THE SEARCH.
The Hotel de Lucenay was one of those royal residences of the Faubourg
St. Germain, which the space employed, and, as it were, lost, make so
vast. A modern house might, with ease, be contained in the limits
devoted to the staircase of one of these palaces, and a whole quarter
might be built in the extent they occupy.
About nine o'clock in the evening of this day the two vast folding-doors
of this hotel opened on the arrival of a magnificent chariot, which,
after having taken a dashing turn in the spacious courtyard, stopped
before the large covered flight of steps which led to the first
antechamber. Whilst the hoofs of two powerful and high-couraged horses
sounded on the echoing pavement, a gigantic footman opened the door,
emblazoned with armorial bearings, and a young man alighted gracefully
from this brilliant carriage, and no less gracefully walked up the five
or six steps of the entrance. This young man was the Vicomte de
Saint-Remy.
On leaving his creditor, who, satisfied with the undertaking of
Florestan's father, had granted the required delay, and was to come and
receive his money at ten o'clock in the Rue de Chaillot, M. de
Saint-Remy had gone to Madame de Lucenay's, to thank her for the fresh
service she had rendered him, and, not having seen the duchess during
the morning, he came triumphant, certain of finding her in _prima sera_,
the hour which she constantly reserved for him.
By the attention of the footmen in the antechamber, who hastened to open
the glass door as soon as they saw Florestan's carriage, by the
profoundly respectful air with which the rest of the livery all rose as
the vicomte passed by, and by certain, yet almost imperceptible touches,
it was evident that here was the second, or, rather, the real master of
the house.
When the Duc de Lucenay returned home, with his umbrella in his hand and
his feet protected by clumsy goloshes (he hated going out in a carriage
in the daytime), the same domestic evolutions were gone through with
similar respect; still, in the eyes of a keen observer, there was a vast
difference between the reception accorded to the husband and that
reserved for the lover.
A corresponding attention displayed itself in the footman's waiting-room
when Florestan entered it, and one of the valets instantly arose to
announce him to Madame de Lucenay.
The vicomte had never been more joyous, never felt himself more at his
ease, more confident of himself, more assured of conquest. The victory
he had obtained over his father in the morning, the fresh proof of
attachment on the part of Madame de Lucenay, the joy at having escaped,
as it were, by a miracle, from a terrible situation, his renewed
confidence in his star, gave his handsome features an expression of
boldness and good humour which rendered it still more captivating.
In fact, he had never felt himself more himself. And he was right. Never
had his slender and graceful figure displayed a finer carriage, never
had his look been more elevated, never had his pride been more
deliciously tickled by the thought, "The great lady--the mistress of
this palace is mine--is at my feet! This very morning she waited for me
in my own house!"
Florestan had given way to these excessively vain-glorious reflections
as he traversed three or four apartments, which led to a small room in
which the duchess usually sat. A last look at himself in a glass which
he passed completed the excellent opinion which Florestan had of
himself. The _valet de chambre_ opened the folding-doors of the salon,
and announced, "Monsieur the Vicomte de Saint-Remy!"
It is impossible to paint the astonishment and indignation of the
duchess. She believed the comte had not concealed from his son that she
also had overheard all.
We have already said that, on discovering Florestan's infamy, Madame de
Lucenay's love, suddenly quenched, had changed into the most frigid
disdain. We have also said that, in the midst of her errors, her
frailties, Madame de Lucenay had preserved pure and intact her feelings
of rectitude, honour, and chivalric frankness, whose strength and
requirements were excessively strong. She possessed the better qualities
of her faults, the virtues of her vices.
Treating love as cavalierly as a man treats it, she pushed as far, nay,
further, than a man, devotion, generosity, courage, and, above all,
intense horror of all baseness. Madame de Lucenay, being about to go to
a party in the evening, was, although without her diamonds, dressed with
her accustomed taste and magnificence; and her splendid costume, the
rouge she wore without attempt at concealment, like a court lady, up to
her eyelids, her beauty, which was especially brilliant at candle-light,
her figure of a goddess walking in the clouds, rendered still more
striking that noble air which no one displayed to greater advantage than
she did, and which she carried, if requisite, to a height of insolence
that was overwhelming.
