Mademoiselle Marguerite sprang to her feet, quivering with indignation.
Her eyes sparkled and her lips trembled as she threw back her head with
a superb gesture of scorn, which loosened her beautiful dark hair, and
caused it to fall in rippling masses over her shoulders. “Ah! Madame de
Fondege is here!” she repeated, in a tone of crushing contempt--“Madame
de Fondege, your wife, here!”
It seemed to her an impossibility to receive the hypocrite who had
written the letter of the previous evening--the accomplice of the
scoundrels who took advantage of her wretchedness and isolation. Her
heart revolted at the thought of meeting this woman, who had neither
conscience nor shame, who could stoop so low as to intrigue for the
millions which she fancied had been stolen. Mademoiselle Marguerite was
about to forbid her to enter, or to retire herself, when the thought
of her determination to act stealthily restrained her. She instantly
realized her imprudence, and, mastering herself with a great effort,
she murmured: “Madame de Fondege is too kind! How can I ever express my
gratitude?”
Madame de Fondege must have heard this, for at the same moment she
entered the room. She was short, and very stout--a faded blonde, with
her complexion spoilt by a multitude of freckles. She had very large
hands, broad, thick feet, and a shrill voice; and the vulgarity of her
appearance was all the more noticeable on account of her pretensions to
elegance. For although her father had been a wood-merchant, she
boasted of her exalted birth, and endeavored to impress people with
the magnificence of her style of living, though her fortune was
problematical, and her household conducted in the most frugal style.
Her attire suggested a continual conflict between elegance and
economy--between real poverty and feigned prodigality. She wore
a corsage and overskirt of black satin; but the upper part of the
underskirt, which was not visible, was made of lute-string costing
thirty sous a yard, and her laces were Chantilly only in appearance.
Still, her love of finery had never carried her so far as shop-lifting,
or induced her to part with her honor for gewgaws--irregularities which
are so common nowadays, even among wives and mothers of families, that
people are no longer astonished to hear of them.
No--Madame de Fondege was a faithful wife, in the strict and legal sense
of the word. But how she revenged herself! She was “virtuous;” but so
dangerously virtuous that one might have supposed she was so against her
will, and that she bitterly regretted it. She ruled her husband with a
rod of iron. And he who was so terrible in appearance, he who twirled
his ferocious mustaches in such a threatening manner, he who swore
horribly enough to make an old hussar blush, became more submissive
than a child, and more timid than a lamb when he was beside his wife.
He trembled when she turned her pale blue eyes upon him in a certain
fashion. And woe to him if he ventured to rebel. She suppressed his
pocket-money, and during these penitential seasons he was reduced to the
necessity of asking his friends to lend him twenty-franc pieces, which
he generally forgot to return.
Madame de Fondege was, as a rule, most imperious, envious, and spiteful
in disposition; but on coming to the Hotel de Chalusse she had provided
herself with any amount of sweetness and sensibility, and when she
entered the room, she held her handkerchief to her lips as if to stifle
her sobs. The General led her toward Mademoiselle Marguerite, and, in a
semi-solemn, semi-sentimental tone, he exclaimed: “Dear Athenais, this
is the daughter of my best and oldest friend. I know your heart--I know
that she will find in you a second mother.”
Mademoiselle Marguerite stood speechless and rigid. Persuaded that
Madame de Fondege was about to throw her arms round her neck and kiss
her, she was imposing the most terrible constraint upon herself, in
order to conceal her horror and aversion. But she was unnecessarily
alarmed. The hypocrisy of the General’s wife was superior to that
of Madame Leon. Madame de Fondege contented herself with pressing
Mademoiselle Marguerite’s hands and faltering: “What a misfortune! So
young--so sudden! It is frightful!” And, as she received no reply,
she added, with an air of sorrowful dignity: “I dare not ask your full
confidence, my dear unfortunate child. Confidence can be born only of
long acquaintance and mutual esteem. But you will learn to know me. You
will give me that sweet name of mother when I shall have deserved it.”
Standing at a little distance off, the General listened with the air of
a man who has a profound respect for his wife’s ability. “Now the ice is
broken,” he thought, “it will be strange if Athenais doesn’t do whatever
she pleases with that little savage.”
