When Mademoiselle Marguerite left the dead count’s bedside at ten
o’clock at night to repair to Pascal Ferailleur’s house, she did not yet
despair of the future. Father, friend, rank, security, fortune--she had
lost all these in a single moment--but she could still see a promise of
happiness in the distance.
She suffered undoubtedly, and yet she experienced a sort of bitter
pleasure at the thought of uniting her life to the man who was as
unfortunate as herself, who was slandered as she herself had been
slandered, branded with the most cruel and unjust imputations, and had
neither fortune nor friends. Others might scorn them; but what did they
care for the world’s disdain so long as they had the approval of their
consciences? Would not their mutual esteem suffice since they loved each
other? It seemed to Marguerite that their very misfortunes would bind
them more closely to each other, and cement the bonds of their love
more strongly. And if it were absolutely necessary for them to leave
France--ah, well! they would leave it. To them Fatherland would always
be the spot where they lived together.
As the cab approached the Rue d’Ulm she pictured Pascal’s sorrow, and
the joy and surprise he would feel when she suddenly appeared before
him, and faltered: “They accuse you--here I am! I know that you are
innocent, and I love you!”
But the brutal voice of the concierge, informing her of Pascal’s secret
departure, in the most insulting terms, abruptly dispelled her dreams.
If Pascal had failed her, everything had failed her. If she had lost
him, she had lost her all. The world seemed empty--struggling would be
folly--happiness was only an empty name. She indeed longed for death!
Madame Leon who had a set of formulas adapted to all circumstances,
undertook to console her. “Weep, my dear young lady, weep; it will do
you good. Ah! this is certainly a horrible catastrophe. You are young,
fortunately, and Time is a great consoler. M. Ferailleur isn’t the
only man on earth. Others will love you. There are others who love you
already!”
“Silence!” interrupted Marguerite, more revolted than if she had heard
a libertine whispering shameful proposals in her ear. “Silence! I forbid
you to add another word.” To speak of another--what sacrilege! Poor
girl. She was one of those whose life is bound up in one love alone, and
if that fails them--it is death!
The thought that she was utterly alone added to the horror of her
situation. Whom could she depend upon? Not on Madame Leon. She
distrusted her; she had no confidence whatever in her. Should she
ask for the advice of either of her suitors? The Marquis de Valorsay
inspired her with unconquerable aversion, and she despised the so-called
General de Fondege. So her only friend, her only protector was a
stranger, the old justice of the peace who had taken her defence, by
crushing the slander of the servants, and whom she had opened her heart
to. But he would soon forget her, she thought; and the future, such as
it was presented to her imagination, seemed a terrible one. However, she
was too courageous to remain for long in despair--she struggled against
her sorrow; and the thought that she might, perhaps, reach Pascal
through M. Fortunat at last occurred to her mind. This hope was her sole
chance of salvation. She clung to it as a shipwrecked mariner clings to
the plank which is his only hope of life.
When she returned to the mansion her mind was made up, and she had
regained her usual composure. For ten minutes or so she had been praying
by the count’s bedside, when M. Bourigeau, the concierge, appeared and
handed her a letter which had just been brought to the house. It was
addressed to “Mademoiselle Marguerite de Durtal de Chalusse, at the
Hotel de Chalusse, Rue de Courcelles.”
Mademoiselle Marguerite blushed. Who was it that addressed her by
this name which she no longer had the right to bear? She studied the
handwriting for a moment, but she did not remember ever having seen it
before. At last, however, she opened the letter and read: “My dear,
dear child.” “Dear child!” indeed. What could this mean? Was there any
one in the world sufficiently interested in her welfare, or loving her
enough, to address her in this style? She quickly turned the sheet to
see the signature; and when her eyes fell on it she turned pale. “Ah!”
she exclaimed, involuntarily, “ah! ah!”
The letter was signed: “Athenais de Fondege.” It had been written by
the General’s wife. She resumed her perusal of it, and this is what she
read: “I this instant hear of the cruel loss you have sustained, and
also learn that, for want of testamentary provisions, the poor Count de
Chalusse leaves you, his idolized daughter, almost without resources. I
will not attempt to offer you consolation, God alone can assuage certain
sorrows. I should come and weep with you if I were not kept in bed by
illness. But to-morrow, whatever happens, I shall be with you before
breakfast. It is at such a time as this, my poor dear afflicted child,
that one can tell one’s true friends; and we are yours as I hope to
prove. The General feels that he should be insulting and betraying the
memory of a man who was his dearest friend for thirty years, if he did
not take the count’s place, if he did not become your second father.
