“EVERY MAN TO HIS OWN PLACE.”
Obedient to the wishes of M. Lecoq, Andre resigned himself to a lengthy
sojourn at the Hospital de Beaujon, and had even the courage to affect
that state of profound indifference that had deceived Mascarin. The
pretended sick man in the next bed to his told him all that had taken
place, but the days seemed to be interminable, and he was beginning
to lose patience, when one morning he received a letter which caused
a gleam of joy to pass through his heart. “All is right,” wrote Lecoq.
“Danger is at an end. Ask the house surgeon for leave to quit the
hospital. Dress yourself smartly. You will find me waiting at the
doors.--L.”
Andre was not quite convalescent, for he might have to wear his arm in a
sling for many weeks longer; but these considerations did not deter him.
He now dressed himself in a suit which he had sent for to his rooms, and
about nine o’clock he left the hospital.
He stood upon the steps inhaling deep draughts of the fresh air, and
then began to wonder where the strange personage was to whom he owed
his life. While he was deliberating what to do, an open carriage drew up
before the door of the hospital.
“You have come at last,” exclaimed Andre, rushing up to the gentleman
who alighted from it. “I was getting quite anxious.”
“I am about five minutes late,” returned Lecoq; “but I was detained,”
and then, as Andre began to pour out his thanks, he added, “Get into the
carriage; I have a great deal to say to you.”
Andre obeyed, and as he did so, he detected something strange in the
expression of his companion’s face.
“What!” remarked Lecoq, “do you see by my face that I have something to
tell you? You are getting quite a keen observer. Well, I have, indeed,
for I have passed the night going through Mascarin’s papers, and I have
just gone through a painful scene--I may say, one of the most painful
that I have ever witnessed. The intellect of Mascarin,” said he, “has
given way under the tremendous pressure put upon it. The ruling passion
of the villain’s life was his love for his daughter. He imagines that
Flavia and Paul are without a franc and in want of bread; he thinks that
he continually hears his daughter crying to him for help. Then, on
his knees, he entreats the warder to let him out, if only for a day,
swearing that he will return as soon as he has succored his child. Then,
when his prayer is refused, he bursts into a frenzied rage and tears at
his door, howling like an infuriated animal; and this state may last to
the end of his life, and every minute in it be a space of intolerable
torture. Doctor Hortebise is dead; but the poison upon which he relied
betrayed him, and he suffered agonies for twenty-four hours. Catenac
will fight to the bitter end, but the proofs are against him, and
he will be convicted of infanticide. In Rigal’s papers I have found
evidence against Perpignan, Verminet and Van Klopen, who will all
certainly hear something about penal servitude. Nothing has been settled
yet about Toto Chupin, for it must be remembered that he came and gave
himself up.”
“And what about Croisenois?”
“His Company will be treated like any other attempt to extort money by
swindling, and the Marquis will be sent to prison for two months, and
the money paid for shares returned to the dupes, and that, I think, is
all that I have to tell you, except that by to-morrow M. Gandelu will
receive back the bills to which his son affixed a forged signature. And
now,” continued Lecoq, after a short pause, “the time has come for me to
tell you why, at our first interview, I saluted you as the heir of the
Duke de Champdoce. I had guessed your history, but it was only last
night I heard all the details.”
Then the detective gave a brief but concise account of the manuscript
that Paul had read aloud. He did not tell much, however, but passed
lightly over the acts of the Duke de Champdoce and Madame de Mussidan,
for he did not wish Andre to cease to respect either his father or the
mother of Sabine. The story was just concluded as the carriage drew up
at the corner of the Rue de Matignon.
“Get down here,” said Lecoq, “and mind and don’t hurt your arm.”
Andre obeyed mechanically.
“And now,” went on Lecoq, “listen to me. The Count and Countess de
Mussidan expect you to breakfast and here is the note they handed to
me for you. Come back to your studio by four o’clock, and I will
then introduce you to your father; but till then, remember, absolute
silence.”
Andre was completely bewildered with his unexpected happiness. He walked
instinctively to the Hotel de Mussidan and rang the bell. The intense
civility of the footmen removed any misgivings that he might have left,
and, as he entered the dining-room, he darted back, for face to face
with him was the portrait of Sabine which he had himself painted. At
that moment the Count came forward to meet him with extended hands.
“Diana,” said he to his wife, “this is our daughter’s future husband.”
He then took Sabine’s hand, which he laid in Andre’s.
