M. Fortunat left the restaurant, almost on the run, for he feared that
he might be pursued and overtaken by M. Casimir. But after he had gone
a couple of hundred paces, he paused, not so much to take breath, as to
collect his scattered wits; and though the weather was cold, he seated
himself on a bench to reflect.
Never in all his changeful life had he known such intense anxiety and
torturing suspense as he had just experienced in that little room in the
restaurant. He had longed for positive information and he had obtained
it; but it had upset all his plans and annihilated all his hopes.
Imagining that the count’s heirs had been lost sight of, he had
determined to find them and make a bargain with them, before they
learned that they were worth their millions. But on the contrary, these
heirs were close at hand, watching M. de Chalusse, and knowing their
rights so well that they were ready to fight for them. “For it was
certainly the count’s sister who wrote the letter which I have in my
pocket,” he murmured. “Not wishing to receive him at her own home, she
prudently appointed a meeting at a hotel. But what about this name of
Huntley? Is it really hers, or is it only assumed for the occasion?
Is it the name of the man who enticed her from home, or is it the name
given to the son from whom she has separated herself?”
But after all what was the use of all these conjectures? There was
but one certain and positive thing, and this was that the money he had
counted upon had escaped him; and he experienced as acute a pang as
if he had lost forty thousand francs a second time. Perhaps, at that
moment, he was sorry that he had severed his connection with the
marquis. Still, he was not the man to despond, however desperate his
plight might appear, without an attempt to better his situation. He
knew how many surprising and sudden changes in fortune have been brought
about by some apparently trivial action. “I must discover this sister,”
he said to himself--“I must ascertain her position and her plans.
If she has no one to advise her, I will offer my services; and who
knows----”
A cab was passing; M. Fortunat hailed it, and ordered the Jehu to drive
him to the Rue du Helder, No. 43, Hotel de Homburg.
Was it by chance or premeditation that this establishment had received
the name of one of the gambling dens of Europe? Perhaps the following
information may serve to answer the question. The Hotel de Homburg was
one of those flash hostelries frequented by adventurers of distinction,
who are attracted to Paris by the millions that are annually squandered
there. Spurious counts and questionable Russian princesses were sure
to find a cordial welcome there with princely luxury, moderate prices,
and--but very little confidence. Each person was called by the title
which it pleased him to give on his arrival--Excellency or Prince,
according to his fancy. He could also find numerous servants carefully
drilled to play the part of old family retainers, and carriages upon
which the most elaborate coat-of-arms could be painted at an hour’s
notice. Nor was there any difficulty whatever in immediately procuring
all the accessories of a life of grandeur--all that is needful to dazzle
the unsuspecting, to throw dust in people’s eyes, and to dupe one’s
chance acquaintances. All these things were provided without delay, by
the month, by the day or by the hour, just as the applicant pleased.
But there was no such thing as credit there. Bills were presented every
evening, to those lodgers who did not pay in advance: and he who could
not, or would not, settle the score, even if he were Excellency or
Prince, was requested to depart at once, and his trunks were held as
security.
When M. Fortunat entered the office of the hotel, a woman, with a crafty
looking face, was holding a conference with an elderly gentleman, who
had a black velvet skullcap on his head, and a magnifying glass in his
hand. They applied their eyes to the glass in turn, and were engaged in
examining some very handsome diamonds, which had no doubt been offered
in lieu of money by some noble but impecunious foreigner. On hearing M.
Fortunat enter, the woman looked up.
“What do you desire, monsieur?” she inquired, politely.
“I wish to see Madame Lucy Huntley.”
The woman did not reply at first, but raised her eyes to the ceiling, as
if she were reading there the list of all the foreigners of distinction
who honored the Hotel de Homburg by their presence at that moment. “Lucy
Huntley!” she repeated. “I don’t recollect that name! I don’t think
there’s such a person in the house--Lucy Huntley! What kind of a person
is she?”
For many reasons M. Fortunat could not answer. First of all, he did
not know. But he was not in the least disconcerted, and he avoided the
question without the slightest embarrassment, at the same time trying to
quicken the woman’s faulty memory. “The person I wished to see was here
on Friday, between three and six in the afternoon; and she was waiting
for a visitor with an anxiety which could not possibly have escaped your
notice.”
