A FORGOTTEN CRIME.
Baptiste Mascarin had been in so many strange situations, from which he
had extricated himself with safety and credit, that he had the fullest
self-confidence, but as he ascended the wide staircase of the Hotel de
Mussidan, he felt his heart beat quicker in anticipation of the struggle
that was before him. It was twilight out of doors, but all within was
a blaze of light. The library into which he was ushered was a vast
apartment, furnished in severe taste. At the sound of the unaristocratic
name of Mascarin, which seemed as much out of place as a drunkard’s oath
in the chamber of sleeping innocence, M. de Mussidan raised his head
in sudden surprise. The Count was seated at the other end of the room,
reading by the light of four candles placed in a magnificently wrought
candelabra. He threw down his paper, and raising his glasses, gazed with
astonishment at Mascarin, who, with his hat in his hand and his heart
in his mouth, slowly crossed the room, muttering a few unintelligible
apologies. He could make nothing, however, of his visitor, and said,
“Whom do you wish to see, sir?”
“The Count de Mussidan,” stuttered Mascarin; “and I hope that you will
forgive this intrusion.”
The Count cut his excuse short with a haughty wave of his hand. “Wait,”
said he imperiously. He then with evident pain rose from his seat, and
crossing the room, rang the bell violently, and then reseated himself.
Mascarin, who still remained in the centre of the room, inwardly
wondered if after all he was to be turned out of the house. In another
second the door opened, and the figure of the faithful Florestan
appeared.
“Florestan,” said the Count, angrily, “this is the first time that you
have permitted any one to enter this room without my permission; if this
occurs again, you leave my service.”
“I assure your lordship,” began the man.
“Enough! I have spoken; you know what to expect.”
During this brief colloquy, Mascarin studied the Count with the deepest
attention.
The Count Octave de Mussidan in no way resembled the man sketched by
Florestan. Since the time of Montaigne, a servant’s portrait of his
employer should always be distrusted. The Count looked fully sixty,
though he was but fifty years of age; he was undersized, and he looked
shrunk and shrivelled; he was nearly bald, and his long whiskers were
perfectly white. The cares of life had imprinted deep furrows on his
brow, and told too plainly the story of a man who, having drained the
chalice of life to the bottom, was now ready to shiver the goblet. As
Florestan left the room the Count turned to Mascarin, and in the same
glacial tone observed, “And now, sir, explain this intrusion.”
Mascarin had often been rebuffed, but never so cruelly as this. His
vanity was sorely wounded, for he was vain, as all are who think that
they possess some hidden influence, and he felt his temper giving way.
“Pompous idiot!” thought he; “we will see how he looks in a short time;”
but his face did not betray this, and his manner remained cringing
and obsequious. “You have heard my name, my lord, and I am a general
business agent.”
The Count was deceived by the honest accents which long practice
had taught Mascarin to use, and he had neither a suspicion nor a
presentiment.
“Ah!” said he majestically, “a business agent, are you? I presume you
come on behalf of one of my creditors. Well, sir, as I have before told
these people, your errand is a futile one. Why do they worry me when I
unhesitatingly pay the extravagant interest they are pleased to demand?
They know that they are all knaves. They are aware that I am rich, for I
have inherited a great fortune, which is certainly without encumbrance;
for though I could raise a million to-morrow upon my estates in
Poitiers, I have up to this time not chosen to do so.”
Mascarin had at length so recovered his self-command that he listened to
this speech without a word, hoping to gain some information from it.
“You may tell this,” continued the Count, “to those by whom you are
employed.”
“Excuse me, my lord--”
“But what?”
“I cannot allow--”
“I have nothing more to say; all will be settled as I promised, when I
pay my daughter’s dowry. You are aware that she will shortly be united
to M. de Breulh-Faverlay.”
There was no mistaking the order to go, contained in these words,
but Mascarin did not offer to do so, but readjusting his spectacles,
remarked in a perfectly calm voice,--
“It is this marriage that has brought me here.”