We know the haughty and resolute disposition of the duchess, and we may
imagine her physiognomy, her look, when the vicomte, advancing towards
her, conceited, smiling, confident, said, in a tone of love:
"Dearest Clotilde, how good you are! How you--"
The vicomte could not finish. The duchess was seated, and had not
risen; but her gesture, her glance, betokened contempt, at once so calm
and crushing that Florestan stopped short. He could not utter another
word, nor advance another step. He had never before seen Madame de
Lucenay under this aspect. He could not believe that it was the same
woman, whom he had always found gentle, tender, and passionately
submissive; for nothing is more humble, more timid, than a determined
woman in the presence of the man whom she loves and who controls her.
His first surprise past, Florestan was ashamed of his weakness; his
habitual audacity resumed its ascendency, and, making a step towards
Madame de Lucenay in order to take her hand, he said, in his most
insinuating tone:
"Clotilde, what ails you? I never saw you look so lovely, and yet--"
"Really, this is too impudent!" exclaimed the duchess, recoiling with
such disgust and hauteur that Florestan was again overcome with
surprise.
Resuming some assurance, he said to her:
"Will you, at least, Clotilde, tell me the cause of this change, sudden,
singular as it is? What have I done? How have I offended?"
Without making any reply, Madame de Lucenay looked at him, as is
vulgarly said, from head to foot, with so insulting an expression that
Florestan felt red with the anger which displayed itself upon his brow,
and exclaimed:
"I am aware, madame, that it is thus you habitually break off. Is it a
rupture that you now desire?"
"The question is singular!" said Madame de Lucenay, with a sarcastic
laugh. "Learn, sir, that when a lackey robs me, I do not break with him,
I turn him away."
"Madame!"
"Oh, a truce to this!" said the duchess, in a stern and peremptory tone.
"Your presence disgusts me! Why are you here? Have you not had your
money?"
"It is true, then, as I guessed, the twenty-five thousand francs--"
"Your last forgery is withdrawn, is it not? The honour of your family's
name is saved,--that is well,--go!"
"Ah! believe me--"
"I very much regret that money, for it might have succoured so many
honest families; but it was necessary to think of the shame to your
father and to myself."
"So then, Clotilde, you know all? Ah, then, now nothing is left me but
to die!" exclaimed Florestan, in a most pathetic and despairing tone.
A burst of derisive laughter from the duchess hailed this tragic
exclamation, and she added, between two fits of fresh hilarity:
"I could never have believed infamy could appear so ridiculous!"
"Madame!" cried Florestan, his features contracted with rage.
The two folding-doors opened with a loud noise, and M. le Duc de
Montbrison was announced.
In spite of his self-command, Florestan could scarcely repress the
violence of his resentment, which any man more observing than the duke
must certainly have perceived.
M. de Montbrison was scarcely eighteen years of age. Let our readers
imagine a most engaging countenance, like that of a young girl, white
and red, whose vermilion lips and downy chin were slightly shaded by a
nascent beard. Let them add to this large brown eyes, as yet timid, but
which in time would gleam like a falcon's, a figure as graceful as that
of the duchess herself, and then, perhaps, they may have some idea of
this young duke, the Cherubino as complete in idea as ever countess or
waiting-maid decked in a woman's cap, after having remarked the ivory
whiteness of his neck.
The vicomte had the weakness or the audacity to remain.
"How kind of you, Conrad, to think of me this evening!" said Madame de
Lucenay, in a most affectionate voice, and extending her hand to the
young duke, who was about to shake hands with his cousin, but Clotilde
raised her hand a little, and said to him gaily:
"Kiss it, cousin,--you have your gloves on."
"Pardon me, my dear cousin," said the young man, as he applied his lips
to the naked and charming hand that was offered to him.
"What are you going to do this evening, Conrad?" inquired Madame de
Lucenay, without seeming to take the slightest notice in the world of
Florestan.
"Nothing, cousin; when I leave you, I shall go to the club."
"Indeed you shall not; you shall accompany us, M. de Lucenay and me, to
Madame de Senneval's; she gives a party, and has frequently asked me to
introduce you to her."
