by Emile Gaboriau
A Sequel to “The Count’s Millions”
I
Vengeance! that is the first, the only thought, when a man finds himself
victimized, when his honor and fortune, his present and future,
are wrecked by a vile conspiracy! The torment he endures under such
circumstances can only be alleviated by the prospect of inflicting them
a hundredfold upon his persecutors. And nothing seems impossible at the
first moment, when hatred surges in the brain, and the foam of anger
rises to the lips; no obstacle seems insurmountable, or, rather,
none are perceived. But later, when the faculties have regained their
equilibrium, one can measure the distance which separates the dream from
reality, the project from execution. And on setting to work, how many
discouragements arise! The fever of revolt passes by, and the victim
wavers. He still breathes bitter vengeance, but he does not act. He
despairs, and asks himself what would be the good of it? And in this way
the success of villainy is once more assured.
Similar despondency attacked Pascal Ferailleur when he awoke for the
first time in the abode where he had hidden himself under the name of
Maumejan. A frightful slander had crushed him to the earth--he could
kill his slanderer, but afterward--? How was he to reach and stifle the
slander itself? As well try to hold a handful of water; as well try to
stay with extended arms the progress of the poisonous breeze which wafts
an epidemic on its wings. So the hope that had momentarily lightened
his heart faded away again. Since he had received that fatal letter from
Madame Leon the evening before, he believed that Marguerite was lost to
him forever, and in this case, it was useless to struggle against fate.
What would be the use of victory even if he conquered? Marguerite lost
to him--what did the rest matter? Ah! if he had been alone in the world.
But he had his mother to think of;--he belonged to this brave-hearted
woman, who had saved him from suicide already. “I will not yield, then;
I will struggle on for her sake,” he muttered, like a man who foresees
the futility of his efforts.
He rose, and had nearly finished dressing, when he heard a rap at his
chamber door. “It is I, my son,” said Madame Ferailleur outside.
Pascal hastened to admit her. “I have come for you because the woman you
spoke about last evening is already here, and before employing her, I
want your advice.”
“Then the woman doesn’t please you, mother?”
“I want you to see her.”
On entering the little parlor with his mother, Pascal found himself in
the presence of a portly, pale-faced woman, with thin lips and restless
eyes, who bowed obsequiously. It was indeed Madame Vantrasson, the
landlady of the model lodging-house, who was seeking employment for the
three or four hours which were at her disposal in the morning, she said.
It certainly was not for pleasure that she had decided to go out to
service again; her dignity suffered terribly by this fall--but then
the stomach has to be cared for. Tenants were not numerous at the model
lodging-house, in spite of its seductive title; and those who slept
there occasionally, almost invariably succeeded in stealing something.
Nor did the grocery store pay; the few half-pence which were left
there occasionally in exchange for a glass of liquor were pocketed by
Vantrasson, who spent them at some neighboring establishment; for it is
a well-known fact that the wine a man drinks in his own shop is always
bitter in flavor. So, having no credit at the butcher’s or the baker’s,
Madame Vantrasson was sometimes reduced to living for days together upon
the contents of the shop--mouldy figs or dry raisins--which she washed
down with torrents of ratafia, her only consolation here below.
But this was not a satisfying diet, as she was forced to confess; so she
decided to find some work, that would furnish her with food and a little
money, which she vowed she would never allow her worthy husband to see.
“What would you charge per month?” inquired Pascal.
She seemed to reflect, and after a great deal of counting on her
fingers, she finally declared that she would be content with breakfast
and fifteen francs a month, on condition she was allowed to do the
marketing. The first question of French cooks, on presenting themselves
for a situation, is almost invariably, “Shall I do the marketing?”
which of course means, “Shall I have any opportunities for stealing?”
Everybody knows this, and nobody is astonished at it.
“I shall do the marketing myself,” declared Madame Ferailleur, boldly.
“Then I shall want thirty francs a month,” replied Madame Vantrasson,
promptly.
Pascal and his mother exchanged glances. They were both unfavorably
impressed by this woman, and were equally determined to rid themselves
of her, which it was easy enough to do. “Too dear!” said Madame
Ferailleur; “I have never given over fifteen francs.”
