THE CLIENTS.
The reader may have forgotten the portrait of the stepmother of Madame
d'Harville as drawn by the latter. Let us then repeat, that Madame
d'Orbigny was a slight, fair, delicate woman, with eyelashes almost
white, round and palish blue eyes, with a soft voice, a hypocritical
air, insidious and insinuating manners. Any one who studied her
treacherous and perfidious countenance would detect therein craft and
cruelty.
"What a delightful young man M. de Saint-Remy is!" said Madame d'Orbigny
to Jacques Ferrand, when the viscount had left them.
"Delightful! But, madame, let us now proceed to our business. You wrote
to me from Normandy that you desired to consult me upon most serious
matters."
"Have you not always been my adviser ever since the worthy Doctor
Polidori introduced me to you? By the way, have you heard from him
recently?" inquired Madame d'Orbigny, with an air of complete
carelessness.
"Since he left Paris he has not written me a single line," replied the
notary, with an air of similar indifference.
Let the reader understand that these two persons lied most unequivocally
to each other. The notary had seen Polidori (one of his two accomplices)
recently, and had proposed to him to go to Asnieres, to the Martials,
the fresh-water pirates, of whom we shall presently speak,--had proposed
to him, we say, to poison Louise Morel, under the name of Doctor
Vincent. Madame d'Harville's stepmother, on her side, had come to Paris
in order to have a secret meeting with this scoundrel, who had been for
a long time concealed, as we have said, under the name of Cesar
Bradamanti.
"But it is not the good doctor of whom we have to discourse," continued
Madame d'Harville's stepmother. "You see me very uneasy. My husband is
indisposed; his health becomes weaker and weaker every day. Without
experiencing serious alarm, his condition gives me much concern,--or
rather, gives him much concern," said Madame d'Orbigny, drying her eyes,
which were slightly moistened.
"What is the business, madame?"
"He is constantly talking of making his last arrangements,--of his will."
Here Madame d'Orbigny concealed her face in her pocket-handkerchief for
some minutes.
"It is very afflicting, no doubt," said the notary; "but the precaution
has nothing terrible in itself. And what may be M. d'Orbigny's
intentions, madame?"
"Dear sir! How do I know? You may suppose that when he commences the
subject I do not allow him to dwell on it long."
"Well, then, he has not up to this time told you anything positive?"
"I think," replied Madame d'Orbigny, with a deep sigh,--"I think that he
wishes to leave me not only all that the law will allow him to bequeath
to me, but--But, really, I pray of you, do not let us talk of that."
"Of what, then, shall we talk?"
"Alas, you are right, pitiless man! I must, in spite of myself, return
to the sad subject that brings me here to see you. Well, then, M.
d'Orbigny's inclination extends so far that he desires to sell a part of
his estate and present me with a large sum."
"But his daughter--his daughter?" exclaimed M. Ferrand, harshly. "I
must tell you that, during the last year, M. d'Harville has placed his
affairs in my hands, and I have lately purchased a splendid estate for
him. You know my blunt way of doing business? Whether M. d'Harville is
my client or not is no matter. I stand up only for justice. If your
husband makes up his mind to behave to his daughter in a way that I do
not approve, I tell you plainly he must not reckon on my assistance.
Upright and downright, such has always been my line of conduct."
"And mine, also! Therefore it is that I am always saying to my husband
what you now say to me, 'Your daughter has behaved very ill to you, that
is but too true; but that is no reason why you should disinherit her.'"
"Very good,--quite right! And what answer does he make to that?"
"He replies, 'I shall leave my daughter twenty-five thousand livres of
annual income (1,000_l._); she had more than a million (40,000_l._) from
her mother. Her husband has an enormous fortune of his own; and,
therefore, why should I not leave you the residue of my fortune,--you,
my tender love, the sole support, the only comfort of my declining
years, my guardian angel?' I repeat these very flattering words to you,"
said Madame d'Orbigny, with an air of modesty, "to prove to you how kind
M. d'Orbigny is to me. But, in spite of that, I have always refused his
offers; and, as he perceives that, he has compelled me to come and seek
you."
"But I do not know M. d'Orbigny."
"But he, like all the world, knows your high character."
"But why should he send you to me?"
"To put an end to all my scruples and refusals, he said to me, 'I will
not ask you to consult my notary, because you will think him too much
devoted to my service; but I will trust myself entirely to the decision
of a man of whose extreme probity of character I have heard you so
frequently speak in praise,--M. Jacques Ferrand. If he considers your
delicacy compromised by your consent to my wishes, we will not say
another word on the subject; otherwise, you must comply without a word.'
'I consent!' I replied to M. d'Orbigny. And so now you are the
arbitrator between us. 'If M. Ferrand approves,' added my husband, 'I
will send him ample power to realise in my name my rents and
investments, and he shall keep the proceeds in his hands as a deposit;
and thus, after my decease, my tender love, you will at least have an
existence worthy of you.'"
Perhaps M. Ferrand never had greater need of his spectacles than at this
moment; for, had he not worn them, Madame d'Orbigny would doubtless have
been struck with the sparkle of the notary's eyes, which seemed to dart
fire when the word deposit was pronounced. However, he replied, in his
usual coarse way:
"It is very tiresome. This is the tenth or twelfth time that I have been
made the arbitrator in a similar matter, always under the pretence of my
honesty,--that is the only word in people's mouths. My honesty!--my
honesty! What a fine quality, forsooth!--which only brings me in a great
deal of tiresome trouble."