"I shall be but too happy."
"Then, too, I must tell you frankly that I don't like to see you begin
so early with your habits and tastes for clubs. You are possessed of
everything necessary in order to be everywhere welcomed, and even sought
after, in the world, and you ought, therefore, to mix with it as much as
possible."
"Yes, you are right, cousin."
"And as I am on the footing of a grandmother with you, my dear Conrad, I
am determined to exact a great deal from you. You are emancipated, it is
true, but I believe you will want a guardian for a long time to come,
and you must, therefore, consider me in that light."
"Most joyfully, happily, cousin!" said the young duke, emphatically.
It is impossible to describe the mute rage of Florestan, who was
standing up, and leaning with his elbow on the mantelpiece. Neither the
duke nor Clotilde paid the slightest attention to him. Knowing the
rapidity with which Madame de Lucenay decided, he imagined she was
pushing her boldness and contempt so far as to commence at once, and in
his presence, a regular flirtation with the Duc de Montbrison.
It was not so. The duchess felt for her cousin nothing beyond a truly
maternal affection, having almost seen him born. But the young duke was
so handsome, and seemed so happy at the agreeable reception of his
cousin, that the jealousy, or, rather, pride of Florestan was aroused.
His heart writhed beneath the cruel wounds of envy, excited by Conrad de
Montbrison, who, rich and handsome, was beginning so splendidly that
life of pleasures, enjoyments, and fetes, from which he, ruined, undone,
despised, dishonoured, was expelled.
M. de Saint-Remy was brave with that bravery of the head, if we may so
call it, which will urge a man, by anger or by vanity, to face a duel.
But, vitiated and corrupted, he had not the courage of the heart which
triumphs over bad inclinations, or which, at least, gives the energy
which enables a man to escape infamy by a voluntary death. Furious at
the bitter contempt of the duchess, believing he saw a successor in the
young duke, M. de Saint-Remy resolved to confront Madame de Lucenay with
all insolence, and, if need were, to seek a quarrel with Conrad.
The duchess, irritated at Florestan's audacity, did not look towards
him, and M. de Montbrison, in his anxious attention to his cousin,
forgetting something of his high breeding, had not saluted or spoken a
word to the vicomte, with whom he was acquainted. The latter, advancing
to Conrad, whose back was towards him, touched his arm lightly, and
said, in a dry and ironical tone:
"Good evening, sir; a thousand pardons for not having observed you
before."
M. de Montbrison, perceiving that he had really failed in politeness,
turned around instantly, and said cordially to the vicomte:
"Really, sir, I am ashamed; but I hope that my cousin, who caused my
forgetfulness, will be my excuse, and--"
"Conrad," interposed the duchess, immeasurably annoyed at Florestan's
impudence, persisting as he did in remaining, as it were, to brave
her,--"Conrad, that will do; make no apologies; it is not worth while."
M. de Montbrison, believing that his cousin was reproaching him in joke
for being somewhat too formal, said, in a gay tone, to the vicomte, who
was livid with rage:
"I will not say more, sir, since my cousin forbids me. You see her
guardianship has begun."
"And will not stop when it begins, my dear sir, be assured of that.
Thus, with this notice (which Madame la Duchesse will hasten to fulfil,
I have no doubt)--with this notice, I say, I have it in my mind to make
you a proposal."
"To me, sir?" said Conrad, beginning to take offence at the sardonic
tone of Florestan.
"To you yourself. I leave in a few days for the legation to Gerolstein,
to which I am attached. I wish, therefore, to get my house, completely
furnished, and my stable, entirely arranged, off my hands; and you might
find it a suitable arrangement;" and the vicomte insolently emphasised
his last words, looking Madame de Lucenay full in the face. "It would be
very piquant, would it not, Madame la Duchesse?"
"I do not understand you, sir," said M. de Montbrison, more and more
astonished.
"I will tell you, Conrad, why you cannot accept the offer that is made
you," said Clotilde.
"And why, Madame la Duchesse, cannot the duke accept my offer?"
"My dear Conrad, what is offered you for sale is already sold to others.
