The clock on the mantel-shelf struck half-past four. The magistrate and
Mademoiselle Marguerite could hear stealthy footsteps in the hall, and
a rustling near the door. The servants were prowling round about the
study, wondering what was the reason of this prolonged conference. “I
must see how the clerk is progressing with the inventory.” said the
magistrate. “Excuse me if I absent myself for a moment; I will soon
return.” And so saying he rose and left the room.
But it was only a pretext. He really wished to conceal his emotion
and regain his composure, for he had been deeply affected by the young
girl’s narrative. He also needed time for reflection, for the situation
had become extremely complicated since Mademoiselle Marguerite had
informed him of the existence of heirs--of those mysterious enemies who
had poisoned the count’s peace. These persons would, of course, require
to know what had become of the millions deposited in the escritoire,
and who would be held accountable for the missing treasure? Mademoiselle
Marguerite, unquestionably. Such were the thoughts that flitted through
the magistrate’s mind as he listened to his clerk’s report. Nor was this
all; for having solicited Mademoiselle Marguerite’s confidence, he must
now advise her. And this was a matter of some difficulty.
However, when he returned to the study he was quite self-possessed
and impassive again, and he was pleased to see that on her side the
unfortunate girl had, to some extent, at least, recovered her wonted
composure. “Let us now discuss the situation calmly,” he began. “I shall
convince you that your prospects are not so frightful as you imagine.
But before speaking of the future, will you allow me to refer to the
past?” The girl bowed her consent. “Let us first of all consider the
subject of the missing millions. They were certainly in the escritoire
when M. de Chalusse replaced the vial; but now they are not to be found,
so that the count must have taken them away with him.”
“That thought occurred to me also.”
“Did the treasure form a large package?”
“Yes, it was large; but it could have been easily concealed under the
cloak which M. de Chalusse wore.”
“Very good! What was the time when he left the house?”
“About five o’clock.”
“When was he brought back?”
“At about half-past six.”
“Where did the cabman pick him up?”
“Near the church of Notre Dame de Lorette, so he told me.”
“Do you know the driver’s number?”
“Casimir asked him for it, I believe.”
Had any one inquired the reason of this semi-official examination, the
magistrate would have replied that Mademoiselle Marguerite’s interests
alone influenced him in the course he was taking. This was quite true;
and yet, without being altogether conscious of the fact, he was also
impelled by another motive. This affair interested, almost fascinated,
him on account of its mysterious surroundings, and influenced by the
desire for arriving at the truth which is inherent in every human heart,
he was anxious to solve the riddle. After a few moments’ thoughtful
silence, he remarked: “So the point of departure in our investigation,
if there is an investigation, will be this: M. de Chalusse left the
house with two millions in his possession; and while he was absent, he
either disposed of that enormous sum--or else it was stolen from him.”
Mademoiselle Marguerite shuddered. “Oh! stolen,” she faltered.
“Yes, my child--anything is possible. We must consider the situation in
every possible light. But to continue. Where was M. de Chalusse going?”
“To the house of a gentleman who would, he thought, be able to furnish
the address given in the letter he had torn up.”
“What was this gentleman’s name?”
“Fortunat.”
The magistrate wrote the name down on his tablets, and then, resuming
his examination, he said: “Now, in reference to this unfortunate letter
which, in your opinion, was the cause of the count’s death, what did it
say?”
“I don’t know, monsieur. It is true that I helped the count in
collecting the fragments, but I did not read what was written on them.”
“That is of little account. The main thing is to ascertain who wrote
the letter. You told me that it could only have come from the sister who
disappeared thirty years ago, or else from your mother.”
“That was, and still is, my opinion.”
The magistrate toyed with his ring; and a smile of satisfaction stole
over his face. “Very well!” he exclaimed, “in less than five minutes
I shall be able to tell you whether the letter was from your mother
or not. My method is perfectly simple. I have only to compare the
handwriting with that of the letters found in the escritoire.”
Mademoiselle Marguerite sprang up, exclaiming: “What a happy idea!”
But without seeming to notice the girl’s surprise, he added: “Where are
the remnants of this letter which you and the count picked up in the
garden?”
“M. de Chalusse placed them in his pocket.”
