“Cesarine!” Mme. de Thaller called, in a voice which sounded at
once like a prayer and a threat.
“I am going to dress myself, mamma,” she answered.
“Come back!”
“So that you can scold me if I am not ready when you want to go?
Thank you, no.”
“I command you to come back, Cesarine.”
No answer. She was far already.
Mme. de Thaller closed the door of the little parlor, and returning
to take a seat by M. de Tregars,
“What a singular girl!” she said.
Meantime he was watching in the glass what was going on in the
other room. The suspicious-looking man was there still, and alone.
A servant had brought him pen, ink and paper; and he was writing
rapidly.
“How is it that they leave him there alone?” wondered Marius.
And he endeavored to find upon the features of the baroness an
answer to the confused presentiments which agitated his brain. But
there was no longer any trace of the emotion which she had manifested
when taken unawares. Having had time for reflection, she had
composed for herself an impenetrable countenance. Somewhat surprised
at M. de Tregars’ silence,
“I was saying,” she repeated, “that Cesarine is a strange girl.”
Still absorbed by the scene in the grand parlor,
“Strange, indeed!” he answered.
“And such is,” said the baroness with a sigh, “the result of M. de
Thaller’s weakness, and above all of my own.
“We have no child but Cesarine; and it was natural that we should
spoil her. Her fancy has been, and is still, our only law. She
has never had time to express a wish: she is obeyed before she has
spoken.”
She sighed again, and deeper than the first time. “You have just
seen,” she went on, “the results of that insane education. And yet
it would not do to trust appearances. Cesarine, believe me, is not
as extravagant as she seems. She possesses solid qualities,--of
those which a man expects of the woman who is to be his wife.”
Without taking his eyes off the glass,
“I believe you madame,” said M. de Tregars.
“With her father, with me especially, she is capricious, wilful,
and violent; but, in the hands of the husband of her choice, she
would be like wax in the hands of the modeler.”
The man in the parlor had finished his letter, and, with an
equivocal smile, was reading it over.
“Believe me, madame,” replied M. de Tregars, “I have perfectly
understood how much naive boasting there was in all that Mlle.
Cesarine told me.”
“Then, really, you do not judge her too severely?”
“Your heart has not more indulgence for her than my own.”
“And yet it is from you that her first real sorrow comes.”
“From me?”
The baroness shook her head in a melancholy way, to convey an idea
of her maternal affection and anxiety.
“Yes, from you, my dear marquis,” she replied, “from you alone.
On the very day you entered this house, Cesarine’s whole nature
changed.”
Having read his letter over, the man in the grand parlor had folded
it, and slipped it into his pocket, and, having left his seat,
seemed to be waiting for something. M. de Tregars was following,
in the glass, his every motion, with the most eager curiosity. And
nevertheless, as he felt the absolute necessity of saying something,
were it only to avoid attracting the attention of the baroness,
“What!” he said, “Mlle. Cesarine’s nature did change, then?”
“In one night. Had she not met the hero of whom every girl dreams?
--a man of thirty, bearing one of the oldest names in France.”
She stopped, expecting an answer, a word, an exclamation. But, as
M. de Tregars said nothing,
“Did you never notice any thing then?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“And suppose I were to tell you myself, that my poor Cesarine, alas!
--loves you?”
M. de Tregars started. Had he been less occupied with the personage
in the grand parlor, he would certainly not have allowed the
conversation to drift in this channel. He understood his mistake;
and, in an icy tone,
“Permit me, madame,” he said, “to believe that you are jesting.”
“And suppose it were the truth.”
“It would make me unhappy in the extreme.”
“Sir!”
“For the reason which I have already told you, that I love Mlle.
Gilberte Favoral with the deepest and the purest love, and that
for the past three years she has been, before God, my affianced
bride.”
Something like a flash of anger passed over Mme. de Thaller’s eyes.
“And I,” she exclaimed,--“I tell you that this marriage is senseless.”
“I wish it were still more so, that I might the better show to
Gilberte how dear she is to me.”
Calm in appearance, the baroness was scratching with her nails the
satin of the chair on which she was sitting.
“Then,” she went on, “your resolution is settled.”
“Irrevocably.”
“Still, now, come, between us who are no longer children, suppose
M. de Thaller were to double Cesarine’s dowry, to treble it?”
An expression of intense disgust contracted the manly features of
Marius de Tregars.
“Ah! not another word, madame,” he interrupted.
There was no hope left. Mme. de Thaller fully realized it by the
tone in which he spoke. She remained pensive for over a minute,
and suddenly, like a person who has finally made up her mind, she
rang.
A footman appeared.
“Do what I told you!” she ordered.
And as soon as the footman had gone, turning to M. de Tregars,
“Alas!” she said, “who would have thought that I would curse the day
when you first entered our house?”
But, whilst, she spoke, M. de Tregars noticed in the glass the
result of the order she had just given.
The footman walked into the grand parlor, spoke a few words; and at
once the man with the alarming countenance put on his hat and went
out.
