It is a terrible task to break suddenly with one’s past, without even
having had time for preparation; to renounce the life one has so far
lived, to return to the starting point, and begin existence anew; to
abandon everything--the position one has gained, the work one has become
familiar with, every fondly cherished hope, and friend, and habit; to
forsake the known to plunge into the unknown, to leave the certain for
the uncertain, and desert light for darkness; to cast one’s identity
aside, assume a strange individuality, become a living lie, change name,
position, face, and clothes--in one phrase, to cease to be one’s self,
in order to become some one else.
This is indeed, a terrible ordeal, and requires an amount of resolution
and energy which few human beings possess. The boldest hesitate before
such a sacrifice, and many a man has surrendered himself to justice
rather than resort to this last extremity. And yet this was what
Pascal Ferailleur had the courage to do, on the morrow of the shameful
conspiracy that had deprived him of his good name. When his mother’s
exhortations and Baron Trigault’s encouraging words had restored his
wonted clearness of perception, the only course he felt disposed to
pursue was to disappear and fly from the storm of slander and
contempt; and then, in a secure hiding-place, to watch for the time and
opportunity of rehabilitation and revenge.
Madame Ferailleur and her son made all needful arrangements. “I shall
start out at once,” said Pascal, “and before two hours have elapsed I
shall have found a modest lodging, where we must conceal ourselves for
the present. I know a locality that will suit us, and where no one will
certainly ever think of looking for us.”
“And I,” asked Madame Ferailleur, “what shall I do in the meantime?”
“You, mother; you must, at once, sell all that we possess
here--everything--even my books. You will only keep such of our linen
and clothes as you can pack in three or four trunks. We are undoubtedly
watched; and so it is of the utmost importance that every one should
imagine I have left Paris, and that you are going to join me.”
“And when everything is sold, and my trunks are ready?”
“Then, mother, you must send some one for a cab, and order the driver to
take you to the Western Railway Station, where you will have the trunks
removed from the cab and placed in the baggage-room, as if you did not
intend to leave Paris till the next day.”
“Very good, I will do so; even if any one is watching us, he won’t be
likely to suspect this ruse. But afterward?”
“Afterward, mother, you must go to the waiting-room upstairs, and you
will find me there. I will then take you to the rooms I shall have
rented, and to-morrow we’ll send a messenger with the receipt the
railway people will give you, to fetch our luggage for us.”
Madame Ferailleur approved of this plan, deeming herself fortunate in
this great calamity that despair had not destroyed her son’s energy and
resources of mind. “Shall we retain our name, Pascal?”
“Oh, no. That would be an unpardonable imprudence.”
“What name shall we take, then? I must know, for they may ask me at the
station.”
He reflected for a moment and then said: “We’ll take your maiden name,
mother. It will bring us good luck. Our new lodgings shall be hired in
the name of the Widow Maumejan.”
They talked for some time longer, anxious to take every precaution
that prudence could suggest. And when they were convinced that they had
forgotten nothing, Madame Ferailleur suggested that Pascal should start
off. But before doing so he had a sacred duty to perform. “I must warn
Marguerite,” he muttered. And seating himself at his desk, he wrote his
beloved a concise and exact account of the events which had taken place.
He told her of the course he intended to pursue; and promised her
that she should know his new abode as soon as he knew it himself. In
conclusion, he entreated her to grant him an interview, in which he
could give her the full particulars of the affair and acquaint her
with his hopes. As for exculpating himself, even by so much as a single
word--as for explaining the snare he had been the victim of, the idea
never once occurred to him. He was worthy of Mademoiselle Marguerite;
he knew that not a doubt would disturb the perfect faith she had in his
honor.
Leaning over her son’s shoulder, Madame Ferailleur read what he had
written. “Do you intend to trust this letter to the post?” she
inquired. “Are you sure, perfectly sure, that it will reach Mademoiselle
Marguerite, and not some one else who might use it against you?”
Pascal shook his head. “I know how to insure its safe receipt,” he
replied. “Some time ago, Marguerite told me that if ever any great peril
threatened us, I might call for the housekeeper at the Chalusse mansion
and intrust my message to her. The danger is sufficiently great to
justify such a course in the present instance. So I shall pass down the
Rue de Courcelles, ask to see Madame Leon, and give her this letter.