The Count thought that his ears had deceived him. “What are you saying?”
said he.
“I say,” repeated the agent, “that I am sent to you in connection with
this same marriage.”
Neither the doctor nor Florestan had exaggerated the violence of the
Count’s temper. Upon hearing his daughter’s name and marriage mentioned
by this man, his face grew crimson and his eyes gleamed with a lurid
fire.
“Get out of this!” cried he, angrily.
But this was an order that Mascarin had no intention of obeying.
“I assure you that what I have to say is of the utmost importance,” said
he.
This speech put the finishing touch to the Count’s fury.
“You won’t go, won’t you?” said he; and in spite of the pain that at the
moment evidently oppressed him, he stepped to the bell, but was arrested
by Mascarin, uttering in a warning voice the words,--
“Take care; if you ring that bell, you will regret it to the last day of
your life.”
This was too much for the Count’s patience, and letting go the bell
rope, he snatched up a walking cane that was leaning against the
chimneypiece, and made a rush toward his visitor. But Mascarin did not
move or lift his hand in self-defence, contenting himself with saying
calmly,--
“No violence, Count; remember Montlouis.”
At this name the Count grew livid, and dropping the cane from his
nerveless hand staggered back a pace or two. Had a spectre suddenly
stood up before him with threatening hand, he could not have been more
horrified.
“Montlouis!” he murmured; “Montlouis!”
But now Mascarin, thoroughly assured of the value of his weapon, had
resumed all his humbleness of demeanor.
“Believe me, my lord,” said he, “that I only mentioned this name on
account of the immediate danger that threatens you.”
The Count hardly seemed to pay attention to his visitor’s words.
“It was not I,” continued Mascarin, “who devised the project of bringing
against you an act which was perhaps a mere accident. I am only a
plenipotentiary from persons I despise, to you, for whom I entertain the
very highest respect.”
By this time the Count had somewhat recovered himself.
“I really do not understand you,” said he, in a tone he vainly
endeavored to render calm. “My sudden emotion is only too easily
explained. I had a sad misfortune. I accidentally shot my secretary, and
the poor young man bore the name you just now mentioned; but the court
acquitted me of all blame in the matter.”
The smile upon Mascarin’s face was so full of sarcasm that the Count
broke off.
“Those who sent me here,” remarked the agent, slowly, “are well
acquainted with the evidence produced in court; but unfortunately, they
know the real facts, which certain honorable gentlemen had sense to
conceal at any risk.”
Again the Count started, but Mascarin went on implacably,--
“But reassure yourself, your friend did not betray you voluntarily.
Providence, in her inscrutable decrees----”
The Count shuddered.
“In short, sir, in short----”
Up to this time Mascarin had remained standing, but now that he saw that
his position was fully established, he drew up a chair and sat down.
The Count grew more livid at this insolent act, but made no comment, and
this entirely removed any doubts from the agent’s mind.
“The event to which I have alluded has two eye-witnesses, the Baron de
Clinchain, and a servant, named Ludovic Trofin, now in the employ of the
Count du Commarin.”
“I did not know what had become of Trofin.”
“Perhaps not, but my people do. When he swore to keep the matter secret,
he was unmarried, but a few years later, having entered the bonds of
matrimony, he told all to his young wife. This woman turned out badly;
she had several lovers, and through one of them the matter came to my
employer’s ears.”
“And it was on the word of a lackey, and the gossip of a dissolute
woman, that they have dared to accuse me.”
No word of direct accusation had passed, and yet the Count sought to
defend himself.
Mascarin saw all this, and smiled inwardly, as he replied, “We have
other evidence than that of Ludovic.”
“But,” said the Count, who was sure of the fidelity of his friend, “you
do not, I suppose, pretend that the Baron de Clinchain has deceived me?”
