The sumptuous interior of the Trigault mansion was on a par with its
external magnificence. Even the entrance bespoke the lavish millionaire,
eager to conquer difficulties, jealous of achieving the impossible, and
never haggling when his fancies were concerned. The spacious hall, paved
with costly mosaics, had been transformed into a conservatory full of
flowers, which were renewed every morning. Rare plants climbed the walls
up gilded trellis work, or hung from the ceiling in vases of rare old
china, while from among the depths of verdure peered forth exquisite
statues, the work of sculptors of renown. On a rustic bench sat a couple
of tall footmen, as bright in their gorgeous liveries as gold coins
fresh from the mint; still, despite their splendor, they were stretching
and yawning to such a degree, that it seemed as if they would ultimately
dislocate their jaws and arms.
“Tell me,” inquired the servant who was escorting Pascal, “can any one
speak to the baron?”
“Why?”
“This gentleman has something to say to him.”
The two valets eyed the unknown visitor, plainly considering him to
be one of those persons who have no existence for the menials of
fashionable establishments, and finally burst into a hearty laugh. “Upon
my word!” exclaimed the eldest, “he’s just in time. Announce him,
and madame will be greatly obliged to you. She and monsieur have
been quarrelling for a good half-hour. And, heavenly powers, isn’t he
tantalizing!”
The most intense curiosity gleamed in the eyes of Pascal’s conductor,
and with an airy of secrecy, he asked: “What is the cause of the rumpus?
That Fernand, no doubt--or some one else?”
“No; this morning it’s about M. Van Klopen.”
“Madame’s dressmaker?”
“The same. Monsieur and madame were breakfasting together--a most
unusual thing--when M. Van Klopen made his appearance. I thought to
myself, when I admitted him: ‘Look out for storms!’ I scented one in
the air, and in fact the dressmaker hadn’t been in the room five minutes
before we heard the baron’s voice rising higher and higher. I said to
myself: ‘Whew! the mantua-maker is presenting his bill!’ Madame cried
and went on like mad; but, pshaw! when the master really begins, there’s
no one like him. There isn’t a cab-driver in Paris who’s his equal for
swearing.”
“And M. Van Klopen?”
“Oh, he’s used to such scenes! When gentlemen abuse him he does the same
as dogs do when they come up out of the water; he just shakes his head
and troubles himself no more about it. He has decidedly the best of the
row. He has furnished the goods, and he’ll have to be paid sooner or
later----”
“What! hasn’t he been paid then?”
“I don’t know; he’s still here.”
A terrible crash of breaking china interrupted this edifying
conversation. “There!” exclaimed one of the footmen, “that’s monsieur;
he has smashed two or three hundred francs’ worth of dishes. He MUST be
rich to pay such a price for his angry fits.”
“Well,” observed the other, “if I were in monsieur’s place I should be
angry too. Would you let your wife have her dresses fitted on by a man?
I says that it’s indecent. I’m only a servant, but----”
“Nonsense, it’s the fashion. Besides, monsieur does not care about that.
A man who----”
He stopped short; in fact, the others had motioned him to be silent.
The baron was surrounded by exceptional servants, and the presence of a
stranger acted as a restraint upon them. For this reason, one of them,
after asking Pascal for his card, opened a door and ushered him into a
small room, saying: “I will go and inform the baron. Please wait here.”
“Here,” as he called it, was a sort of smoking-room hung with cashmere
of fantastic design and gorgeous hues, and encircled by a low, cushioned
divan, covered with the same material. A profusion of rare and costly
objects was to be seen on all sides, armor, statuary, pictures,
and richly ornamented weapons. But Pascal, already amazed by the
conversation of the servants, did not think of examining these objects
of virtu. Through a partially open doorway, directly opposite the one he
had entered by, came the sound of loud voices in excited conversation.
Baron Trigault, the baroness, and the famous Van Klopen were evidently
in the adjoining room. It was a woman, the baroness, who was speaking,
and the quivering of her clear and somewhat shrill voice betrayed
a violent irritation, which was only restrained with the greatest
difficulty. “It is hard for the wife of one of the richest men in Paris
to see a bill for absolute necessities disputed in this style,” she was
saying.
A man’s voice, with a strong Teutonic accent, the voice of Van Klopen,
the Hollander, caught up the refrain. “Yes, strict necessities, one can
swear to that. And if, before flying into a passion, Monsieur le Baron
had taken the trouble to glance over my little bill, he would have
seen----”
“No more! You bore me to death. Besides I haven’t time to listen to your
nonsense; they are waiting for me to play a game of whist at the club.”