His hopes were so brightly reflected upon his countenance, that Madame
Leon, who was furtively watching him, became alarmed. “Ah! what do these
people want?” she said to herself; “and what do all these endearments
mean? Upon my word, I must warn my patron at once.” And, fancying that
no one noticed her, she slipped quietly and noiselessly from the room.
But Mademoiselle Marguerite was on the watch. Determined to fathom the
plotting that was going on around her, and frustrate it, she realized
that everything depended upon her watchfulness and her ability to
profit even by the most futile incidents. She had noticed the General’s
triumphant smile, and the look of anxiety that had suddenly clouded
Madame Leon’s face. So, without troubling herself about “the
proprieties,” she asked M. and Madame de Fondege to excuse her for a
second, and darted alter the housekeeper. Ah! she did not need to go
far. Leaning over the banisters, she saw Madame Leon and the Marquis
de Valorsay in earnest conversation in the hall below; the marquis as
phlegmatic and as haughty as usual, but the house-keeper fairly excited.
Marguerite at once understood that as Madame Leon knew that the marquis
was among the funeral guests, she had gone to warn him of Madame
de Fondege’s presence. This trivial circumstance proved that M. de
Fondege’s interests were opposed to those of M. de Valorsay; that they
must, therefore, hate each other, and that, with a little patience and
skill, she might utilize them, one against the other. It also proved
that Madame Leon was the Marquis de Valorsay’s paid spy and that he must
therefore have long been aware of Pascal’s existence. But she lacked the
time to follow out this train of thought. Her absence might awaken the
Fondeges’ suspicions; and her success depended on letting them suppose
that she was their dupe. She therefore returned to them as soon as
possible, excusing herself for her abrupt departure as well as she
could; but she was not accustomed to deceive, and her embarrassment
might have betrayed her had it not been for the General, who fortunately
interrupted her by saying: “I, too, must excuse myself, my dear child;
but Madame de Fondege will remain with you. I must fulfil a sacred
duty. They are waiting for me downstairs, and they are no doubt becoming
impatient. It is the first time in my life that I was ever behind time.”
The General was right in losing no more time. At least a hundred and
fifty guests had assembled in the reception-rooms on the ground floor,
and they were beginning to think it very strange that they should be
kept waiting in this style. And yet curiosity somewhat tempered their
impatience. Some of the strange circumstances attending the count’s
death had been noised abroad; and some well-informed persons declared
that a fabulous sum of money had been stolen by a young girl. It
is true, they did not think this embezzlement a positive crime. It
certainly proved that the young lady in question possessed a strong and
determined character; and many of the proudest among the guests would
gladly have taken the place of De Valorsay, who, it was rumored, was
about to marry the pretty thief and her millions.
The person who was most disturbed by the delay was the master of the
ceremonies. Arrayed in his best uniform, his thin legs encased in black
silk stockings, his mantle thrown gracefully over his shoulders, and his
cocked hat under his arm, he was looking anxiously about for some one in
the assembled crowd to whom he could give the signal for departure. He
was already talking of starting off when M. de Fondege appeared. The
friends of M. de Chalusse who were to hold the cords of the pall came
forward. There was a moment’s confusion, then the hearse started, and
the whole cortege filed out of the courtyard.
Deep silence followed, so deep that the noise made in closing the
heavy gates came upon one with startling effect. “Ah!” moaned Madame de
Fondege, “it is over.”
Marguerite’s only reply was a despairing gesture. It would have been
impossible for her to articulate a syllable--her tears were choking her.
What would she not have given to be alone at this moment--to have
been able to abandon herself without constraint to her emotions! Alas!
prudence condemned her to play a part even now. The thought of her
future and her honor lent her strength to submit to the deceitful
consolations of a woman whom she knew to be a dangerous enemy. And the
General’s wife was by no means sparing of her consolatory phrases; in
fact, it was only after a long homily on the uncertainty of life below
that she ventured to approach the subject of her letter of the previous
evening. “For it is necessary to face the inevitable,” she pursued. “The
troublesome realities of life have no respect for our grief. So it is
with you, my dear child; you would find a bitter pleasure in giving vent
to your sorrow, but you are compelled to think of your future. As M. de
Chalusse has no heirs, this house will be closed--you can remain here no
longer.”
