Few people have any idea of the great number of estates which, in
default of heirs to claim them, annually revert to the government. The
treasury derives large sums from this source every year. And this is
easily explained, for nowadays family ties are becoming less and less
binding. Brothers cease to meet; their children no longer know each
other; and the members of the second generation are as perfect strangers
as though they were not united by a bond of consanguinity. The young man
whom love of adventure lures to a far-off country, and the young girl
who marries against her parents’ wishes, soon cease to exist for their
relatives. No one even inquires what has become of them. Those who
remain at home are afraid to ask whether they are prosperous or
unfortunate, lest they should be called upon to assist the wanderers.
Forgotten themselves, the adventurers in their turn soon forget.
If fortune smiles upon them, they are careful not to inform their
relatives. Poor--they have been cast off; wealthy--they themselves deny
their kindred. Having become rich unaided, they find an egotistical
satisfaction in spending their money alone in accordance with their own
fancies. Now when a man of this class dies what happens? The servants
and people around him profit of his loneliness and isolation, and the
justice of the peace is only summoned to affix the seals, after they
have removed all the portable property. An inventory is taken, and after
a few formalities, as no heirs present themselves, the court declares
the inheritance to be in abeyance, and appoints a trustee.
This trustee’s duties are very simple. He manages the property and
remits the income to the Treasury until a legal judgment declares the
estate the property of the country, regardless of any heirs who may
present themselves in future.
“If I only had a twentieth part of the money that is lost in this way,
my fortune would be made,” exclaimed a shrewd man, some thirty years
ago.
The person who spoke was Antoine Vaudore. For six months he secretly
nursed the idea, studying it, examining it in all respects, weighing its
advantages and disadvantages, and at last he decided that it was a good
one. That same year, indeed, assisted by a little capital which he
had obtained no one knew how, he created a new, strange, and untried
profession to supply a new demand.
Thus Vaudore was the first man who made heir-hunting a profession.
As will be generally admitted, it is not a profession that can be
successfully followed by a craven. It requires the exercise of unusual
shrewdness, untiring activity, extraordinary energy and courage, as
well as great tact and varied knowledge. The man who would follow it
successfully must possess the boldness of a gambler, the sang-froid of a
duelist, the keen perceptive powers and patience of a detective, and the
resources and quick wit of the shrewdest attorney.
It is easier to decry the profession than to exercise it. To begin with,
the heir-hunter must be posted up with information respecting unclaimed
inheritances, and he must have sufficient acquaintance with the legal
world to be able to obtain information from the clerks of the different
courts, notaries, and so on. When he learns that a man has died without
any known heirs, his first care is to ascertain the amount of unclaimed
property, to see if it will pay him to take up the case. If he finds
that the inheritance is a valuable one, he begins operations without
delay. He must first ascertain the deceased’s full name and age. It is
easy to procure this information; but it is more difficult to discover
the name of the place where the deceased was born, his profession,
what countries he lived in, his tastes and mode of life--in a word,
everything that constitutes a complete biography.
However, when he has armed himself with the more indispensable facts,
our agent opens the campaign with extreme prudence, for it would be
ruinous to awake suspicion. It is curious to observe the incomparable
address which the agent displays in his efforts to learn the particulars
of the deceased’s life, by consulting his friends, his enemies, his
debtors, and all who ever knew him, until at last some one is found who
says: “Such and such a man--why, he came from our part of the country.
I never knew HIM, but I am acquainted with one of his brothers--with one
of his uncles--or with one of his nephews.”