This detail quickened the memory of the man with the magnifying
glass--none other than the woman’s husband and landlord of the hotel.
“Ah! the gentleman is speaking of the lady of No. 2--you remember--the
same who insisted upon having the large private room.”
“To be sure,” replied the wife; “where could my wits have been!” And
turning to M. Fortunat: “Excuse my forgetfulness,” she added. “The lady
is no longer in the house; she only remained here for a few hours.”
This reply did not surprise M. Fortunat--he had expected it; and yet
he assumed an air of the utmost consternation. “Only a few hours!” he
repeated, like a despairing echo.
“Yes, monsieur. She arrived here about eleven o’clock in the morning,
with only a large valise by way of luggage, and she left that same
evening at eight o’clock.”
“Alas! and where was she going?”
“She didn’t tell me.”
You might have sworn that M. Fortunat was about to burst into tears.
“Poor Lucy!” said he, in a tragical tone; “it was for me, madame, that
she was waiting. But it was only this morning that I received her letter
appointing a meeting here. She must have been in despair. The post can’t
be depended on!”
The husband and wife simultaneously shrugged their shoulders, and the
expression of their faces unmistakably implied: “What can we do about
it? It is no business of ours. Don’t trouble us.”
But M. Fortunat was not the man to be dismayed by such a trifle.
“She was taken to the railway station, no doubt,” he insisted.
“Really, I know nothing about it.”
“You told me just now that she had a large valise, so she could not have
left your hotel on foot. She must have asked for a vehicle. Who was
sent to fetch it? One of your boys? If I could find the driver I should,
perhaps, be able to obtain some valuable information from him.”
The husband and wife exchanged a whole volume of suspicions in a single
glance. M. Isidore Fortunat’s appearance was incontestably respectable,
but they were well aware that those strange men styled detectives are
perfectly conversant with the art of dressing to perfection. So the
hotelkeeper quickly decided on his course. “Your idea is an excellent
one,” he said to M. Fortunat. “This lady must certainly have taken
a vehicle on leaving; and what is more, it must have been a vehicle
belonging to the hotel. If you will follow me, we will make some
inquiries on the subject.”
And rising with a willingness that augured well for their success,
he led the agent into the courtyard, where five or six vehicles were
stationed, while the drivers lounged on a bench, chatting and smoking
their pipes “Which of you was employed by a lady yesterday evening at
about eight o’clock?”
“What sort of a person was she?”
“She was a handsome woman, between thirty and forty years’ old, very
fair, rather stout, and dressed in black. She had a large Russia-leather
travelling-bag.”
“I took her,” answered one of the drivers promptly. M. Fortunat advanced
toward the man with open arms, and with such eagerness that it might
have been supposed he meant to embrace him. “Ah, my worthy fellow!” he
exclaimed, “you can save my life!”
The driver looked exceedingly pleased. He was thinking that this
gentleman would certainly requite his salvation by a magnificent
gratuity. “What do you want of me?” he asked.
“Tell me where you drove this lady?”
“I took her to the Rue de Berry.”
“To what number?”
“Ah, I can’t tell. I’ve forgotten it.”
But M. Fortunat no longer felt any anxiety. “Very good,” said he.
“You’ve forgotten it--that’s not at all strange. But you would know the
house again, wouldn’t you?”
“Undoubtedly I should.”
“Will you take me there?”
“Certainly, sir. This is my vehicle.”
The hunter of missing heirs at once climbed inside; but it was not until
the carriage had left the courtyard that the landlord returned to his
office. “That man must be a detective,” he remarked to his wife.
“So I fancy.”
“It’s strange we’re not acquainted with him. He must be a new member of
the force.”
But M. Fortunat was quite indifferent as to what impression he had left
behind him at the Hotel de Homburg, for he never expected to set foot
there again. The one essential thing was that he had obtained the
information he wished for, and even a description of the lady, and he
felt that he was now really on the track. The vehicle soon reached the
Rue de Berry, and drew up in front of a charming little private house.
