thought; "I'll ask someone, and I won't go back to my sister till I am
satisfied about his condition."
Having determined upon this course, Sans-Cravate was soon in front of
Monsieur Vermoncey's house on Rue Caumartin. The porte cochère was still
open; he went in, and stopped at the concierge's lodge, but found nobody
there; whereupon he decided to go upstairs and question the servants.
When he came to the door of Albert's apartment, it was not closed, and
he saw several lights in the anteroom; but he saw no person, although
the other doors were open; that solitude and confusion froze his heart,
for in it all there was a something silent and depressing which seemed
to denote the presence of death.
The messenger did not know what to do, but he realized that he must
decide upon something. He entered the apartment, but walked very softly
and carefully, as if he were afraid of waking someone. He passed through
the room adjoining the anteroom, and was about to enter another room,
the door of which was open, when he heard a sound as of sobbing. He put
his head forward and saw Monsieur Vermoncey sitting in a chair, with his
face buried in his hands, and apparently in the throes of utter
despair.
Sans-Cravate had no strength either to go forward or to retreat; his
legs gave way under him, he sank on a couch, and sat there, completely
overwhelmed; for he divined only too readily the cause of that wretched
father's grief.
At that moment another door leading into the room where Monsieur
Vermoncey was, on the opposite side from Sans-Cravate, was suddenly
thrown open, and a woman appeared. The messenger recognized the figure
and the hat that had attracted his attention just before the duel. The
woman walked up to Monsieur Vermoncey, with a haughty air, threw aside
her hat and veil, and asked:
"Do you recognize me, monsieur?"
Sans-Cravate was petrified when he saw that it was Madame Baldimer.
Monsieur Vermoncey raised his eyes, which were filled with tears, and
seemed terror-stricken when they fell upon the person who stood before
him.
"You are the woman, madame, who swore to accomplish my son's ruin, and
you have come doubtless to gloat over my despair; for my poor Albert is
dead! he breathed his last in my arms, only a moment after he was
brought home. But what had that unhappy boy done to you that you should
be so bent upon his destruction?"
"He, monsieur--he had done nothing. Indeed, I could have loved him well,
if he had not been your son; but by depriving you of this last child,
the remaining fruit of your marriage, I have avenged my sister--my poor
Marie!"
"Marie!"
"Yes, monsieur; Marie Delbart, the young seamstress whom you seduced
before your marriage. She had a sister, ten years younger than herself,
whom a distant relative had taken with him to America."
"Yes--I think I remember."
"Marie must sometimes have spoken to you of that young sister, who loved
her as a daughter loves her mother, and who wept bitterly when she was
forced to leave her. Well, monsieur, before she died, Marie wrote me a
letter in which she told me the story of her misfortunes, begging me, if
I ever returned to France, to do my utmost to find her child and avenge
her on her unworthy seducer. That letter was not delivered to me until I
had attained my majority; that was in accordance with Marie's wish; but
I was then married to a wealthy planter, Monsieur Baldimer, who was much
older than I, but had raised me to a position I had never dared to hope
for. I should have liked to return to France at once, to carry out my
sister's wishes, but my husband was unwilling to take the journey, and I
had to wait. About fifteen months ago, Monsieur Baldimer died; I turned
all my property into cash and returned to France, my native land, having
taken an oath to fulfil Marie's last wishes. But to find her child was
almost impossible. She had remembered, however, the name of the midwife
who attended her when she became a mother, and who must have aided you
to carry out your shameful determination to send your son to the
Foundling Hospital. By dint of careful searching, I succeeded some time
ago in finding that woman, who is now very old."
Monsieur Vermoncey gazed at Madame Baldimer with an anxious expression,
and faltered:
"You have found her! Ah! I have sought her in vain! Well, madame--go
on--that unfortunate child?----"
"She remembered all the details of the affair. My sister was then living
at Saint-Cloud. When she carried the child away, ostensibly to a nurse,
but really in accordance with your orders, to Paris, to be brought up
with all those unhappy creatures who have no family, that woman,
thinking that there ought to be some way of recognizing the child, if
you should ever want to see him again, burned a little cross on his left
forearm, and wrote on a slip of paper: 'His name is Paul de
Saint-Cloud.'"
At those words, Sans-Cravate started in surprise and muttered:
"Great God! is it possible?"