"My good M. Ferrand! Come, do not repulse me. You will write at once to
M. d'Orbigny, who only awaits your letter to send you full powers to act
for him, and to realise the sum required."
"Which amounts to how much?"
"Why, I think he said four or five hundred thousand francs" (16,000_l._
or 20,000_l._).
"The sum, after all, is not so much as I thought. You are devoted to M.
d'Orbigny. His daughter is very rich; you have nothing. That is not
just; and I really think you should accept it."
"Really, do you think so, indeed?" said Madame d'Orbigny, who was the
dupe, like the rest of the world, of the proverbial probity of the
notary, and who had not been enlightened by Polidori in this particular.
"You may accept," he repeated.
"I will accept, then," said Madame d'Orbigny, with a sigh.
The chief clerk knocked at the door.
"Who is there?" inquired M. Ferrand.
"Madame the Countess Macgregor."
"Request her to wait a moment."
"I will go, then, my dear M. Ferrand," said Madame d'Orbigny. "You will
write to my husband, since he wishes it, and he will send you the
requisite authority by return of post?"
"I will write."
"Adieu, my worthy and excellent counsellor!"
"Ah, you do not know, you people of the world, how disagreeable it is to
take charge of such deposits,--the responsibility which we then assume.
I tell you that there is nothing more detestable in the world than this
fine character for probity, which brings down upon one all these
turmoils and troubles."
"And the admiration of all good people."
"Thank Heaven, I place otherwise than here below the hopes of the reward
at which I aim!" said M. Ferrand, in a hypocritical tone.
To Madame d'Orbigny succeeded Sarah Macgregor.
Sarah entered the cabinet of the notary with her usual coolness and
assurance. Jacques Ferrand did not know her, nor the motives of her
visit, and he therefore scrutinised her carefully in the hope of
catching another dupe. He looked most attentively at the countess; and,
despite the imperturbability of this marble-fronted woman, he observed a
slight working of the eyebrows, which betrayed a repressed
embarrassment. The notary rose from his seat, handed a chair, and,
motioning to Sarah to sit down, thus accosted her:
"You have requested of me, madame, an interview for to-day. I was very
much engaged yesterday, and could not reply until this morning. I beg
you will accept my apology for the delay."
"I was desirous of seeing you, sir, on a matter of the greatest
importance. Your reputation for honesty, kindness, and complaisance has
made me hope that the step I have taken with you will be successful."
The notary bent forward slightly in his chair.
"I know, sir, that your discretion is perfect."
"It is my duty, madame."
"You are, sir, a man of rigid, moral, and incorruptible character."
"Yes, madame."
"Yet, sir, if you were told that it depended on you to restore
life--more than life, reason--to an unhappy mother, should you have the
courage to refuse her?"
"If you will state the circumstances, madame, I shall be better able to
reply."
"It is fourteen years since, at the end of the month of December, 1824,
a man in the prime of life, and dressed in deep mourning, came to ask
you to take, by way of life-annuity, the sum of a hundred and fifty
thousand francs (6,000_l._), which it was desired should be sunk in
favour of a child of three years of age, whose parents were desirous of
remaining unknown."
"Well, madame?" said the notary, careful not to reply in the
affirmative.
"You assented, and took charge of this sum, agreeing to insure the child
a yearly pension of eight thousand francs (320_l._). Half this income
was to accumulate for the child's benefit until of age; the other half
was to be paid by you to the person who took care of this little girl."
"Well, madame?"
"At the end of two years," said Sarah, unable to repress a slight
emotion, "on the 28th of November, 1827, the child died."
"Before we proceed any farther, madame, with this conversation, I must
know what interest you take in this matter?"
"The mother of this little girl, sir, was--my sister.[2] I have here
proofs of what I advance: the declaration of the poor child's death, the
letters of the person who took charge of her, and the acknowledgment of
one of your clients with whom you have placed the hundred and fifty
thousand francs."
[2] It is, perhaps, unnecessary to remind the reader that the
child in question is Fleur-de-Marie, daughter of Rodolph and
Sarah, and that the latter, in speaking of a pretended sister,
tells a falsehood necessary for her plans, as will be seen. Sarah
was convinced, as was Rodolph, also, of the death of the little
girl.
"Allow me to see those papers, madame."
Somewhat astonished at not being believed on her word, Sarah drew from a
pocket-book several papers, which the notary examined with great
attention.
"Well, madame, what do you desire? The declaration of decease is
perfectly in order. The hundred and fifty thousand francs came to my
client, M. Petit-Jean, on the death of the child. It is one of the
chances of life-annuities, as I remarked to the person who placed the
affair in my hands. As to the pension, it was duly paid by me up to the
time of the child's decease."
"I am ready to declare, sir, that nothing could be more satisfactory
than your conduct throughout the whole of the affair. The female who had
charge of the child is also entitled to our gratitude, for she took the
greatest care of my poor little niece."
"True, madame. And I was so much satisfied with her conduct, that,
seeing her out of place after the death of the child, I took her into my
employment; and, since that time, she has remained with me."
"Is Madame Seraphin in your service, sir?"
"She has been my housekeeper these fourteen years, and I must ever speak
in her praise."
"Since that is the case, sir, she may be of the greatest use to us, if
you will kindly grant me a request, which may appear strange, perhaps
even culpable, at first sight, but when you know the motive--"
"A culpable request, madame, is what I cannot believe you capable of
addressing to me."