This time it was the master of the house, Baron Trigault, who spoke, and
Pascal recognized his voice instantly.
“If monsieur would only allow me to read the items. It will take but a
moment,” rejoined Van Klopen. And as if he had construed the oath
that answered him as an exclamation of assent, he began: “In June, a
Hungarian costume with jacket and sash, two train dresses with upper
skirts and trimmings of lace, a Medicis polonaise, a jockey costume, a
walking costume, a riding-habit, two morning-dresses, a Velleda costume,
an evening dress.”
“I was obliged to attend the races very frequently during the month of
June,” remarked the baroness.
But the illustrious adorner of female loveliness had already resumed his
reading. “In July we have: two morning-jackets, one promenade costume,
one sailor suit, one Watteau shepherdess costume, one ordinary
bathing-suit, with material for parasol and shoes to match, one
Pompadour bathing-suit, one dressing-gown, one close-fitting Medicis
mantle, two opera cloaks----”
“And I was certainly not the most elegantly attired of the ladies at
Trouville, where I spent the month of July,” interrupted the baroness.
“There are but few entries in the month of August,” continued
Van Klopen. “We have: a morning-dress, a travelling-dress, with
trimmings----” And he went on and on, gasping for breath, rattling off
the ridiculous names which he gave to his “creations,” and interrupted
every now and then by the blow of a clinched fist on the table, or by a
savage oath.
Pascal stood in the smoking-room, motionless with astonishment. He did
not know what surprised him the most, Van Klopen’s impudence in daring
to read such a bill, the foolishness of the woman who had ordered all
these things, or the patience of the husband who was undoubtedly going
to pay for them. At last, after what seemed an interminable enumeration,
Van Klopen exclaimed: “And that’s all!”
“Yes, that’s all,” repeated the baroness, like an echo.
“That’s all!” exclaimed the baron--“that’s all! That is to say, in four
months, at least seven hundred yards of silk, velvet, satin, and muslin,
have been put on this woman’s back!”
“The dresses of the present day require a great deal of material.
Monsieur le Baron will understand that flounces, puffs, and ruches----”
“Naturally! Total, twenty-seven thousand francs!”
“Excuse me! Twenty-seven thousand nine hundred and thirty-three francs,
ninety centimes.”
“Call it twenty-eight thousand francs then. Ah, well, M. Van Klopen, if
you are ever paid for this rubbish it won’t be by me.”
If Van Klopen was expecting this denouement, Pascal wasn’t; in fact,
he was so startled, that an exclamation escaped him which would have
betrayed his presence under almost any other circumstances. What amazed
him most was the baron’s perfect calmness, following, as it did, such
a fit of furious passion, violent enough even to be heard in the
vestibule. “Either he has extraordinary control over himself or this
scene conceals some mystery,” thought Pascal.
Meanwhile, the man-milliner continued to urge his claims--but the baron,
instead of replying, only whistled; and wounded by this breach of good
manners, Van Klopen at last exclaimed: “I have had dealings with all the
distinguished men in Europe, and never before did one of them refuse to
pay me for his wife’s toilettes.”
“Very well--I don’t pay for them--there’s the difference. Do you suppose
that I, Baron Trigault, that I’ve worked like a negro for twenty years
merely for the purpose of aiding your charming and useful branch of
industry? Gather up your papers, Mr. Ladies’ Tailor. There may
be husbands who believe themselves responsible for their wives’
follies--it’s quite possible there are--but I’m not made of that kind
of stuff. I allow Madame Trigault eight thousand francs a month for
her toilette--that is sufficient--and it is a matter for you and her to
arrange together. What did I tell you last year when I paid a bill of
forty thousand francs? That I would not be responsible for any more of
my wife’s debts. And I not only said it, I formally notified you through
my private secretary.”
“I remember, indeed----”
“Then why do you come to me with your bill? It is with my wife that you
have opened an account. Apply to her, and leave me in peace.”
“Madame promised me----”
“Teach her to keep her promises.”
“It costs a great deal to retain one’s position as a leader of fashion;
and many of the most distinguished ladies are obliged to run into debt,”
urged Van Klopen.
“That’s their business. But my wife is not a fine lady. She is simply
Madame Trigault, a baroness, thanks to her husband’s gold and the
condescension of a worthy German prince, who was in want of money. SHE
is not a person of consequence--she has no rank to keep up.”