But Madame Vantrasson was not the woman to be easily discouraged,
especially as she knew that if she failed to obtain this situation, she
might have considerable difficulty in finding another one. She could
only hope to obtain employment from strangers and newcomers, who were
ignorant of the reputation of the model lodging-house. So in view of
softening the hearts of Pascal and his mother, she began to relate the
history of her life, skilfully mingling the false with the true, and
representing herself as an unfortunate victim of circumstances, and the
inhuman cruelty of relatives. For she belonged, like her husband, to
a very respectable family, as the Maumejans might easily ascertain by
inquiry. Vantrasson’s sister was the wife of a man named Greloux, who
had once been a bookbinder in the Rue Saint-Denis, but who had now
retired from business with a competency. “Why had this Greloux refused
to save them from bankruptcy? Because one could never hope for a favor
from relatives,” she groaned; “they are jealous if you succeed; and if
you are unfortunate, they cast you off.”
However, these doleful complaints, far from rendering Madame Vantrasson
interesting, imparted a deceitful and most disagreeable expression to
her countenance. “I told you that I could only give fifteen francs,”
interrupted Madame Ferailleur--“take it or leave it.”
Madame Vantrasson protested. She expressed her willingness to deduct
five francs from the sum she had named, but more--it was impossible!
Would they haggle over ten francs to secure such a treasure as herself,
an honest, settled woman, who was entirely devoted to her employers?
“Besides, I have been a grand cook in my time,” she added, “and I have
not lost all my skill. Monsieur and madame would be delighted with my
cooking, for I have seen more than one fine gentleman smack his lips
over my sauces when was in the employment of the Count de Chalusse.”
Pascal and his mother could not repress a start on hearing this name;
but it was in a tone of well-assumed indifference that Madame Ferailleur
repeated, “M. de Chalusse?”
“Yes, madame--a count--and so rich that he didn’t know how much he was
worth. If he were still alive I shouldn’t be compelled to go out to
service again. But he’s dead and he’s to be buried this very day.” And
with an air of profound secrecy, she added: “On going yesterday to
the Hotel de Chalusse to ask for a little help, I heard of the great
misfortune. Vantrasson, my husband, accompanied me, and while we were
talking with the concierge, a young woman passed through the hall, and
he recognized her as a person who some time ago was--well--no better
than she should be. Now, however, she’s a young lady as lofty as the
clouds, and the deceased count has been passing her off as his daughter.
Ah! this is a strange world.”
Pascal had become whiter than the ceiling. His eyes blazed; and Madame
Ferailleur trembled. “Very well,” she said, “I will give you twenty-five
francs--but on condition you come without complaining if I sometimes
require your services of an evening. On these occasions I will give you
your dinner.” And taking five francs from her pocket she placed them in
Madame Vantrasson’s hand, adding: “Here is your earnest money.”
The other quickly pocketed the coin, not a little surprised by this
sudden decision which she had scarcely hoped for, and which she by no
means understood. Still she was so delighted with this denouement that
she expressed her willingness to enter upon her duties at once; and to
get rid of her Madame Ferailleur was obliged to send her out to purchase
the necessary supplies for breakfast. Then, as soon as she was alone
with her son, she turned to him and asked: “Well, Pascal?”
But the wretched man seemed turned to stone, and seeing that he neither
spoke nor moved, she continued in a severe tone: “Is this the way you
keep your resolutions and your oaths! You express your intention
of accomplishing a task which requires inexhaustible patience and
dissimulation, and at the very first unforeseen circumstance your
coolness deserts you, and you lose your head completely. If it had not
been for me you would have betrayed yourself in that woman’s presence.
You must renounce your revenge, and tamely submit to be conquered by the
Marquis de Valorsay if your face is to be an open book in which any one
may read your secret plans and thoughts.”
Pascal shook his head dejectedly. “Didn’t you hear, mother?” he
faltered.
“Hear what?”
“What that vile woman said? This young lady whom she spoke of, whom her
husband recognized, can be none other than Marguerite.”
“I am sure of it.”
He recoiled in horror. “You are sure of it!” he repeated; “and you can
tell me this unmoved--coldly, as if it were a natural, a possible thing.
Didn’t you understand the shameful meaning of her insinuations? Didn’t
you see her hypocritical smile and the malice gleaming in her eyes?” He
pressed his hands to his burning brow, and groaned “And I did not crush
the infamous wretch! I did not fell her to the ground!”
Ah! if she had obeyed the impulse of her heart. Madame Ferailleur would
have thrown her arms round her son’s neck, and have mingled her tears
with his, but reason prevailed. The worthy woman’s heart was pervaded
with that lofty sentiment of duty which sustains the humble heroines
of the fireside, and lends them even more courage than the reckless
adventurers whose names are recorded by history could boast of. She felt
that Pascal must not be consoled, but spurred on to fresh efforts;
and so mustering all her courage, she said: “Are you acquainted with
Mademoiselle Marguerite’s past life? No. You only know that hers has
been a life of great vicissitudes--and so it is not strange that she
should be slandered.”