“They must be found. Tell the count’s valet to look for them.”
The girl rang; but M. Casimir, who was supposed to be engaged in making
preparations for the funeral, was not in the house. However, another
servant and Madame Leon offered their services, and certainly displayed
the most laudable zeal, but their search was fruitless; the fragments
of the letter could not be found. “How unfortunate!” muttered the
magistrate, as he watched them turn the pockets of the count’s clothes
inside out. “What a fatality! That letter would probably have solved the
mystery.”
Compelled to submit to this disappointment, he returned to the study;
but he was evidently discouraged. Although he did not consider the
mystery insoluble, far from it, he realized that time and research
would be required to arrive at a solution, and that the affair was quite
beyond his province. One hope alone remained.
By carefully studying the last words which M. de Chalusse had written
and spoken he might arrive at the intention which had dictated them.
Experience had wonderfully sharpened his penetration, and perhaps he
might discover a hidden meaning which would throw light upon all this
doubt and uncertainty. Accordingly, he asked Mademoiselle Marguerite for
the paper upon which the count had endeavored to pen his last wishes;
and in addition he requested her to write on a card the dying man’s last
words in the order they had been uttered. But on combining the written
and the spoken words the only result obtained was as follows:--“My
entire fortune--give--friends--against--Marguerite--despoiled--your
mother--take care.” These twelve incoherent words revealed the count’s
absorbing and poignant anxiety concerning his fortune and Marguerite’s
future, and also the fear and aversion with which Marguerite’s mother
inspired him. But that was all; the sense was not precise enough for any
practical purpose. Certainly the word “give” needed no explanation.
It was plain that the count had endeavored to write, “I give my entire
fortune.” The meaning of the word “despoiled” was also clear. It had
evidently been wrung from the half-unconscious man by the horrible
thought that Marguerite--his own daughter, unquestionably--would not
have a penny of all the millions he had intended for her. “Take care”
also explained itself. But there were two words which seemed absolutely
incomprehensible to the magistrate, and which he vainly strove to
connect with the others in an intelligible manner. These were the words
“friends” and “against,” and they were the most legibly written of
all. For the thirtieth time the magistrate was repeating them in an
undertone, when a rap came at the door, and almost immediately Madame
Leon entered the room.
“What is it?” inquired Mademoiselle Marguerite.
Laying a package of letters, addressed to M. de Chalusse, on the desk,
the housekeeper replied: “These have just come by the post for the
poor count. Heaven rest his soul!” And then handing a newspaper to
Mademoiselle Marguerite, she added, in an unctuous tone: “And some one
left this paper for mademoiselle at the same time.”
“This paper--for me? You must be mistaken.”
“Not at all. I was in the concierge’s lodge when the messenger brought
it; and he said it was for Mademoiselle Marguerite, from one of her
friends.” And with these words she made one of her very best courtesies,
and withdrew.
The girl had taken the newspaper, and now, with an air of astonishment
and apprehension, she slowly unfolded it. What first attracted her
attention was a paragraph on the first page marked round with red chalk.
The paper had evidently been sent in order that she might read this
particular passage, and accordingly she began to peruse it. “There was a
great sensation and a terrible scandal last evening at the residence of
Madame d’A----, a well known star of the first magnitude----”
It was the shameful article which described the events that had robbed
Pascal of his honor. And to make assurance doubly sure, to prevent the
least mistake concerning the printed initials, the coward who sent the
paper had appended the names of the persons mixed up in the affair, at
full length, in pencil. He had written d’Argeles, Pascal Ferailleur,
Ferdinand de Coralth, Rochecote. And yet, in spite of these precautions,
the girl did not at first seize the full meaning of the article; and
she was obliged to read it over again. But when she finally understood
it--when the horrible truth burst upon her--the paper fell from her
nerveless hands, she turned as pale as death, and, gasping for breath,
leaned heavily against the wall for support.
Her features expressed such terrible suffering that the magistrate
sprang from his chair with a bound. “What has happened?” he eagerly
asked.
She tried to reply, but finding herself unable to do so, she pointed to
the paper lying upon the floor, and gasped: “There! there!”