Have no fear, my dear mother.”
As he spoke, he began to pack all the legal documents which had been
confided to him into a large box, which was to be carried to one of his
former friends, who would distribute the papers among the people they
belonged to. He next made a small bundle of the few important private
papers and valuables he possessed; and then, ready for the sacrifice,
he took a last survey of the pleasant home where success had smiled so
favorably upon his efforts, where he had been so happy, and where he
had cherished such bright dreams of the future. Overcome by a flood of
recollections, the tears sprang to his eyes. He embraced his mother, and
fled precipitately from the house.
“Poor child!” murmured Madame Ferailleur; “poor Pascal!”
Was she not also to be pitied? This was the second time within twenty
years that a thunderbolt had fallen on her in the full sunlight of
happiness. And yet now, as on the day following her husband’s death, she
found in her heart the robust energy and heroic maternal constancy which
enable one to rise above every misfortune. It was in a firm voice that
she ordered her servant to go in search of the nearest furniture dealer,
no matter which, provided he would pay cash. And when the man arrived
she showed him through the rooms with stoical calmness. God alone knew
how intensely she was suffering. And yet while she was waiting for the
dealer, each piece of furniture had acquired an extraordinary value in
her eyes. It seemed to her as if each object were a part of herself, and
when the man turned and twisted a chair or a table she almost considered
it a personal affront.
The rich, who are accustomed from birth to the luxury that surrounds
them, are ignorant of the terrible sufferings which attend such cases
as these. The persons who do suffer are those of the middle classes, not
the parvenus, but those who bid fair to become parvenus when misfortune
overtook them. Their hearts bleed when inexorable necessity deprives
them of all the little comforts with which they had gradually surrounded
themselves, for there is not an object that does not recall a long
ungratified desire, and the almost infantile joy of possession. What
happiness they felt on the day when they purchased that large arm-chair!
How many times they had gone to admire those velvet curtains in the
shop windows before buying them! Those carpets represented months of
self-denial. And that pretty clock--ah! they had fancied it would only
herald the flight of prosperous and pleasant hours. And all these things
the dealer handles, and shakes, and jeers at, and depreciates. He will
scarcely condescend to purchase. Who would care to buy such trash?
He knows that the owner is in need of money, and he profits by this
knowledge. It is his business. “How much did this cost you?” he asks, as
he inspects one piece of furniture after another.
“So much.”
“Well, you must have been terribly cheated.”
You know very well that if there is a cheat in the world, it is this
same man; but what can you say? Any other dealer you might send for
would act in the same way. Now, Madame Ferailleur’s furniture had cost
some ten thousand francs; and, although it was no longer new, it was
worth at least a third of that sum. But she obtained only seven hundred
and sixty francs for it. It is true, however, that she was in haste, and
that she was paid cash.
Nine o’clock was striking when her trunks were at last piled on a cab,
and she called out to the driver: “Take me to the Place du Havre--to the
railway station.” Once before, when defrauded by a scoundrel, she had
been obliged to part with all her household treasures. Once before she
had left her home, taking merely the wreck of her fortune with her. But
what a difference between then and now!
Then, the esteem and sympathy of all who knew her was hers, and the
admiring praise she received divested the sacrifice of much of its
bitterness, and increased her courage two-fold. Now, she was flying
secretly, and alone, under an assumed name, trembling at the thought
of pursuit or recognition--flying as a criminal flies at thought of his
crime, and fear of punishment. She had far less suffered on the day,
when, with her son upon her knees, she journeyed to the cemetery,
following all that was mortal of the man who had been her only thought,
her love, her pride, her happiness, and hope. Though crushed by the
sense of her irreparable loss, she had not rebelled against the hand
that struck her; but now it was human wickedness that assailed her
through her son, and her suffering was like that of the innocent man who
perishes for want of power to prove his innocence. Her husband’s death
had not caused her such bitter tears as her son’s dishonor. She who was
so proud, and who had such good reason to be proud, she could note the
glances of scorn she was favored with as she left her home. She heard
the insulting remarks made by some of her neighbors, who, like so many
folks, found their chief delight in other people’s misfortunes.