The state of mental anxiety and perturbation into which this man of the
world had been thrown must have been very intense for him not to
have perceived that every word he uttered put a fresh weapon in his
adversary’s hands.
“He has not denounced you by word of mouth,” replied the agent. “He has
done far more; he has written his testimony.”
“It is a lie,” exclaimed the Count.
Mascarin was not disturbed by this insult.
“The Baron has written,” repeated he, “though he never thought that any
eye save his own would read what he had penned. As you are aware,
the Baron de Clinchain is a most methodical man, and punctilious to a
degree.”
“I allow that; continue.”
“Consequently you will not be surprised to learn that from his earliest
years he has kept a diary, and each day he puts down in the most minute
manner everything that has occurred, even to the different conditions of
his bodily health.”
The Count knew of his friend’s foible, and remembered that when they
were young many a practical joke had been played upon his friend on this
account, and now he began to perceive the dangerous ground upon which he
stood.
“On hearing the facts of the case from Ludovic’s wife’s lover,”
continued Mascarin, “my employers decided that if the tale was a true
one, some mention of it would be found in the Baron’s diary; and thanks
to the ingenuity and skill of certain parties, they have had in their
possession for twenty-four hours the volume for the year 1842.”
“Scoundrels!” muttered the Count.
“They find not only one, but three distinct statements relating to the
affair in question.”
The Count started again to his feet with so menacing a look, that the
worthy Mascarin pushed back his chair in anticipation of an immediate
assault.
“Proofs!” gasped the Count. “Give me proofs.”
“Everything has been provided for, and the three leaves by which you are
so deeply compromised have been cut from the book.”
“Where are these pages?”
Mascarin at once put on an air of injured innocence.
“I have not seen them, but the leaves have been photographed, and a
print has been entrusted to me, in order to enable you to recognize the
writing.”
As he spoke he produced three specimens of the photographic art,
wonderfully clear and full of fidelity. The Count examined them with the
utmost attention, and then in a voice which trembled with emotion, he
said, “True enough, it is his handwriting.”
Not a line upon Mascarin’s face indicated the delight with which he
received this admission.
“Before continuing the subject,” he observed placidly, “I consider it
necessary for you to understand the position taken up by the Baron de
Clinchain. Do you wish, my lord, to read these extracts, or shall I do
so for you?”
“Read,” answered the Count, adding in a lower voice, “I cannot see to do
so.”
Mascarin drew his chair nearer to the lights on the table. “I perceive,”
said he, “that the first entry was made on the evening after the--well,
the accident. This is it: ‘October 26, 1842. Early this morning went
out shooting with Octave de Mussidan. We were accompanied by Ludovic, a
groom, and by a young man named Montlouis, whom Octave intends one day
to make his steward. It was a splendid day, and by twelve o’clock I had
killed a leash of hares. Octave was in excellent spirits, and by one
o’clock we were in a thick cover not far from Bevron. I and Ludovic were
a few yards in front of the others, when angry voices behind attracted
our attention. Octave and Montlouis were arguing violently, and all
at once the Count struck his future steward a violent blow. In another
moment Montlouis came up to me. ‘What is the matter?’ cried I. Instead
of replying to my question, the unhappy young man turned back to
his master, uttering a series of threats. Octave had evidently been
reproaching him for some low intrigue he had been engaged in, and
was reflecting upon the character of the woman. ‘At any rate,’ cried
Montlouis, ‘she is quite as virtuous as Madame de Mussidan was before
her marriage.’”
“‘As Octave heard these words, he raised the loaded gun he held in his
hand and fired. Montlouis fell to the ground, bathed in blood. We
all ran up to him, but he was quite dead, for the charge of shot had
penetrated his heart. I was almost beside myself, but Octave’s despair
was terrible to witness. Tearing his hair, he knelt beside the dead man.
Ludovic, however, maintained his calmness. “We must say that it was an
accident,” observed he quickly. “Thinking that Montlouis was not near,
my master fired into cover.”