He has offered you our modest home; you have refused. Why? With the
authority conferred upon me by my age and my position as the mother of
a family, I tell you that you ought to accept. What other course can you
possibly think of? Where would you go, my poor, dear child? But we will
discuss this matter to-morrow. I shall find a way to persuade you to
love us, and to allow yourself to be loved. In MY heart you will fill
the place of the beloved and lamented daughter I have lost--my beautiful
and gentle Bathilde. Once more I say farewell until to-morrow--trusting
that you will accept the sympathy and affection of your best friend,
“ATHENAIS DE FONDEGE.”
Mademoiselle Marguerite was thunderstruck, for the writer of this
epistle was a lady whom she had only met five or six times, who had
never visited her, and with whom she had scarcely exchanged twenty
words. Moreover, she well remembered certain glances with which Madame
de Fondege had, on one occasion, tried to crush her--glances so full of
cruel contempt that they had drawn bitter tears of sorrow, shame, and
anger, from the poor girl. The count himself had said to her at the
time: “Don’t be so childish, Marguerite, as to trouble yourself about
this foolish and impudent woman.”
And now this same woman sent her a letter overflowing with sympathy,
and claimed her affection and confidence in the tone of an old and tried
friend. Was such a change natural? Not being what is called a credulous
person, Mademoiselle Marguerite was unable to believe it. She divined
that Madame de Fondege must have had some hidden motive in writing such
a letter--but what motive was it? Alas! she divined this also only too
well. The General, suspecting that she had stolen the missing money, had
imparted his suspicions to his wife; and she, being as avaricious and as
unscrupulous as himself, was doing her best to secure the booty for her
son. Such a calculation is a common one nowadays. Steal yourself? Fie.
never! You would not dare. Besides, you are honest. But it is quite a
different thing to profit by other people’s rascality. Besides, there
are no risks to be encountered.
On perusing the letter a second time, it seemed to Mademoiselle
Marguerite that she could hear the General and his wife discussing the
means of obtaining a share of the two millions. She could hear Madame de
Fondege saying to her husband: “You are a block-head! You frightened the
girl by your precipitancy and roughness. But fortunately, I’m here. Let
me manage the affair; and I’ll prove that women are far more clever than
men.” And, thereupon, she had seized her pen, and commenced this letter.
In Mademoiselle Marguerite’s opinion, the epistle betrayed the joint
efforts of the pair. She could have sworn that the husband had dictated
the sentence: “The General feels that he should be insulting and
betraying the memory of a man who was his dearest friend for thirty
years, if he did not become your second father.” On the other hand, the
phrase, “I shall find a way to persuade you to love us, and to allow
yourself to be loved,” was unmistakably the wife’s work. The writer’s
insincerity was fully revealed by one passage of the letter. “You will
fill the place of the beloved daughter I have lost,” wrote Madame de
Fondege. It is true that she had once had a daughter; but the child had
died of croup when only six months old, and more than twenty-five years
previously.
It was strange, moreover, that this letter had not been sent until ten
o’clock in the evening; but, on reflection, Mademoiselle Marguerite
was able to explain this circumstance satisfactorily to herself. Before
taking any decided step, M. and Madame de Fondege had wished to consult
their son; and they had been unable to see him until late in the
evening. However, as soon as the brilliant hussar had approved the noble
scheme concocted by his parents, a servant had been dispatched with
the letter. All these surmises were surely very plausible; but it
was difficult to reconcile them with the opinion advanced by the
magistrate--that M. de Fondege must know what had become of the missing
millions.
Mademoiselle Marguerite did not think of this, however. She was losing
her presence of mind at thought of the odious suspicions which rested
on her, suspicions which she had seemed to read in the eyes of all who
approached her, from Dr. Jodon to the Marquis de Valorsay. It is true
that the magistrate had taken her defence; he had silenced the servants,
but would that suffice? Would she not remain branded by an abominable
accusation? And even the consciousness of her innocence did not reassure
her, for Pascal’s case warned her that innocence is not a sufficient
safeguard against slander.
Could she hope to escape when he had succumbed? She could tell by the
agony that was torturing her own heart, how much he must have suffered.
Where was he now? Beyond the frontiers of France? They had told her so,
but she did not, could not believe it. Knowing him as she knew him, it
seemed to her impossible that he had accepted his fate so quickly and
without a struggle. A secret presentiment told her that his absence was
only feigned, that he was only biding his time, and that M. Fortunat
would not have far to go in search of him. It was in M. de Chalusse’s
bedroom that she thus reflected, but a few steps from the bed on which
reposed all that was mortal of the man whose weakness had made her life
one long martyrdom, whose want of foresight had ruined her future, but
whom she had not the heart to censure. She was standing in front of the
window with her burning forehead resting against the glass. At that very
moment Pascal was waiting, seated on the curbstone opposite the mansion.