So, you understand, you would have the inconvenience of being robbed
just as if you were in a wood."
Florestan bit his lips with rage.
"Take care, madame!" he cried.
"What, threats! and here, sir?" exclaimed Conrad.
"Pooh, pooh! Conrad, pay no attention," said Madame de Lucenay, taking a
lozenge from a sweetmeat box with the utmost composure; "a man of honour
ought not and cannot have any future communication with that person. If
he likes, I will tell you why."
A tremendous explosion would no doubt have occurred, when the two
folding-doors again opened, and the Duc de Lucenay entered, noisily,
violently, hurriedly, as was "his usual custom in the afternoon," as
well as the forenoon.
"Ah, my dear! What, dressed already?" said he to his wife. "Why, how
surprising! Quite astonishing! Good evening, Saint-Remy; good evening,
Conrad. Ah, you see the most miserable of men; that is to say, I neither
sleep nor eat, but am completely 'done up.' Can't reconcile myself to
it. Poor D'Harville, what an event!" And M. de Lucenay threw himself
back in a sort of small sofa with two backs, and, crossing his left knee
over his right, took his foot in his hand, whilst he continued to utter
the most distressing exclamations.
The excitement of Conrad and Florestan had time to calm down, without
being perceived by M. de Lucenay, who was the least clear-sighted man in
the world.
Madame de Lucenay, not from embarrassment, for she was never
embarrassed, as we know, but because Florestan's presence was as
disgusting as it was insupportable, said to the duke:
"We are ready to go as soon as you please. I am going to introduce
Conrad to Madame de Senneval."
"No, no, no!" cried the duke, letting go his foot to seize one of the
cushions, on which he struck violently with his two fists, to the great
alarm of Clotilde, who, at the sudden cries of her husband, started from
her chair.
"Monsieur, what ails you?" she inquired; "you frighten me exceedingly."
"No," replied the duke, thrusting the cushion from him, rising suddenly,
and walking up and down with rapid strides and gesticulations, "I cannot
get over the idea of the death of poor dear D'Harville; can you,
Saint-Remy?"
"Indeed, it was a frightful event!" said the vicomte, who, with hatred
and rage in his heart, kept his eye on M. de Montbrison; but this
latter, after the last words of his cousin, turned away from a man so
deeply degraded, not from want of feeling, but from pride.
"For goodness' sake, my lord," said the duchess to her husband, "do not
regret the loss of M. d'Harville in so noisy and really so singular a
manner. Ring, if you please for my carriage."
"Yes, it is really true," said M. de Lucenay, seizing the bell-rope,
"really true that, three days ago, he was full of life and health, and,
to-day, what remains of him? Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!"
These three last exclamations were accompanied by three such violent
pulls that the bell-rope, which the duke held in his hand whilst he was
gesticulating, broke away from the upper spring, fell on a candelabra
filled with lighted wax candles, knocked two of them out of the sconces,
one of which, falling on the mantelpiece, broke a lovely little cup of
old Sevres china; whilst the other, falling on the ground, rolled on a
fur hearth rug, which took flame, but was soon extinguished under
Conrad's foot.
At the same moment, two _valets de chambre_, summoned by the furious
ringing, entered hastily, and found M. de Lucenay with the bell-rope in
his hand, the duchess laughing heartily at this ridiculous fall of the
wax lights, and M. de Montbrison sharing her mirth. M. de Saint-Remy
alone did not laugh. M. de Lucenay, quite accustomed to such accidents,
preserved his usual seriousness, and, throwing the bell-rope to one of
the men, said:
"The duchess's carriage."
Clotilde, having somewhat recovered her composure, said:
"Really, my lord, there is no man in the world but yourself capable of
exciting laughter at so lamentable an event."
"Lamentable! Say fearful. Why, now, only yesterday, I was recollecting
how many persons in my own family I would rather should have died than
poor D'Harville. First, there's my nephew, D'Emberval, who stutters so
annoyingly; then there's your Aunt Merinville, who is always talking
about her nerves and her headache, and who always gobbles up every day,
whilst she is waiting for dinner, a mess of broth like a porter's wife.
