FATHER AND SON.
Two hours after Andre had left the Avenue de Matignon, one of Mascarin’s
most trusty emissaries was at his heels, who could watch his actions
with the tenacity of a bloodhound. Andre, however, now that he had heard
of Sabine’s convalescence, had entirely recovered the elasticity of his
spirits, and would never have noticed that he was being followed. His
heart, too, was much rejoiced at the friendship of M. de Breulh and the
promise of assistance from the Viscountess de Bois Arden; and with the
assistance of these two, he felt that he could end his difficulties.
“I must get to work again,” muttered he, as he left M. de Breulh’s
hospitable house. “I have already lost too much time. To-morrow, if you
look up at the scaffolding of a splendid house in the Champs Elysees,
you will see me at work.”
Andre was busy all night with his plans for the rich contractor, M.
Gandelu, who wanted as much ornamental work on the outside of his house
as he had florid decorations within. He rose with the lark, and having
gazed for a moment on Sabine’s portrait, started for the abode of M.
Gandelu, the proud father of young Gaston. This celebrated contractor
lived in a splendid house in the Rue Chasse d’Antin, until his more
palatial residence should be completed.
When Andre presented himself at the door, an old servant, who knew him
well, strongly urged him not to go up.
“Never,” said he, “in all the time that I have been with master, have I
seen him in such a towering rage. Only just listen!”
It was easy to hear the noise alluded to, mingled with the breaking of
glass and the smashing of furniture.
“The master has been at this game for over an hour,” remarked the
servant, “ever since his lawyer, M. Catenac, has left him.”
Andre, however, decided not to postpone his visit. “I must see him in
spite of everything; show me up,” said he.
With evident reluctance the domestic obeyed, and threw open the door of
a room superbly furnished and decorated, in the centre of which stood M.
Gandelu waving the leg of a chair frantically in his hand. He was a man
of sixty years of age, but did not look fifty, built like a Hercules,
with huge hands and muscular limbs which seemed to fret under the
restraint of his fashionable garments. He had made his enormous fortune,
of which he was considerably proud, by honest labor, and no one could
say that he had not acted fairly throughout his whole career. He was
coarse and violent in his manner, but he had a generous heart and never
refused aid to the deserving and needy. He swore like a trooper, and his
grammar was faulty; but for all that, his heart was in the right place,
and he was a better man than many who boast of high birth and expensive
education.
“What idiot is coming here to annoy me?” roared he, as soon as the door
was opened.
“I have come by appointment,” answered Andre, and the contractor’s brow
cleared as he saw who his visitor was.
“Ah, it is you, is it? Take a seat; that is, if there is a sound chair
left in the room. I like you, for you have an honest face and don’t
shirk hard work. You needn’t color up, though; modesty is no fault. Yes,
there is something in you, and when you want a hundred thousand
francs to go into business with, here it is ready for you; and had I a
daughter, you should marry her, and I would build your house for you.”
“I thank you much,” said Andre; “but I have learned to depend entirely
on myself.”
“True,” returned Gandelu, “you never knew your parents; you never knew
what a kind father would do for his child. Do you know my son?” asked
he, suddenly turning upon Andre.
This question at once gave Andre the solution of the scene before him.
M. Gandelu was irritated at some folly that his son had committed. For
a moment Andre hesitated; he did not care to say anything that might
revive the old man’s feeling of anger, and therefore merely replied that
he had only met his son Gaston two or three times.
“Gaston,” cried the old man, with a bitter oath; “do not call him that.
Do you think it likely that old Nicholas Gandelu would ever have been
ass enough to call his son Gaston? He was called Peter, after his
grandfather, but it wasn’t a good enough one for the young fool; he
wanted a swell name, and Peter had too much the savor of hard work in
it for my fine gentleman. But that isn’t all; I could let that pass,”
continued the old man. “Pray have you seen his cards? Over the name of
Gaston de Gandelu is a count’s coronet. He a count indeed! the son of a
man who has carried a hod for years!”
“Young people will be young people,” Andre ventured to observe; but the
old man’s wrath would not be assuaged by a platitude like this.
“You can find no excuse for him, only the fellow is absolutely ashamed
of his father. He consorts with titled fools and is in the seventh
heaven if a waiter addresses him as ‘Count,’ not seeing that it is not
he that is treated with respect, but the gold pieces of his old father,
the working man.”
Andre’s position was now a most painful one, and he would have given a
good deal not to be the recipient of a confidence which was the result
of anger.
“He is only twenty, and yet see what a wreck he is,” resumed Gandelu.
“His eyes are dim, and he is getting bald; he stoops, and spends his
nights in drink and bad company. I have, however, only myself to blame,
for I have been far too lenient; and if he had asked me for my head, I
believe that I should have given it to him. He had only to ask and have.