“I know it, madame.”
“Where will you go?”
“Alas! I don’t know.”
Madame de Fondege raised her handkerchief to her eyes as if to wipe a
furtive tear away, and then, almost roughly, she exclaimed: “I must tell
you the truth, my child. Listen to me. I see only two courses for you
to adopt. Either to ask the protection of some respectable family, or to
enter a convent. This is your only hope of safety.”
Mademoiselle Marguerite bowed her head, without replying. To learn the
plans which the General’s wife had formed she must let her disclose
them. However, the girl’s silence seemed to make Madame de Fondege
uncomfortable, and at last she resumed: “Is it possible that you think
of braving the perils of life alone? I cannot believe it! It would be
madness. Young, beautiful, and attractive as you are, it is impossible
for you to live unprotected. Even if you had sufficient strength of
character to lead a pure and honest life, the world would none the less
refuse you its esteem. Mere prejudice, you say? You are quite right; but
it is nevertheless true that a young girl who braves public opinion is
lost.”
It was easy to see by Madame de Fondege’s earnestness that she feared
Mademoiselle Marguerite would avail herself of this opportunity of
recovering her liberty. “What shall I do, then?” asked the girl.
“There is the convent.”
“But I love life.”
“Then ask the protection of some respectable family.”
“The idea of being in any one’s charge is disagreeable to me.”
Strange to say, Madame de Fondege did not protest, did not speak of her
own house. She was too proud for that. Having once offered hospitality,
she thought it would arouse suspicion if she insisted. So she contented
herself with enumerating the arguments for and against the two
propositions, remarking from time to time: “Come, you must decide! Don’t
wait until the last moment!”
Mademoiselle Marguerite had already decided but before announcing
her decision she wished to confer with the only friend she had in the
world--the old justice of the peace. On the previous evening he had said
to her: “Farewell until to-morrow,” and knowing that his work in the
house had not been concluded, she was extremely surprised that he had
not yet put in an appearance.
While conversing with Madame de Fondege she had dexterously avoided
compromising herself in any way when suddenly a servant appeared and
announced the magistrate’s arrival. He entered the room, with his usual
benevolent smile upon his lips, but his searching eyes were never once
taken off Madame de Fondege’s face. He bowed, made a few polite remarks,
and then addressing Marguerite, he said: “I must speak with you,
mademoiselle, at once. You may tell madame, however, that you will
certainly return in less than a quarter of an hour.”
Marguerite followed him, and when they were alone in the count’s study
and the doors had been carefully closed, the magistrate exclaimed: “I
have been thinking a great deal of you, my child, a great deal; and
it seems to me that I can explain certain things which worried you
yesterday. But first of all, what has happened since I left you?”
Briefly, but with remarkable precision, Marguerite recounted the various
incidents which had occurred--her useless journey to the Rue d’Ulm,
Madame Leon’s strange midnight ramble and conversation with the Marquis
de Valorsay, Madame de Fondege’s letter, and lastly, her visit and all
that she had said.
The magistrate listened with his eyes fixed on his ring “This is very
serious, very serious,” he said at last. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps
M. Ferailleur is innocent. And yet, why should he abscond? why should he
leave the country?”
“Ah! monsieur, Pascal’s flight is only feigned. He is in
Paris--concealed somewhere--I’m sure of it; and I know a man who will
find him for me. Only one thing puzzles me--his silence. To disappear
without a word, without giving me any sign of life----”
The magistrate interrupted her by a gesture. “I see nothing surprising
in that since your companion is the Marquis de Valorsay’s spy. How do
you know that she has not intercepted or destroyed some letter from M.
Pascal?”
Mademoiselle Marguerite turned pale. “Great Heavens! how blind I have
been!” she exclaimed. “I did not think of that. Oh, the wretch! if one
could only question her and make her confess her crime. It is horrible
to think that if I wish to arrive at the truth, I must remain with her
and treat her in the future just as I have treated her till now.”