Are you very fond of your Aunt Merinville?"
"Really, my lord, have you lost your wits?" said the duchess, shrugging
her shoulders.
"It's true enough, though," continued the duke; "one would give twenty
indifferent persons for one friend; eh, Saint-Remy?"
"Unquestionably."
"It is the old story of the tailor over again. Do you know it,
Conrad,--the story of the tailor?"
"No, cousin."
"You will understand the allegory at once. A tailor was going to be
hanged; he was the only tailor in the village. What were the inhabitants
to do? They said to the judge, 'Please your judgeship, we have only one
tailor, and we have three shoemakers; if it is all the same to you,
please to hang one of the three shoemakers in the place of the tailor,
for two shoemakers are enough.' Do you understand the allegory, Conrad?"
"Yes, cousin."
"And you, Saint-Remy?"
"Quite."
"Her grace's carriage!" said one of the servants.
"But, I say, why haven't you put on your diamonds?" asked M. de Lucenay,
abruptly; "with that dress they would look remarkably well."
Saint-Remy shuddered.
"For the one poor time we are going out together," continued the duke,
"you might have done us the honour to wear your diamonds. The duchess's
diamonds are particularly fine. Did you ever see them, Saint-Remy?"
"Yes, he knows them well enough!" said Clotilde; and then she added,
"Your arm, Conrad."
M. de Lucenay followed the duchess with Saint-Remy, who could scarcely
repress his anger.
"Aren't you coming with us to the Sennevals, Saint-Remy?" inquired M. de
Lucenay.
"No, impossible," he replied, briefly.
"By the way, Saint-Remy, there's Madame de Senneval, too,--what, do I
say one? There's two--whom I would willingly sacrifice, for her husband
is also on my list."
"What list?"
"That of the people whom I should not have cared to see die, provided
D'Harville had been left to us."
At the moment when they were in the anteroom, and M. de Montbrison was
helping the duchess on with her mantle, M. de Lucenay, addressing his
cousin, said to him:
"Since you are coming with us, Conrad, desire your carriage to follow
ours; unless you will decide on coming, Saint-Remy, and then you shall
take me, and I will tell you another story quite as good as that of the
tailor."
"Thank you," said Saint-Remy, dryly, "I cannot accompany you."
"Well, then, good night, my dear fellow. Have you and my wife
quarrelled, for she is getting into her carriage without saying a word
to you?"
And at this moment, the duchess's berline having drawn up at the steps,
she entered it.
"Now, cousin," said Conrad, waiting for M. de Lucenay with an air of
deference.
"Get in! Get in!" said the duke, who had stopped a moment, and, from the
door, was contemplating the elegant equipage of the vicomte. "Are those
your grays, Saint-Remy?"
"Yes."
"And your jolly-looking Edwards! He's what I call a right sort of
coachman. How well he has his horses in hand! To do justice, there is no
one who, like Saint-Remy, does things in such devilish high style!"
"My dear fellow, Madame de Lucenay and your cousin are waiting for you,"
said M. de Saint-Remy, with bitterness.
"_Pardieu!_ and that's true. What a forgetful rascal I am! _Au revoir_,
Saint-Remy. Ah, I forgot," said the duke, stopping half way down the
steps, "if you have nothing better to do, come and dine with us
to-morrow. Lord Dudley has sent us some grouse from Scotland, and they
are out-of-the-way things, you know. You'll come, won't you?" And the
duke sprang into the carriage which contained his wife and Conrad.
Saint-Remy remained alone on the steps, and saw the carriage drive away.
His own then drove up. He got into it, casting on that house which he
had so often entered as master, and which now he so ignominiously
quitted, a look of anger, hatred, and despair.
"Home!" he said, abruptly.
"To the hotel!" said the footman to Edwards, as he closed the door.
We may imagine how bitter and desolating were Saint-Remy's thoughts as
he returned to his house. At the moment when he reached it, Boyer, who
awaited him at the portico, said to him:
"M. le Comte is above, and waits for M. le Vicomte."
"Very well."