“‘This was agreed to, and we carefully arranged what we should say. It
was I who went before the magistrate and made a deposition, which was
unhesitatingly received. But, oh, what a fearful day! My pulse is at
eighty, and I feel I shall not sleep all night. Octave is half mad, and
Heaven knows what will become of him.’”
The Count, from the depths of his armchair, listened without apparent
emotion to this terrible revelation. He was quite crushed, and was
searching for some means to exorcise the green spectre of the past,
which had so suddenly confronted him. Mascarin never took his eyes off
him. All at once the Count roused himself from his prostration, as a man
awakes from a hideous dream. “This is sheer folly,” cried he.
“It is folly,” answered Mascarin, “that would carry much weight with
it.”
“And suppose I were to show you,” returned the Count, “that all these
entries are the offspring of a diseased mind?”
Mascarin shook his head with an air of affected grief. “There is no
use, my lord, in indulging in vain hopes. We,” he continued, wishing
to associate himself with the Count, “we might of course admit that
the Baron de Clinchain had made this entry in his diary in a moment of
temporary insanity, were it not for the painful fact that there were
others. Le me read them.”
“Go on; I am all attention.”
“We find the following, three days later: ‘Oct. 29th, 1842. I am most
uneasy about my health. I feel shooting pains in all my joints. The
derangement of my system arises entirely from this business of Octave’s.
I had to run the gauntlet of a second court, and the judge’s eyes seemed
to look me through and through. I also saw with much alarm that my
second statement differs somewhat from the first one, so I have
now learned it by heart. Ludovic is a sharp fellow, and quite
self-possessed. I would like to have him in my household. I keep myself
shut up in my house for fear of meeting friends who want to hear all the
details of the accident. I believe I may say that I have repeated the
story more than a couple of dozen times.’ Now, my lord,” added Mascarin,
“what do you say to this?”
“Continue the reading of the extracts.”
“The third allusion, though it is short, is still very important:
‘November 3rd, 1842. Thank Heaven! all is over. I have just returned
from the court. Octave has been acquitted. Ludovic had behaved
wonderfully. He explained the reason of the misadventure in a way that
was really surprising in an uneducated man, and there was not an atom
of suspicion among judge, jury, or spectators. I have changed my mind;
I would not have a fellow like Ludovic in my service; he is much too
sharp. When I had been duly sworn, I gave my evidence. Though I was much
agitated, I went through it all right; but when I got home I felt
very ill, and discovered that my pulse was down to fifty. Ah, me! what
terrible misfortunes are wrought by a momentary burst of anger. I now
write this sentence in my diary: _“Never give way to first impulses.”_’
These words,” continued Mascarin, “were inscribed on every one of the
pages following,--at least so those who examined the entries informed
me.”
Mascarin persisted in representing himself as the agent of others, but
still the Count made no allusion to the persons in the background.
After a few moments the Count rose and limped up and down, as though he
hoped by this means to collect his ideas, or perhaps in order to prevent
his visitor from scanning his face too closely.
“Have you done?” asked he, all at once.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Have you thought what an impartial judge would say?”
“I think I have.”
“He would say,” broke in the Count, “that no sane man would have written
such things down, for there are certain secrets which we do not whisper
even to ourselves, and it is hardly likely that any man would make such
compromising entries in a diary which might be lost or stolen, and which
would certainly be read by his heir. Do you think that a man of high
position would record his perjury, which is a crime that would send him
to penal servitude?”
Mascarin gazed upon the Count with an air of pity.
“You are not going the right way, my lord, to get out of your trouble.
No lawyer would adopt your theory. If the remaining volumes of M. de
Clinchain’s diaries were produced in court, I imagine that other equally
startling entries would be found in them.”
The Count now appeared to have arrived at some decision, and to continue
the conversation simply for the purpose of gaining time.