Very often years of constant research, a large outlay of money, and
costly and skilful advertising in all the European journals, are
necessary before this result is reached. And it is only when it has been
attained that the agent can take time to breathe. But now the chances
are greatly in his favor. The worst is over. The portion of his task
which depended on chance alone is concluded. The rest is a matter of
skill, tact, and shrewdness. The detective must give place to the crafty
lawyer. The agent must confer with this heir, who has been discovered at
the cost of so much time and trouble and induce him to bestow a portion
of this prospective wealth on the person who is able to establish
his claim. There must be an agreement in writing clearly stating what
proportion--a tenth, a third, or a half--the agent will be entitled
to. The negotiation is a very delicate and difficult one, requiring
prodigious presence of mind, and an amount of duplicity which would make
the most astute diplomatist turn pale with envy. Occasionally, the heir
suspects the truth, sneers at the proposition, and hurries off to claim
the whole of the inheritance that belongs to him. The agent may then bid
his hopes farewell. He has worked and spent money for nothing.
However, such a misfortune is of rare occurrence. On hearing of the
unexpected good fortune that has befallen him, the heir is generally
unsuspicious, and willingly promises to pay the amount demanded of him.
A contract is drawn up and signed; and then, but only then, does the
agent take his client into his confidence. “You are the relative of such
a person, are you not?” “Yes.” “Very well. He is dead, and you are his
heir. Thank Providence, and make haste to claim your money.”
As a rule, the heir loyally fulfils his obligation. But sometimes
it happens that, when he has obtained undisputed possession of the
property, he declares that he has been swindled, and refuses to fulfil
his part of the contract. Then the case must go to the courts. It is
true, however, that the judgment of the tribunals generally recalls the
refractory client to a sense of gratitude and humility.
Now our friend M. Isidore Fortunat was a hunter of missing heirs.
Undoubtedly he often engaged in other business which was a trifle less
respectable; but heir-hunting was one of the best and most substantial
sources of his income. So we can readily understand why he so quickly
left off lamenting that forty thousand francs lent to the Marquis de
Valorsay.
Changing his tactics, he said to himself that, even if he had lost this
amount through M. de Chalusse’s sudden death, it was much less than he
might obtain if he succeeded in discovering the unknown heirs to so many
millions. And he had some reason to hope that he would be able to do
so. Having been employed by M. de Chalusse when the latter was
seeking Mademoiselle Marguerite, M. Fortunat had gained some valuable
information respecting his client, and the additional particulars which
he had obtained from Madame Vantrasson elated him to such an extent that
more than once he exclaimed: “Ah, well! it is, perhaps, a blessing in
disguise, after all.”
Still, M. Isidore Fortunat slept but little after his stormy interview
with the Marquis de Valorsay. A loss of forty thousand francs is not
likely to impart a roseate hue to one’s dreams--and M. Fortunat prized
his money as if it had been the very marrow of his bones. By way of
consolation, he assured himself that he would not merely regain the sum,
but triple it; and yet this encouragement did not entirely restore
his peace of mind. The gain was only a possibility, and the loss was a
certainty. So he twisted, and turned, and tossed on his bed as if it had
been a hot gridiron, exhausting himself in surmises, and preparing his
mind for the difficulties which he would be obliged to overcome.
His plan was a simple one, but its execution was fraught with
difficulties. “I must discover M. de Chalusse’s sister, if she is
still living--I must discover her children, if she is dead,” he said to
himself. It was easy to SAY this; but how was he to do it? How could he
hope to find this unfortunate girl, who had abandoned her home thirty
years previously, to fly, no one knew where, or with whom? How was he to
gain any idea of the life she had lived, or the fate that had befallen
her? At what point on the social scale, and in what country, should he
begin his investigations? These daughters of noble houses, who desert
the paternal roof in a moment of madness, generally die most miserably
after a wretched life. The girl of the lower classes is armed against
misfortune, and has been trained for the conflict. She can measure
and calculate the force of her fall, and regulate and control it to a
certain extent. But the others cannot. They have never known privation
and hardship, and are, therefore, defenceless. And for the very reason
that they have been hurled from a great height, they often fall down
into the lowest depths of infamy.
“If morning would only come,” sighed M. Isidore Fortunat, as he tossed
restlessly to and fro. “As soon as morning comes I will set to work!”