"And there is also a man whom your lordship appointed at ten o'clock,--a
M. Petit-Jean."
"Very well. Oh, what an evening party!" said Florestan, as he went
up-stairs to see his father, whom he found in the salon on the first
floor, the same room in which their meeting of the morning had taken
place. "A thousand pardons, my father, that I was not awaiting you when
you arrived; but I--"
"Is the man here who holds the forged bill?" inquired the comte,
interrupting his son.
"Yes, father, he is below."
"Desire him to come up."
Florestan rang, and Boyer appeared.
"Desire M. Petit-Jean to come up."
"Yes, my lord," and Boyer withdrew.
"How good you are, father, to remember your kind promise!"
"I always remember what I promise."
"What gratitude do I owe you! How can I ever prove to you--"
"I will not have my name dishonoured! It shall not be!"
"It shall not be! No, it shall never be, I swear to you, my father!"
The comte looked strangely at his son, and repeated:
"No, it shall never be!" Then he added, with a sarcastic air, "You are a
prophet."
"I read my resolution in my heart."
Florestan's father made no rejoinder. He walked up and down the room
with his two hands thrust into the pockets of his long coat. He was very
pale.
"M. Petit-Jean," said Boyer, introducing a man of a mean, sordid, and
crafty look.
"Where is the bill?" inquired the comte.
"Here it is, sir," said Petit-Jean (Jacques Ferrand the notary's man of
straw), handing the bill to the comte.
"Is this it?" said the latter, showing the bill to his son.
"Yes, father."
The comte took from his waistcoat pocket twenty-five notes of a thousand
francs each, handed them to his son, and said:
"Pay!"
Florestan paid, and took the bill with a deep sigh of the utmost
satisfaction. M. Petit-Jean put the notes carefully in an old
pocket-book, made his bow, and retired. M. de Saint-Remy left the salon
with him, whilst Florestan was very carefully tearing up the bill.
"At least Clotilde's twenty-five thousand francs are still in my pocket,
and if nothing is revealed, that is a comfort. But how she treated me!
But what can my father have to say to the man Petit-Jean?"
The noise of a door being double-locked made the vicomte start. His
father returned to the room. His pallor had even increased.
"I fancied, father, I heard you lock the door of my cabinet?"
"Yes, I did."
"And why, my dear father?" asked Florestan, greatly amazed.
"I will tell you."
And the comte placed himself so that his son could not pass out by the
secret staircase which led to the ground floor.
Florestan, greatly disquieted, now observed the sinister look of his
father, and followed all his movements with mistrust. Without being able
to account for it, he felt a vague alarm.
"What ails you, father?"
"This morning when you saw me, your only thought was, 'My father will
not allow his name to be dishonoured; he will pay if I can but contrive
to wheedle him by some feigned words of repentance.'"
"Can you indeed think--"
"Do not interrupt me. I have not been your dupe; you have neither shame,
regret, nor remorse. You are vicious to the very core, you have never
felt one honest aspiration, you have not robbed as long as you have been
in possession of wherewithal to gratify your caprices,--that is what is
called the probity of rich persons of your stamp. Then came the want of
delicate feeling, then meannesses, then crime, then forgery. This is but
the first period of your life,--it is bright and pure in comparison with
that which would be yet to come."
"If I did not change my conduct, assuredly; but I shall change it,
father, I have sworn to you."
"You will not change it."
"But--"
"You will not change it! Expelled from society in which you have
hitherto lived, you would become very quickly criminal, like the
wretches amongst whom you would be cast, a thief inevitably, and, if
your need were, an assassin. That would be your future life."
"I an assassin?--I?"
"Yes, because you are a coward!"
"I have had duels, and have evinced--"
"I tell you, you are a coward! You have already preferred infamy to
death. A day would come in which you would prefer the impunity for fresh
crimes to the life of another. This must not be,--I will not allow it. I
have come in time, at least, to save my name from public dishonour
hereafter. There must be an end to this."
"What do you mean, dearest father? How an end to this? What would you
imply?" exclaimed Florestan, still more alarmed at the fearful
expression and the increased pallor of his father's countenance.
Suddenly there was a violent blow struck on the cabinet door. Florestan
made a motion to go and open it, in order to put an end to a scene which
terrified him; but the comte seized him with a hand of iron, and held
him fast.