But his movement and his exclamation were not heard, and Madame Baldimer
continued:
"Armed with this information, I went to the asylum. After many
inquiries, I found out that the child who bore that name had been taken
away, ten years before, by a respectable tradesman, who had adopted him.
But the tradesman's name was half effaced, and it was impossible for me
to learn anything more definite.--As for you, monsieur, it was easy
enough for me to learn all about you. I learned that, after having a
numerous family, you had lost your wife and three of your children, and
that you had only one son left, on whom all your love was lavished; and
I said to myself that divine justice, which had already taken away three
of your children, ought not to leave you this last one, since you had
cast off the one my poor sister gave you. You see, monsieur, I was
justified in relying upon divine justice."
"Enough! enough, madame!" murmured Monsieur Vermoncey, covering his face
with his hands. "Ah! I am severely punished for a fault of my youth. My
Albert is no more. I am alone in the world, for I shall never succeed in
finding the child that Marie gave me, whom I would be only too happy now
to call my son! Ah! there is nothing left for me but to die, too."
Monsieur Vermoncey's voice grew fainter, and as he finished speaking he
succumbed to his grief and swooned. Madame Baldimer pulled the bellrope
and called for help; several servants hurried to the spot, and passed
Sans-Cravate on their way to their master.
The messenger took advantage of the confusion to leave the room where he
was; and he went forth from the apartment and the house without
attracting attention. He walked slowly homeward; but as he was about to
enter his sister's presence, he stopped, for he realized that what he
had to tell her would deal her a cruel blow. He knew that he could
conceal the fact of Albert's death from her for some time, but sooner or
later she must be told, and Sans-Cravate reflected that it was never
well to postpone the news of a disaster; for then one always has before
one the prospect of a distressing scene to come; whereas, when once the
tears are shed, one can at least hope that time will dry them.
Adeline was anxious about her brother, whom she had not seen since the
morning. When she heard him come in, she uttered a little cry of joy,
and would have run into his arms; but when she saw his pale, distressed
face, she paused and began to tremble, for she saw tears in his eyes as
well.
"What has happened, in heaven's name?" she asked. "Have you seen Albert?
does he still refuse to see me?"
"Yes," murmured her brother, looking at the floor. "He cast you off, he
spoke contemptuously of you--and I have punished him for it."
"O mon Dieu! what do you mean?"
"That you have no one but me to support you now; but I will never fail
you."
Adeline was completely crushed; sobs choked her utterance; but at last
the tears came in torrents.
"That is right," said her brother; "cry, my poor Liline, shed tears for
the fate of that young man who had more courage than honorable feeling;
and for me too, for I was compelled to punish him, and I shall always
have that terrible sight before my eyes. But remember that you are a
mother, and that you must live for your child."
Despite his profound sorrow over Albert's death, Sans-Cravate's mind
constantly recurred to what he had learned concerning Paul, his former
comrade.
"He's the man," he thought; "there's no doubt of it--he's Monsieur
Vermoncey's son, and it rests with me to give him the name and rank and
fortune that belong to him. But he deceived me shamefully; he took
Bastringuette away from me--the woman I loved--yes, and love still! He's
with her now, for I met him leaning on the faithless hussy's arm; and if
I helped him to a fortune, he'd enjoy it with her! No, no! _sacrédié!_
that shan't be. I ain't virtuous enough to return good for evil, and
I'll keep my secret!"
XXIX
A REPUTATION
Monsieur Vermoncey, wholly absorbed by his grief, lived in strict
retirement and saw no one; but, as he did not wish it known that his son
had been killed by a messenger,--for the knowledge might have led to a
disclosure of the duel, and would have reflected little credit on his
son's memory,--Monsieur Vermoncey, knowing that Albert's servant was the
only witness of that fatal event, had given Joseph a considerable sum
and sent him back to his province, after causing him to spread the
report through the neighborhood, and among his confrères, that his young
master had fought with one of his friends, after a quarrel of which he
did not know the subject. And no one had doubted the truth of the story,
because it was much more probable than that Albert had fought a duel
with a messenger.
Nearly a month had passed since the events that resulted in Albert's
death, when a short, stout young man, dressed with ostentatious
elegance, alighted from a cabriolet one morning in front of Monsieur
Vermoncey's residence, and, having inserted his monocle in his eye to
make sure that he had made no mistake, entered the house and called out
to the concierge:
"I am going up to see my friend Monsieur Albert Vermoncey; I believe he
has returned from his trip to Normandie, and I have a thousand things to
say to him."