“Crocodile tears,” some had exclaimed. “She is going to meet her son;
and with what he has stolen they will live like princes in America.”
Rumor, which enlarges and misrepresents everything, had, indeed,
absurdly exaggerated the affair at Madame d’Argeles’s house. It was
reported in the Rue d’Ulm that Pascal had spent every night at the
gaming table for more than five years; and that, being an incomparable
trickster, he had stolen millions.
Meanwhile, Madame Ferailleur was approaching the station. The cab horse
soon slackened its pace to climb the acclivity of the Rue d’Amsterdam;
and shortly afterward the vehicle drew up in the courtyard of the
railway station. Faithfully observing the directions which had been
given her, the worthy woman had her trunks taken to the baggage-room,
declaring that she should not leave Paris until the next day, whereupon
she received a receipt from the man in charge of the room. She was
oppressed by vague apprehensions, and looked closely at every one who
passed her; fearing the presence of spies, and knowing full well that
the most profound secrecy could alone insure the success of Pascal’s
plans. However, she did not see a single suspicious looking person.
Some Englishmen--those strange travellers, who are at the same time so
foolishly prodigal and so ridiculously miserly--were making a great hue
and cry over the four sous gratuity claimed by a poor commissionaire;
but these were the only persons in sight.
Partially reassured, Madame Ferailleur hastily ascended the staircase,
and entered the large waiting-room. It was here that Pascal had promised
to meet her; but, though she looked round on all sides, she did not
perceive him. Still, this delay did not alarm her much; nor was it at
all strange, since Pascal had scarcely known what he would have to do
when he left the house. She seated herself on a bench, as far back in
the shade as possible and gazed sadly at the ever-changing throng, when
all of a sudden she was startled by a man, who abruptly paused in front
of her. This man proved to be Pascal. But his hair had been closely cut,
and he had shaved off his beard. And thus shorn, with his smooth face,
and with a brown silk neckerchief in lieu of the white muslin tie he
usually wore, he was so greatly changed that for an instant his own
mother did not recognize him. “Well?” asked Madame Ferailleur, as she
realized his identity.
“I have succeeded. We have secured such rooms as I wished for.”
“Where?”
“Ah!--a long way off, my poor mother--many a league from those we have
known and loved--in a thinly populated part of the suburbs, on the Route
de la Revolte, just outside the fortifications, and almost at the point
where it intersects the Asnieres road. You will not be very comfortable
there, but you will have the pleasure of a little garden.”
She rose, summoning all her energy. “What does it matter where or what
our abode is?” she interrupted, with forced gayety. “I am confident that
we shall not remain there long.”
But it seemed as if her son did not share her hopes, for he remained
silent and dejected; and as his mother observed him closely, she fancied
by the expression of his eyes, that some new anxiety had been added to
all his other troubles.
“What is the matter?” she inquired, unable to master her alarm--“what
has happened?”
“Ah! a great misfortune!”
“My God! still another?”
“I have been to the Rue de Courcelles; and I have spoken to Madame
Leon.”
“What did she say?”
“The Count de Chalusse died this morning.”
Madame Ferailleur drew a long breath, as if greatly relieved. She was
certainly expecting to hear something very different, and she did
not understand why this death should be a great misfortune to them
personally. One point, however, she did realize, that it was imprudent,
and even dangerous, to carry on this conversation in a hall where a
hundred persons were passing and repassing every minute. So she took her
son’s arm, and led him away, saying: “Come, let us go.”
Pascal had kept the cab which he had been using during the afternoon;
and having installed his mother inside, he got in himself, and gave his
new address to the driver. “Now tell me all,” said Madame Ferailleur.
Poor Pascal was in that state of mind in which it costs one actual
suffering to talk; but he wished to mitigate his mother’s anxiety as
much as possible; and moreover, he did not like her to suppose him
wanting in endurance. So, with a powerful effort, he shook off the
lethargy that was creeping over him, and in a voice loud enough to be
heard above the noise of the carriage wheels, he began: “This is what
I have done, mother, since I left you. I remembered that some time ago,
while I was appraising some property, I had seen three or four houses
on the Route de la Revolte, admirably suited to our present wants.