"Who knocks?" inquired the comte.
"In the name of the law, open! Open!" said a voice.
"That forgery, then, was not the last," exclaimed the comte, in a low
voice, and looking at his son with a terrible air.
"Yes, my father, I swear it!" exclaimed Florestan, endeavouring, but
vainly, to extricate himself from the vigorous grasp of his father.
"In the name of the law, open!" repeated the voice.
"What is it you seek?" demanded the comte.
"I am a commissary of police, and I have come to make a search after a
robbery of diamonds, of which M. de Saint-Remy is accused. M. Baudoin, a
jeweller, has proofs. If you do not open, sir, I shall be compelled to
force open the door."
"Already a thief! I was not then deceived," said the comte, in a low
voice. "I came to kill you,--I have delayed too long."
"Kill me?"
"There is already too much dishonour on my name,--it must end. I have
here two pistols; you must blow out your brains, or I will blow them
out, and I will say that you killed yourself in despair in order to
escape from shame."
And, with a fearful _sang-froid_, the comte drew a pistol from his
pocket, and, with the hand that was free, presented it to his son,
saying:
"Now an end to this, if, indeed, you are not a coward!"
After repeated and ineffectual attempts to free himself from the comte's
hand, his son fell back aghast and livid with fear. He saw by the
fearful look, the inexorable demeanour of his father, that he had no
pity to expect from him.
"My father!" he exclaimed.
"You must die!"
"I repent!"
"It is too late. Hark! They are forcing in the door!"
"I will expiate my faults!"
"They are entering! Must I then kill you with my own hand?"
"Pardon!"
"The door gives way! You will then have it so!"
And the comte placed the muzzle of the weapon against Florestan's
breast.
The noise without announced that the door of the cabinet could not long
resist. The vicomte saw he was lost. A sudden and desperate resolution
lighted up his countenance. He no longer struggled with his father, and
he said to him, with equal firmness and resignation:
"You are right, my father! Give me the pistol! There is infamy enough on
my name! The life in store for me is frightful, and is not worth the
trouble of a struggle. Give me the pistol! You shall see if I am a
coward!" and he put forth his hand to take the pistol. "But, at least,
one word,--one single word of consolation,--pity,--farewell!" said
Florestan; and his trembling lips, his paleness, his agitated features,
all betokened the terrible emotion of this frightful moment.
"But what if he were, indeed, my son!" thought the comte, with terror,
and hesitating to hand him the deadly instrument. "If he were my son I
ought to hesitate before such a sacrifice."
A loud cracking of the cabinet door announced that it was being forced.
"My father, they are coming! Oh, now I feel that death is indeed a
benefit. Yes, now I thank you! But, at least, your hand,--and forgive
me!"
In spite of his sternness, the comte could not repress a shudder, as he
said, in a voice of emotion:
"I forgive you."
"My father, the door opens; go to them, that, at least, they may not
even suspect you. Besides, if they enter here, they will prevent me from
completing,--adieu!"
The steps of several persons were heard in the next room. Florestan
placed the muzzle of the pistol to his heart. It went off at the instant
when the comte, to avoid the horrid sight, turned away his head, and
rushed out of the salon, whose curtains closed upon him.
At the sound of this explosion, at the sight of the comte, pale and
haggard, the commissary stopped short at the threshold of the door,
making a sign to his agents to pause also.
Informed by Boyer that the vicomte was shut up with his father, the
magistrate understood all, and respected his deep grief.
"Dead!" exclaimed the comte, hiding his face in his hands. "Dead!" he
repeated in a tone of agony. "It was just,--better death than infamy!
But it is horrible!"
"Sir," said the magistrate, sorrowfully, after a few minutes' silence,
"spare yourself a painful spectacle,--leave the house. And now I have
another duty to fulfil, even more painful than that which summoned me
hither."
"You are quite right, sir," said M. de Saint-Remy; "as to the sufferer
by this robbery, you will request him to call on M. Dupont, the banker."
"In the Rue Richelieu? He is very well known," replied the magistrate.