But just before daybreak he fell asleep; and at nine o’clock he was
still slumbering so soundly that Madame Dodelin, his housekeeper, had
considerable difficulty in waking him. “Your clerks have come,” she
exclaimed, shaking him vigorously; “and two clients are waiting for you
in the reception-room.”
He sprang up, hastily dressed himself, and went into his office. It cost
him no little effort to receive his visitors that morning; but it would
have been folly to neglect all his other business for the uncertain
Chalusse affair. The first client who entered was a man still young, of
common, even vulgar appearance. Not being acquainted with M. Fortunat,
he deemed it proper to introduce himself without delay. “My name is
Leplaintre, and I am a coal merchant,” said he. “I was recommended to
call on you by my friend Bouscat, who was formerly in the wine trade.”
M. Fortunat bowed. “Pray be seated,” was his reply. “I remember your
friend very well. If I am not mistaken I gave him some advice with
reference to his third failure.”
“Precisely; and it is because I find myself in the same fix as Bouscat
that I have called on you. Business is very bad, and I have notes to a
large amount overdue, so that--”
“You will be obliged to go into bankruptcy.”
“Alas! I fear so.”
M. Fortunat already knew what his client desired, but it was against
his principles to meet these propositions more than half way. “Will you
state your case?” said he.
The coal merchant blushed. It was hard to confess the truth; but the
effort had to be made. “This is my case,” he replied, at last. “Among
my creditors I have several enemies, who will refuse me a release. They
would like to deprive me of everything I possess. And in that case, what
would become of me? Is it right that I should be compelled to starve?”
“It is a bad outlook.”
“It is, indeed, monsieur; and for this reason, I desire--if possible, if
I can do so without danger--for I am an honest man, monsieur--I wish to
retain a little property--secretly, of course, not for myself, by any
means, but I have a young wife and----”
M. Fortunat took compassion on the man’s embarrassment. “In short,”
he interrupted, “you wish to conceal a part of your capital from your
creditors?”
On hearing this precise and formal statement of his honorable
intentions, the coal-merchant trembled. His feelings of integrity would
not have been alarmed by a periphrasis, but this plain speaking shocked
him. “Oh, monsieur!” he protested, “I would rather blow my brains out
than defraud my creditors of a single penny that was rightfully theirs.
What I am doing is for their interest, you understand. I shall begin
business again under my wife’s name; and if I succeed, they shall be
paid--yes, monsieur, every sou, with interest. Ah! if I had only myself
to think of, it would be quite different; but I have two children, two
little girls, so that----”
“Very well,” replied M. Fortunat. “I should suggest to you the same
expedient as I suggested to your friend Bouscat. But you must gather a
little ready money together before going into bankruptcy.”
“I can do that by secretly disposing of a part of my stock, so----”
“In that case, you are saved. Sell it and put the money beyond your
creditors’ reach.”
The worthy merchant scratched his ear in evident perplexity.
“Excuse me,” said he. “I had thought of this plan; but it seemed to
me--dishonorable--and--also very dangerous. How could I explain this
decrease in my stock? My creditors hate me. If they suspected anything,
they would accuse me of fraud, and perhaps throw me into prison; and
then----”
M. Fortunat shrugged his shoulders. “When I give advice,” he roughly
replied, “I furnish the means of following it without danger. Listen
to me attentively. Let us suppose, for a moment, that some time ago you
purchased, at a very high figure, a quantity of stocks and shares,
which are to-day almost worthless, could not this unfortunate investment
account for the absence of the sum which you wish to set aside? Your
creditors would be obliged to value these securities, not at their
present, but at their former value.”
“Evidently; but, unfortunately, I do not possess any such securities.”
“You can purchase them.”
The coal-merchant opened his eyes in astonishment. “Excuse me,” he
muttered, “I don’t exactly understand you.”
He did not understand in the least; but M. Fortunat enlightened him by
opening his safe, and displaying an enormous bundle of stocks and shares
which had flooded the country a few years previously, and ruined a great
many poor, ignorant fools which were hungering for wealth; among them
were shares in the Tifila Mining Company, the Berchem Coal Mines, the
Greenland Fisheries, the Mutual Trust and Loan Association, and so on.