After my wife’s death, I had only the boy. Do you know what he has in
this house? Why, rooms fit for a prince, two servants and four horses. I
allow him monthly, fifteen hundred francs, and he goes about calling
me a niggard, and has already squandered every bit of his poor mother’s
fortune.” He stopped, and turned pale, for at that moment the door
opened, and young Gaston, or rather Peter, slouched into the room.
“It is the common fate of fathers to be disappointed in their offspring,
and to see the sons who ought to have been their honor and glory the
scourge to punish their worldly aspirations,” exclaimed the old man.
“Good! that is really a very telling speech,” murmured Gaston
approvingly, “considering that you have not made a special study of
elocution.”
Fortunately his father did not catch these words, and continued in a
voice broken by emotion, “That, M. Andre, is my son, who for twenty
years has been my sole care. Well, believe it or not, as you like, he
has been speculating on my death, as you might speculate on a race-horse
at Vincennes.”
“No, no,” put in Gaston, but his father stopped him with a disdainful
gesture.
“Have at least the courage to acknowledge your fault. You thought me
blind because I said nothing, but your past conduct has opened my eyes.”
“But, father!”
“Do not attempt to deny it. This very morning my man of business, M.
Catenac, wrote to me, and with that real courage which only true
friends possess, told me all. I must tell you, M. Andre,” resumed the
contractor, “I was ill. I had a severe attack of the gout, such as a man
seldom recovers from, and my son was constant in his attendance at my
sick couch. This consoled me. ‘He loves me after all,’ said I. But it
was only my testamentary arrangements that he wanted to discover, and
he went straight to a money-lender called Clergot and raised a hundred
thousand francs assuring the blood-sucker that I had not many hours to
live.”
“It is a lie!” cried Gaston, his face crimsoning with shame.
The old man raised the leg of the chair in his hand, and made so
threatening a movement that Andre flung himself between father and son.
“Great heavens!” cried he, “think what you are doing, sir, and forbear.”
The old man paused, passed his hand round his brow, and flung the weapon
into a remote corner of the room. “I thank you,” said he, grasping
Andre’s hand; “you have saved me from a great crime. In another moment I
should have murdered him.”
Gaston was no coward, and he still retained the position he had been in
before.
“This is quite romantic,” muttered he. “The governor seems to be going
in for infanticide.”
Andre did not allow him to finish the sentence, for, grasping the young
man’s wrist, he whispered fiercely, “Not another word; silence!”
“But I want to know what it all means?” answered the irrepressible
youth.
“I had in my hands,” said the old man, addressing Andre, and ignoring
the presence of his son, “the important paper he had copied. Yes; not
more than an hour ago I read it. These were the terms: if I died within
eight days from the date of signature, my son agreed to pay a bonus of
thirty thousand francs; but if I lived for one month, he would take up
the bill by paying one hundred and fifty thousand. If, however, by any
unforeseen chance, I should recover entirely, he bound himself to pay
Clergot the hundred thousand francs.”
The old man tore the cravat from his swelling throat, and wiped the
beads of cold sweat that bedewed his brow.
“When this man recovers his self-command,” thought Andre, “he will never
forgive me for having been the involuntary listener to this terrible
tale.” But in this Andre was mistaken, for unsophisticated nature
requires sympathy, and Nichols Gandelu would have said the same to the
first comer.
“Before, however, delivering the hundred thousand francs, the usurer
wished to make himself more secure, and asked for a certificate from
some one who had seen me. This person was his friend. He spoke to me of
a medical man, a specialist, who would understand my case at once. Would
I not see him? Never had I seen my son so tender and affectionate. I
yielded to his entreaties at last, and one evening I said to him, ‘Bring
in this wonderful physician, if you really think he can do anything for
me,’ and he did bring him.
“Yes, M. Andre, he found a medical man base and vile enough to become
the tool of my son, and a money-lender; and if I choose, I can expose
him to the loathing of the world, and the contempt of his brethren.
“The fellow came, and his visit lasted nearly an hour. I can see him
now, asking questions and feeling my pulse. He went away at last, and my
son followed him. They both met Clergot, who was waiting in the street.
‘You can pay him the cash; the old man won’t last twenty-four hours
longer,’ said the doctor; and then my son came back happy and radiant,
and assured me that I should soon be well again. And strange as it may
seem, a change for the better took place that very night. Clergot had
asked for forty-eight hours in which to raise the sum required. He heard
of my convalescence, and my son lost the money.
“Was it courage you lacked?” asked the old man, turning for the first
time to his son. “Did you not know that ten drops instead of one of the
medicine I was taking would have freed you from me for ever?”
Gaston did not seem at all overwhelmed. Indeed, he was wondering how the
matter had reached his father’s ears, and how Catenac had discovered the
rough draft of the agreement.
The contractor had imagined that his son would implore forgiveness; but
seeing that he remained obdurate, his violence burst forth again. “And
do you know what use my son would make of my fortune? He would squander
it on a creature he picked up out of the streets,--a woman he called
Madame de Chantemille,--a fit companion for a noble count!”