"Sir, I am acquainted with the rectitude of your principles; but all my
hope--my only hope--is in your pity. Under any event, I may rely on your
discretion?"
"Madame, you may."
"Well, then, I will proceed. The death of this poor child was so great a
shock to her mother, that her grief is as great now as it was fourteen
years since, and, having then feared for her life, we are now in dread
for her reason."
"Poor mother!" said M. Ferrand, in a tone of sympathy.
"Oh, yes, poor unhappy mother, indeed, sir! for she could only blush at
the birth of her child at the time when she lost it; whilst now
circumstances are such, that, if the child were still alive, my sister
could render her legitimate, be proud of her, and never again allow her
to quit her. Thus this incessant regret, coming to add to her other
sorrows, we are afraid every hour lest she should be bereft of her
senses."
"It is unfortunate that nothing can be done in the matter."
"Yes, sir--"
"What, madame?"
"Suppose some one told the poor mother, 'Your child was reported to be
dead, but she did not die: the woman who had charge of her when she was
little could vouch for this.'"
"Such a falsehood, madame, would be cruel. Why give so vain a hope to
the poor mother?"
"But, supposing it were not a falsehood, sir? or, rather, if the
supposition could be realised?"
"By a miracle? If it only required my prayers to be united with your own
to obtain this result, I would give them to you from the bottom of my
heart,--believe me, madame. Unfortunately, the register of decease is
strictly regular."
"Oh, yes, sir, I know well enough that the child is dead; and yet, if
you will agree, that misfortune need not be irreparable."
"Is this some riddle, madame?"
"I will speak more clearly. If my sister were to-morrow to recover her
daughter, she would be certain not only to be restored to health, but to
be wedded to the father of her child, who is now as free as herself. My
niece died at six years old. Separated from her parents from a very
tender age, they have not the slightest recollection of her. Suppose a
young girl of seventeen was produced (my niece would be about that
age),--a young girl (such as there are many) forsaken by her
parents,--and it was said to my sister, 'Here's your daughter, for you
have been imposed upon. Important interests have required that she
should have been said to be dead. The female who brought her up and a
respectable notary will confirm these facts, and prove to you that it is
really she--'"
Jacques Ferrand, after having allowed the countess to speak on without
interruption, rose abruptly, and exclaimed, with an indignant air:
"Madame, this is infamous!"
"Sir!"
"To dare to propose such a thing to me--to me! A supposititious child,
the destruction of a registry of decease; a criminal act, indeed! It is
the first time in my life that I was ever subjected to so outrageous a
proposal,--a proposal I have not merited, and you know it!"
"But, sir, what wrong does this do to any one? My sister and the
individual she desires to marry are widow and widower, and childless,
both bitterly lamenting the child they have lost. To deceive them is to
restore them to happiness, to life, is to ensure a happy destiny to some
poor, forsaken girl; and it becomes, therefore, a noble, a generous
action, and not a crime!"
"Really, madame, I marvel to see how the most execrable projects may be
coloured, so as to pass for beautiful pictures!"
"But, sir, reflect--"
"I repeat to you, madame, that it is infamous! And it is shameful to see
a lady of your rank lend herself to such abominable machinations,--to
which, I trust, your sister is a stranger."
"Sir--"
"Enough, madame, enough! I am not a polished gentleman, I am not, and I
shall speak my mind bluntly."
Sarah gave the notary a piercing look with her jet-black eyes, and said,
coldly:
"You refuse?"
"I pray, madame, that you will not again insult me."
"Beware!"
"What! Threats?"
"Threats! And that you may learn they are not vain ones, learn, first,
that I have no sister--"
"What, madame?"
"I am the mother of this child!"
"You?"
"I--I made a circuitous route to reach my end--coined a tale to excite
your interest; but you are pitiless. I raise the mask, you are for war.
Well, war be it then!"
"War! Because I refuse to associate myself with you in a criminal
machination! What audacity!"
"Listen to me, sir! Your reputation as an honest man is established,
acknowledged, undisputed--"
"Because deserved; and, therefore, you must have lost your reason to
make me such a proposal as you have done, and then threaten me because I
will not accede to it."
"I know, sir, better than any one how much reputations for immaculate
virtue are to be distrusted; they often mask wantonness in women and
roguery in men."
"Madame?"
"Ever since our conversation began,--I do not know why, but I have
mistrusted your claim to the esteem and consideration which you enjoy."
"Really, madame, your mistrust does honour to your penetration!"
"Does it not? For this mistrust is based on mere nothings--on
instinct--on inexplicable presentiments; but these intimations have
rarely beguiled me."
"Madame, let us terminate this conversation."
"First learn my determination. I begin by telling you that I am
convinced of the death of my poor daughter. But, no matter, I shall
pretend that she is not dead: the most unlikely things do happen. You
are at this moment in a position of which very many must be envious, and
would be delighted at any weapon with which to assail you. I will supply
one."
"You?"
"I, by attacking you under some absurd pretext, some irregularity in the
declaration of death; say--no matter what--I will insist that my child
is not dead. As I have the greatest interest in making it believed that
she is still alive, though lost, this action will be useful to me in
giving a wide circulation to the affair. A mother who claims her child
is always interesting; and I should have with me those who envy
you,--your enemies, and every sensitive and romantic mind."
"This is as mad as it is malevolent! What motive could I have in making
your daughter pass for dead, if she were not really defunct?"