At that very moment he was watching the shadow on the window-curtain,
wondering if it were not Marguerite’s. If the night had been clear she
might have discerned the motionless watcher in the street below, and
divined that it was Pascal. But how could she suspect his presence? How
could she suspect that he had hastened to the Rue de Courcelles as she
had hastened to the Rue d’Ulm?
It was almost midnight when a slight noise, a sound of stealthy
footsteps, made her turn. Madame Leon was leaving the room, and a moment
later Marguerite heard the house-door leading into the garden open and
shut again. There was nothing extraordinary about such an occurrence,
and yet a strange misgiving assailed her. Why, she could not explain;
but many trivial circumstances, suddenly invested with a new and
alarming significance, recurred to her mind. She remembered that Madame
Leon had been restless and nervous all the evening. The housekeeper,
who was usually so inactive, who lounged in her arm-chair for hours
together, had been moving uneasily about, going up and down stairs at
least a dozen times, and continually glancing at her watch or the clock.
Twice, moreover, had the concierge come to tell her that some one
wished to see her. “Where can she be going now, at midnight?” thought
Mademoiselle Marguerite; “she who is usually so timid?”
At first, the girl resisted her desire to solve the question; her
suspicions seemed absurd to her, and, besides, it was distasteful to
her to play the spy. Still, she listened, waiting to hear Madame Leon
re-enter the house. But more than a quarter of an hour elapsed, and yet
the door did not open or close again. Either Madame Leon had not left
the house at all, or else she was still outside. “This is very strange!”
thought Mademoiselle Marguerite. “Was I mistaken? I must convince
myself.” And, obeying a mysterious influence, stronger than her own
will, she left the room and went down the stairs. She had reached the
hall, when the garden door suddenly opened, and Madame Leon came in. The
lights in the hall were burning brightly, so that it was easy to observe
the housekeeper’s manner and countenance. She was panting for breath,
like a person who had been running. She was very pale, and her dress was
disordered. Her cap-strings were untied, and her cap had slipped from
her head and was hanging over her shoulders. “What is the matter with
you?” asked Mademoiselle Marguerite in astonishment. “Where have you
been?”
On seeing the girl Madame Leon recoiled. Should she fly off or remain?
She hesitated for an instant; and it was easy to read her hesitation in
her eyes. She decided to remain; but it was with a constrained smile
and in an unnatural voice that she replied: “Why do you speak to me like
that, my dear young lady? One might suppose you were angry with me. You
must know very well that I’ve been in the garden!”
“At this hour of the night?”
“MON DIEU! yes--and not for pleasure, I assure you--not by any
means--I--I----” She was evidently seeking for some excuse; and, for
a moment or two, she stammered forth one incoherent sentence after
another, trying to gain time and imploring Heaven to grant her an
inspiration.
“Well?” insisted Mademoiselle Marguerite, impatiently. “Why did you go
out?”
“Ah! I--I--thought I heard Mirza barking in the garden. I thought she
had been forgotten in all the confusion, and that the poor creature had
been shut out, so I summoned all my courage, and----”
Mirza was an old spaniel that M. de Chalusse had been very fond of, and
the animal’s caprices were respected by all the inmates of the house.
“That’s very strange,” remarked Mademoiselle Marguerite, “for when you
rose to leave the room, half an hour ago, Mirza was sleeping at your
feet.”
“What--really--is it possible?”
“It’s certain.”
But the worthy woman had already recovered her self-possession and her
accustomed loquacity at the same time. “Ah! my dear young lady,” she
said, bravely, “I’m in such sorrow that I’m losing my senses completely.
Still, it was only from the kindest of motives that I ventured into the
garden, and I had scarcely entered it before I saw something white run
away from me--I felt sure it was Mirza--and so I ran after it. But
I could find nothing. I called ‘Mirza! Mirza!’ and still nothing. I
searched under all the trees, and yet I could not find her. It was as
dark as pitch, and suddenly a terrible fear seized hold of me--such a
terrible fright that I really believe I called for help, and I ran back
to the house half crazed.”
Any one hearing her would have sworn that she was telling the truth.
But, unfortunately, her earlier manner had proved her guilt.
Mademoiselle Marguerite was not deceived when she said to herself: “I
am on the track of some abominable act.” However, she had sufficient
self-control to conceal her suspicions; and she pretended to be
perfectly satisfied with the explanation which the house-keeper had
concocted. “Ah, my dear Leon, you are altogether too timid; it’s
absurd,” she said, kindly.