“Well,” said he, “I will give up this idea; but how do I know that
these documents are not forgeries? Nowadays, handwritings are easily
facsimilied, when even bankers find it hard to distinguish between their
own notes and counterfeit ones.”
“That can be settled by seeing if certain leaves are missing from the
Baron’s diary.”
“That does not prove much.”
“Pardon me, it proves a great deal. This new line of argument, I assure
you, will avail you as little as the other. I am perfectly aware that
the Baron de Clinchain will utter whatever words you may place in his
mouth. Let us suppose that the leaves which have been torn out should
fit into the book exactly. Would not that be a strong point?”
The Count smiled ironically, as though he had a crushing reply in
reserve.
“And so this is your opinion, is it?” said he.
“It is indeed.”
“Then all I have to do is to plead guilty. I did kill Montlouis, just
as Clinchain describes, but----” and as he spoke he took a heavy volume
from a shelf, and opening it at a certain place laid it before Mascarin,
remarking,--“this is the criminal code; read. ‘All proceedings in
criminal law shall be cancelled after a lapse of ten years.’”
The Count de Mussidan evidently thought that he had crushed his
adversary by this shattering blow; but it was not so, for instead of
exhibiting any surprise, Mascarin’s smile was as bland as ever.
“I, too, know a little of the law,” said he. “The very first day this
matter was brought to me, I turned to this page and read what you have
just shown me to my employers.”
“And what did they say?”
“That they knew all this, but that you would be glad to compromise the
affair, even at the expense of half your fortune.”
The agent’s manner was so confident that the Count felt they had
discovered some means of turning this crime of his early days to
advantage; but he was still sufficiently master of himself to show no
emotion.
“No,” replied he, “it is not such an easy matter as you think to get
hold of half my fortune. I fancy that your friends’ demands will assume
a more modest tone, the more so when I repeat that these morsels of
paper, stolen from my friend’s diary, are absolutely worthless.”
“Do you think so?”
“Certainly, for the law on this matter speaks plainly enough.”
Mascarin readjusted his glasses, a sure indication that he was going to
make an important reply.
“You are quite right, my lord,” said he, slowly. “There is no intention
of taking you before any court, for there is no penalty now for a crime
committed twenty-three years ago; but the miserable wretches whom I
blush to act for have arranged a plan which will be disagreeable in the
highest degree both for you and the Baron.”
“Pray tell me what this clever plan is.”
“Most certainly. I came here to-day for this very purpose. Let us first
conclude that you have rejected the request with which I approached
you.”
“Do you call this style of thing a request?”
“What is the use of quarrelling over words. Well, to-morrow, my
clients--though I am ashamed to speak of them as such--will send to
a well known morning paper a tale, with the title, ‘Story of a Day’s
Shooting.’ Of course only initials will be used for the names, but no
doubt will exist as to the identity of the actors in the tragedy.”
“You forget that in actions for libel proofs are not admitted.”
Mascarin shrugged his shoulders.
“My employers forget nothing,” remarked he; “and it is upon this very
point that they have based their plans For this reason they introduce
into the matter a fifth party, of course an accomplice, whose name is
introduced into the story in the paper. Upon the day of its appearance,
this man lodges a complaint against the journal, and insists on proving
in a court of justice, that he did not form one of the shooting-party.”
“Well, what happens then?”
“Then, my lord, this man insists that the journal should give a
retraction of the injurious statement and summons as witnesses both
yourself and the Baron de Clinchain, and as a conclusion, Ludovic;
and as he claims damages, he employs a lawyer, who is one of the
confederates and behind the scenes. The lawyer will speak something to
this effect: ‘That the Count de Mussidan is clearly a murderer; that
the Baron de Clinchain is a perjurer, as proved by his own handwriting;
Ludovic has been tampered with, but my client, an honorable man, must
not be classed with these, etc., etc.’ Have I made myself understood?”