"That is true enough, and the motive may be difficult to find; but,
then, have we not the attorneys and barristers at our elbows? Now I
think of it (excellent idea!), desirous of sharing with your client the
sum sunk in the annuity on this unfortunate child, you caused her
disappearance."
The unabashed notary shrugged his shoulders.
"If I had been criminal enough for that, instead of causing its
disappearance, I should have killed it!"
Sarah started with surprise, remained silent for a moment, and then
said, with bitterness:
"For a pious man, this is an idea of crime deeply reflective! Can I by
chance, then, have hit the mark when I fired at random? I must think of
this,--and think I will. One other word. You see the sort of woman I am:
I crush without remorse all obstacles that lie in my onward path.
Reflect well, then, for to-morrow this must be decided on. You may do
what I ask you with impunity. In his joy, the father of my daughter will
not think of doubting the possibility of his child's restoration, if our
falsehoods, which will make him happy, are adroitly combined. Besides,
he has no other proofs of the death of our daughter than those I wrote
to him of fourteen years ago, and I could easily persuade him that I had
deceived him on this subject; for then I had real causes of complaint
against him. I will tell him that in my grief I was desirous of breaking
every existing tie that bound us to each other. You cannot, therefore,
be compromised in any way. Affirm only, irreproachable man. Affirm that
all was in former days concerted between us,--you and me and Madame
Seraphin,--and you will be credited. As to the fifteen thousand francs
sunk in an annuity for my child, that is my affair solely. They will
remain acquired by your client, who must be kept profoundly ignorant of
this; and, moreover, you shall yourself name your own recompense."
Jacques Ferrand maintained all his _sang-froid_ in spite of the
singularity of his situation, remarkable and dangerous as it was. The
countess, really believing in the death of her daughter, had proposed to
the notary to pass off the dead child as living, whom, living, he had
declared to have died fourteen years before. He was too clever, and too
well acquainted with the perils of his position, not to understand the
effect of all Sarah's threats. His reputation, although admirably and
laboriously built up, was based on a substructure of sand. The public
detaches itself as easily as it becomes infatuated, liking to have the
right to trample under foot him whom but just now it elevated to the
skies. How could the consequences of the first assault on the reputation
of Jacques Ferrand be foreseen? However absurd the attack might be, its
very boldness might give rise to suspicions. Wishing to gain time to
determine on the mode by which he would seek to parry the dangerous
blow, the notary said, frigidly, to Sarah:
"You have given me, madame, until to-morrow at noon; I give you until
the next day to renounce a plot whose serious nature you do not seem to
have contemplated. If, between this and then, I do not receive from you
a letter informing me that you have abandoned this criminal and crazy
enterprise, you will learn to your cost that Justice knows how to
protect honest people who refuse guilty associations, and what may
happen to the concoctors of hateful machinations."
"You mean to say, sir, that you ask from me one more day to reflect on
my proposals? That is a good sign, and I grant the delay. The day after
to-morrow, at this hour, I will come here again, and it shall be between
us peace or war,--I repeat it,--but a 'war to the knife,' without mercy
or pity."
And Sarah left the room.
* * * * *
"All goes well," she said. "This miserable girl, in whom Rodolph
capriciously takes so much interest, and has sent to the farm at
Bouqueval, in order, no doubt, to make her his mistress hereafter, is no
longer to be feared,--thanks to the one-eyed woman who has freed me from
her. Rodolph's adroitness has saved Madame d'Harville from the snare
into which I meant she should fall; but it is impossible that she can
escape from the fresh plot I have laid for her, and thus she must be for
ever lost to Rodolph. Thus, saddened, discouraged, isolated from all
affection, will he not be in a frame of mind such as will best suit my
purpose of making him the dupe of a falsehood to which, by the notary's
aid, I can give every impress of truth? And the notary will aid me, for
I have frightened him. I shall easily find a young orphan girl,
interesting and poor, who, taught her lesson by me, will fill the
character of our child so bitterly mourned by Rodolph. I know the
expansiveness, the generosity of his heart,--yes, to give a name, a rank
to her whom he will believe to be his daughter, till now forsaken and
abandoned, he will renew those bonds between us which I believed
indissoluble. The predictions of my nurse will be at length realised,
and I shall thus and then attain the constant aim of my life,--a crown!"
* * * * *
Sarah had scarcely left the notary before M. Charles Robert entered,
after alighting from a very dashing cabriolet. He went like a person on
most intimate terms to the private room of Jacques Ferrand.
The commandant, as Madame Pipelet called him, entered without ceremony
into the notary's cabinet, whom he found in a surly, bilious mood, and
who thus accosted him:
"I reserve the afternoon for my clients; when you wish to speak to me
come in the morning, will you?"
"My dear lawyer" (this was a standing pleasantry of M. Robert), "I have
a very important matter to talk about in the first place, and, in the
next, I was anxious to assure you in person against any alarms you might
have--"
"What alarms?"
"What! Haven't you heard?"
"What?"
"Of my duel--"
"Your duel?"
"With the Duke de Lucenay. Is it possible you have not heard of it?"
"Quite possible."
"Pooh! pooh!"
"But what did you fight about?"
"A very serious matter, which called for bloodshed. Only imagine that,
at a very large party, M. de Lucenay actually said that I had a phlegmy
cough!"
"That you had--"
"A phlegmy cough, my dear lawyer; a complaint which is really most
ridiculously absurd!"
"And did you fight about that?"