The housekeeper hung her head. “I know that I make myself ridiculous,”
she said, humbly. “But how can I help it? When a person’s frightened,
she can’t reason. And that white object which I saw, as plainly as I
see you, what could it have been?” And, convinced that her fable was
believed, she grew bolder, and ventured to add: “Oh, my dear young lady,
I shall tremble all night if the garden isn’t searched. Pray send the
servants out to look. There are so many thieves and rascals in Paris!”
Under any other circumstances Mademoiselle Marguerite would have refused
to listen to this ridiculous request; but, determined to repay the
hypocrite in her own coin, she replied. “Very well; it shall be done.”
And calling M. Casimir and Bourigeau, the concierge, she ordered them to
take a lantern and explore the garden carefully.
They obeyed, though with rather bad grace, not being particularly
courageous, either of them, and, of course, they found nothing.
“No matter,” said Madame Leon, “I feel safe now.” And she did indeed
feel more tranquil in mind. “I had a lucky escape!” she said to herself.
“What would have become of me, if Mademoiselle Marguerite had discovered
the truth?”
But the housekeeper congratulated herself on her victory too soon.
Mademoiselle Marguerite not only suspected her of treason, but she was
endeavoring to procure proofs of it. She felt certain that the plausible
housekeeper had deceived her, and cruelly wronged her as well. But what
she could not understand was, how Madame Leon had been able to do so.
She had spent a long time in fruitless conjectures, when suddenly she
remembered the little garden gate. “The deceitful creature must have
used that gate,” she thought.
It was easy for her to verify her suspicion. The little gate had not
been exactly condemned, but many months had elapsed since it had been
used; so it would be a very simple matter to ascertain whether it had
been recently opened or not. “And I will know for certain before an hour
has passed,” said Mademoiselle Marguerite to herself.
Having come to this conclusion, she feigned sleep, keeping a sharp watch
over Madame Leon from between her half-closed eyelids. The housekeeper,
after twisting uneasily in her arm-chair, at last became quiet again;
and it was soon evident that she was sleeping soundly. Thereupon
Mademoiselle Marguerite rose to her feet and stole noiselessly from the
room downstairs into the garden. She had provided herself with a candle
and some matches, and as soon as she struck a light, she saw that her
surmises were correct. The little gate had just been opened and closed
again. The cobwebs round about the bolts were torn and broken; the rust
which had filled the keyhole had been removed, and on the dust covering
the lock the impress of a hand could be detected. “And I have confided
my most precious secrets to this wicked woman!” thought Mademoiselle
Marguerite. “Fool that I was!”
Already thoroughly convinced, she extinguished her candle. Still, having
discovered so much, she wished to pursue her investigation to the end,
and so she opened the little gate. The ground outside had been soaked
by the recent rains, and had not yet dried, and by the light of
the neighboring street-lamp, she plainly distinguished a number of
well-defined footprints on the muddy soil. An experienced observer would
have realized by the disposition of these footprints that something like
a struggle had taken place here; but Mademoiselle Marguerite was not
sufficiently expert for that. She only understood what a child would
have understood--that two people had been standing here for some time.
Poor girl! She had not seen Pascal when he was sitting in front of the
mansion some hours before! And now no presentiment warned her that these
footprints were his. In her opinion, the man who had been talking with
Madame Leon was either M. de Fondege, or the Marquis de Valorsay--that
is to say, Madame Leon was hired to watch her and to render an account
of all she said and did.
Her first impulse was to denounce and dismiss this miserable hypocrite;
but as she was returning to the house, an idea which an old diplomatist
need not have been ashamed of entered her mind. She said to herself
that as Madame Leon was unmasked she was no longer to be feared; so
why should she be sent away? “A known spy can undoubtedly be made a most
valuable auxiliary. Why shouldn’t I make use of this wicked woman?”
thought Mademoiselle Marguerite. “I can conceal from her what I don’t
wish her to know, and with a little skill I can make her carry to her
employers such information as will serve my plans. By watching her, I
shall soon discover my enemy; and who knows if, by this means, I may not
succeed in finding an explanation of the fatality that pursues me?”
When Mademoiselle Marguerite returned to her place beside the count’s
bedside, she had calmly and irrevocably made up her mind. She would
not only retain Madame Leon in her service, but she would display even
greater confidence in her than before. Such a course was most repugnant
to Marguerite’s loyal, truthful nature; but reason whispered to her that
in fighting with villains, it is often necessary to use their weapons;
and she had her honor, her life, and her future to defend. A strange and
but imperfectly defined suspicion had entered her mind. To-night, for
the first time, she thought she could discover a mysterious connection
between Pascal’s misfortunes and her own. Was it mere chance which had
struck them at the same time, and in much the same manner? Who would
have profited by the abominable crime which had dishonored her lover,
had it not been for M. de Chalusse’s death and her own firmness?