Indeed, he had, and with such cold and merciless logic that it seemed
hopeless to expect to escape from the net that had been spread.
As these thoughts passed through the Count’s brain, he saw at a glance
the whole terrible notoriety that the case would cause, and society
gloating over the details. Yet such was the obstinacy of his
disposition, and so impatient was he of control, that the more desperate
his position seemed, the fiercer was his resistance. He knew the world
well, and he also knew that the cutthroats who demanded his money with
threats had every reason to dread the lynx eye of the law. If he refused
to listen to them, as his heart urged him, perhaps they would not dare
to carry out their threats. Had he alone been concerned in the matter,
he would have resisted to the last, and fought it out to the last drop
of his blood, and as a preliminary, would have beaten the sneering rogue
before him to a jelly; but how dared he expose his friend Clinchain, who
had already braved so much for him? As he paced up and down the library,
these and many other thoughts swept across his brain, and he was
undecided whether to submit to these extortions or throw the agent out
of the window. His excited demeanor and the occasional interjections
that burst from his lips showed Mascarin that the account of him was
not exaggerated, and that when led by passion he would as soon shoot
a fellow-creature as a rabbit. And yet, though he knew not whether he
should make his exit by the door or the window, he sat twirling his
fingers with the most unconcerned air imaginable. At last the Count gave
ear to prudence. He stopped in front of the agent, and, taking no pains
to hide his contempt, said,--
“Come, let us make an end of this. How much do you want for these
papers?”
“Oh, my lord!” exclaimed Mascarin; “surely you do not think that I could
be guilty----?”
M. de Mussidan shrugged his shoulders. “Pray, do not take me for a
fool,” said he, “but name your sum.”
Mascarin seemed a little embarrassed, and hesitated. “We don’t want
money,” answered he at length.
“Not money!” replied the Count.
“We want something that is of no importance to you, but of the utmost
value to those who despatched me here. I am commissioned to inform you
that my clients desire that you should break off the engagement between
your daughter and M. de Breulh-Faverlay, and that the missing paper will
be handed to you on the completion of her marriage with any else whom
you may deem worthy of such an honor.”
This demand, which was utterly unexpected, so astonished the Count that
he could only exclaim, “Why, this is absolute madness!”
“No; it is plain, good sense, and a _bona fide_ offer.”
An idea suddenly flashed across the Count’s mind. “Is it your
intention,” asked he, “to furnish me with a son-in-law too?”
“I am sure, my lord,” answered Mascarin, looking the picture of
disinterested honesty, “that, even to save yourself, you would never
sacrifice your daughter.”
“But--”
“You are entirely mistaken; it is M. de Breulh-Faverlay whom my clients
wish to strike at, for they have taken an oath that he shall never wed a
lady with a million for her dowry.”
So surprised was the Count, that the whole aspect of the interview
seemed to have changed, and he now combated his own objections instead
of those of his unwelcome visitor. “M. de Breulh-Faverlay has my
promise,” remarked he; “but of course it is easy to find a pretext. The
Countess, however, is in favor of the match, and the chief opposition to
any change will come from her.”
Mascarin did not think it wise to make any reply, and the Count
continued, “My daughter also may not view this rupture with
satisfaction.”
Thanks to the information he had received from Florestan, Mascarin knew
how much importance to attach to this. “Mademoiselle, at her age and
with her tastes, is not likely to have her heart seriously engaged.” For
fully a quarter of an hour the Count still hesitated. He knew that he
was entirely at the mercy of those miscreants, and his pride revolted at
the idea of submission; but at length he yielded.
“I agree,” said he. “My daughter shall not marry M. de Breulh-Faverlay.”
Even in his hour of triumph, Mascarin’s face did not change. He bowed
profoundly, and left the room; but as he descended the stairs, he rubbed
his hands, exclaiming, “If the doctor has made as good a job of it as I
have, success is certain.”