"What the devil would you have a man fight about? Can you imagine that a
man could stand calmly and hear himself charged with having a phlegmy
cough? And before a lovely woman, too! Before a little marchioness,
who--who--In a word, I could not stand it!"
"Really!"
"The military men, you see, are always sensitive. My seconds went, the
day before yesterday, to try and obtain some explanation from those of
the duke. I put the matter perfectly straight,--a duel or an ample
apology."
"An ample apology for what?"
"For the phlegmy cough, _pardieu!_--the phlegmy cough that he fastened
on me."
The notary shrugged his shoulders.
"The duke's seconds said, 'We bear testimony to the honourable
character of M. Charles Robert, but M. de Lucenay cannot, ought not, and
will not retract.' 'Then, gentlemen,' replied my seconds, 'M. de Lucenay
is obstinately determined to assert that M. Charles Robert has a phlegmy
cough?' 'Yes, gentlemen, but he does not therefore mean in the slightest
way to impugn the high respectability of M. Charles Robert.' 'Then let
him retract--' 'No, gentlemen, M. de Lucenay acknowledges M. Robert as a
most decidedly worthy gentleman, but still asserts that he has a phlegmy
cough.' You see there was no means of arranging so serious an affair."
"To be sure not. You were insulted in the point which a man holds
dearest."
"Wasn't I? Well, time and place were agreed on; and yesterday morning we
met at Vincennes, and everything passed off in the most honourable
manner possible. I touched M. de Lucenay slightly in the arm, and the
seconds declared that honour was satisfied. Then the duke, with a loud
voice, said, 'I never retract before a meeting, but, afterwards, it is a
very different thing. It is, therefore, my duty, and my honour impels me
to declare, that I falsely accused M. Charles Robert of having a phlegmy
cough. Gentlemen, I not only declare that my honourable opponent had not
a phlegmy cough, but I trust he never will have one.' Then the duke
extended his hand in the most cordial manner, saying,'Are you now
satisfied?' 'We are friends through life and death,' I replied; and it
was really due to him to say so. The duke has behaved to perfection.
Either he might have said nothing, or contented himself with declaring
that I had not the phlegmy cough. But to express his wish that I might
never have it, was a most delicate attention on his part."
"This is what I call courage well employed! But what do you want?"
"My dear cashkeeper" (this was another of M. Robert's habitual
pleasantries), "it is a matter of great importance to me. You know
that, according to our agreement, I have advanced to you three hundred
and fifty thousand francs (14,000_l._) to complete a particular payment
you had; and it was stipulated that I was to give you three months'
notice of my wish to withdraw that money, the interest of which you pay
me regularly."
"Go on."
"Well," said M. Robert, hesitatingly, "I--no--that is--"
"What?"
"Why, it is only a whim of becoming a landed proprietor."
"Come to the point, pray! You annoy me."
"In a word, then, I am anxious to become a landed proprietor. And, if
not inconvenient to you, I should like--that is I should wish--to have
my funds now in your hands; and I came to say so."
"Ah, ah!"
"That does not offend you, I hope?"
"Why should I be offended?"
"Because you might think--"
"I might think--?"
"That I am the echo of certain reports--"
"What reports?"
"Oh, nothing. Mere folly."
"But, tell me--"
"Oh, there can be no certainty in the gossip about you!"
"What gossip?"
"Oh, it is false from beginning to end. But there are chatterers who say
that you are mixed up in some unpleasant transactions. Idle gossip, I am
quite certain. It is just the same as the report that you and I
speculated on the Exchange together. These reports soon died away. For I
will always say that--"
"So you suppose that your money is not safe with me?"
"Oh, no--no! But, at this moment, I should like to have it in my own
hands."
"Wait a moment." M. Ferrand shut the drawer of his bureau, and rose.
"Where are you going, my dear cashkeeper?"
"To fetch what will convince you of the truth of the reports as to the
embarrassment of my affairs," said the notary, ironically; and, opening
the door of a small private staircase, which enabled him to go into the
pavilion at the back without passing through the office, he disappeared.
He had scarce left the room, when the head clerk rapped again.
"Come in," said Charles Robert.
"Is not M. Ferrand here?"
"No, my worthy pounce and parchment" (another joke of M. Robert).
"There is a lady with a veil on, who wishes to see my employer this
moment on a very urgent affair."
"Worthy quill-driver, the excellent employer will be here in a moment,
and I will inform him. Is the lady handsome?"
"One must be very keen-sighted to discover; for she has on a black veil,
so thick that it is impossible to see her face."
"Really, really, I will make her show her face as I go out. I'll tell
the governor as soon as he returns."
The clerk left the room.
"Where the devil has the attorney at law vanished?" said M. Charles
Robert. "To examine the state of his finances, no doubt. If these
reports are groundless, so much the better. And, when all is said and
done, they can but be false reports. Men of Jacques Ferrand's honesty
always have so many people jealous of them! Still, at the same time, I
should just as well like to have my own cash. I will certainly buy the
chateau in question. There are towers and Gothic turrets quite _a la
Louis Quatorze_, the real _renaissance_, and, in a word, all that is
most _rococo_. It would give me a kind of landed proprietor's sort of
air which would be capital. It would not be like my _amour_ with that
flirt of a Madame d'Harville. Has she really cut me? Can she really have
given me the 'go-by?' No, no! I am not trifled with as that stupid
porteress in the Rue du Temple, with her bob-wig, says. Yet this
agreeable little flirtation has cost me at least one thousand crowns.
True, the furniture is left, and I have quite enough in my power to
compromise the marchioness. But here comes the lawyer!"