"What is the estimated value of the stolen diamonds?"
"About thirty thousand francs. The person who bought them, and by whom
the fraud was detected, gave that amount for them to your son."
"I can still pay it, sir. Let the jeweller go to my banker the day after
to-morrow, and I will have it all arranged."
The commissary bowed. The comte left the room.
After the departure of the latter, the magistrate, deeply affected by
this unlooked-for scene, went slowly towards the salon, the curtains of
which were closed. He moved them on one side with agitation.
"Nobody!" he exclaimed, amazed beyond measure, and looking around him,
unable to see the least trace of the tragic event which he believed had
just occurred.
Then, seeing a small door in the panel of the apartment, he went towards
it. It was fastened in the side of the secret staircase.
"It was a trick, and he has escaped by this door!" he exclaimed, with
vexation.
And in fact, the vicomte, having in his father's presence placed the
pistol on his heart, had very dexterously fired it under his arm, and
rapidly made off.
In spite of the most careful search throughout the house, they could not
discover Florestan.
During the conversation with his father and the commissary, he had
quickly gained the boudoir, then the conservatory, then the lone alley,
and so to the Champs Elysees.
* * * * *
The picture of this ignoble degradation in opulence is a sad thing.
We are aware of it. But for want of warnings, the richer classes have
also fatally their miseries, vices, crimes. Nothing is more frequent and
more afflicting than those insensate, barren prodigalities which we have
now described, and which always entail ruin, loss of consideration,
baseness, or infamy. It is a deplorable, sad spectacle, just like
contemplating a flourishing field of wheat destroyed by a herd of wild
beasts. No doubt that inheritance, property, are, and ought to be,
inviolable, sacred. Wealth acquired or transmitted ought to be able to
shine with impunity and magnificently in the eyes of the poor and
suffering masses. We must, too, see those frightful disproportions which
exist between the millionaire Saint-Remy, and the artisan Morel. But,
inasmuch as these inevitable disproportions are consecrated, protected
by the law, so those who possess such wealth ought morally to be
accountable to those who have only probity, resignation, courage, and
desire to labour.
In the eyes of reason, human right, and even of a well-understood social
interest, a great fortune should be a hereditary deposit, confided to
prudent, firm, skilful, generous hands, which, entrusted at the same
time to fructify and expend this fortune, know how to fertilise, vivify,
and ameliorate all that should have the felicity to find themselves
within the scope of its splendid and salutary rays.
And sometimes it is so, but the instances are very rare. How many young
men, like Saint-Remy, masters at twenty of a large patrimony, spend it
foolishly in idleness, in waste, in vice, for want of knowing how to
employ their wealth more advantageously either for themselves or for the
public. Others, alarmed at the instability of human affairs, save in the
meanest manner. Thus there are those who, knowing that a fixed fortune
always diminishes, give themselves up, fools or rogues, to that
hazardous, immoral gaming, which the powers that be encourage and
patronise.
How can it be otherwise? Who imparts to inexperienced youth that
knowledge, that instruction, those rudiments of individual and social
economy? No one.
The rich man is thrown into the heart of society with his riches, as the
poor man with his poverty. No one takes any more care of the
superfluities of the one than of the wants of the other. No one thinks
any more of making the one moralise than the other. Ought not power to
fulfil this great and noble task?
If, taking to its pity the miseries, the continually increasing
troubles, of the still resigned workmen, repressing a rivalry injurious
to all, and, addressing itself finally to the imminent question of the
organisation of labour, it gave itself the salutary lesson of the
association of capital and labour; and if there were an honourable,
intelligent, equitable association, which should assure the well-doing
of the artisan, without injuring the fortune of the rich, and which,
establishing between the two classes the bonds of affection and
gratitude, would for ever keep safeguard over the tranquillity of the
state,--how powerful, then, would be the consequences of such a
practical instruction!
Amongst the rich, who then would hesitate as to the dishonourable,
disastrous chances of stock-jobbing, the gross pleasures of avarice, the
foolish vanities of a ruinous dissipation; or, a means at once
remunerative and beneficial, which would shed ease, morality, happiness,
and joy, over scores of families?