Naturally I went there first. A suite of rooms was vacant in one of
these houses. I have taken it; and in order that nothing may interfere
with the liberty of my movements, I have paid six months’ rent in
advance. Here is the receipt, drawn up in the name we shall henceforth
bear.” So saying, he showed his mother a document in which the landlord
declared that he had received from M. Maumejan the sum of three hundred
and fifty francs for two quarters’ rent, etc. “My bargain concluded,” he
resumed, “I returned into Paris, and entered the first furniture shop
I saw. I meant to hire the necessary things to furnish our little
home, but the dealer made all sorts of objections. He trembled for his
furniture, he wanted a sum of money to be deposited as security, or the
guarantee of three responsible business men. Seeing this, and knowing
that I had no time to lose, I preferred to purchase such articles as
were absolutely necessary. One of the conditions of the purchase was
that everything should be in the house and in its place by eleven
o’clock to-night. As I stipulated in writing that the dealer should
forfeit three hundred francs in case he failed to fulfil his agreement,
I can rely upon his punctuality; I confided the key of our lodgings to
him, and he must now be there waiting for us.”
So, before thinking of his love, and Mademoiselle Marguerite, Pascal had
taken the necessary measures for the execution of his plan to regain his
lost honor. Madame Ferailleur had scarcely supposed him capable of so
much courage and firmness, and she rewarded him with a warm pressure of
the hand. Then, as he was silent: “When did you see Madame Leon, then?”
she asked.
“When all the household arrangements were completed, mother. On leaving
the furniture-shop, I found that I had still an hour and a quarter
before me. I could defer no longer, and at the risk of obliging you to
wait for me, I hastened to the Rue de Courcelles.”
It was evident that Pascal felt extreme embarrassment in speaking of
Mademoiselle Marguerite. There is an instinctive delicacy and dislike of
publicity in all deep passion, and true and chaste love is ever
averse to laying aside the veil with which it conceals itself from the
inquisitive. Madame Ferailleur understood this feeling; but she was a
mother, and as such, jealous of her son’s tenderness, and anxious for
particulars concerning this rival who had suddenly usurped her place in
the heart where she had long reigned supreme. She was also a woman--that
is to say, distrustful and suspicious in reference to all other women.
So, without taking pity on Pascal’s embarrassment, she urged him to
continue.
“I gave the driver five francs on condition that he would hurry his
horses,” he resumed, “and we were rattling along at a rapid rate, when,
suddenly, near the Hotel de Chalusse, I noticed a change in the motion
of the vehicle. I looked out and saw that we were driving over a thick
layer of straw which had been spread across the street. I can scarcely
describe my feelings on seeing this. A cold perspiration came over me--I
fancied I saw Marguerite in agony, dying--far from me, and calling me in
vain. Without waiting for the vehicle to stop, I sprang to the ground,
and was obliged to exercise all my self-control to prevent myself from
rushing into the concierge’s lodge, and wildly asking: ‘Who is dying
here?’ But an unforeseen difficulty presented itself. It was evident
that I ought not to go in person to inquire for Madame Leon. Whom could
I send? There were no commissionaires at the street corners, and nothing
would have induced me to confide the message to any of the lads in the
neighboring wine-shops. Fortunately, my driver--the same who is driving
us now--is an obliging fellow, and I intrusted him with the commission,
while I stood guard over his horses. Ten minutes later, Madame Leon left
the house and came to meet me. I knew her at once, for I had seen her a
hundred times with Marguerite when they lived near the Luxembourg; and
having seen me pass and repass so often, she recognized me in spite
of my changed appearance. Her first words, ‘M. de Chalusse is dead,’
relieved my heart of a terrible weight. I could breathe again. But she
was in such haste that she could not stop to tell me any particulars.
Still I gave her my letter, and she promised me a prompt reply from
Marguerite. Everybody will be up and moving about the house to-night,
and she said she could easily make her escape for a few moments. So, at
half-past twelve to-night she will be at the little garden gate, and if
I am promptly at hand, I shall have a reply from Marguerite.”