Evidently the Marquis de Valorsay, for whom Pascal’s flight had left the
field clear.
All these thoughts were well calculated to drive away sleep; but the
poor girl was only twenty, and it was the second night she had watched
by the count’s bedside. Thus at last fatigue overcame her, and she fell
asleep.
In the morning, about seven o’clock, Madame Leon was obliged to shake
her to rouse her from the kind of lethargy into which she had fallen.
“Mademoiselle,” said the housekeeper, in her honeyed voice; “dear
mademoiselle, wake up at once!”
“What is the matter? What is it?”
“Ah! how can I explain? My dear young lady, the undertaker’s men have
come to make arrangements for the ceremony.”
Those in charge of the last rites had indeed arrived, and their heavy
tread could be heard in the hall and in the courtyard. M. Casimir, who
was bursting with self-sufficiency, hurried here, there? and everywhere,
indicating, with an imperious gesture, where he wished the black
hangings, embroidered with silver and emblazoned with the De Chalusse
arms, to be suspended. As the magistrate had given him carte-blanche,
he deemed it proper, as he remarked to Concierge Bourigeau, to have
everything done in grand style. But he took good care not to reveal the
fact that he had exacted a very handsome commission from all the people
he employed. The hundred francs derived from Chupin had only whetted his
appetite for more. At all events, he had certainly spared no pains in
view of having everything as magnificent as possible; and it was not
until he considered the display thoroughly satisfactory that he went to
warn Mademoiselle Marguerite. “I come to beg mademoiselle to retire to
her own room,” he said.
“Retire--why?”
He did not reply by words, but pointed to the bed on which the body was
lying, and the poor girl realized that the moment of eternal separation
had come. She rose, and dragged herself to the bedside. Death had
now effaced all traces of the count’s last agony. His face wore its
accustomed expression again, and it might have been fancied that he was
asleep. For a long time Mademoiselle Marguerite stood looking at him, as
if to engrave the features she would never behold again upon her memory.
“Mademoiselle,” insisted M. Casimir; “mademoiselle, do not remain here.”
She heard him, and summoning all her strength, she leaned over the
bed, kissed M. de Chalusse, and went away. But she was too late, for in
passing through the hall she encountered the undertakers, who carried on
their shoulders a long metallic case enclosed in two oaken ones. And she
had scarcely reached her own room before a smell of resin told her that
the men were closing the coffin which contained all that was mortal of
M. de Chalusse, her father.
So, none of those terrible details, which so increase one’s grief, were
spared her. But she had already suffered so much that she had reached
a state of gloomy apathy, almost insensibility; and the exercise of her
faculties was virtually suspended. Whiter than marble, she fell, rather
than seated herself, on a chair, scarcely perceiving Madame Leon, who
had followed her.
The worthy housekeeper was greatly excited, and not without cause. As
there were no relations, it had been decided that M. de Fondege, the
count’s oldest friend, should do the honors of the mansion to the
persons invited to attend the funeral; and he had sworn that he would be
under arms at daybreak, and that they might positively depend upon him.
But the hour fixed for the ceremony was approaching, several persons had
already arrived, and yet M. de Fondege had not put in an appearance.
“It is incomprehensible,” exclaimed Madame Leon. “The General is usually
punctuality personified. He must have met with some accident.” And
in her anxiety she stationed herself at the window, whence she could
command a view of the courtyard, carefully scrutinizing every fresh
arrival.
At last, about half-past nine o’clock, she suddenly exclaimed: “Here he
is! Do you hear, mademoiselle, here’s the General!”
A moment later, indeed, there was a gentle rap at the door, and M. de
Fondege entered. “Ah, I’m late!” he exclaimed; “but, dash it all! it’s
not my fault!” And, struck by Mademoiselle Marguerite’s immobility, he
advanced and took her hand. “And you, my dear little one, what is the
matter with you?” he asked. “Have you been ill? You are frightfully
pale.”
She succeeded in shaking off the torpor which was stealing over her, and
replied in a faint voice; “I am not ill, monsieur.”
“So much the better, my dear child, so much the better. It is our little
heart that is suffering, is it not? Yes--yes--I understand. But your old
friends will console you. You received my wife’s letter, did you not?
Ah, well! what she told you, she will do--she will do it. And to prove
it, in spite of her illness, she followed me--in fact, she is here!”