The concierge ran after Tobie Pigeonnier,--for it was he, transformed
into a showy and self-confident _lion_,--and stopped him at the foot of
the stairs, saying:
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, don't go so fast; it's no use. Don't you know what
has happened?"
"What do you mean?"
"Poor Monsieur Albert is dead."
"Dead! Great God!"
"Yes, monsieur; he was killed in a duel."
"Killed in a duel?"
Tobie looked at the concierge with a doubtful expression, and tried to
read in the man's eyes whether he was making fun of him.
"Look you, concierge," he continued; "are you quite sure of what you
say? Once before, there was a report that Albert had been killed in a
duel, and I know that was a lie."
"Alas! monsieur, I am only too sure."
"How long has he been dead?"
"A month, the day after to-morrow, monsieur. I remember that fatal day
perfectly well; they brought the poor fellow home in a cab, with a
bullet in his side; I went for the doctor; and when he tried to take out
the bullet, the wounded man shut his eyes--and it was all over."
"Albert had returned to Paris, then?"
"Yes, monsieur; he came back first after he'd been gone quite a long
while, but he only stayed about a week and then went off again. When he
fought this duel, he'd only come home the night before."
"Whom did he fight with? what was it about?"
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, nobody knows; the poor young man died so soon; he
wasn't able to say anything; he didn't take anybody with him for a
second but Joseph, his servant, who told us that his master fought a
duel with pistols near Pantin, with a young man he, Joseph, didn't know,
and who didn't have any second. You see, he hadn't been in Monsieur
Albert's service long. As to the cause of the quarrel, he didn't know
anything about it. I remember seeing a messenger go up to Monsieur
Albert's rooms that day; I suppose he came to bring the challenge.
That's all I know."
"It's all very obscure. Where is this Joseph? I should like to talk with
him."
"He's gone back to his province. As Monsieur Albert was dead, Monsieur
Vermoncey didn't keep him. Ah! that poor man--he's terribly broken up;
he don't go out, nor see anyone. But, if you'd like to try to see him,
monsieur----"
"No, no, it's not necessary; I have no desire to disturb his
grief.--Well, as poor Albert is dead, there's nothing for me to do but
go away."
Tobie Pigeonnier returned to his cabriolet, reflecting profoundly on
what he had learned. He alighted on Boulevard des Italiens, and stalked
proudly into Tortoni's, where he found Mouillot and Balivan, the two
loyal habitués.
The young men exclaimed in surprise when they saw Tobie smilingly draw
near, take a seat at their table, and order chocolate, rolls and butter,
with the air of a man who is not afraid to spend his money.
"Oh, heaven! oh, heaven! can I believe my eyes?" sang Mouillot; "'tis
he! 'tis he in very truth! he has not gone to Russia or the Marquesas,
as we supposed!"
"And he is dressed like several milords," observed Balivan.
"And he has come to withdraw his olive from circulation."
"Yes, messieurs," rejoined Tobie; "I am rich--very rich; my aunt is
dead--that respectable lady of whom I have often spoken to you, and with
whom I expected to go into partnership. She is dead, and I am her heir;
she left me a magnificent business."
"In what line?"
"In all lines. I may go on with the business; I have not decided yet. As
for that unlucky olive, it isn't my fault that I haven't redeemed it
sooner; I don't know Monsieur Varinet's address."
"You ought to have asked us."
"I never meet you anywhere."
"Bah! what a flimsy excuse! we are at this café every morning. But,
never mind; if you are anxious to pay Varinet, he is to join us here
soon."
"Oh! then I'll wait for him."
"And do you know that poor Albert----"
"Is dead; yes, I know it."
"Killed in a duel--and no one knows by whom! Isn't it a most
extraordinary thing?"
Tobie pursed his lips, frowned, and gazed at the ceiling, murmuring:
"Ah! things happen sometimes in the world that one can't talk about; but
people always end by discovering the truth! You surely can understand
that the man who killed Albert is not likely to go about boasting of it,
because he is probably much affected himself."
And Tobie took out his handkerchief and blew his nose several times,
trying to make them think that he was weeping.
Mouillot and Balivan stared at each other in amazement; and the former
muttered, under his breath:
"Nonsense! it isn't possible!"