“Here we are, monsieur,” said the driver, bowing at the door.
M. Fortunat sprang nimbly on to the pavement, and handed five francs
to the coachman, who went off growling and swearing, for he thought the
reward a contemptibly small one, coming as it did from a man whose life
had been saved, according to his own confession. However, the person the
Jehu anathematized certainly did not hear him. Standing motionless where
he had alighted, M. Fortunat scrutinized the house in front of him with
close attention. “So she lives here,” he muttered. “This is the place;
but I can’t present myself without knowing her name. I must make some
inquiries.”
There was a wine-shop some fifty paces distant, and thither M. Fortunat
hastened, and ordered a glass of currant syrup. As he slowly sipped
the beverage, he pointed to the house in question, with an air of
well-assumed indifference, and asked: “Whom does that pretty dwelling
belong to?”
“To Madame Lia d’Argeles,” answered the landlady.
M. Fortunat started. He well remembered that this was the name the
Marquis de Valorsay had mentioned when speaking of the vile conspiracy
he had planned. It was at this woman’s house that the man whom
Mademoiselle Marguerite loved had been disgraced! Still he managed to
master his surprise, and in a light, frank tone he resumed: “What a
pretty name! And what does this lady do?”
“What does she do? Why, she amuses herself.”
M. Fortunat seemed astonished. “Dash it!” said he. “She must amuse
herself to good purpose to have a house like that. Is she pretty?”
“That depends on taste. She’s no longer young, at any rate; but she
has superb golden hair. And, oh! how white she is--as white as snow,
monsieur--as white as snow! She has a fine figure as well, and a most
distinguished bearing--pays cash, too, to the very last farthing.”
There could no longer be any doubt. The portrait sketched by the
wine-vendor fully corresponded with the description given by the
hotelkeeper in the Rue de Helder. Accordingly, M. Fortunat drained
his glass, and threw fifty centimes on the counter. Then, crossing the
street, he boldly rang at the door of Madame d’Argeles’s house. If any
one had asked him what he proposed doing and saying if he succeeded in
effecting an entrance, he might have replied with perfect sincerity, “I
don’t know.” The fact is, he had but one aim, one settled purpose in
his mind. He was obstinately, FURIOUSLY resolved to derive some benefit,
small or great, from this mysterious affair. As for the means of
execution, he relied entirely on his audacity and sang-froid, convinced
that they would not fail him when the decisive moment came. “First of
all, I must see this lady,” he said to himself. “The first words will
depend solely upon my first impressions. After that, I shall be guided
by circumstances.”
An old serving-man, in a quiet, tasteful livery, opened the door,
whereupon M. Fortunat, in a tone of authority, asked: “Madame Lia
d’Argeles?”
“Madame does not receive on Friday,” was the reply.
With a petulant gesture, M. Fortunat rejoined: “All the same I must
speak with her to-day. It is on a matter of the greatest importance.
Give her my card.” So saying, he held out a bit of pasteboard, on which,
below his name, were inscribed the words: “Liquidations. Settlements
effected for insolvent parties.”
“Ah! that’s a different thing,” said the servant. “Will monsieur take
the trouble to follow me?”
M. Fortunat did take the trouble; and he was conducted into a large
drawing-room where he was requested to sit down and await madame’s
coming. Left to himself, he began an inventory of the apartment, as a
general studies the ground on which he is about to give battle. No trace
remained of the unfortunate scene of the previous night, save a broken
candelabrum on the chimney-piece. It was the one which Pascal Ferailleur
had armed himself with, when they talked of searching him, and which he
had thrown down in the courtyard, as he left the house. But this detail
did not attract M. Fortunat’s attention. The only thing that puzzled
him was the large reflector placed above the chandelier, and it took
him some time to fathom with what object it was placed there. Without
precisely intimidating him, the luxurious appointments of the house
aroused his astonishment. “Everything here is in princely style,” he
muttered, “and this shows that all the lunatics are not at Charenton
yet. If Madame d’Argeles lacked bread in days gone by, she does so no
longer--that’s evident.”