But the magistrate was not the man to wander from the subject he was
investigating. “Let us return to Madame de Fondege,” said he. “She
is extremely unwilling to see you go out into the world alone.
Why?--through affection? No. Why, then? This is what we must ascertain.
Secondly, she seems indifferent as to whether you accept her hospitality
or enter a convent.”
“She seems to prefer that I should enter a convent.”
“Very well. What conclusion can we draw from that? Simply, that the
Fondege family don’t particularly care about keeping you with them, or
marrying you to their son. If they don’t desire this, it is because they
are perfectly sure that the missing money was not taken by you. Now, let
me ask, how can they be so certain? Simply because they know where the
missing millions are--and if they know----”
“Ah! monsieur, it is because they’ve stolen them!”
The magistrate was silent. He had turned the bezel of his ring inside, a
sure sign of stormy weather, so his clerk would have said--and though he
had his features under excellent control he could not entirely conceal
some signs of a severe mental conflict he was undergoing. “Well, yes,
my child,” he said, at last. “Yes, it is my conviction that the Fondeges
possess the millions you saw in the count’s escritoire, and which we
have been unable to find. How they obtained possession of the money I
can’t conceive--but they have it, or else logic is no longer logic.”
He paused again for a moment, and then he resumed, more slowly: “In
acquainting you with my opinion on this subject, I have given you, a
young girl, almost a child, a proof of esteem and confidence which,
it seems to me, few men are worthy of; for I may be deceived, and a
magistrate ought not to accuse a person unless he is absolutely certain
of his guilt. So you must forget what I have just told you, Mademoiselle
Marguerite.”
She looked at him with an air of utter astonishment. “You advise me to
forget,” she murmured, “you wish me to forget.”
“Yes; you must conceal these suspicions in the deepest recesses of your
heart, until the time comes when you have sufficient proof to convict
the culprits. It is true that it will be a difficult task to collect
such proofs; but it is not impossible, with the aid of time, which
divulges so many crimes. And you may count upon me; I will give you the
benefit of all my influence and experience. It shall never be said that
I allowed a defenceless girl to be crushed while I saw any chance of
saving her.”
Tears came to Mademoiselle Marguerite’s eyes. So the world was not
composed entirely of scoundrels! “Ah! how kind you are, monsieur,” she
said; “how kind you are!”
“To be sure!” he interrupted, in a benevolent tone. “But, my child,
you must help yourself. Remember this: if the Fondeges suspect our
suspicions, all is lost. Repeat this to yourself at every moment in the
day--and be discreet, impenetrable; for people with unclean consciences
and hands are always distrustful of others.”
There was no necessity to say anything more on this point; and so, with
a sudden change of tone he asked: “Have you any plan?”
She felt that she could, and ought, to confide everything to this
worthy old man, and so rising to her feet, with a look of energy and
determination on her face, she replied in a firm voice: “My decision
is taken, monsieur, subject, of course, to your approval. In the first
place I shall keep Madame Leon with me, in whatever capacity she likes,
it doesn’t matter what. Through her I shall no doubt be able to watch
the Marquis de Valorsay, and perhaps eventually discover his hopes and
his aim. In the second place, I shall accept the hospitality offered me
by the General and his wife. With them, I shall be in the very centre of
the intrigue, and in a position to collect proofs of their infamy.”
The magistrate gave vent to an exclamation of delight. “You are a brave
girl, Mademoiselle Marguerite,” he said, “and at the same time a prudent
one. Yes; that is the proper course to pursue.”
Nothing now remained save to make arrangements for her departure. She
possessed some very handsome diamonds and other costly jewels; should
she keep them? “They are undoubtedly mine,” said she; “but after the
infamous accusations levelled at me, I can’t consent to take them away
with me. They are worth a very handsome amount. I shall leave them with
you, monsieur. If the courts restore them to me later--well--I shall
take them--and not without pleasure, I frankly confess.” Then as the
magistrate questioned her anxiously as to her resources, she replied:
“Oh! I’m not without money. M. de Chalusse was generosity itself, and my
tastes are very simple. From the money he gave me for my clothes I saved
more than eight thousand francs in less than six months. That is more
than sufficient to maintain me for a year.”
