Raoul, who listened with attention, saw that if the banker knew some
things, he certainly did not know all.
He saw that erroneous information had misled the unhappy man, and that
he was still a victim of false appearances.
He determined to convince him of the mistake under which he was
laboring, and said:
“Monsieur, I hope you will listen.”
But the sound of Raoul’s voice was sufficient to break the charm.
“Silence!” cried the banker with an angry oath, “silence!”
For some moments nothing was heard but the sobs of Mme. Fauvel.
“I came here,” continued the banker, “with the intention of killing you
both. But I cannot kill a woman, and I will not kill an unarmed man.”
Raoul once more tried to speak.
“Let me finish!” interrupted M. Fauvel. “Your life is in my hands; the
law excuses the vengeance of an injured husband; but I refuse to take
advantage of it. I see on your mantel a revolver similar to mine; take
it, and defend yourself.”
“Never!”
“Defend yourself!” cried the banker raising his arm, “if you do not--”
Feeling the barrel of M. Fauvel’s revolver touch his breast, Raoul in
self-defence seized his own pistol, and prepared to fire.
“Stand in that corner of the room, and I will stand in this,” continued
the banker; “and when the clock strikes, which will be in a few seconds,
we will both fire.”
They took the places designated, and stood perfectly still.
But the horror of the scene was too much for Mme. Fauvel to witness any
longer without interposing. She understood but one thing: her son and
her husband were about to kill each other before her very eyes. Fright
and horror gave her strength to start up and rush between the two men.
“For God’s sake, have mercy, Andre!” she cried, wringing her hands with
anguish, “let me tell you everything; don’t kill--”
This burst of maternal love, M. Fauvel thought the pleadings of a
criminal woman defending her lover.
He roughly seized his wife by the arm, and thrust her aside, saying with
indignant scorn:
“Get out of the way!”
But she would not be repulsed; rushing up to Raoul, she threw her arms
around him, and said to her husband:
“Kill me, and me alone; for I am the guilty one.”
At these words M. Fauvel glared at the guilty pair, and, deliberately
taking aim, fired.
Neither Raoul nor Mme. Fauvel moved. The banker fired a second time;
then a third.
He cocked the pistol for a fourth shot, when a man rushed into the room,
snatched the pistol from the banker’s hand, and, throwing him on the
sofa, ran toward Mme. Fauvel.
This man was M. Verduret, who had been warned by Cavaillon, but did not
know that Mme. Gypsy had extracted the balls from M. Fauvel’s revolver.
“Thank Heaven!” he cried, “she is unhurt.”
“How dare you interfere?” cried the banker, who by this time had
joined the group. “I have the right to avenge my honor when it has been
degraded; the villain shall die!”
M. Verduret seized the banker’s wrists in a vice-like grasp, and
whispered in his ear:
“Thank God you are saved from committing a terrible crime; the anonymous
letter deceived you.”
In violent situations like this, all the untoward, strange attending
circumstances appear perfectly natural to the participators, whose
passions have already carried them beyond the limits of social
propriety.
Thus M. Fauvel never once thought of asking this stranger who he was and
where he came from.
He heard and understood but one fact: the anonymous letter had lied.
“But my wife confesses she is guilty,” he stammered.
“So she is,” replied M. Verduret, “but not of the crime you imagine. Do
you know who that man is, that you attempted to kill?”
“Her lover!”
“No: her son!”
The words of this stranger, showing his intimate knowledge of the
private affairs of all present, seemed to confound and frighten Raoul
more than M. Fauvel’s threats had done. Yet he had sufficient presence
of mind to say:
“It is the truth!”
The banker looked wildly from Raoul to M. Verduret; then, fastening his
haggard eyes on his wife, exclaimed:
“It is false! you are all conspiring to deceive me! Proofs!”
“You shall have proofs,” replied M. Verduret, “but first listen.”
And rapidly, with his wonderful talent for exposition, he related the
principal points of the plot he had discovered.
The true state of the case was terribly distressing to M. Fauvel, but
nothing compared with what he had suspected.
His throbbing, yearning heart told him that he still loved his wife. Why
should he punish a fault committed so many years ago, and atoned for by
twenty years of devotion and suffering?
For some moments after M. Verduret had finished his explanation, M.
Fauvel remained silent.
So many strange events had happened, rapidly following each other in
succession, and culminating in the shocking scene which had just taken
place, that M. Fauvel seemed to be too bewildered to think clearly.
If his heart counselled pardon and forgetfulness, wounded pride and
self-respect demanded vengeance.
If Raoul, the baleful witness, the living proof of a far-off sin, were
not in existence, M. Fauvel would not have hesitated. Gaston de Clameran
was dead; he would have held out his arms to his wife, and said:
“Come to my heart! your sacrifices for my honor shall be your
absolution; let the sad past be forgotten.”
But the sight of Raoul froze the words upon his lips.
“So this is your son,” he said to his wife--“this man, who has plundered
you and robbed me!”
Mme. Fauvel was unable to utter a word in reply to these reproachful
words.
“Oh!” said M. Verduret, “madame will tell you that this young man is the
son of Gaston de Clameran; she has never doubted it. But the truth is--”
“What!”
“That, in order to swindle her, he has perpetrated a gross imposture.”
During the last few minutes Raoul had been quietly creeping toward the
door, hoping to escape while no one was thinking of him.
But M. Verduret, who anticipated his intentions, was watching him out of
the corner of one eye, and stopped him just as he was about leaving the
room.
“Not so fast, my pretty youth,” he said, dragging him into the middle of
the room; “it is not polite to leave us so unceremoniously. Let us
have a little conversation before parting; a little explanation will be
edifying!”
The jeering words and mocking manner of M. Verduret made Raoul turn
deadly pale, and start back as if confronted by a phantom.
“The clown!” he gasped.
“The same, friend,” said the fat man. “Ah, now that you recognize me,
I confess that the clown and myself are one and the same. Yes, I am the
mountebank of the Jandidier ball; here is proof of it.”
And turning up his sleeve he showed a deep cut on his arm.
“I think that this recent wound will convince you of my identity,” he
continued. “I imagine you know the villain that gave me this little
decoration, that night I was walking along the Rue Bourdaloue. That
being the case, you know, I have a slight claim upon you, and shall
expect you to relate to us your little story.”
But Raoul was so terrified that he could not utter a word.
“Your modesty keeps you silent,” said M. Verduret. “Bravo! modesty
becomes talent, and for one of your age you certainly have displayed a
talent for knavery.”