M. Ferrand returned, holding in his hands some papers, which he handed
to M. Charles Robert.
"Here," said he, "are three hundred and fifty thousand francs in
bank-bills. In a few days we will balance the account of interest. Give
me a receipt."
"What!" exclaimed M. Robert, astonished; "do not go to think that--"
"I don't think anything."
"But--"
"The receipt!"
"Dear cashkeeper!"
"Write it; and tell the persons who talk to you of my embarrassments,
how I reply to such suspicions."
"The fact is that, as soon as they hear this, your credit will be more
solid than ever. But, really, take the money back again; I do not want
it at this moment. I told you it was three months hence."
"Monsieur Charles Robert, no man suspects me twice."
"You are angry?"
"The receipt,--the receipt!"
"Man of iron, that you are!" said M. Charles Robert. "There!" he added,
writing the receipt. "There is a lady, closely veiled, who desires to
speak to you directly on a very urgent affair. Won't I have a good look
at her as I go out! There's your receipt; is it all right?"
"Quite. Now I'll thank you to go out this way."
"And so not see the lady?"
"Precisely so."
And the notary rang; and when the chief clerk made his appearance, he
said:
"Ask the lady to walk in. Good day, M. Robert."
"Well, I see I must give up the chance of seeing her. Don't bear malice,
lawyer. Believe me, if--"
"There--there; that'll do. Good-bye." And the notary shut the door on M.
Charles Robert.
After the lapse of a few moments, the chief clerk introduced the Duchess
de Lucenay, very simply attired, wearing a large shawl, and her features
entirely concealed by a thick veil of black lace, depending from her
watered silk bonnet of the same colour.
Madame de Lucenay, a good deal agitated, walked slowly towards the
notary's bureau, who advanced a few paces to meet her.
"Who are you, madame; and what may be your business with me?" said
Jacques Ferrand, abruptly; for Sarah's menaces and M. Charles Robert's
suspicions had a good deal ruffled him. Moreover, the duchess was clad
so simply, that the notary did not see any reason why he should not be
rude. As she did not immediately reply, he continued, abruptly:
"Will you be so kind as to inform me, madame?"
"Sir," she said, in a faltering voice, and endeavouring to conceal her
face in the folds of her veil, "Sir, may I entrust you with a secret of
extreme importance?"
"You may trust me with anything, madame. But it is requisite that I
should know and see to whom I speak."
"That, sir, perhaps, is not necessary. I know that you are probity and
honour itself--"
"To the point, madame,--to the point. I have some one waiting for me.
Who are you?"
"My name is of no consequence, sir. One--of--my friends,--a
relative,--has just left you."
"His name?"
"M. Florestan de Saint-Remy."
"Ah!" said the notary; and he cast a scrutinising and steadfast glance
on the duchess. Then he added, "Well, madame?"
"M. de Saint-Remy has told me--all,--sir!"
"What has he told you, madame?"
"All!"
"What all?"
"Sir; you know--"
"I know many things about M. de Saint-Remy."
"Alas, sir, this is a terrible thing!"
"I know many terrible things about M. de Saint-Remy."
"Oh, sir, he was right when he told me that you were pitiless."
"For swindlers and forgers like him,--yes, I am pitiless. So this
Saint-Remy is a relative of yours? Instead of owning it, you ought to
blush at it. Do you mean to try and soften me with your tears? It is
useless,--not to add that you have undertaken a very disgraceful task
for a respectable female."
At this coarse insolence the pride and patrician blood of the duchess
revolted. She drew herself up, threw back her veil; and then, with a
lofty air, imperious glance, and firm voice, said:
"I am the Duchess de Lucenay, sir!"
The lady then assumed the lofty look of her station; and her appearance
was so imposing that the notary, controlled, fascinated, receded a pace,
quite overcome, took off mechanically the black silk cap that covered
his cranium, and made a low bow.
In truth, nothing could be more charming and aristocratic than the face
and figure of Madame de Lucenay, although she was turned thirty, and her
features were pale and somewhat agitated. But then she had full, brown
eyes, sparkling and bold; splendid black hair; a nose thin and arched;
a lip red and disdainful; a dazzling complexion; teeth of ivory; and a
form tall and slender, graceful, and full of distinction,--the carriage
of a goddess in the clouds, as the immortal Saint-Simon says. With her
hair powdered, and a costume of the eighteenth century, Madame de
Lucenay would have represented, physically and morally, one of those gay
and careless duchesses of the Regency who carried on their flirtations
(or worse) with so much audacity, giddiness, and real kindness of heart,
who confessed their peccadilloes from time to time with so much candour
and naivete, that the most punctilious said, with a smile, "She is,
doubtless, light and culpable; but she is so kind--so delightful; loves
with so much intensity, passion, and fidelity,--as long as she does
love,--that we cannot really be angry with her. After all, she only
injures herself, and makes so many others happy!" Except the powder and
the large skirts to her dress, such also was Madame de Lucenay, when not
depressed by sombre thoughts. She entered the office of M. Jacques
Ferrand like a plain tradesman's wife; in the instant she came forth as
a great, proud, and irritated lady. Jacques Ferrand had never in his
life seen a woman of such striking beauty,--so haughty and bold, and so
noble in her demeanour. The look of the duchess, her glorious eyes,
encircled with an imperceptible bow of azure, her rosy nostrils, much
dilated, betokened her ardent nature.