There had been a time when each of these securities would have fetched
five hundred or a thousand francs at the Bourse, but now they were not
worth the paper on which they were printed.
“Let us suppose, my dear sir,” resumed M. Fortunat, “that you had a
drawer full of these securities----”
But the other did not allow him to finish. “I see,” he exclaimed; “I
see--I can sell my stock, and put the proceeds in my pocket with perfect
safety. There is enough to represent my capital a thousand times over.”
And, in a paroxysm of delight, he added:
“Give me enough of these shares to represent a capital of one hundred
and twenty thousand francs; and give me some of each kind. I should like
my creditors to have a variety.”
Thereupon M. Fortunat counted out a pile of these worthless securities
as carefully as if he had been handling bank-notes; and his client at
the same time drew out his pocketbook.
“How much do I owe you?” he inquired.
“Three thousand francs.”
The honest merchant bounded from his chair. “Three thousand francs!” he
repeated. “You must be jesting. That trash is not worth a louis.”
“I would not even give five francs for it,” rejoined M. Fortunat,
coldly; “but it is true that I don’t desire to purchase these shares in
my creditors’ interest. With you it is quite a different matter--this
trash, as you very justly call it, will save you at least a hundred
thousand francs. I ask only three per cent., which is certainly not
dear. Still, you know, I don’t force any one to purchase them.” And, in
a terribly significant tone, he added: “You can undoubtedly buy
similar securities on better terms; but take care you don’t arouse your
creditors’ suspicions by applying elsewhere.”
“He would betray me, the scoundrel!” thought the merchant. And,
realizing that he had fallen into a trap, “Here are three thousand
francs,” he sighed; “but at least, my dear sir, give me good measure,
and throw in a few thousand francs more.”
The coal-merchant smiled the ghastly smile of a man who sees no way of
escape from imposition, and has, therefore, resolved to submit with the
best grace possible. But M. Fortunat’s gravity did not relax. He
gave what he had promised--neither more nor less--in exchange for the
bank-notes, and even gravely exclaimed: “See if the amount is correct.”
His client pocketed the shares without counting them: but before leaving
the room he made his estimable adviser promise to assist him at the
decisive moment, and help him to prepare one of those clear financial
statements which make creditors say: “This is an honest man who has been
extremely unfortunate.”
M. Fortunat was admirably fitted to render this little service; for he
devoted such part of his time as was not spent in hunting for missing
heirs to difficult liquidations, and he had indeed made bankruptcy
a specialty in which he was without a rival. The business was a
remunerative one, thanks to the expedient he had revealed to the
coal-merchant--an expedient which is common enough nowadays, but of
which he might almost be called the inventor. It consisted in compelling
the persons who asked for his advice to purchase worthless shares
at whatever price he chose to set upon them, and they were forced to
submit, under penalty of denunciation and exposure.
The client who followed the coal-merchant proved to be a simple
creature, who had called to ask for some advice respecting a slight
difficulty between himself and his landlord. M. Fortunat speedily
disposed of him, and then, opening the door leading into the outer
office, he called: “Cashier!”
A shabbily-dressed man, some thirty-five years of age, at once entered
the private sanctum, carrying a money-bag in one hand and a ledger in
the other.
“How many debtors were visited yesterday?” inquired M. Fortunat.
“Two hundred and thirty-seven.”
“What was the amount collected?”
“Eighty-nine francs.”
M. Isidore Fortunat’s grimace was expressive of satisfaction. “Not bad,”
said he, “not at all bad.”
Then a singular performance began. M. Fortunat called over the names of
his debtors, one by one, and the cashier answered each name by reading
a memorandum written against it on the margin of a list he held. “Such
a one,” said the agent, “and such a one--and such----” Whereupon the
cashier replied: “Has paid two francs--was not at home--paid twenty
sous--would not pay anything.”