“This is very strange!” thought M. de Tregars. Meantime, the
baroness was going on,
“If your intentions are to that point irrevocable, how is it that
you are here? You have too much experience of the world not to
have understood, this morning, the object of my visit and of my
allusions.”
Fortunately, M. de Tregars’ attention was no longer drawn by the
proceedings in the next room. The decisive moment had come: the
success of the game he was playing would, perhaps, depend upon
his coolness and self-command.
“It is because I did understand, madame, and even better than you
suppose, that I am here.”
“Indeed!”
“I came, expecting to deal with M. de Thaller alone. I have been
compelled, by what has happened, to alter my intentions. It is
to you that I must speak first.”
Mme. de Thaller continued to manifest the same tranquil assurance;
but she stood up. Feeling the approach of the storm, she wished
to be up, and ready to meet it.
“You honor me,” she said with an ironical smile.
There was, henceforth, no human power capable of turning Marius de
Tregars from the object he had in view.
“It is to you I shall speak,” he repeated, “because, after you have
heard me, you may perhaps judge that it is your interest to join me
in endeavoring to obtain from your husband what I ask, what I
demand, what I must have.”
With an air of surprise marvelously well simulated, if it was not
real, the baroness was looking at him.
“My father,” he proceeded to say, “the Marquis de Tregars, was once
rich: he had several millions. And yet when I had the misfortune
of losing him, three years ago, he was so thoroughly ruined, that
to relieve the scruples of his honor, and to make his death easier,
I gave up to his creditors all I had in the world. What had become
of my father’s fortune? What filter had been administered to him
to induce him to launch into hazardous speculations,--he an old
Breton gentleman, full, even to absurdity, of the most obstinate
prejudices of the nobility? That’s what I wished to ascertain.
“And now, madame, I--have ascertained.”
She was a strong-minded woman, the Baroness de Thaller. She had
had so many adventures in her life, she had walked on the very edge
of so many precipices, concealed so many anxieties, that danger was,
as it were, her element, and that, at the decisive moment of an
almost desperate game, she could remain smiling like those old
gamblers whose face never betrays their terrible emotion at the
moment when they risk their last stake. Not a muscle of her face
moved; and it was with the most imperturbable calm that she said,
“Go on, I am listening: it must be quite interesting.”
That was not the way to propitiate M. de Tregars.
He resumed, in a brief and harsh tone,
“When my father died, I was young. I did not know then what I have
learned since,--that to contribute to insure the impunity of knaves
is almost to make one’s self their accomplice. And the victim who
says nothing and submits, does contribute to it. The honest man,
on the contrary, should speak, and point out to others the trap
into which he has fallen, that they may avoid it.”
The baroness was listening with the air of a person who is compelled
by politeness to hear a tiresome story.
“That is a rather gloomy preamble,” she said. M. de Tregars took
no notice of the interruption.
“At all times,” he went on, “my father seemed careless of his
affairs: that affectation, he thought, was due to the name he bore.
But his negligence was only apparent. I might mention things of
him that would do honor to the most methodical tradesman. He had,
for instance, the habit of preserving all the letters of any
importance which he received. He left twelve or fifteen boxes full
of such. They were carefully classified; and many bore upon their
margin a few notes indicating what answer had been made to them.”
Half suppressing a yawn,
“That is order,” said the baroness, “if I know any thing about it.”
“At the first moment, determined not to stir up the past, I
attached no importance to those letters; and they would certainly
have been burnt, but for an old friend of the family, the Count de
Villegre, who had them carried to his own house. But later, acting
under the influence of circumstances which it would be too long to
explain to you, I regretted my apathy; and I thought that I should,
perhaps, find in that correspondence something to either dissipate
or justify certain suspicions which had occurred to me.”
“So that, like a respectful son, you read it?” M. de Tregars bowed
ceremoniously.
“I believe,” he said, “that to avenge a father of the imposture of
which he was the victim during his life, is to render homage to his
memory. Yes, madame, I read the whole of that correspondence, and
with an interest which you will readily understand. I had already,
and without result, examined the contents of several boxes, when in
the package marked 1852, a year which my father spent in Paris,
certain letters attracted my attention. They were written upon
coarse paper, in a very primitive handwriting and wretchedly spelt.
They were signed sometimes Phrasie, sometimes Marquise de Javelle.
Some gave the address, ‘Rue des Bergers, No. 3, Paris-Grenelle.’
“Those letters left me no doubt upon what had taken place. My
father had met a young working-girl of rare beauty: he had taken a
fancy to her; and, as he was tormented by the fear of being loved
for his money alone, he had passed himself off for a poor clerk in
one of the departments.”
“Quite a touching little love-romance,” remarked the baroness.
But there was no impertinence that could affect Marius de Tregars’
coolness.
