"You think it was imprudent?" said M. de Cadanet, turning his dark eyes
towards him.
"I think he was a desperate man."
"Well, I still looked upon him as his father's son. However, in his
presence, I directed it to you--" His voice died away, and the next
words were undistinguishable. Charles jumped up and poured out brandy.
"Drink this, sir, I implore you!"
"I must rest. Perhaps in ten minutes a little strength will have come
back, but I am very ill--very, very ill."
He was; but his hearer was so burningly anxious to hear more that he
almost forgot the sympathy it was incumbent upon him to show. He
commanded himself, however, in time, and begged M. de Cadanet for their
sakes not to over-excite himself. There was a long, almost
interminable, silence. The room was hot, flies buzzed on the
window-panes, and the clock ticked loudly, even triumphantly, as if it
knew it were measuring out M. de Cadanet's moments, and that its work
was nearly over. When the old man spoke again, Charles clinched his
hands with disappointment.
"Your wife is a good woman."
"Oh, she is!" He added, "Apparently she takes after her aunt."
M. de Cadanet's answer was rather a grunt than an assent, but after
another pause he remarked:
"Nevertheless, neither she nor any one must ever hear what I am telling
you."
"Rest assured they will not. You know me, I think, my dear uncle, and
that I am not a tattler. But I am deeply interested. You had, if I
understood rightly, enclosed that sum of money most generously intended
for me, and Monsieur de Beaudrillart was aware of it? What followed?"
"A quarrel."
"Did he attempt to wrest it from you?"
"I believe he thought of it, but gave up his idea for another."
"Ah, now I have it!" cried Lemaire, triumphantly. "He forged your
name."
M. de Cadanet flung him a glance of contempt. "Apparently, monsieur,
you are very little acquainted with the De Beaudrillarts."
The young man saw his mistake, and caught it back.
"Of course not, of course not! I spoke without thought, and forgetting
the family. Pray excuse me, and tell me what really happened."
"We quarrelled, as I said, and I told him never to return. He never has
come back. But on his way along the street he was overtaken by Andre,
who, as you know, is an honest dolt, and who was taking my letters to
the post Baron Leon, it appears, asked to look at them, and in that
moment contrived to substitute a letter of his own for the one which
contained the money. You follow me?"
"Perfectly, perfectly." Charles was leaning forward, and keeping his
eyes fixed on the ground to conceal their exultation. "It is terribly
sad."
"He must indeed have been desperate," said the old count, sadly.
"Quite desperate. You know I told you I was afraid that he had got his
affairs into a hopeless mess. But how did you discover what had
happened? Through Andre, I imagine?" There was another silence of
exhaustion, and this lasted so long that, however unwillingly, Charles
felt he must call in one of the women. For some reason or other he
distrusted the nurse, and was not sure that his wife was still in the
house. He found her, however, in the anteroom, and hurried her back,
whispering that she must give a strong restorative, as it was of the
greatest consequence that M. de Cadanet should finish what they were
about. Her slow methodical movements enraged him, and as quickly as
possible he got her out of the room, though she went reluctantly.
"Is it quite necessary, my friend?"
"Quite. He will never rest until it is told."
"If there is something on his mind, I would gladly fetch a priest."
"No, no, my dear Amelie; it is business--business, I assure you, which
only I can arrange. Now, go." He went back to the bedside, and sat
there impatiently before he ventured to remark: "Andre, of course, told
you?"
"No," returned the old count, feebly. "You are quite wrong. It was
Leon himself who told me."
"Ah! Repented," said Lemaire, with a sneer.
"Not at all." A weak smile flitted across the sick man's face. "If you
will be good enough to extract the top letter from that bundle, you may
read it. Read it. Read it aloud." Charles had it in his hand. He
glanced at the bed. "Aloud?"
"Aloud. Though I know every word."
"My Cousin,--I have taken the liberty of borrowing the sum which you
had so thoughtfully prepared for Monsieur Charles. It would have been
better for him if you had accepted my offer to post your letter; as
you declined to trust me, I had no scruple in exchanging it for
another which found itself in my hand at the exact moment. Do not
blame your messenger, who is quite unaware of the transaction. By my
writing to you, you will perceive that I have no intention of denying
what I have done. It is in your power to have me arrested. You know
where to find me, and I will remain in Paris for two days, so as to
avoid the pain to my family of a scandal at Poissy. Permit me,
however, to point out that I have only taken the money as a loan, that
it will be returned to you by instalments and with interest, though, I
fear, slowly, and that you may find it more advantageous to allow the
matter to rest than to ruin one who, however unworthy, is the son of
the man to whom you are certainly indebted for your prosperity."
M. Charles silently refolded the letter, and the count lay watching
him. "Well?" he asked, at last.
"The money has, of course, never been repaid?"
"Every penny."
This answer came upon the hearer as an extraordinary surprise. He
stared amazedly at the old man.
"I received, first, an instalment of five hundred francs, afterwards all
that remained of the debt. You are astonished!"
"I should not have expected it of--of the Baron Leon."