Naturally enough this reflection led him to wonder why such a rich woman
should become the Marquis de Valorsay’s accomplice, and lend a hand in
so vile and cowardly a plot, which horrified even him--Fortunat. “For
she must be an accomplice,” he thought.
And he marvelled at the freak of fate which had connected the
unfortunate man who had been sacrificed with the unacknowledged
daughter, and the cast-off sister, of the Count de Chalusse. A vague
presentiment, the mysterious voice of instinct, warned him, moreover,
that his profit in the affair would depend upon the antagonism, or
alliance, of Mademoiselle Marguerite and Madame d’Argeles. But his
meditations were suddenly interrupted by the sound of a discussion in
an adjoining room. He stepped eagerly forward, hoping to hear something,
and he did hear a man saying in a coarse voice: “What! I leave an
interesting game, and lose precious time in coming to offer you my
services, and you receive me like this! Zounds! madame, this will teach
me not to meddle with what doesn’t concern me, in future. So, good-bye,
my dear lady. You’ll learn some day, to your cost, the real nature of
this villain of a Coralth whom you now defend so warmly.”
This name of Coralth was also one of those which were engraven upon
M. Fortunat’s memory; and yet he did not notice it at the moment. His
attention was so absorbed by what he had just heard that he could not
fix his mind upon the object of his mission; and he only abandoned his
conjectures on hearing a rustling of skirts against the panels of the
door leading into the hall.
The next moment Madame Lia d’Argeles entered the room. She was arrayed
in a very elegant dressing-gown of gray cashmere, with blue satin
trimmings, her hair was beautifully arranged, and she had neglected none
of the usual artifices of the toilette-table; still any one would have
considered her to be over forty years of age. Her sad face wore an
expression of melancholy resignation; and there were signs of recent
tears in her swollen eyes, surrounded by bluish circles. She glanced at
her visitor, and, in anything but an encouraging tone exclaimed: “You
desired to speak with me, I believe?”
M. Fortunat bowed, almost disconcerted. He had expected to meet one of
those stupid, ignorant young women, who make themselves conspicuous at
the afternoon promenade in the Bois de Boulogne; and he found himself in
the presence of an evidently cultivated and imperious woman, who,
even in her degradation, retained all her pride of race, and awed him,
despite all his coolness and assurance. “I do, indeed, madame, wish to
confer with you respecting some important interests,” he answered.
She sank on to a chair; and, without asking her visitor to take a seat:
“Explain yourself,” she said, briefly.
M. Fortunat’s knowledge of the importance of the game in which he had
already risked so much had already restored his presence of mind. He
had only needed a glance to form a true estimate of Madame d’Argeles’s
character; and he realized that it would require a sudden, powerful, and
well-directed blow to shatter her composure. “I have the unpleasant duty
of informing you of a great misfortune, madame,” he began. “A person who
is very dear to you, and who is nearly related to you, was a victim of a
frightful accident yesterday evening and died this morning.”
This gloomy preamble did not seem to produce the slightest effect on
Madame d’Argeles. “Whom are you speaking of?” she coldly asked.
M. Fortunat assumed his most solemn manner as he replied: “Of your
brother, madame--of the Count de Chalusse.”
She sprang up, and a convulsive shudder shook her from head to foot.
“Raymond is dead!” she faltered.
“Alas! yes, madame. Struck with death at the very moment he was
repairing to the appointment you had given him at the Hotel de Homburg.”
This clever falsehood, which was not entirely one, would, so the agent
thought, be of advantage to him, since it would prove he was acquainted
with previous events. But Madame d’Argeles did not seem to notice, or
even to hear the remark. She had fallen back in her arm-chair, paler
than death. “How did he die?” she asked.
“From an attack of apoplexy.”
“My God!” exclaimed the wretched woman, who now suspected the truth; “my
God, forgive me. It was my letter that killed him!” and she wept as if
her heart were breaking--this woman who had suffered and wept so much.