The young artist hardly dared raise his eyes to Sabine’s face; when he
did so, his heart grew very sad, for the poor girl was but a shadow of
her former self.
“You have suffered terribly,” said he tenderly.
“Yes,” answered she, “and I should have died had it lasted much longer.”
Andre had the greatest difficulty in refraining from telling his secret
to his beloved, and it was with even more difficulty that he tore
himself away at half-past three.
He had not been five minutes in his studio when there was a knock at
the door, and Lecoq entered, followed by an elderly gentleman of
aristocratic and haughty appearance. It was the Duke of Champdoce.
“This gentleman,” said the Duke, with a gesture of his hand towards
Lecoq, “will have told you that certain circumstances rendered it
expedient, according to my ideas, that I should not acknowledge you as
my heir, but my son. The fault that I then committed has been cruelly
expiated. I am not forty-eight; look at me.”
The Duke looked at least sixty.
“My sins,” continued the Duke, “still pursue me. To-day, in spite of all
my desires, I cannot claim you as my legitimate son, for the law only
permits me to give you my name and fortune by exercising the right of
adoption.”
Andre made no reply, and the Duke went on with evident hesitation,--
“You can certainly institute proceedings against me for the recovery of
your rights, but--”
“Ah!” interrupted the young man, “really, what sort of person do you
think I am? Do you believe me capable of dishonoring your name before I
assumed it?”
The Duke drew a deep breath of relief. Andre’s manner had checked
and restrained him, for it was frigid and glacial to a degree. What a
difference there was between the haughty mien of Andre and the gushing
effusiveness of Paul!
“Will you permit me,” asked Andre, “to address a few words to you?”
“A few words?”
“Yes. I do not like to use the word ‘conditions,’ but I think that you
will understand what I mean. My daily toil for bread gave me neither the
means nor the leisure which I required to cultivate my art, for that is
a profession that I could never give up.”
“You will be certainly your own master.”
Andre paused, as if to reflect.
“This is not all I had to say,” he continued at last. “I love and am
loved by a pure and beautiful girl; our marriage is arranged, and I
think--”
“I think,” broke in the Duke, “that you could not love any one who was
not a fit bride for a member of our family.”
“But I did not belong to this family yesterday. Be at ease, however, for
she is worthy of a Champdoce. I am engaged to Sabine de Mussidan.”
A deadly paleness overspread the Duke’s face as he heard this name.
“Never,” said he. “Never; I would rather see you dead at my feet.”
“And I would gladly suffer ten thousand deaths than give her up.”
“Suppose I refuse my consent? Suppose that I forbid----”
“You have no claim to exercise paternal authority over me; this can
only be purchased by years of tender care. Duke de Champdoce, I owe you
nothing. Leave me to myself, as you have hitherto done, and all will be
simplified.”
The Duke reflected. Must he give up his son, who had been restored to
him by such a series of almost miraculous chances, or must he see him
married to Diana’s daughter? Either alternative appeared to him to be
equally disagreeable.
“I will not yield on the point,” said he. “Besides, the Countess would
never give her consent. She hates me as much as I hate her.”
M. Lecoq, who had up to this moment looked on in silence, now thought it
time to interpose.
“I think,” remarked he blandly, “that I shall have no difficulty in
obtaining the consent of Madame de Mussidan.”
The Duke, at these words, threw open his arms.
“Come, my son!” said he. “All shall be as you desire.”
That night, Marie, Duchess de Champdoce, experienced happiness for the
first time in the affection and caresses of a son who had been so
long lost to her, and seemed to throw off the heavy burden that had so
heavily pressed her down beneath its own weight.
When Madame de Mussidan heard that Andre was Norbert’s son, she declared
that nothing could induce her to give her consent to his marriage with
her daughter; but among Mascarin’s papers Lecoq had discovered the
packet containing the compromising correspondence between the Duke de
Champdoce and herself. The detective handed this over to her, and, in
her gratitude, she promised to give up all further opposition to the
match.
Lecoq always denied that this act came under the head of blackmailing.
Andre and Sabine took up their residence after marriage at the Chateau
de Mussidan, which had been magnificently restored and decorated. They
seldom leave it, for they love it for its vicinity to the leafy groves,
in which they first learned that they had given their hearts to each
other. And Andre frequently points out the unfinished work on the
balcony, which was the occasion of his first visit to the Chateau de
Mussidan. He says that he will complete it as soon as he has time, but
it is doubtful whether he will ever find leisure to do this for a long
time, for before the new year comes there is every chance of there being
a baptism at the little chapel at Bevron.