The magistrate understood everything at the first glance; and this man,
who had witnessed so much misery--who had been the confidant of so many
martyrs--was filled with consternation at thought of the misfortunes
which destiny was heaping upon this defenceless girl. He approached her,
and led her gently to an arm-chair, upon which she sank, half fainting.
“Poor child!” he murmured. “The man you had chosen--the man whom you
would have sacrificed everything for--is Pascal Ferailleur, is he not?”
“Yes, it is he.”
“He is an advocate?”
“As I have already told you, monsieur.”
“Does he live in the Rue d’Ulm?”
“Yes.”
The magistrate shook his head sadly. “It is the same,” said he. “I also
know him, my poor child; and I loved and honored him. Yesterday I should
have told you that he was worthy of you. He was above slander. But now,
see what depths love of play has brought him to. He is a thief!”
Mademoiselle Marguerite’s weakness vanished. She sprang from her
chair, and indignantly faced the magistrate. “It is false!” she cried,
vehemently; “and what that paper says is false as well!”
Had her reason been affected by so many successive blows? It seemed
likely; for, livid a moment before, her face had now turned scarlet. She
trembled nervously from head to foot, and there was a gleam of insanity
in her big black eyes.
“If she doesn’t weep, she is lost,” thought the magistrate. And, instead
of encouraging her to hope, he deemed it best to try and destroy what he
considered a dangerous illusion. “Alas! my poor child,” he said sadly,
“you must not deceive yourself. The newspapers are often hasty in their
judgment; but an article like that is only published when proof of its
truth is furnished by witnesses of unimpeachable veracity.”
She shrugged her shoulders as if she were listening to some monstrous
absurdities, and then thoughtfully muttered: “Ah! now Pascal’s silence
is explained: now I understand why he has not yet replied to the letter
I wrote him last night.”
The magistrate persevered, however, and added: “So, after the article
you have just read, no one can entertain the shadow of a doubt.”
Mademoiselle Marguerite hastily interrupted him. “But I have not doubted
him for a second!” she exclaimed. “Doubt Pascal! I doubt Pascal! I would
sooner doubt myself. I might commit a dishonorable act; I am only a
poor, weak, ignorant girl, while he--he----You don’t know, then, that
he was my conscience? Before undertaking anything, before deciding upon
anything, if ever I felt any doubt, I asked myself, ‘What would he do?’
And the mere thought of him is sufficient to banish any unworthy idea
from my heart.” Her tone and manner betokened complete and unwavering
confidence; and her faith imparted an almost sublime expression to her
face. “If I was overcome, monsieur,” she continued, “it was only because
I was appalled by the audacity of the accusation. How was it possible to
make Pascal even SEEM to be guilty of a dishonorable act? This is beyond
my powers of comprehension. I am only certain of one thing--that he is
innocent. If the whole world rose to testify against him, it would not
shake my faith in him, and even if he confessed that he was guilty I
should be more likely to believe that he was crazed than culpable!”
A bitter smile curved her lips, she was beginning to judge the situation
more correctly, and in a calmer tone she resumed: “Moreover, what does
circumstantial evidence prove? Did you not this morning hear all our
servants declaring that I was accountable for M. de Chalusse’s
millions? Who knows what might have happened if it had not been for your
intervention? Perhaps, by this time, I should have been in prison.”
“This is not a parallel case, my child.”
“It IS a parallel case, monsieur. Suppose, for one moment, that I had
been formally accused--what do you think Pascal would have replied if
people had gone to him, and said, ‘Marguerite is a thief?’ He would have
laughed them to scorn, and have exclaimed, ‘Impossible!”’
The magistrate’s mind was made up. In his opinion, Pascal Ferailleur was
guilty. Still it was useless to argue with the girl, for he felt that he
should not be able to convince her. However, he determined, if possible,
to ascertain her plans in order to oppose them, if they seemed to him at
all dangerous. “Perhaps you are right, my child,” he conceded, “still,
this unfortunate affair must change all your arrangements.”
“Rather, it modifies them.” Surprised by her calmness, he looked at her
inquiringly. “An hour ago,” she added, “I had resolved to go to Pascal
and claim his aid and protection as one claims an undeniable right or
the fulfilment of a solemn promise; but now--”
“Well?” eagerly asked the magistrate.