It is needless to say that M. Fortunat was moved with sympathy; he
always evinced a respectful sympathy for the woes of others; but in the
present instance, his emotion was greatly mitigated by the satisfaction
he felt at having succeeded so quickly and so completely. Madame
d’Argeles had confessed everything! This was indeed a victory, for it
must be admitted that he had trembled lest she should deny all, and bid
him leave the house. He still saw many difficulties between his pocket
and the Count de Chalusse’s money; but he did not despair of conquering
them after such a successful beginning. And he was muttering some words
of consolation, when Madame d’Argeles suddenly looked up and said: “I
must see him--I will see him once more! Come, monsieur!” But a terrible
memory rooted her to the spot and with a despairing gesture, and in a
voice quivering with anguish she exclaimed:
“No, no--I cannot even do that.”
M. Fortunat was not a little disturbed; and it was with a look of
something very like consternation that he glanced at Madame d’Argeles,
who had reseated herself and was now sobbing violently, with her face
hidden on the arm of her chair. “What prevents her?” he thought. “Why
this sudden terror now that her brother is dead? Is she unwilling
to confess that she is a Chalusse? She must make up her mind to it,
however, if she wishes to receive the count’s property--and she must
make up her mind to it, for my sake, if not for her own.”
He remained silent, until it seemed to him that Madame d’Argeles was
calmer, then: “Excuse me, madame,” he began, “for breaking in upon
your very natural grief, but duty requires me to remind you of your
interests.”
With the passive docility of those who are wretched, she wiped away her
tears, and replied, gently: “I am listening, monsieur.”
He had had time to prepare his discourse. “First of all, madame,” he
remarked, “I must tell you that I was the count’s confidential agent. In
him I lose a protector. Respect alone prevents me from saying a friend.
He had no secrets from me.” M. Fortunat saw so plainly that Madame
d’Argeles did not understand a word of this sentimental exordium that he
thought it necessary to add: “I tell you this, not so much to gain
your consideration and good-will, as to explain to you how I became
acquainted with these matters relating to your family--how I became
aware of your existence, for instance, which no one else suspected.” He
paused, hoping for some reply, a word, a sign, but not receiving this
encouragement, he continued: “I must, first of all, call your attention
to the peculiar situation of M. de Chalusse, and to the circumstances
which immediately preceded and attended his departure from life. His
death was so unexpected that he was unable to make any disposition of
his property by will, or even to indicate his last wishes. This, madame,
is fortunate for you. M. de Chalusse had certain prejudices against you,
as you are aware. Poor count. He certainly had the best heart in the
world, and yet hatred with him was almost barbaric in its intensity.
There can be no doubt whatever, that he had determined to deprive you
of your inheritance. With this intention he had already begun to convert
his estates into ready money, and had he lived six months longer you
would not have received a penny.”
With a gesture of indifference, which was difficult to explain after
the vehemence and the threatening tone of her letter, Madame d’Argeles
murmured:
“Ah, well! what does it matter?”
“What does it matter?” repeated M. Fortunat. “I see, madame, that your
grief prevents you from realizing the extent of the peril you have
escaped. M. de Chalusse had other, and more powerful reasons even than
his hatred for wishing to deprive you of your share of his property.
He had sworn that he would give a princely fortune to his beloved
daughter.”
For the first time, Madame d’Argeles’s features assumed an expression of
surprise. “What, my brother had a child?”
“Yes, madame, an illegitimate daughter, Mademoiselle Marguerite, a
lovely and charming girl whom I had the pleasure of restoring to his
care some years ago. She has been living with him for six months or so;
and he was about to marry her, with an enormous dowry, to a nobleman
bearing one of the proudest names in France, the Marquis de Valorsay.”
The name shook Madame d’Argeles as if she had experienced the shock of
an electric battery, and springing to her feet, with flashing eyes: “You
say that my brother’s daughter was to marry M. de Valorsay?” she asked.
“It was decided--the marquis adored her.”
“But she--she did not love him--confess that she did not love him.”
M. Fortunat did not know what to reply. The question took him completely
by surprise; and feeling that his answer would have a very considerable
influence upon what might follow, he hesitated.
“Will you answer me?” insisted Madame d’Argeles, imperiously. “She loved
another, did she not?”
“To tell the truth, I believe she did,” the agent stammered. “But I have
no proof of it, madame.”