Although old, ugly, ignoble, and sordid, Jacques Ferrand was as capable
as any one of appreciating the style of beauty of Madame de Lucenay. The
hatred and rage which the notary felt against M. de Saint-Remy was
increased by the admiration which his proud and lovely mistress inspired
in him. Devoured by all his repressed passions, he said to himself, in
an agony of rage, that this gentleman forger, whom he had compelled
almost to fall at his feet when he threatened him with the assizes,
could inspire such love in such a woman that she actually risked the
present step in his behalf, which might prove fatal to her reputation.
As he thus thought, the notary felt his boldness, which had been for a
moment paralysed, restored to him. Hatred, envy, a kind of savage and
burning resentment, lighted up his eyes, his forehead, and his cheeks.
Seeing Madame de Lucenay on the point of commencing so delicate a
conversation, he expected from her caution and management. What was his
astonishment! She spoke with as much assurance and haughtiness as if she
were discoursing about the simplest thing in the world; and as if,
before a man of his sort, she had no care for reserve or those
concealments which she would assuredly have maintained with her equals.
In fact, the coarse brutality of the notary wounded her to the quick,
and had led Madame de Lucenay to quit the humble and supplicating part
she was acting with much difficulty to herself. Returned to herself, she
thought it beneath her to descend to the least concealment with a mere
scribbler of acts and deeds. High-spirited, charitable, generous,
overflowing with kindness, warm-heartedness, and energy, in spite of her
faults,--but the daughter of a mother of no principle, and who had even
disgraced the noble and respectable, though fallen position of an
_emigree_,--Madame de Lucenay, in her inborn contempt for certain
classes, would have said with the Roman empress who took her bath in the
presence of a male slave, "He is not a man!"
"Monsieur Notary," said the duchess, with a determined air, to Jacques
Ferrand, "M. de Saint-Remy is one of my friends, and has confided to me
the embarrassment under which he is at this moment suffering, from a
twofold treachery of which he is the victim. All is arranged as to the
money. How much is required to terminate these miserable annoyances?"
Jacques Ferrand was actually aghast at this cavalier and deliberate
manner of entering on this affair.
"One hundred thousand francs are required," he repeated, after having in
some degree surmounted his surprise.
"You shall have your one hundred thousand francs; so send, at once,
these annoying papers to M. de Saint-Remy."
"Where are the one hundred thousand francs, Madame la Duchesse?"
"Have I not said you should have them, sir?"
"I must have them to-morrow, and before noon, madame; or else
proceedings will be instantly commenced for the forgery."
"Well, do you pay this sum, which I will repay to you."
"But madame, it is impossible."
"But, sir, you will not tell me, I imagine, that a notary, like you,
cannot find one hundred thousand francs by to-morrow morning?"
"On what securities, madame?"
"What do you mean? Explain!"
"Who will be answerable to me for this sum?"
"I will."
"Still, madame--"
"Need I say that I have an estate four leagues from Paris, which brings
me in eighty thousand francs (3,200_l._) a year? That will suffice, I
should think, for what you call your securities?"
"Yes, madame, when the mortgage is properly secured."
"What do you mean? Some formality of law, no doubt? Do it, sir, do it."
"Such a deed cannot be drawn up in less than a fortnight, and we must
have your husband's assent, madame."
"But the estate is mine, and mine only," said the duchess, impatiently.
"No matter, madame, you have a husband; and mortgage deeds are very long
and very minute."
"But, once again, sir, you will not ask me to believe that it is so
difficult to find one hundred thousand francs in two hours?"
"Then, madame, apply to the notary you usually employ, or your steward;
as for me, it is impossible."
"I have my reasons for keeping this secret," said Madame de Lucenay,
haughtily. "You know the rogues who seek to take advantage of M. de
Saint-Remy, and that is the reason why I address myself to you."
"Your confidence does me much honour, madame; but I cannot do what you
ask of me."
"You have not this sum?"
"I have much more than that sum, in bank-notes or bright and good gold,
here in my chest."
"Then why waste time about it? You require my signature, I suppose?
Well, let me give it to you, and let us end the matter."
"Even admitting, madame, that you were Madame de Lucenay--"
"Come to the Hotel de Lucenay in one hour, sir, and I will sign whatever
may be requisite."
"And will the duke sign, also?"
"I do not understand, sir."
"Your signature, alone, would be worthless to me, madame."
Jacques Ferrand delighted, with cruel joy, in the manifest impatience of
the duchess, who, under the appearance of coolness and hauteur,
repressed really painful agony.
For an instant she was at her wits' end. On the previous evening, her
jeweller had advanced her a considerable sum on her jewels, some of
which had been confided to Morel, the lapidary. This sum had been
employed in paying the bills of M. de Saint-Remy, and thus disarming the
other creditors; M. Dubreuil, the farmer of Arnouville, was more than a
year's rent in advance on the farm; and, then, the time was so
pressing. Still more unfortunately for Madame de Lucenay, two of her
friends, to whom she could have had recourse in this moment of distress,
were then absent from Paris. In her eyes, the viscount was innocent of
the forgery. He had said, and she had believed him, that he was the
victim of two rogues; but yet his position was not the less terrible. He
accused! He led to prison! And, even if he took flight, his name would
be no less dishonoured by the suspicion that would light on him. At
these distressing thoughts, Madame de Lucenay trembled with affright.
She blindly loved this man, at the same time so degraded, and gifted
with such strong seductive powers; and her passion for him was one of
those affections which women, of her character and her temperament,
ordinarily experience when they attain an age of maturity.