"Ah, I told you you did not understand the De Beaudrillarts. But now
listen. I have never forgiven him. I have never sent him a line of
acknowledgment. I have kept his confession and Andre's statement--"
"Oh," said Charles, pricking his ears.
"--Because I chose to feel that at any time I might crush him. Since
then he has married, and has a boy. It seems to me that makes a
difference. A boy--innocent, and the old baron's grandchild. Besides,
I am dying. Anger becomes as useless as one's clothes. What do you
feel, Charles?"
If at that moment M. de Cadanet had known what the younger man was
really feeling, it might have startled him. But Lemaire's mind sprang
quickly from point to point--weighing that, considering this. He saw
that the old man was relenting, but that he had done nothing as yet. If
he said what was in his heart, it might irritate him--would certainly
raise his suspicions; it would be far wiser to appear to go with him,
and, if possible, get matters--and proofs--into his own hands.
"I feel that you are generous, sir, and your generosity has converted
me. Trust to me to help you in anything you wish done."
"Good." The word was rather sighed than spoken, but, by the relaxation
of tense fingers, it was evident that Lemaire's speech had come as a
relief. The young man spoke again:
"Do you wish me, perhaps, to write!"
"Write! No. Why should I write? I've nothing to say, and he would not
thank me for saying it. No. The best thing I can do for him is to burn
this letter."
Lemaire's fingers closed round it, and he asked, with an affectation of
not understanding: "Burn it? But why!"
"Because, when I am gone, that letter will prove the very devil of a
witness against him."
"Surely you don't suppose that any one would wish to rake up such a
story?"
"I suspect he would give a good deal to sees it destroyed. No receipts
for the money paid, and this letting out everything, besides Andre's
testimony, which I took down myself. The next paper. Yes. That. Give
it me. Give them both to me."
Charles looked and decided.
"You are quite right, sir; it should be done at once. Will you trust
them to me?"
"No," said M. de Cadanet, sharply, "to no one. Do it here by my bed. I
would burn them myself, but that I am too--O God, this weakness!"
"You shall see your wishes carried out close to you," Charles promised,
consolingly. "I am only going into the next room to get a candle,
because those silver ones are so heavy." He dashed through the anteroom
where his wife sat working, and into the study. When he came back he
carried a short candle, and up his sleeve, which Amelie did not see, a
couple of folded letters. He was pale, for he was not a brave man, and
he was playing a dangerous game.
M. de Cadanet lay, a shrunk and ghastly figure, with all about him,
except his will, exhausted. That still looked out of his eyes, and
clutched the papers.
"Here it is," Charles said, cheerfully; "and now you shall see your
letters burn. It is a pity the Baron Leon is not here to assist. May I
have them?"
To his dismay, the old count made a sign of refusal, at the same time
that he beckoned to him to bring the light close; and the feeble hand,
by an almost superhuman effort, held a corner of the letter to the
candle. But the strength was insufficient; and hardly had the flame
caught the paper than it wavered and dropped. Charles hurriedly
snatched it up, and cried out:
"Good Heaven, my dear uncle, what risks you run! Suppose the bed had
been set on fire!"
"Is anything wrong?" asked Amelie's voice, anxiously, at the door.
Her husband turned round with scarcely subdued wrath. "No, no, nothing!
Leave us for another five minutes. Now, sir, you shall see it burn,
without danger to yourself."
And standing with light in one hand, and letters in the other, he
allowed M. de Cadanet to watch them slowly consume. As the last scrap
vanished, the old man uttered a low "Ah!"
"There!" said Lemaire. "This has been a good day's work for Monsieur de
Beaudrillart."
"You will remember,"--M. de Cadanet's voice sounded strangely
strong--"that Monsieur de Beaudrillart has paid everything, and that I
have nothing against him."
"Hush, hush!" cried the other, glancing round uneasily; "you will
fatigue yourself too much. You may be sure I shall always remember."
"And if ever you meet him, you may say it was for the sake of the
child--the boy--Now, go, and send your wife."
Amelie, who was again at her post in the anteroom, hurried in, and
called the nurse. The two women did what they could to restore the
fast-ebbing strength, murmuring reproaches at the obstinacy of man. The
doctor came and said that it could not be long. Nevertheless, for some
days M. de Cadanet lay, and watched the flies on the ceiling, and the
sunshine creep from shadow to shadow, and gradually ceased to watch, and
lost all consciousness, until, when M. Lemaire came one rooming, he
heard that he was gone.
It must be owned that his only feeling was one of relief. The necessary
visits to the old man had become a wearisome burden, endured for the
sake of gifts, which were generous, and for the prospect of a
substantial legacy. A certain part of the property would go to cousins
of the count's, but the sum left to himself was too large to be trifled
with; he was in considerable difficulties, and here lay the only road
out of it. At the same time, the part of hypocrite, though he could
play it with success, was irksome to him, and he raged at the fetters it
imposed. He had a capacity for open rebellion, or thought he had, and
believed that he would have enjoyed flinging his glove in the face of
the world, and defying opinion. Hinderance lay in the fact that the
moment never arrived for this more daring attitude, self-interest always
clinging to his arm just when he might have hurled the challenge.