“Ah! the wretch!” she exclaimed with a threatening gesture; “the
traitor! the infamous scoundrel! Now I understand it all. And to think
that it occurred in my house. But no; it was best so, I can still repair
everything.” And darting to the bell-rope, she pulled it violently.
A servant at once appeared. “Job,” she said, “hasten after Baron
Trigault--he left the house a moment ago and bring him back. I must
speak with him. If you do not overtake him, go to his club, to his
house, to the houses of his friends, go to every place where there is
any chance of finding him. Make haste, and do not return without him.”
And as the man turned to obey, she added: “My carriage must be in the
courtyard. Take it.”
Meanwhile M. Fortunat’s expression of countenance had undergone a marked
change. “Well!” thought he, “I have just made a mess of it! M. Valorsay
is unmasked; and now, may I be hung, if he ever marries Mademoiselle
Marguerite. Certainly, I do not owe much to the scoundrel, for he has
defrauded me of forty thousand francs, but what will he say when he
discovers what I’ve done? He will never believe me if I tell him that it
was an involuntary blunder, and Heaven only knows what revenge he will
plan! A man of his disposition, knowing that he is ruined, is capable
of anything! So much the worse for me. Before night I shall warn the
commissary of police in my district, and I shall not go out unarmed!”
The servant went off, and Madame d’Argeles then turned to her visitor
again. But she seemed literally transfigured by the storm of passion
which was raging in her heart and mind; her cheeks were crimson, and an
unwonted energy sparkled in her eyes. “Let us finish this business,” she
said, curtly; “I am expecting some one.”
M. Fortunat bowed with a rather pompous, but at the same time obsequious
air. “I have only a few more words to say,” he declared. “M. de Chalusse
having no other heir, I have come to acquaint you with your rights.”
“Very good; continue, if you please.”
“You have only to present yourself, and establish your identity, to be
put in possession of your brother’s property.”
Madame d’Argeles gave the agent a look of mingled irony and distrust;
and after a moment’s reflection, she replied: “I am very grateful
for your interest, monsieur; but if I have any rights, it is not my
intention to urge them.”
It seemed to M. Fortunat as if he were suddenly falling from some
immense height. “You are not in earnest,” he exclaimed, “or you are
ignorant of the fact that M. de Chalusse leaves perhaps twenty millions
behind him.”
“My course is decided on, monsieur; irrevocably decided on.”
“Very well, madame; but it often happens that the court institutes
inquiries for the heirs of large fortunes, and this may happen in your
case.”
“I should reply that I was not a member of the Chalusse family, and that
would end it. Startled by the news of my brother’s death, I allowed my
secret to escape me. I shall know how to keep it in future.”
Anger succeeded astonishment in M. Fortunat’s mind. “Madame, madame,
what can you be thinking of?” he cried, impetuously. “Accept--in
Heaven’s name--accept this inheritance; if not for yourself, for the
sake of----”
In his excitement, he was about to commit a terrible blunder. He saw it
in time, and checked himself.
“For the sake of whom?” asked Madame d’Argeles, in an altered voice.
“For the sake of Mademoiselle Marguerite, madame; for the sake of this
poor child, who is your niece. The count never having acknowledged her
as his daughter, she will be left actually without bread, while her
father’s millions go to enrich the state.”
“That will suffice, monsieur; I will think of it. And now, enough!”
The dismissal was so imperious that M. Fortunat bowed and went off,
completely bewildered by this denouement. “She’s crazy!” he said to
himself. “Crazy in the fullest sense of the word. She refuses the
count’s millions from a silly fear of telling people that she belongs
to the Chalusse family. She threatened her brother, but she would never
have carried her threats into execution. And she prefers her present
position to such a fortune. What lunacy!” But, although he was
disappointed and angry, he did not by any means despair. “Fortunately
for me,” he thought, “this proud and haughty lady has a son somewhere
in the world. And she’ll do for him what she would not consent to do for
herself. Through her, with a little patience and Victor Chupin’s aid,
I shall succeed in discovering this boy. He must be an intelligent
youth--and we’ll see if he surrenders his millions as easily as his
mamma does.”