Tobie was only at his fifth roll, when Monsieur Varinet arrived with
Dupétrain. The first bowed very coolly to Pigeonnier, but that gentleman
made haste to say to him:
"I owe you no end of apologies, monsieur, for remaining in your debt so
long; but chance seemed to have determined to keep us apart; however, as
I have found you at last, I will, with your permission, settle my
account with you."
Varinet lost no time in taking out his purse, overjoyed to be rid of the
olive stone, which he produced and handed to Tobie, saying:
"Here is your fetich, monsieur."
"I don't recognize it," said Tobie, scrutinizing the olive.
"You have left it in my hands so long, monsieur," retorted the young man
with the white eyelashes, with some asperity, "that it has had ample
time to change. If you had redeemed it the next day, as the custom is
with gambling debts, it wouldn't have shrunk to its present size."
Tobie had nothing to say; he took out his wallet, and opened it in such
a way that they could all see a number of banknotes, one of which he
handed to Varinet, saying:
"One more or less doesn't make much show when you have plenty."
"That wallet of yours would put Célestin to rights just now," said
Mouillot.
"Why so?"
"Because he's in prison for debt--yes, been there two months."
"No, really? in prison for debt! poor Célestin! I'll go and see him; and
I'll see that he's released."
Having said this with a swagger of importance, Tobie bade his friends
adieu and left the café; but he had not walked thirty yards on the
boulevard, when he was overtaken by Monsieur Dupétrain, who passed his
arm through his, saying:
"My dear Monsieur Pigeonnier, I have something very important to tell
you--a warning--in fact, something that it is well you should know, so
that you may be on your guard."
"What does this mean?" cried Tobie, taking alarm at once; "does anyone
think of robbing me? Somebody has found out that I have come into my
aunt's property, and means to rob me, I suppose?"
"It isn't that at all; in the first place, it's hardly probable that
anyone who meant to rob you would have taken me into his confidence."
"No, that is true; but you tell me to be on my guard."
"You see, I take an interest in you, Monsieur Pigeonnier, for you
believe in magnetism, and I remember that, the last time we dined
together, I was going to tell you a very interesting anecdote concerning
the extraordinary effects of somnambulism; it was this: A lady, whose
husband was travelling, desired to know whether----"
Tobie abruptly dropped Monsieur Dupétrain's arm, and exclaimed
impatiently:
"Was it because you proposed to tell me that, that you warned me to be
on my guard?"
"Oh! I beg your pardon--I didn't tell you, did I? This is what it is: I
met Monsieur Plays not long ago, at an evening party; you know Monsieur
Plays, Madame Plays's husband?"
"Yes," Tobie replied, with a fatuous air, "an excellent sort of man; but
I know his wife much better. Well! what did our dear Plays say to you?"
"Our dear Plays--as it pleases you to call him so--asked me, in the
course of conversation, if I knew you; and, on my replying in the
affirmative, urged me, if I should happen to see you, to beg you to
avoid him, inasmuch as his wife has ordered him to kill you, because, it
seems, you insulted and deceived her shamefully; that is all Plays chose
to tell me."
Tobie roared with laughter.
"Gad! that is charming! delicious! Ah! she employs her husband to kill
me, now! I can guess why. Poor husband! luckily, he is good enough to
warn me. I thank you for your warning, my dear Monsieur Dupétrain, but I
assure you that Monsieur Plays doesn't worry me at all; he's no
duellist, and, besides, I shall only have to say a single word to him
to---- Alas! I would to God I had no duel to reproach myself for!"
Again Tobie drew his handkerchief, as if deeply moved.
"I am delighted that this affair doesn't worry you," rejoined Dupétrain;
"in that case, we can return to that anecdote that I didn't have time to
finish: A young lady, whose husband----"
"Excuse me, Monsieur Dupétrain, but I have an important appointment; I
will listen to it some other time, by your leave."
Two days after this conversation, Tobie, who had become a constant
attendant at balls, receptions, concerts, and the theatre, since he had
inherited his Aunt Abraham's property, found himself face to face with
Monsieur Plays and his wife in the foyer of the Opéra.
Madame Plays stopped, cast a withering glance at Tobie, and nudged her
husband.
"There he is," she said.
"Who?" queried Monsieur Plays.
"The insolent wretch who amused himself at my expense, and whom you must
punish!"
Monsieur Plays turned pale as death, and clung to his wife's arm,
muttering:
"My corns hurt me terribly! the weather will change to-morrow; it's a
sure sign of rain!"