The magistrate then explained that when the court took possession
of this immense estate, it would surely allow her a certain sum.
For whether the count was her father or not, he was at any rate her
officially appointed guardian, and she would be considered a minor. And
in support of his assertion, he quoted Article 367 of the Civil Code,
which says: “In the event of the officially appointed guardian dying
without adopting, his ward, the said ward shall be furnished during her
minority with the means of subsistence from the said guardian’s estate,”
etc., etc.
“An additional reason why I should give up my jewels,” said Mademoiselle
Marguerite.
The only point that now remained was to decide upon some plan by which
she could communicate with her friend, the magistrate, without the
knowledge of the General or his wife. The magistrate accordingly
explained a system of correspondence which would defy the closest
surveillance, and then added: “Now, make haste back to your visitor. Who
knows what suspicions your absence may have caused her?”
But Mademoiselle Marguerite had one more request to make. She had often
seen in M. de Chalusse’s possession a little note-book, in which he
entered the names and addresses of the persons with whom he had business
transactions. M. Fortunat’s address must be there, so she asked and
obtained permission to examine this note-book, and to her great joy,
under the letter “F,” she found the entry: “Fortunat (Isidore), No. 28
Place de la Bourse.” “Ah! I’m sure that I shall find Pascal now!” she
exclaimed. And after once more thanking the magistrate, she returned to
her room again.
Madame de Fondege was awaiting her with feverish impatience. “How long
you stayed!” she cried.
“I had so many explanations to give, madame.”
“How you are tormented, my poor child!”
“Oh, shamefully!”
This furnished Madame de Fondege with another excuse for proffering
her advice. But Mademoiselle Marguerite would not allow herself to be
convinced at once. She raised a great many objections, and parleyed for
a long time before telling Madame de Fondege that she would be happy to
accept the hospitality which had been offered her. And her consent
was by no means unconditional. She insisted on paying her board, and
expressed the wish to retain the services of Madame Leon to whom she was
so much attached. The worthy housekeeper was present at this conference.
For an instant she had feared that Mademoiselle Marguerite suspected her
manoeuvres but her fears were now dispelled, and she even congratulated
herself on her skilfulness. Everything was arranged, and the agreement
had been sealed with a kiss, when the General returned about four
o’clock. “Ah, my dear!” cried his wife, “what happiness! We have a
daughter!”
But even this intelligence was scarcely sufficient to revive her
husband’s drooping spirits. He had almost fainted when he heard the
earth falling on M. de Chalusse’s coffin; and this display of weakness
on the part of a man adorned with such terrible and ferocious mustaches
had excited no little comment. “Yes, it is a great happiness!” he now
replied. “But thunder and lightning! I never doubted the dear girl’s
heart!”
Still both he and his wife could scarcely conceal their disappointment
when the magistrate informed them that their beloved daughter would
not take her diamonds. “Dash it!” growled the General. “I recognize her
father in this! What delicacy! almost too much, perhaps!”
However, when the magistrate informed him that the court would
undoubtedly order the restitution of the jewels, his face brightened
again, and he went down to superintend the removal of Mademoiselle
Marguerite’s trunks, which were being loaded on one of the vehicles of
the establishment.
Then the moment of departure came. Mademoiselle Marguerite acknowledged
the parting remarks of the servants, who were secretly delighted to be
freed from her presence, and then, before entering the carriage, she
cast a long, sad look upon this princely mansion which she had once had
the right to believe her own, but which she was, alas! now leaving, in
all probability, for ever.
The conclusion of this narrative will be found in the volume called
“Baron Trigault’s Vengeance.”
[Footnote 1: French gamblers use this expression which they explain by the fact
that Charlemagne departed this life with all his possessions intact,
having always added to his dominions without ever experiencing a
loss. Historically this is no doubt incorrect, but none the less, the
expression prevails in France.--TRANS.]
[Footnote 2: See “Lecoq the Detective” by Emile Gaboriau]
[Footnote 3: The body of hired applauders who are employed at most Parisian
theatres to stimulate the enthusiasm of the audience.--Trans.]