“It is certain,” he replied, “that, for a month past, I have been
doing a singular business. But it is not by remaining on my chair,
preaching against the corruption of the age, that I can attain my
object. The end justifies the means. Honest men are very silly,
I think, to allow the rascals to get the better of them under the
sentimental pretext that they cannot condescend to make use of their
weapons.”
But an honorable scruple was tormenting Maxence.
“And you think yourself well-informed, sir?” he inquired. “You
know Lucienne?”
“Enough to know that she is not what she seems to be, and what
almost any other would have been in her place; enough to be certain,
that, if she shows herself two or three times a week riding around
the lake, it is not for her pleasure; enough, also, to be persuaded,
that, despite appearances, she is not your mistress, and that, far
from having disturbed your life, and compromised your prospects,
she set you back into the right road, at the moment, perhaps, when
you were about to branch off into the wrong path.”
Marius de Tregars was assuming fantastic proportions in the mind of
Maxence.
“How did you manage,” he stammered, “thus to find out the truth?”
“With time and money, every thing is possible.”
“But you must have had grave reasons to take so much trouble about
Lucienne.”
“Very grave ones, indeed.”
“You know that she was basely forsaken when quite a child?”
“Perfectly.”
“And that she was brought up through charity?”
“By some poor gardeners at Louveciennes: yes, I know all that.”
Maxence was trembling with joy. It seemed to him that his most
dazzling hopes were about to be realized. Seizing the hands of
Marius de Tregars,
“Ah, you know Lucienne’s family!” he exclaimed. But M. de Tregars
shook his head.
“I have suspicions,” he answered; “but, up to this time, I have
suspicions only, I assure you.”
“But that family does exist; since they have already, at three
different times, attempted to get rid of the poor girl.”
“I think as you do; but we must have proofs: and we shall find some.
You may rest assured of that.”
Here he was interrupted by the noise of the opening door.
The old servant came in, and advancing to the centre of the room
with a mysterious look,
“Madame la Baronne de Thaller,” he said in a low voice.
Marius de Tregars started violently.
“Where?” he asked.
“She is down stairs in her carriage,” replied the servant. “Her
footman is here, asking whether monsieur is at home, and whether
she can come up.”
“Can she possibly have heard any thing?” murmured M. de Tregars
with a deep frown. And, after a moment of reflection,
“So much the more reason to see her,” he added quickly. “Let her
come. Request her to do me the honor of coming up stairs.”
This last incident completely upset all Maxence’s ideas. He no
longer knew what to imagine.
“Quick,” said M. de Tregars to him: “quick, disappear; and, whatever
you may hear, not a word!”
And he pushed him into his bedroom, which was divided from the study
by a mere tapestry curtain. It was time; for already in the next
room could be heard a great rustling of silk and starched petticoats.
Mme. de Thaller appeared.
She was still the same coarsely beautiful woman, who, sixteen years
before, had sat at Mme. Favoral’s table. Time had passed without
scarcely touching her with the tip of his wing. Her flesh had
retained its dazzling whiteness; her hair, of a bluish black, its
marvelous opulence; her lips, their carmine hue; her eyes, their
lustre. Her figure only had become heavier, her features less
delicate; and her neck and throat had lost their undulations, and
the purity of their outlines.
But neither the years, nor the millions, nor the intimacy of the
most fashionable women, had been able to give her those qualities
which cannot be acquired,--grace, distinction, and taste.
If there was a woman accustomed to dress, it was she: a splendid
dry-goods store could have been set up with the silks and the
velvets, the satins and cashmeres, the muslins, the laces, and all
the known tissues, that had passed over her shoulders.
Her elegance was quoted and copied. And yet there was about her
always and under all circumstances, an indescribable flavor of the
_parvenue_. Her gestures had remained trivial; her voice, common and
vulgar.
Throwing herself into an arm-chair, and bursting into a loud laugh,
“Confess, my dear marquis,” she said, “that you are terribly
astonished to see me thus drop upon you, without warning, at eleven
o’clock in the morning.”
“I feel, above all, terribly flattered,” replied M. de Tregars,
smiling.
With a rapid glance she was surveying the little study, the modest
furniture, the papers piled on the desk, as if she had hoped that
the dwelling would reveal to her something of the master’s ideas
and projects.
“I was just coming from Van Klopen’s,” she resumed; “and passing
before your house, I took a fancy to come in and stir you up; and
here I am.”
M. de Tregars was too much a man of the world, and of the best world,
to allow his features to betray the secret of his impressions; and
yet, to any one who had known him well, a certain contraction of the
eyelids would have revealed a serious annoyance and an intense
anxiety.
“How is the baron?” he inquired.
“As sound as an oak,” answered Mme. de Thaller, “notwithstanding all
the cares and the troubles, which you can well imagine. By the way,
you know what has happened to us?”
“I read in the papers that the cashier of the Mutual Credit had
disappeared.”
“And it is but too true. That wretch Favoral has gone off with an
enormous amount of money.”
“Twelve millions, I heard.”
“Something like it. A man who had the reputation of a saint too; a
puritan. Trust people’s faces after that! I never liked him, I
confess. But M. de Thaller had a perfect fancy for him; and, when
he had spoken of his Favoral, there was nothing more to say. Any
way, he has cleared out, leaving his family without means. A very
interesting family, it seems, too,--a wife who is goodness itself,
and a charming daughter: at least, so says Costeclar, who is very
much in love with her.”
M. de Tregars’ countenance remained perfectly indifferent, like
that of a man who is hearing about persons and things in which he
does not take the slightest interest.
Mme. de Thaller noticed this.
“But it isn’t to tell you all this,” she went on, “that I came up.
It is an interested motive brought me. We have, some of my friends
and myself, organized a lottery--a work of charity, my dear marquis,
and quite patriotic--for the benefit of the Alsatians, I have lots of
tickets to dispose of; and I’ve thought of you to help me out.”
More smiling than ever,
“I am at your orders, madame,” answered Marius, “but, in mercy,
spare me.”
She took out some tickets from a small shell pocket-book.
“Twenty, at ten francs,” she said. “It isn’t too much, is it?”
“It is a great deal for my modest resources.”
She pocketed the ten napoleons which he handed her, and, in a tone
of ironical compassion,
“Are you so very poor, then?” she asked.
“Why, I am neither banker nor broker, you know.”
She had risen, and was smoothing the folds of her dress.
“Well, my dear marquis,” she resumed, “it is certainly not me who
will pity you. When a man of your age, and with your name, remains
poor, it is his own fault. Are there no rich heiresses?”
“I confess that I haven’t tried to find one yet.” She looked at
him straight in the eyes, and then suddenly bursting out laughing,
“Look around you,” she said, “and I am sure you’ll not be long
discovering a beautiful young girl, very blonde, who would be
delighted to become Marquise de Tregars, and who would bring in
her apron a dowry of twelve or fifteen hundred thousand francs in
good securities,--securities which the Favorals can’t carry off.
Think well, and then come to see us. You know that M. de Thaller
is very fond of you; and, after all the trouble we have been having,
you owe us a visit.”
Whereupon she went out, M. de Tregars going down to escort her to
her carriage. But as he came up,
“Attention!” he cried to Maxence; “for it’s very evident that the
Thallers have wind of something.”