“A romance, perhaps,” he said, “but in that case a money-romance,
not a love-romance. This Phrasie or Marquise de Javelle, announces
in one of her letters, that in February, 1853, she has given birth
to a daughter, whom she has confided to some relatives of hers in
the south, near Toulouse. It was doubtless that event which
induced my father to acknowledge who he was. He confesses that
he is not a poor clerk, but the Marquis de Tregars, having an
income of over a hundred thousand francs. At once the tone of
the correspondence changes. The Marquise de Javelle has a stupid
time where she lives; the neighbors reproach her with her fault;
work spoils her pretty hands. Result: less than two weeks after
the birth of her daughter, my father hires for his pretty mistress
a lovely apartment, which she occupies under the name of Mme. Devil;
she is allowed fifteen hundred francs a month, servants, horses,
carriage.”
Mme. de Thaller was giving signs of the utmost impatience. Without
paying any attention to them, M. de Tregars proceeded,
“Henceforth free to see each other daily, my father and his mistress
cease to write. But Mme. Devil does not waste her time. During a
space of less than eight months, from February to September, she
induces my father to dispose--not in her favor, she is too
disinterested for that, but in favor of her daughter--of a sum
exceeding five hundred thousand francs. In September, the
correspondence is resumed. Mme. Devil discovers that she is not
happy, and acknowledges it in a letter, which shows, by its improved
writing and more correct spelling, that she has been taking lessons.
“She complains of her precarious situation: the future frightens her:
she longs for respectability. Such is, for three months, the
constant burden of her correspondence. She regrets the time when
she was a working girl: why has she been so weak? Then, at last,
in a note which betrays long debates and stormy discussions, she
announces that she has an unexpected offer of marriage; a fine
fellow, who, if she only had two hundred thousand francs, would
give his name to herself and to her darling little daughter. For
a long time my father hesitates; but she presses her point with
such rare skill, she demonstrates so conclusively that this marriage
will insure the happiness of their child, that my father yields at
last, and resigns himself to the sacrifice. And in a memorandum
on the margin of a last letter, he states that he has just given
two hundred thousand francs to Mme. Devil; that he will never see
her again; and that he returns to live in Brittany, where he wishes,
by the most rigid economy, to repair the breach he has just made
in his fortune.”
“Thus end all these love-stories,” said Mme. de Thaller in a
jesting tone.
“I beg your pardon: this one is not ended yet. For many years, my
father kept his word, and never left our homestead of Tregars. But
at last he grew tired of his solitude, and returned to Paris. Did
he seek to see his former mistress again? I think not. I suppose
that chance brought them together; or else, that, being aware of his
return, she managed to put herself in his way. He found her more
fascinating than ever, and, according to what she wrote him, rich
and respected; for her husband had become a personage. She would
have been perfectly happy, she added, had it been possible for her
to forget the man whom she had once loved so much, and to whom she
owed her position.
“I have that letter. The elegant hand, the style, and the correct
orthography, express better than any thing else the transformations
of the Marquise de Javelle. Only it is not signed. The little
working-girl has become prudent: she has much to lose, and fears to
compromise herself.
“A week later, in a laconic note, apparently dictated by an
irresistible passion, she begs my father to come to see her at her
own house. He does so, and finds there a little girl, whom he
believes to be his own child, and whom he at once begins to idolize.
“And that’s all. Again he falls under the charm. He ceases to
belong to himself: his former mistress can dispose, at her pleasure,
of his fortune and of his fate.
“But see now what bad luck! The husband takes a notion to become
jealous of my father’s visits. In a letter which is a masterpiece
of diplomacy, the lady explains her anxiety.
“‘He has suspicions,’ she writes; ‘and to what extremities might he
not resort, were he to discover the truth!’ And with infinite art
she insinuates that the best way to justify his constant presence
is to associate himself with that jealous husband.
“It is with childish haste that my father jumps at the suggestion.
But money is needed. He sells his lands, and everywhere announces
that he has great financial ideas, and that he is going to increase
his fortune tenfold.
“There he is now, partner of his former mistress’s husband, engaged
in speculations, director of a company. He thinks that he is doing
an excellent business: he is convinced that he is making lots of
money. Poor honest man! They prove to him, one morning, that he
is ruined, and, what is more, compromised. And this is made to
look so much like the truth, that I interfere myself, and pay the
creditors. We were ruined; but honor was safe. A few weeks later,
my father died broken-hearted.”
Mme. de Thaller half rose from her seat with a gesture which
indicated the joy of escaping at last a merciless bore. A glance
from M. de Tregars riveted her to her seat, freezing upon her lips
the jest she was about to utter.
“I have not done yet,” he said rudely.
And, without suffering any interruption,
“From this correspondence,” he resumed, “resulted the flagrant,
irrefutable proof of a shameful intrigue, long since suspected by
my old friend, General Count de Villegre. It became evident to me
that my poor father had been most shamefully imposed upon by that
mistress, so handsome and so dearly loved, and, later, despoiled
by the husband of that mistress. But all this availed me nothing.
Being ignorant of my father’s life and connections, the letters
giving neither a name nor a precise detail, I knew not whom to
accuse. Besides, in order to accuse, it is necessary to have, at
least, some material proof.”
The baroness had resumed her seat; and every thing about her--her
attitude, her gestures, the motion of her lips--seemed to say,
“You are my guest. Civility has its demands; but really you abuse
your privileges.”