“In that case, mother,” said Pascal, “you were wrong to interrupt Madame
Vantrasson. She would probably have told us many things.”
“I interrupted her, it is true, and sent her away--and you know why. But
she is in our service now; and when you are calm, when you have regained
your senses, nothing will prevent you from questioning her. It may be
useful for you to know who this man Vantrasson is, and how and where he
met Mademoiselle Marguerite.”
Shame, sorrow, and rage, brought tears to Pascal’s eyes. “My God!” he
exclaimed, “to be reduced to the unspeakable misery of hearing my mother
doubt Marguerite!” He did not doubt her. HE could have listened to the
most infamous accusations against her without feeling a single doubt.
However, Madame Ferailleur had sufficient self-control to shrug her
shoulders. “Ah, well! silence this slander,” she exclaimed. “I wish for
nothing better; but don’t forget that we have ourselves to rehabilitate.
To crush your enemies will be far more profitable to Mademoiselle
Marguerite than vain threats and weak lamentations. It seemed to me that
you had sworn to act, not to complain.”
This ironical thrust touched Pascal’s sensitive mind to the quick; he
rose at once to his feet, and coldly said, “That’s true. I thank you for
having recalled me to myself.”
She made no rejoinder, but mentally thanked God. She had read her son’s
heart, and perceiving his hesitation and weakness she had supplied the
stimulus he needed. Now she saw him as she wished to see him. Now he was
ready to reproach himself for his lack of courage and his weakness in
displaying his feelings. And as a test of his powers of endurance, he
decided not to question Madame Vantrasson till four or five days had
elapsed. If her suspicions had been aroused, this delay would suffice to
dispel them.
He said but little during breakfast; for he was now eager to commence
the struggle. He longed to act, and yet he scarcely knew how to begin
the campaign. First of all, he must study the enemy’s position--gain
some knowledge of the men he had to deal with, find out exactly who the
Marquis de Valorsay and the Viscount de Coralth were. Where could he
obtain information respecting these two men? Should he be compelled to
follow them and to gather up here and there such scraps of intelligence
as came in his way? This method of proceeding would be slow and
inconvenient in the extreme. He was revolving the subject in his mind
when he suddenly remembered the man who, on the morning that followed
the scene at Madame d’Argeles’s house, had come to him in the Rue d’Ulm
to give him a proof of his confidence. He remembered that this strange
man had said: “If you ever need a helping hand, come to me.” And at the
recollection he made up his mind. “I am going to Baron Trigault’s,” he
remarked to his mother; “if my presentiments don’t deceive me, he will
be of service to us.”
In less than half an hour he was on his way. He had dressed himself in
the oldest clothes he possessed; and this, with the change he had made
by cutting off his hair and beard, had so altered his appearance that
it was necessary to look at him several times, and most attentively, to
recognize him. The visiting cards which he carried in his pocket bore
the inscription: “P. Maumejan, Business Agent, Route de la Revolte.” His
knowledge of Parisian life had induced him to choose the same profession
as M. Fortunat followed--a profession which opens almost every door.
“I will enter the nearest cafe and ask for a directory,” he said to
himself. “I shall certainly find Baron Trigault’s address in it.”
The baron lived in the Rue de la Ville-l’Eveque. His mansion was one
of the largest and most magnificent in the opulent district of the
Madeleine, and its aspect was perfectly in keeping with its owner’s
character as an expert financier, and a shrewd manufacturer, the
possessor of valuable mines. The marvellous luxury so surprised Pascal,
that he asked himself how the owner of this princely abode could find
any pleasure at the gaming table of the Hotel d’Argeles. Five or six
footmen were lounging about the courtyard when he entered it. He walked
straight up to one of them, and with his hat in his hand, asked: “Baron
Trigault, if you please?”
If he had asked for the Grand Turk the valet would not have looked at
him with greater astonishment. His surprise, indeed, seemed so profound
that Pascal feared he had made some mistake and added: “Doesn’t he live
here?”
The servant laughed heartily. “This is certainly his house,” he replied,
“and strange to say, by some fortunate chance, he’s here.”
“I wish to speak with him on business.”
The servant called one of his colleagues. “Eh! Florestan--is the baron
receiving?”
“The baroness hasn’t forbidden it.”
This seemed to satisfy the footman; for, turning to Pascal he said: “In
that case, you can follow me.”