Jacques Ferrand carefully watched every variation in the physiognomy of
Madame de Lucenay, who seemed to him more lovely and attractive at every
moment, and awakened still more his ardent feeling. Yet he felt a fierce
pleasure in tormenting, by his refusals, this female, who could only
entertain disgust and contempt for him. The lady had spurned the idea of
saying a word to the notary that might seem like a supplication; yet,
when she found the uselessness of other attempts, which she had
addressed to him who alone could save M. de Saint-Remy, she said, at
length, trying to repress all evidence of emotion:
"Since you have the sum of money which I ask of you, sir, and my
guarantee is sufficient, why do you refuse it to me?"
"Because men have their caprices, as well as ladies, madame."
"Well, what is this caprice which thus impels you to act against your
own interest? For I repeat, sir, that whatever may be your conditions, I
accept them."
"You will accept all my conditions, madame?" said the notary, with a
singular expression.
"All,--two, three, four thousand francs, more, if you please. For you
must know, sir," added the duchess, in a tone almost confidential, "I
have no resource but in you, sir, and in you only. It will be impossible
for me at this moment to find elsewhere what I require for to-morrow,
and I must have it, as you know,--I must absolutely have it. Thus I
repeat to you that, whatever terms you require for this service, I
accept them; nothing will be a sacrifice to me,--nothing."
The breath of the notary became thick, and, in his ignoble blindness, he
interpreted the last words of Madame de Lucenay in an unworthy manner.
He saw, through his darkened understanding, a woman as bold as some of
the females of the old court,--a woman driven to her wits' end for fear
of the dishonour of him whom she loved, and capable, perhaps, of any
sacrifice to save him. It was even more stupid than infamous to think
so, but, as we have said already, Jacques Ferrand sometimes, though
rarely, forgot himself.
He quitted his chair abruptly, and approached Madame de Lucenay, who,
surprised, rose when he did, and looked at him with much astonishment.
"Nothing will be a sacrifice to you, say you? To you, who are so
lovely?" he exclaimed, with a voice trembling and broken with agitation,
as he went towards the duchess. "Well, then, I will lend you this sum,
on one condition,--one condition only,--and I swear to you--"
He could not finish his declaration.
By one of those singular contradictions of human nature, at the sight of
the singularly ugly features of M. Ferrand, at the strange and whimsical
thoughts which arose in Madame de Lucenay's mind, at his ridiculous
pretensions, which she guessed in spite of her disquietude and anxiety,
she burst into a fit of laughter, so hearty, so loud, and so excessive,
that the disconcerted notary reeled back. Then, without allowing him a
moment to utter another word, the duchess gave way still more to her
increasing mirth, lowered her veil, and, between two bursts of
irrepressible laughter, she said to the notary, overwhelmed by hatred,
rage, and fury:
"Really, I should much rather prefer asking this advance from M. de
Lucenay."
She then left the room, laughing so heartily that, even when the door of
his room was closed, the notary heard her still.
Jacques Ferrand no sooner recovered his reason than he cursed his
imprudence; but he became reassured on reflecting that the duchess could
not allude to this adventure without compromising herself. Still, the
day had been unpropitious, and he was plunged in thought when the door
of his study opened, and Madame Seraphin entered in great agitation.
"Ah, Ferrand," she exclaimed, "you were right when you declared that,
one day or other, we should be ruined for having allowed her to live!"
"Who?"
"That cursed little girl!"
"What do you mean?"
"A one-eyed woman, whom I did not know, and to whom Tournemine gave the
little chit to get rid of her, fourteen years ago, when we wished to
make her pass for dead--Ah, who would have thought it!"
"Speak! Speak! Why don't you speak?"
"This one-eyed woman has been here, was down-stairs just now, and told
me that she knew it was I who had delivered up the little brat."
"Malediction! Who could have told her? Tournemine is at the galleys."
"I denied it, and treated the one-eyed woman as a liar. But bah! she
declares she knows where the girl is now, and that she has grown up,
that she has her, and that it only depends on her to discover
everything."
"Is hell, then, unchained against me to-day?" exclaimed the notary, in a
fit of rage. "What shall I say to this woman? What shall I offer her to
hold her tongue? Does she seem well off?"
"As I treated her like a beggar, she shook her hand-basket, and there
was money inside of it."
"And she knows where this young girl is now?"
"So she says."
"And she is the daughter of the Countess Sarah Macgregor!" said the
stupefied notary; "and just now she offered me so much to declare that
her daughter was not dead; and the girl is alive, and I can restore her
to her mother! But, then, the false register of her death! If a search
were made, I am ruined! This crime may put others on the scent."
After a moment's silence, he said to Madame Seraphin:
"This one-eyed woman knows where the child is?"
"Yes."
"And the woman will call again?"
"To-morrow."
"Write to Polidori, to come to me this evening, at nine o'clock."
"What! Will you rid yourself of the young girl and the old woman, too?
Ferrand, that will be too much at once!"
"I bid you write to Polidori, to come here this evening, at nine
o'clock!"
* * * * *
At the end of this day, Rodolph said to Murphy: "Desire M. de Grauen to
despatch a courier this instant; Cecily must be in Paris in six days."
"What! that she-devil again? The diabolical wife of poor David, as
beautiful as she is infamous! For what purpose, monseigneur?"
"For what purpose, Sir Walter Murphy? Ask that question, in a month
hence, of the notary, Jacques Ferrand."