“I would answer you, sir,” he uttered, “that your father’s assent
is sufficient for me. My suit has nothing but is honorable. Your
sister may not like me: that is a misfortune; but it is not
irreparable. When she knows me better, I venture to hope that she
will overcome her unjust prejudices. Therefore I shall persist.”
Maxence insisted no more. He was irritated at M. Costeclar’s
coolness; but it was not his intention to push things further.
“There will always be time,” he thought, “to resort to violent
measures.”
But when he reported this conversation to his sister,
“It is clear,” he said, “that, between our father and that man,
there is a community of interests which I am unable to discover.
What business have they together? In what respect can your marriage
either help or injure them? I must see, try and find out exactly
who is this Costeclar: the deuse take him!”
He started out the same day, and had not far to go.
M. Costeclar was one of those personalities which only bloom in
Paris, and are only met in Paris,--the same as cab-horses, and
young ladies with yellow chignons.
He knew everybody, and everybody knew him.
He was well known at the bourse, in all the principal restaurants,
where he called the waiters by their first names, at the box-office
of the theatres, at all the pool-rooms, and at the European Club,
otherwise called the Nomadic Club, of which he was a member.
He operated at the bourse: that was sure. He was said to own a
third interest in a stock-broker’s office. He had a good deal of
business with M. Jottras, of the house of Jottras and Brother, and
M. Saint Pavin, the manager of a very popular journal, “The Financial
Pilot.”
It was further known that he had on Rue Vivienne, a magnificent
apartment, and that he had successively honored with his liberal
protection Mlle. Sidney of the Varieties, and Mme. Jenny Fancy, a
lady of a certain age already, but so situated as to return to her
lovers in notoriety what they gave her in good money. So much did
Maxence learn without difficulty. As to any more precise details,
it was impossible to obtain them. To his pressing questions upon
M. Costeclar’s antecedents,
“He is a perfectly honest man,” answered some.
“He is simply a speculator,” affirmed others.
But all agreed that he was a sharp one; who would surely make his
fortune, and without passing through the police-courts, either.
“How can our father and such a man be so intimately connected?”
wondered Maxence and his sister.
And they were lost in conjectures, when suddenly, at an hour when
he never set his foot in the house, M. Favoral appeared.
Throwing a letter upon his daughter’s lap,
“See what I have just received from Costeclar,” he said in a hoarse
voice. “Read.”
She read, “Allow me, dear friend, to release you from your engagement.
Owing to circumstances absolutely beyond my control, I find myself
compelled to give up the honor of becoming a member of your family.”
What could have happened?
Standing in the middle of the parlor, the cashier of the Mutual Credit
held, bowed down beneath his glance, his wife and children, Mme.
Favoral trembling, Maxence starting in mute surprise, and Mlle.
Gilberte, who needed all the strength of her will to control the
explosion of her immense joy.
Every thing in M. Favoral betrayed, nevertheless, much more the
excitement of a disaster than the rage of a deception.
Never had his family seen him thus,--livid, his cravat undone, his
hair wet with perspiration, and clinging to his temples.
“Will you please explain this letter?” he asked at last.
And, as no one answered him, he took up that letter again from the
table where Mlle. Gilberte had laid it, and commenced reading it
again, scanning each syllable, as if in hopes of discovering in each
word some hidden meaning.
“What did you say to Costeclar?” he resumed, “what did you do to
him to make him take such a determination?”
“Nothing,” answered Maxence and Mlle. Gilberte.
The hope of being at last rid of that man inspired Mme. Favoral with
something like courage.
“He has doubtless understood,” she meekly suggested, “that he could
not triumph over our daughter’s repugnance.”
But her husband interrupted her,
“No,” he uttered, “Costeclar is not the man to trouble himself about
the ridiculous caprices of a little girl. There is something else.
But what is it? Come, if you know it, any of you, if you suspect it
even, speak, say it. You must see that I am in a state of fearful
anxiety.”
It was the first time that he thus allowed something to appear of
what was passing within him, the first time that he ever complained.
“M. Costeclar alone, father, can give you the explanation you ask of
us,” said Mlle. Gilberte.
The cashier of the Mutual Credit shook his head. “Do you suppose,
then, that I have not questioned him? I found his letter this
morning at the office. At once I ran to his apartments, Rue
Vivienne. He had just gone out; and it is in vain that I called
for him at Jottras’, and at the office of ‘The Financial Pilot.’
I found him at last at the bourse, after running three hours. But
I could only get from him evasive answers and vague explanations.
Of course he did not fail to say, that, if he does withdraw, it is
because he despairs of ever succeeding in pleasing Gilberte. But
it isn’t so: I know it; I am sure of it; I read it in his eyes.
Twice his lips moved as if he were about to confess all; and then
he said nothing. And the more I insisted, the more he seemed ill
at ease, embarrassed, uneasy, troubled, the more he appeared to me
like a man who has been threatened, and dares not brave the threat.”
He directed upon his children one of those obstinate looks which
search the inmost depths of the conscience.
“If you have done any thing to drive him off,” he resumed, “confess
it frankly, and I swear I will not reproach you.”
“We did not.”
“You did not threaten him?”
“No!”