“I am still resolved to go to him--but as an humble suppliant. And I
shall say to him, ‘You are suffering, but no sorrow is intolerable when
there are two to bear the burden; and so, here I am. Everything else
may fail you--your dearest friends may basely desert you; but here am I.
Whatever your plans may be--whether you have decided to leave Europe or
to remain in Paris to watch for your hour of vengeance, you will need
a faithful, trusty companion--a confidant--and here I am! Wife,
friend, sister--I will be which ever you desire. I am yours--yours
unconditionally.’” And as if in reply to a gesture of surprise which
escaped the magistrate, she added: “He is unhappy--I am free--I love
him!”
The magistrate was struck dumb with astonishment. He knew that she
would surely do what she said; he had realized that she was one of those
generous, heroic women who are capable of any sacrifice for the man they
love--a woman who would never shrink from what she considered to be
her duty, who was utterly incapable of weak hesitancy or selfish
calculation.
“Fortunately, my dear young lady, your devotion will no doubt be
useless,” he said at last.
“And why?”
“Because M. Ferailleur owes it to you, and, what is more, he owes it
to himself, not to accept such a sacrifice.” Failing to understand his
meaning, she looked at him inquiringly. “You will forgive me, I trust,”
he continued, “if I warn you to prepare for a disappointment. Innocent
or guilty, M. Ferailleur is--disgraced. Unless something little short of
a miracle comes to help him, his career is ended. This is one of those
charges--one of those slanders, if you prefer that term, which a man can
never shake off. So how can you hope that he will consent to link your
destiny to his?”
She had not thought of this objection, and it seemed to her a terrible
one. Tears came to her dark eyes, and in a despondent voice she
murmured: “God grant that he will not evince such cruel generosity. The
only great and true misfortune that could strike me now would be to have
him repel me. M. de Chalusse’s death leaves me without means--without
bread; but now I can almost bless my poverty since it enables me to ask
him what would become of me if he abandoned me, and who would protect me
if he refused to do so. The brilliant career he dreamed of is ended, you
say. Ah, well! I will console him, and though we are unfortunate, we
may yet be happy. Our enemies are triumphant--so be it: we should only
tarnish our honor by stooping to contend against such villainy. But in
some new land, in America, perhaps, we shall be able to find some
quiet spot where we can begin a new and better career.” It was almost
impossible to believe that it was Mademoiselle Marguerite, usually so
haughtily reserved, who was now speaking with such passionate vehemence.
And to whom was she talking in this fashion? To a stranger, whom she saw
for the first time. But she was urged on by circumstances, the influence
of which was stronger than her own will. They had led her to reveal her
dearest and most sacred feelings and to display her real nature free
from any kind of disguise.
However, the magistrate concealed the emotion and sympathy which filled
his heart and refused to admit that the girl’s hopes were likely to be
realized. “And if M. Ferailleur refused to accept your sacrifice?” he
asked.
“It is not a sacrifice, monsieur.”
“No matter; but supposing he refused it, what should you do?”
“What should I do?” she muttered. “I don’t know. Still I should have
no difficulty in earning a livelihood. I have been told that I have a
remarkable voice. I might, perhaps, go upon the stage.”
The magistrate sprang from his arm-chair. “You become an actress, YOU?”
“Under such circumstances it would little matter what became of me!”
“But you don’t suspect--you cannot imagine----”
He was at a loss for words to explain the nature of his objections to
such a career; and it was Mademoiselle Marguerite who found them for
him. “I suspect that theatrical life is an abominable life for a woman,”
she said, gravely; “but I know that there are many noble and chaste
women who have adopted the profession. That is enough for me. My pride
is a sufficient protection. It preserved me as an apprentice; it would
preserve me as an actress. I might be slandered; but that is not an
irremediable misfortune. I despise the world too much to be troubled by
its opinion so long as I have the approval of my own conscience. And
why should I not become a great artiste if I consecrated all the
intelligence, passion, energy, and will I might possess, to my art?”
Hearing a knock at the door she paused; and a moment later a footman
entered with lights, for night was falling. He was closely followed by
another servant, who said: “Mademoiselle, the Marquis de Valorsay is
below, and wishes to know if mademoiselle will grant him the honor of an
interview.”