"I'm not talking about your corns, monsieur; there's the young man who
was responsible for my carrying a cigar in my bosom two months, and I
must have satisfaction, monsieur. I will sit here on this bench, and I
shan't lose sight of you. Go and challenge Monsieur Pigeonnier; if you
don't, never hope to enter my boudoir again! you understand, monsieur;
now, go!"
The superb Herminie seated herself at one end of the foyer, sustaining
with much self-possession the glances bestowed upon her by the men who
were walking back and forth there during the entr'acte. As for Monsieur
Plays, who was compelled to go and pick a quarrel with a fellow
creature--he would have preferred, at that moment, to be at Algiers, or
on the railroad.
Tobie had recognized the happy couple; and he continued to stroll about
the foyer, looking at himself in the mirrors, and trying to keep his
monocle in his eye. Suddenly a timid voice addressed him; he turned, and
saw Monsieur Plays, whose manner was anything but provocative, and who
saluted him very courteously, saying:
"Have I the honor of speaking to Monsieur Tobie Pigeonnier?"
"Why, it's Monsieur Plays! Delighted to meet you! How's your health,
Monsieur Plays?"
"Very good, thanks; but I am suffering a good deal with my corns. My
boots hurt me. Have you any?"
"Boots?"
"No, corns."
"That species of discomfort is entirely unknown to me."
"Ah! you are very lucky!"
At this point, Monsieur Plays turned, and saw his wife looking daggers
at him; he remembered what she demanded of him, and continued in an
undertone:
"My dear Monsieur Pigeonnier, I must tell you that my wife has sent me
to you, because she thinks you--you made sport of her when you told her
that you had killed Monsieur Albert Vermoncey in a duel. Women take
offence at trifles, you know; and Herminie is very sensitive. You gave
her a cigar, too. In short, she's furious with you. So far as I am
concerned, I am sure that you had no intention to be disrespectful to
her, but she insists that I shall demand satisfaction. It's perfect
nonsense; we must arrange it somehow----"
Tobie assumed a most solemn air, and interrupted Monsieur Plays.
"Your excellent wife is right, perfectly right, and I am not surprised
that she has told you to kill me. Indeed, I agree with her."
Monsieur Plays shifted from one leg to the other, and looked uneasily at
the little man, faltering:
"What! you--you want--to fight?"
"Hush, and listen to me! I tell you again that I should deserve all her
anger and yours, if I had acted as she thinks. But it is not so; and now
she is only too thoroughly revenged on poor Albert! In our first affair,
I thought I had killed him, but I was mistaken. Later, I had my revenge.
When I learned of Albert's return to Paris, a month ago, I instantly
sent him a challenge by a messenger, and he accepted it. Ah! he was a
man of the nicest honor. We fought with pistols, near Pantin. I wounded
Albert in the side, and he breathed his last the same day. Tell me,
monsieur, if your good wife has any reason now to complain of me, when I
have fought twice for her, when to avenge her I have killed one of my
most intimate friends?"
"You are a brave fellow!" said Monsieur Plays, shaking Tobie's hand; "I
never doubted it. So poor Albert is really dead this time?"
"Yes, unfortunately; for I will confess to you that it grieves me
deeply."
"I believe it, oh! I believe it. Adieu, Monsieur Pigeonnier! It is my
turn now to apologize to you."
"Your obedient servant, Monsieur Plays!"
Tobie sauntered away, and Herminie's spouse returned to his better half
and repeated all that the young man had just told him. Madame Plays
listened impatiently, then exclaimed:
"It isn't true. He has made a fool of you again. Albert isn't dead."
"But, my dear love, he seemed to be deeply moved, and then he gave me
all those details."
"Lies! However, we will soon know the truth; and woe to you, monsieur,
if you have allowed yourself to be hoodwinked! Come! Come!"
"Where, madame?"
"To Monsieur Vermoncey's house. Oh! I won't be deceived this time."
Herminie seized her husband's arm, dragged him away from the Opéra, made
him take a cab with her, and soon arrived at the house in which Albert
formerly lived. There she questioned the concierge and learned that
young Vermoncey had, in fact, been killed in a duel a month before; and
all the details of the melancholy event that were given her agreed
perfectly with what Tobie had said.
Thereupon Madame Plays made a great outcry, sobbed, wept, tore her
handkerchief, had an attack of hysteria, writhed on the floor of the
concierge's lodge, and called Tobie a monster and an assassin.