How did it happen that M. Fortunat had so many debtors? This question
can be easily answered. In settling bankrupts’ estates it was easy for
him to purchase a large number of debts which were considered worthless,
at a trifling cost, and he reaped a bountiful harvest on a field which
would have yielded nothing to another person. It was not because he
was rigorous in his demands; he conquered by patience, gentleness, and
politeness, but also by unwearying perseverance and tenacity. When he
decided that a debtor was to pay him a certain sum, it was paid. He
never relaxed in his efforts. Every other day some one was sent to
visit the debtor, to follow him, and harass him; he was surrounded by
M. Fortunat’s agents; they pursued him to his office, shop, or
cafe--everywhere, continually, incessantly--and always with the most
perfect urbanity. At last even the most determined succumbed; to escape
this frightful persecution, they, somehow or other, found the money to
satisfy M. Fortunat’s claim. Besides Victor Chupin, he had five other
agents whose business it was to visit these poor wretches. A list was
assigned to each man every morning; and when evening came, he made his
report to the cashier, who in turn reported to his employer. This branch
of industry added considerably to the profits of M. Fortunat’s other
business, and was the third and last string to his bow.
The report proceeded as usual, but it was quite evident that M.
Fortunat’s thoughts were elsewhere. He paused each moment to listen
eagerly for the slightest sound outside, for before receiving the
coal-merchant he had told Victor Chupin to run to the Rue de Courcelles
and ask M. Casimir for news of the Count de Chalusse. He had done this
more than an hour before; and Victor Chupin, who was usually so prompt,
had not yet made his appearance.
At last, however, he returned, whereupon M. Fortunat dismissed the
cashier, and addressed his messenger: “Well?” he asked.
“He is no longer living. They think he died without a will, and that the
pretty young lady will be turned out of the house.”
This information agreed so perfectly with M. Fortunat’s presentiments
that he did not even wince, but calmly asked: “Will Casimir keep his
appointment?”
“He told me that he would endeavor to come, and I’d wager a hundred to
one that he will be there; he would travel ten leagues to put something
good into his stomach.”
M. Fortunat’s opinion coincided with Chupin’s. “Very well,” said he.
“Only you were a long time on the road, Victor.”
“That’s true, m’sieur; but I had a little matter of my own to attend
to--a matter of a hundred francs, if you please.”
M. Fortunat knit his brows angrily. “It’s only right to attend to
business,” said he; “but you think too much of money, Victor--altogether
too much. You are insatiable.”
The young man proudly lifted his head, and with an air of importance,
replied: “I have so many responsibilities----”
“Responsibilities!--you?”
“Yes, indeed, m’sieur. And why not? My poor, good mother hasn’t been
able to work for a year, and who would care for her if I didn’t?
Certainly not my father, the good-for-nothing scamp, who squandered all
the Duke de Sairmeuse’s money without giving us a sou of it. Besides,
I’m like other men, I’m anxious to be rich, and enjoy myself. I should
like to ride in my carriage like other people do. And whenever a gamin,
such as I was once, opened the door for ME, I should put a five-franc
piece in his hand----”
He was interrupted by Madame Dodelin, the worthy housekeeper, who rushed
into the room without knocking, in a terrible state of excitement.
“Monsieur!” she exclaimed, in the same tone as if she would have called
“Fire!” “here is Monsieur de Valorsay.”
M. Fortunat sprang up and turned extremely pale. “What to the devil
brings him here?” he anxiously stammered. “Tell him that I’ve gone
out--tell him--”
But it was useless, for the marquis at that very moment entered the
room, and the agent could only dismiss his housekeeper and Chupin.
M. de Valorsay seemed to be very angry, and it looked as if he meant
to give vent to his passion. Indeed, as soon as he was alone with M.
Fortunat, he began: “So this is the way you betray your friends,
Master Twenty-per-Cent! Why did you deceive me last night about the ten
thousand francs you had promised me? Why didn’t you tell me the truth?
You knew of the misfortune that had befallen M. de Chalusse. I heard of
it first scarcely an hour ago through a letter from Madame Leon.”