Madame Ferailleur seemed to be expecting something more, and as Pascal
remained silent, she remarked: “You spoke of a great misfortune. In what
does it consist? I do not perceive it.”
With an almost threatening gesture, and in a gloomy voice, he answered:
“The misfortune is this: if it had not been for this abominable
conspiracy, which has dishonored me, Marguerite would have been my wife
before a month had elapsed, for now she is free, absolutely free to obey
the dictates of her own will and heart.”
“Then why do you complain?”
“Oh, mother! don’t you understand? How can I marry her? Would it be
right for me to think of offering her a dishonored name? It seems to me
that I should be guilty of a most contemptible act--of something even
worse than a crime--if I dared speak to her of my love and our future
before I have crushed the villains who have ruined me.”
Regret, anger, and the consciousness of his present powerlessness drew
from him tears which fell upon Madame Ferailleur’s heart like molten
lead; but she succeeded in concealing her agony. “All the more reason,”
she answered, almost coldly, “why you should not lose a second, but
devote all your energy and intelligence to the work of justification.”
“Oh, I shall have my revenge, never fear. But in the meantime, what is
to become of HER? Think, mother, she is alone in the world, without a
single friend. It is enough to drive one mad!”
“She loves you, you tell me. What have you to fear? Now she will be
freed from the persecutions of the suitor they intended to force upon
her, whom she has spoken to you about--the Marquis de Valorsay, is it
not?”
This name sent Pascal’s blood to his brain. “Ah, the scoundrel!” he
exclaimed. “If there was a God in heaven----”
“Wretched boy!” interrupted Madame Ferailleur; “you blaspheme when
Providence has already interposed on your behalf. And who suffers most
at this moment, do you think?--you, strong in your innocence, or the
marquis, who realizes that he has committed an infamous crime in vain?”
The sudden stopping of the cab put an end to their conversation.
Leaving the Route d’Asnieres, the driver had turned into the Route de la
Revolte, and had drawn up in front of an unpretentious two-storied house
which stood entirely alone. “We have arrived, mother,” said Pascal.
A man, who was standing on the threshold, stepped forward to open
the cab door. It was the furniture-dealer. “Here you are at last,
M. Maumejan,” said he. “Come in, and you’ll see that I’ve strictly
fulfilled the conditions of our contract.” His words proved true. He was
paid the sum stipulated, and went away satisfied.
“Now, my dear mother,” said Pascal, “allow me to do the honors of the
poor abode I have selected.”
He had taken only the ground floor of this humble dwelling. The story
above, which had an independent entrance and staircase, was occupied
by the quiet family of the owner. Although the space was small, the
architect had made the most of it. He had divided it into four small
rooms, separated by a corridor; and the kitchen looked out upon a little
garden about four times as large as an ordinary sheet. The furniture
which Pascal had purchased was more than plain; but it was well suited
to this humble abode. It had just been brought in, but any one would
have supposed it had been in its place for a couple of years.
“We shall be very comfortable here,” declared Madame Ferailleur. “Yes,
very comfortable. By to-morrow evening you won’t recognize the place.
I have saved a few trifles from the wreck--some curtains, a couple of
lamps, a clock--you’ll see. It’s wonderful how much four trunks can be
made to hold.”
When his mother set him such a noble example Pascal would have blushed
to allow himself to be outdone. He very quietly explained the reasons
which had influenced him in choosing these rooms, the principal one
being that there was no concierge, and he was therefore assured absolute
liberty in his movements, as well as entire immunity from indiscreet
gossip. “Certainly, my dear mother,” he added, “it is a lonely and
unattractive neighborhood; but you will find all the necessaries of life
near at hand. The owner of the house lives on the floor above. I have
talked with the wife--they seem to be honest, quiet people--and she will
pilot you about. I inquired for some one to do the heavy work, and she
mentioned a poor woman named Vantrasson, who lives in the neighborhood,
and who is anxious to obtain employment. They were to inform her this
evening, and you will see her to-morrow. And above all, don’t forget
that you are henceforth Madame Maumejan.”
Occupied with these arrangements for the future, he was still talking,
when Madame Ferailleur, drawing out her watch, gently remarked: “And
your appointment? You forget that the cab is waiting at the door.”
