
phlegmatic stare peculiar to intoxicated men, he replied: “Well, what
of that! Can’t I have a little pleasure with my friends? I came across
a couple of men who were just taking their fifteenth glass; why should I
refuse a compliment?”
“You can’t hold yourself up.”
“That’s true.” And to prove it he tumbled on to a chair.
A torrent of abuse now flowed from Madame Vantrasson’s lips! M.
Fortunat only imperfectly distinguished the words “thief,” “spy,” and
“detective;” but he could not mistake the meaning of the looks which she
alternately gave her husband and himself. “It’s a fortunate thing for
you that my husband is in this condition,” her glances plainly implied,
“otherwise there would be an explanation, and then we should see--”
“I’ve had a lucky escape,” thought the spurious clerk. But as matters
stood there was nothing to fear. It was a case where one could show a
brave front to the enemy without incurring the slightest danger. “Let
your husband alone,” said he. “If he has only brought the paper that he
was sent to fetch, I sha’n’t have lost my evening to oblige you.”
Vantrasson had brought not one sheet of stamped paper, but two. A bad
pen and some muddy ink were produced, and M. Fortunat began to draw up
an acknowledgment according to the established formula. However, it was
necessary to mention the name of the creditor of whom he had spoken, and
not wishing to state his own, he used that of poor Victor Chupin, who
was at that very moment shivering at the door, little suspecting what
liberty was being taken with his cognomen.
“Chupin!” repeated the vixen, as if to engrave the name on her memory;
“Victor Chupin! I should just like to see him,” she added, viciously.
When the document was finished, it became necessary to wake Vantrasson,
so that he might sign it. He did so with very good grace, and his wife
appended her signature beside her husband’s. Thereupon M. Fortunat gave
them in exchange the note which had served as a pretext for his visit.
“And above all,” he remarked, as he opened the door to go, “don’t forget
that you are to pay something on account each month.”
“Go to the devil, and your account with you!” growled Madame Vantrasson.
But Fortunat did not hear this. He was already walking down the road
by the side of Chupin, who was saying: “Well, here you are, at last,
m’sieur! I thought you had taken a lease of that old barrack. If ever I
come here again, I’ll bring a foot-warmer with me.”
But one of those fits of profound abstraction to which determined
seekers after truth are subject had taken possession of M. Fortunat, and
made him oblivious of all surrounding circumstances. His heart had been
full of hope when he reached the Asnieres Road, but he went away gloomy
and despondent; and quite unconscious of the darkness, the mud, and the
rain, which was again falling, he silently plodded along in the middle
of the highway. Chupin was obliged to stop him at the city gate, and
remind him that the cab was waiting.
“That’s true,” was M. Fortunat’s only answer. He entered the vehicle,
certainly without knowing it; and as they rolled homeward, the thoughts
that filled his brain to overflowing found vent in a sort of monologue,
of which Chupin now and then caught a few words. “What a piece of
business!” he muttered--“what a piece of business! I’ve had seven years’
experience in such matters, and yet I’ve never met with an affair
so shrouded in mystery. My forty thousand francs are in a precarious
condition. Certainly I’ve lost money before through heirs whose
existence I hadn’t even suspected; but by reinstating these same heirs
in their rights, I’ve regained my lost money, and received a handsome
reward in addition; but in this case all is darkness; there isn’t a
single gleam of light--not the slightest clew. If I could only find
them! But how can I search for people whose names I don’t even know--for
people who have escaped all the inquiries of the police? And where shall
I look for them--in Europe, in America? It would be sheer madness! To
whom, then, will the count’s millions go?”
It was only the sudden stoppage of the cab in front of his own door that
recalled M. Fortunat to the realities of life. “Here are twenty
francs, Victor,” he said to Chupin. “Pay the driver, and keep the rest
yourself.”
As he spoke, he sprang nimbly to the ground. A handsome brougham, drawn
by two horses, was standing before the house. “The Marquis de Valorsay’s
carriage,” muttered M. Fortunat. “He has been very patient; he has
waited for me--or, rather, he has waited for my ten thousand francs.
Well, we shall see.”