M. Fortunat hesitated somewhat. He was a quiet man, opposed to violence
of any kind; and it seemed to him that M. de Valorsay was twisting and
turning his cane in a most ominous manner. “I must confess, Monsieur le
Marquis,” he at last replied, “that I had not the courage to tell you of
the dreadful misfortune which had befallen us.”
“How--US?”
“Certainly. If you lose the hope of several millions, I also lose the
amount I advanced to you, forty thousand francs--my entire fortune. And
yet, you see that I don’t complain. Do as I do--confess that the game is
lost.”
The marquis was listening with an air of suppressed wrath; his face
was crimson, there was a dark frown on his brow, and his hands were
clinched. He was apparently furious with passion, but in reality he
was perfectly self-possessed. The best proof that can be given of his
coolness is that he was carefully studying M. Fortunat’s face, and
trying to discover the agent’s real intentions under his meaningless
words. He had expected to find “his dear extortioner” exasperated by his
loss, cursing and swearing, and demanding his money--but not at all.
He found him more gentle and calm, colder and more reserved than
ever; brimful of resignation indeed, and preaching submission to the
inevitable. “What can this mean?” he thought, with an anxious heart.
“What mischief is the scoundrel plotting now? I’d wager a thousand to
one that he’s forging some thunderbolt to crush me.” And, in a haughty
tone, he said aloud:
“In a word, you desert me.”
With a deprecatory gesture, M. Fortunat exclaimed: “I desert you,
Monsieur le Marquis! What have I done that you should think so ill
of me? Alas! circumstances are the only traitors. I shouldn’t like to
deprive you of the courage you so much need, but, honestly, it would be
folly to struggle against destiny. How can you hope to succeed in your
plans? Have you not resorted to every possible expedient to prolong your
apparently brilliant existence until the present time? Are you not at
such a point that you must marry Mademoiselle Marguerite in a month’s
time, or perish? And now the count’s millions are lost! If I might
be allowed to give you some advice, I should say, ‘The shipwreck is
inevitable; think only of saving yourself.’ By tact and shrewdness, you
might yet save something from your creditors. Compromise with them. And
if you need my services, here I am. Go to Nice, and give me a power
of attorney to act for you. From the debris of your fortune, I will
undertake to guarantee you a competence which would satisfy many an
ambitious man.”
The marquis laughed sneeringly. “Excellent!” he exclaimed. “You would
rid yourself of me and recover your forty thousand francs at the same
time. A very clever arrangement.”
M. Fortunat realized that his client understood him; but what did it
matter? “I assure you----” he began.
But the marquis silenced him with a contemptuous gesture. “Let us stop
this nonsense,” said he. “We understand each other better than that.
I have never made any attempt to deceive you, nor have I ever supposed
that I had succeeded in doing so, and pray do me the honor to consider
me as shrewd as yourself.” And still refusing to listen to the agent, he
continued: “If I have come to you, it is only because the case is not so
desperate as you suppose. I still hold some valuable cards which you
are ignorant of. In your opinion, and every one else’s, Mademoiselle
Marguerite is ruined. But I know that she is still worth three millions,
at the very least.”
“Mademoiselle Marguerite?”
“Yes, Monsieur Twenty-per-Cent. Let her become my wife, and the very
next day I will place her in possession of an income of a hundred and
fifty thousand francs. But she must marry me first; and this scornful
maiden will not grant me her hand unless I can convince her of my love
and disinterestedness.”
“But your rival?”
M. de Valorsay gave a nervous start, but quickly controlled himself.
“He no longer exists. Read this day’s Figaro, and you will be edified.
I have no rival now. If I can only conceal my financial embarrassment a
little longer, she is mine. A friendless and homeless girl cannot defend
herself long in Paris--especially when she has an adviser like Madame
Leon. Oh! I shall win her! I shall have her!--she is a necessity to me.