It was true; he had forgotten it. He caught up his hat, hastily
embraced his mother, and sprang into the vehicle. The horses were almost
exhausted, but the driver was so willing that he found a means of making
them trot as far as the Rue de Courcelles. However, on arriving there,
he declared that his animals and himself could endure no more, and after
receiving the amount due to him, he departed.
The air was chilly, the night dark, and the street deserted. The gloomy
silence was only disturbed at long intervals by the opening or shutting
of a door, or by the distant tread of some belated pedestrian. Having at
least twenty minutes to wait, Pascal sat down on the curbstone opposite
the Hotel de Chalusse, and fixed his eyes upon the building as if he
were striving to penetrate the massive walls, and see what was passing
within. Only one window--that of the room where the dead man was
lying--was lighted up, and he could vaguely distinguish the motionless
form of a woman standing with her forehead pressed against the pane
of glass. A prey to the indescribable agony which seizes a man when
he feels that his life is at stake--that his future is about to be
irrevocably decided--Pascal counted the seconds as they passed by. He
found it impossible to reflect, to deliberate, to decide on any plan
of action. He forgot the tortures he had endured during the last
twenty-four hours; Coralth, Valorsay, Madame d’Argeles, the baron, no
longer existed for him. He forgot his loss of honor and position, and
the disgrace attached to his name. The past was annihilated, as it
were, and he could think of no future beyond the next few moments. His
physical condition undoubtedly contributed to his mental weakness. He
had taken no food that day, and he was faint from want of nourishment.
He had come without an overcoat, moreover, and the cold night air
chilled him to the bone. There was a strange ringing in his ears, and
a mist swam before his eyes. At last the bell at the Beaujon Hospital
tolled the appointed hour, and roused him from his lethargy. He seemed
to hear a voice crying to him in the darkness, “Up! the hour has come!”
Trembling, and with tottering limbs, he dragged himself to the little
gate opening into the gardens of the Chalusse mansion. Soon it softly
opened, and Madame Leon appeared. Ah! it was not she that Pascal had
hoped to see. Unfortunate man! He had been listening to that mysterious
echo of our own desires which we so often mistake for a presentiment;
and it had whispered in his heart: “Marguerite herself will come!”
With the candor of wretchedness, he could not refrain from telling
Madame Leon the hope he had entertained. But, on hearing him, the
housekeeper recoiled with a gesture of outraged propriety, and
reproachfully exclaimed: “What are you thinking of, monsieur? What!
could you suppose that Mademoiselle Marguerite would abandon her place
by her dead father’s bedside to come to a rendezvous? Ah! you should
think better of her than that, the dear child!”
He sighed deeply, and in a scarcely audible voice, he asked: “Hasn’t she
even sent me a reply?”
“Yes, monsieur, she has; and although it is a great indiscretion on my
part, I bring you the letter. Here it is. Now, good-evening. I must go
at once. What would become of me if the servants discovered my absence,
and found that I had gone out alone----”
She was hurrying away, but Pascal detained her. “Pray wait until I see
what she has written,” he said, imploringly. “I shall perhaps be obliged
to send her some message in reply.”
Madame Leon obeyed, though with rather bad grace, and not without
several times repeating: “Make haste!”--while Pascal ran to a street
lamp near by. It was not a letter that Marguerite had sent him, but
a short note, written on a scrap of crumpled paper, folded, and not
sealed. It was written in pencil; and the handwriting was irregular and
indistinct. Still, by the flickering light of the gas, Pascal deciphered
the word “Monsieur.” It made him shudder. “Monsieur!” What did this
mean? In writing to him of recent times, Marguerite had always said, “My
dear Pascal,” or, “My friend.”
Nevertheless, he continued: “I have not had the courage to resist the
entreaties made to me by the Count de Chalusse, my father, in his last
agony. I have solemnly pledged myself to become the wife of the Marquis
de Valorsay.
“One cannot break a promise made to the dying. I shall keep mine, even
though my heart break. I shall do my duty. God will give me strength and
courage. Forget her whom you loved. She is now the betrothed of another,
and honor commands her to forget your very name. Once more, and for the
last time, farewell! If you love me, you will not try to see me again.