The baroness must have attached immense importance to the satisfying of
Van Klopen’s demands, for concealing the anger this humiliating scene
undoubtedly caused her, she condescended to try and explain, and even to
entreat. “I have been a little extravagant, perhaps,” she said; “but I
will be more prudent in future. Pay, monsieur--pay just once more.”
“No!”
“If not for my sake, for your own.”
“Not a farthing.”
By the baron’s tone, Pascal realized that his wife would never shake
his fixed determination. Such must also have been the opinion of the
illustrious ruler of fashion, for he returned to the charge with an
argument he had held in reserve. “If this is the case, I shall, to my
great regret, be obliged to fail in the respect I owe to Monsieur le
Baron, and to place this bill in the hands of a solicitor.”
“Send him along--send him along.”
“I cannot believe that monsieur wishes a law-suit.”
“In that you are greatly mistaken. Nothing would please me better. It
would at last give me an opportunity to say what I think about your
dealings. Do you think that wives are to turn their husbands into
machines for supplying money? You draw the bow-string too tightly, my
dear fellow--it will break. I’ll proclaim on the house-top what others
dare not say, and we’ll see if I don’t succeed in organizing a little
crusade against you.” And animated by the sound of his own words,
his anger came back to him, and in a louder and ever louder voice he
continued: “Ah! you prate of the scandal that would be created by my
resistance to your demands. That’s your system; but, with me, it won’t
succeed. You threaten me with a law-suit; very good. I’ll take it upon
myself to enlighten Paris, for I know your secrets, Mr. Dressmaker. I
know the goings on in your establishment. It isn’t always to talk about
dress that ladies stop at your place on returning from the Bois. You
sell silks and satins no doubt; but you sell Madeira, and excellent
cigarettes as well, and there are some who don’t walk very straight
on leaving your establishment, but smell suspiciously of tobacco and
absinthe. Oh, yes, let us go to law, by all means! I shall have an
advocate who will know how to explain the parts your customers pay, and
who will reveal how, with your assistance, they obtain money from other
sources than their husband’s cash-box.”
When M. Van Klopen was addressed in this style, he was not at all
pleased. “And I!” he exclaimed, “I will tell people that Baron Trigault,
after losing all his money at play, repays his creditors with curses.”
The noise of an overturned chair told Pascal that the baron had sprung
up in a furious passion “You may say what you like, you rascally fool!
but not in my house,” he shouted. “Leave--leave, or I will ring----”
“Monsieur----”
“Leave, leave, I tell you, or I sha’n’t have the patience to wait for a
servant!”
He must have joined action to word, and have seized Van Klopen by
the collar to thrust him into the hall, for Pascal heard a sound of
scuffling, a series of oaths worthy of a coal-heaver, two or three
frightened cries from the baroness, and several guttural exclamations
in German. Then a door closed with such violence that the whole house
shook, and a magnificent clock, fixed to the wall of the smoking-room,
fell on to the floor.
If Pascal had not heard this scene, he would have deemed it incredible.
How could one suppose that a creditor would leave this princely mansion
with his bill unpaid? But more and more clearly he understood that there
must be some greater cause of difference between husband and wife than
this bill of twenty-eight thousand francs. For what was this amount to
a confirmed gambler who, without as much as a frown, gained or lost a
fortune every evening of his life. Evidently there was some skeleton in
this household--one of those terrible secrets which make a man and his
wife enemies, and all the more bitter enemies as they are bound together
by a chain which it is impossible to break. And undoubtedly, a good many
of the insults which the baron had heaped upon Van Klopen must have been
intended for the baroness. These thoughts darted through Pascal’s mind
with the rapidity of lightning, and showed him the horrible position
in which he was placed. The baron, who had been so favorably disposed
toward him, and from whom he was expecting a great service, would
undoubtedly hate him, undoubtedly become his enemy, when he learned
that he had been a listener, although an involuntary one, to this
conversation with Van Klopen. How did it happen that he had been placed
in this dangerous position? What had become of the footman who had taken
his card? These were questions which he was unable to answer. And what
was he to do? If he could have retired noiselessly, if he could have
reached the courtyard and have made his escape without being observed he
would not have hesitated. But was this plan practicable? And would not
his card betray him? Would it not be discovered sooner or later that he
had been in the smoking-room while M. Van Klopen was in the dining-room?
In any case, delicacy of feeling as well as his own interest forbade him
to remain any longer a listener to the private conversation of the baron
and his wife.