Now you can judge if it would be wise on your part to deprive me of your
assistance. Would you like to know what I want? Simply this--the means
to sustain me two or three months longer--some thirty thousand francs.
You can procure the money--will you? It would make, in all, seventy
thousand francs that I should owe you, and I will promise to pay you
two hundred and fifty thousand if I succeed--and I shall succeed! Such
profit is worth some risk. Reflect, and decide. But no more subterfuges,
if you please. Let your answer be plain yes or no.”
Without a second’s hesitation, M. Fortunat replied, “No.”
The flush on the marquis’s face deepened, and his voice became a trifle
harsher; but that was all. “Confess, then, that you have resolved to
ruin me,” he said. “You refuse before you have heard me to the end.
Wait, at least, until I have told you my plans, and shown you the solid
foundation which my hopes rest upon.”
But M. Fortunat had resolved to listen to nothing. He wished for no
explanations, so distrustful was he of himself--so much did he fear
that his adventurous nature would urge him to incur further risk. He was
positively afraid of the Marquis de Valorsay’s eloquence; besides, he
knew well enough that the person who consents to listen is at least half
convinced. “Tell me nothing, monsieur,” he hastily answered; “it would
be useless. I haven’t the money. If I had given you ten thousand francs
last night, I should have been compelled to borrow them of M. Prosper
Bertomy. And even if I had the money, I should still say ‘Impossible.’
Every man has his system--his theory, you know. Mine is, never to run
after my money. With me, whatever I may lose, I regard it as finally
lost; I think no more about it, and turn to something else. So your
forty thousand francs have already been entered on my profit and loss
account. And yet it would be easy enough for you to repay me, if you
would follow my advice and go quietly into bankruptcy.”
“Never!” interrupted M. de Valorsay; “never! I do not wish to
temporize,” he continued. “I will save all, or save nothing. If you
refuse me your help, I shall apply elsewhere. I will never give my
good friends, who detest me, and whom I cordially hate in return, the
delicious joy of seeing the Marquis de Valorsay fall step by step from
the high position he has occupied. I will never truckle to the men whom
I have eclipsed for fifteen years. No, never! I would rather die, or
even commit the greatest crime!”
He suddenly checked himself, a trifle astonished, perhaps, by his own
plain-speaking; and, for a moment, he and M. Fortunat looked into each
other’s eyes, striving to divine their respective secret thoughts.
The marquis was the first to speak. “And so,” said he, in a tone which
he strove to make persuasive, but which was threatening instead, “it is
settled--your decision is final?”
“Final.”
“You will not even condescend to listen to my explanation?”
“It would be a loss of time.”
On receiving this cruel reply, M. de Valorsay struck the desk such a
formidable blow with his clenched fist that several bundles of papers
fell to the floor. His anger was not feigned now. “What are you
plotting, then?” he exclaimed; “and what do you intend to do? What is
your object in betraying me? Take care! It is my life that I am going
to defend, and as truly as there is a God in heaven, I shall defend it
well. A man who is determined to blow his brains out if he is defeated,
is a terribly dangerous adversary. Woe to you, if I ever find you
standing between me and the Count de Chalusse’s millions!”
Every drop of blood had fled from M. Fortunat’s face, still his mien was
composed and dignified. “You do wrong to threaten me,” said he. “I don’t
fear you in the least. If I were your enemy, I should bring suit against
you for the forty thousand francs you owe me. I should not obtain my
money, of course, but I could shatter the tottering edifice of your
fortune by a single blow. Besides, you forget that I possess a copy of
our agreement, signed by your own hand, and that I have only to show
it to Mademoiselle Marguerite to give her a just opinion of your
disinterestedness. Let us sever our connection now, monsieur, and each
go his own way without reference to the other. If you should succeed you
will repay me.”
Victory perched upon the agent’s banner, and it was with a feeling of
pride that he saw his noble client depart, white and speechless with
rage. “What a rascal that marquis is,” he muttered. “I would certainly
warn Mademoiselle Marguerite, poor girl, if I were not so much afraid of
him.”