The shaft had penetrated the impassability which Gaston had up to this
displayed. “You should not insult Zora,” said he.
“I shall not,” returned his father with a grim laugh, “take the trouble
to do that; you are not of age, and I shall clap your friend Madame de
Chantemille into prison.”
“You would not do that!”
“Would I not? You are a minor; but your Zora, whose real name is Rose,
is much older; the law is wholly on my side.”
“But father--”
“There is no use in crying; my lawyer has the matter in hand, and by
nightfall your Zora will be securely caged.”
This blow was so cruel and unexpected, that the young man could only
repeat,--
“Zora in prison!”
“Yes, in the House of Correction, and from thence to Saint Lazare.
Catenac told me the very things to be done.”
“Shameful!” exclaimed Gaston, “Zora in prison! Why, I and my friends
will lay siege to the place. I will go to the Court, stand by her side,
and depose that this all comes from your devilish malignity. I will say
that I love and esteem her, and that as soon as I am of age I will marry
her; the papers will write about us. Go on, go on; I rather like the
idea.”
However great a man’s self-control may be, it has its limits. M. Gandelu
had restrained himself even while he told his son of his villainous
conduct; but these revolting threats were more than he could endure,
and Andre seeing this, stepped forward, opened the door, and thrust the
foolish youth into the corridor.
“What have you done” cried the contractor; “do you not see that he will
go and warn that vile creature, and that she will escape from justice?”
And as Andre, fearing he knew not what, tried to restrain him, the old
man, exerting all his muscular strength, thrust him on one side with
perfect ease, and rushed from the room, calling loudly to his servants.
Andre was horrified at the scene at which, in spite of himself, he had
been compelled to assist as a witness. He was not a fool, and had lived
too much in the world of art not to have witnessed many strange scenes
and met with many dissolute characters; but, as a rule, the follies of
the world had amused rather than disgusted him. But this display of want
of feeling on the part of a son toward a father absolutely chilled his
blood. In a few minutes M. Gandelu appeared with a calmer expression
upon his face.
“I will tell you how matters now stand,” said he, in a voice that
quivered in spite of his efforts. “My son is locked up in his room,
and a trustworthy servant whom he cannot corrupt has mounted guard over
him.”
“Do you not fear, sir, that in his excitement and anger he may----?”
The contractor shrugged his shoulders.
“You do not know him,” answered he, “if you imagine that he resembles
me in any way. What do you think that he is doing now? Lying on his bed,
face downward, yelling for his Zora. Zora, indeed! As if that was a name
fit for a Christian. How is it that these creatures are enabled to drug
our boys and lead them anywhere? Had his mother not been a saint on
earth, I should scarcely believe that he was my son.”
The contractor sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
“You are in pain, sir?” said Andre.
“Yes; my heart is deeply wounded. Up to this time I have only felt as a
father; now I feel as a man. To-morrow I send for my family and consult
with them; and I shall advertise that for the future I will not be
responsible for any debts that my son may contract. He shall not have a
penny, and will soon learn how society treats a man with empty pockets.
As to the girl, she will disappear in double quick time. I have
thoroughly weighed the consequences of sending this girl to gaol, and
they are very terrible. My son will do as he has threatened, I am sure
of that; and I can picture him tied to that infamous creature for life,
looking into her face, and telling her that he adores her, and glorying
in his dishonor, which will be repeated by every Parisian newspaper.”
“But is there no other way of proceeding?” asked Andre.
“No, none whatever. If all modern fathers had my courage, we should not
have so many profligate sons. It is impossible that this conferring with
the doctor and the money-lender could have originated in my son’s weak
brain. He is a mere child, and some one must have put him up to it.”
The poor father was already seeking for some excuse for the son’s
conduct.
“I must not dwell on this longer,” continued Gandelu, “or I shall get as
mad as I was before. I will look at your plans another day. Now, let us
get out of the house. Come and look at the new building in the Champs
Elysees.”
The mansion in question was situated at the corner of the Rue de
Chantilly, near the Avenue des Champs Elysees, and the frontage of it
was still marked by scaffolding, so that but little of it could be
seen. A dozen workmen, engaged by Andre, were lounging about. They had
expected to see him early, and were surprised at his non-appearance,
as he was usually punctuality itself. Andre greeted them in a friendly
manner, but M. Gandelu, though he was always on friendly terms with his
workmen, passed by them as if he did not even notice their existence. He
walked through the different rooms and examined them carelessly, without
seeming to take any interest in them, for his thoughts were with his
son,--his only son.
After a short time he returned to Andre.
“I cannot stay longer,” said he; “I am not feeling well; I will be here
to-morrow;” and he went away with his head bent down on his chest.
The workmen noticed his strange and unusual manner.
“He does not look very bright,” remarked one to his comrade. “Since
his illness he has not been the same man. I think he must have had some
terrible shock.”