It would only add to my misery.
“Think as though she were dead--she who signs herself--MARGUERITE.”
The commonplace wording of this letter, and the mistakes in spelling
that marred it, entirely escaped Pascal’s notice. He only understood one
thing, that Marguerite was lost to him, and that she was on the point of
becoming the wife of the vile scoundrel who had planned the snare which
had ruined him at the Hotel d’Argeles. Breathless, despairing, and half
crazed with rage, he sprang toward Madame Leon. “Marguerite, where is
she?” he demanded, in a hoarse, unnatural voice; “I must see her!”
“Oh! monsieur, what do you ask? Is it possible? Allow me to explain
to you----” But the housekeeper was unable to finish her sentence, for
Pascal had caught her by the hands, and holding them in a vicelike grip,
he repeated: “I must see Marguerite, and speak to her. I must tell her
that she has been deceived; I will unmask the scoundrel who----”
The frightened housekeeper struggled with all her might, trying her best
to reach the little gate which was standing open. “You hurt me!” she
cried. “Are you mad? Let me go or I shall call for help?” And twice
indeed she shouted in a loud voice, “Help! murder!”
But her cries were lost in the stillness of the night. If any one
heard them, no one came; still they recalled Pascal to a sense of the
situation, and he was ashamed of his violence. He released Madame Leon,
and his manner suddenly became as humble as it had been threatening.
“Excuse me,” he said, entreatingly. “I am suffering so much that I
don’t know what I’m doing. I beseech you to take me to Mademoiselle
Marguerite, or else run and beg her to come here. I ask but a moment.”
Madame Leon pretended to be listening attentively; but, in reality, she
was quietly manoeuvring to gain the garden gate. Soon she succeeded in
doing so, whereupon, with marvellous strength and agility, she pushed
Pascal away, and sprang inside the garden, closing the gate after her,
and saying as she did so, “Begone, you scoundrel!”
This was the final blow; and for more than a minute Pascal stood
motionless in front of the gate, stupefied with mingled rage and sorrow.
His condition was not unlike that of a man who, after falling to the
bottom of a precipice, is dragging himself up, all mangled and bleeding,
swearing that he will yet save himself, when suddenly a heavy stone
which he had loosened in his descent, falls forward and crushes him. All
that he had so far endured was nothing in comparison with the thought
that Valorsay would wed Marguerite. Was such a thing possible? Would
God permit such a monstrous iniquity? “No, that shall never be,” he
muttered. “I will murder the scoundrel rather; and afterward justice may
do whatever it likes with me.”
He experienced that implacable, merciless thirsting for vengeance
which does not even recoil before the commission of a crime to secure
satisfaction, and this longing inflamed him with such energy that,
although he had been so utterly exhausted a few moments before--he was
not half an hour in making his way back to his new home. His mother, who
was waiting for him with an anxious heart, was surprised by the flush
on his cheeks, and the light glittering in his eyes. “Ah, you bring good
news,” she exclaimed.
His only answer was to hand her the letter which Madame Leon had given
him, saying as he did so, “Read.”
Madame Ferailleur’s eyes fell upon the words: “Once more, and for the
last time, farewell!” She understood everything, turned very pale, and
in a trembling voice exclaimed: “Don’t grieve, my son; the girl did not
love you.”
“Oh, mother! if you knew----”
But she checked him with a gesture, and lifting her head proudly, she
said: “I know what it is to love, Pascal--it is to have perfect faith.
If the whole world had accused your father of a crime, would a single
doubt of his innocence have ever entered my mind? This girl has doubted
you. They have told her that you cheated at cards--and she has believed
it. You have failed to see that this oath at the bedside of the dying
count is only an excuse.”
It was true; the thought had not occurred to Pascal. “My God!” he cried
in agony; “are you the only one who believes in my innocence?”
“Without proofs--yes. It must be your task to obtain these proofs.”
“And I shall obtain them,” he rejoined, in a tone of determination. “I
am strong now that I have Marguerite’s life to defend--for they have
deceived her, mother, or she would never have given me up. Oh! don’t
shake your head. I love her, and so I trust her.”