But with M. de Cadanet out of the way, he was free from his chief
difficulty, and in the first frenzy of his dreams he felt himself
sailing on a sea of liberty, restraining cords loosened, golden castles
on the horizon before him. He thought of his wife as a humdrum
nonentity, easy to shake off. He would give up his house, place her in
lodgings, and spend his time as he chose. In the midst of these
delightful imaginings he remembered Leon de Beaudrillart.
Those who talk most of liberty are generally the first to find
themselves in bonds of their own making; and it did not take long to
oblige Lemaire to own, with an oath, that if he affronted
respectability, he would be placed at an immediate disadvantage with
regard to what he had in his mind. It might have been supposed that as
there was now no fear of M. de Cadanet's money finding its way to
Poissy, his rancour would have taken flight--evil does not so readily
spread its wings, and he felt that before he could unrestrainedly take
his pleasure, he must ruin the man he hated. To do this he must bring
into court a specious semblance: remain outwardly respectable, point to
an excellent wife, and the trust proved by M. de Cadanet's legacy--in
fact, impress the world with all the solid weight of character added to
substantial proof.
He often read the letters, and always with increased assurance. The one
point which gave him uneasiness was the absence of the mention of any
particular sum. Suppose that Leon chose to say that it was a matter
only of some four or five thousand francs, how could the contrary be
proved! Here lay the fret; here was the point for a clever counsel to
extract an admission; here, unfortunately for Charles, who felt himself
injured in consequence, was the necessity to have a _very_ clever
counsel, who would be proportionately more expensive, but might be
trusted to make his points.
He questioned Andre, the concierge, without arriving at fresh
discoveries. The man only repeated what we already know; he might not
even have remembered that, if it had not been taken down by a notary in
the presence of M. de Cadanet, and therefore indelibly fixed on his
memory. He remarked that he had never seen M. de Beaudrillart since,
and was sorry for it.
"Ah, you got a good pourboire with no more trouble than letting him look
at your master's letters, eh?" said Charles, spitefully.
"As to that, the young baron often gave me a piece of twenty sous, when
he could not afford it so well as other people," returned the concierge,
imperturbably.
"Twenty sous? No more! If you had been sharp, that look should have
been worth more than twenty sous."
"Ah, well, monsieur knows better than I. And as I asked for nothing, he
might have given me nothing, and that's all about it," said Andre,
retreating.
The cousins who hurried to the Rue du Bac knew nothing of the old
count's acquaintances, or to whom should be sent notice of his death.
They were very glad of Amelie's assistance, and the arrangement suited
her methodical habits. She spent an afternoon with them, suggesting
names, and directing envelopes. Charles hated anything which had to do
with death, and pleaded the acuteness of his feelings to excuse his
absence. When his wife came back he asked if it was finished.
"Yes, quite. The poor man, alas, had not many to mourn for him."
"Who has?" asked Charles, cynically. "People please their friends
better by dying than by living."
"Oh, Charles!"
"Well, we need not discuss it. I, for one, should find it very
inconvenient if Monsieur de Cadanet were to come to life again."
"I miss him dreadfully," said Amelie, simply. "And Charles--"
"Well?"
"I sent a notice of his death to Poissy."
"To Poissy! What the--" he checked himself. "What possessed you?"
"I think he would have liked it, for I am sure he thought of that
child."
"What folly!"
"It can do no harm," said his wife, calmly.
On reflection, M. Lemaire thought the same--was even glad that she had
suggested it. His great desire was to act suddenly, to give no hint to
M. de Beaudrillart of the shock that was in store for him until with the
thunder came the bolt. This letter would disarm suspicion, and probably
relieve Leon's mind of a great fear. Charles desired, above all, to act
prudently. He was racked by doubts of whether in spite of no
acknowledgment having been sent, the young baron might not have provided
himself with proof of its repayment. If he had grown really careful, he
would have done so, and then, although it might be easy to deny that M.
de Cadanet had received it, the case would bear, criminally, a very
different complexion, and have a very different issue. As it was, all
going well, if he could manage to prove that M. de Beaudrillart had
stolen money which had been sent to him, he might extract compensation,
if by no other way, as hush-money. He sometimes thought it would be the
safest plan to work on the young baron's fears, and after having reduced
him to abject misery, sell the compromising papers for something larger
than the original sum. By such means his pocket would be very much the
better, although his revenge would not have the joy of publicity. A
degree of this, even, might be gained, for it is never difficult to let
a little evil rumour sift out: a word here, and a word there, and M. de
Beaudrillart would be a marked man.
Finally, he resolved to move quickly but cautiously at first. If he
were imprudent he might find matters taken out of his keeping, and his
hand forced. Leon should feel the net closing round him before he was
prepared, but the net should be held by Charles Lemaire, and Charles
Lemaire only, and the next step would depend upon what that gentleman
judged to be of the most advantage to himself. That, and that only,
should guide the course of events.