He therefore noisily moved a chair, and coughed in that affected style
which means in every country: “Take care--I’m here!” But he did not
succeed in attracting attention. And yet the silence was profound; he
could distinctly hear the creaking of the baron’s boots, as he paced
to and fro, and the sound of fingers nervously beating a tattoo on the
table. If he desired to avoid hearing the confidential conversation,
which would no doubt ensue between the baron and his wife, there was
but one course for him to pursue, and that was to reveal his presence at
once. He was about to do so, when some one opened a door which must have
led from the hall into the dining-room. He listened attentively, but
only heard a few confused words, to which the baron replied: “Very well.
That’s sufficient. I will see him in a moment.”
Pascal breathed freely once more. “They have just given him my card,” he
thought. “I can remain now; he will come here in a moment.”
The baron must really have started to leave the room, for his wife
exclaimed: “One word more: have you quite decided?”
“Oh, fully!”
“You are resolved to leave me exposed to the persecutions of my
dressmaker?”
“Van Klopen is too charming and polite to cause you the least worry.”
“You will brave the disgrace of a law-suit?”
“Nonsense! You know very well that he won’t bring any action against
me--unfortunately. And, besides, pray tell me where the disgrace
would be? I have a foolish wife--is that my fault? I oppose her absurd
extravagance--haven’t I a right to do so? If all husbands were as
courageous, we should soon close the establishments of these artful men,
who minister to your vanity, and use you ladies as puppets, or living
advertisements, to display the absurd fashions which enrich them.”
The baron took two or three more steps forward, as if about to leave the
room, but his wife interposed: “The Baroness Trigault, whose husband
has an income of seven or eight hundred thousand francs a year, can’t go
about clad like a simple woman of the middle classes.”
“I should see nothing so very improper in that.”
“Oh, I know. Only your ideas don’t coincide with mine. I shall never
consent to make myself ridiculous among the ladies of my set--among my
friends.”
“It would indeed be a pity to arouse the disapproval of your friends.”
This sneering remark certainly irritated the baroness, for it was with
the greatest vehemence that she replied: “All my friends are ladies of
the highest rank in society--noble ladies!”
The baron no doubt shrugged his shoulders, for in a tone of crushing
irony and scorn, he exclaimed: “Noble ladies! whom do you call
noble ladies, pray? The brainless fools who only think of displaying
themselves and making themselves notorious?--the senseless idiots who
pique themselves on surpassing lewd women in audacity, extravagance, and
effrontery, who fleece their husbands as cleverly as courtesans fleece
their lovers? Noble ladies! who drink, and smoke, and carouse, who
attend masked balls, and talk slang! Noble ladies! the idiots who long
for the applause of the crowd, and consider notoriety to be desirable
and flattering. A woman is only noble by her virtues--and the chief
of all virtues, modesty, is entirely wanting in your illustrious
friends----”
“Monsieur,” interrupted the baroness, in a voice husky with anger, “you
forget yourself--you----”
But the baron was well under way. “If it is scandal that crowns one
a great lady, you ARE one--and one of the greatest; for you are
notorious--almost as notorious as Jenny Fancy. Can’t I learn from
the newspapers all your sayings and gestures, your amusements, your
occupations, and the toilettes you wear? It is impossible to read of a
first performance at a theatre, or of a horse-race, without finding
your name coupled with that of Jenny Fancy, or Cora Pearl, or Ninette
Simplon. I should be a very strange husband indeed, if I wasn’t proud
and delighted. Ah! you are a treasure to the reporters. On the day
before yesterday the Baroness Trigault skated in the Bois. Yesterday she
was driving in her pony-carriage. To-day she distinguished herself by
her skill at pigeon-shooting. To-morrow she will display herself half
nude in some tableaux vivants. On the day after to-morrow she will
inaugurate a new style of hair-dressing, and take part in a comedy. It
is always the Baroness Trigault who is the observed of all observers at
Vincennes. The Baroness Trigault has lost five hundred louis in betting.
The Baroness Trigault uses her lorgnette with charming impertinence.
It is she who has declared it proper form to take a ‘drop’ on returning
from the Bois. No one is so famed for ‘form,’ as the baroness--and
silk merchants have bestowed her name upon a color. People rave of the
Trigault blue--what glory! There are also costumes Trigault, for
the witty, elegant baroness has a host of admirers who follow her
everywhere, and loudly sing her praises. This is what I, a plain, honest
man, read every day in the newspapers. The whole world not only knows
how my wife dresses, but how she looks en dishabille, and how she
is formed; folks are aware that she has an exquisite foot, a
divinely-shaped leg, and a perfect hand. No one is ignorant of the fact
that my wife’s shoulders are of dazzling whiteness, and that high on
the left shoulder there is a most enticing little mole. I had the
satisfaction of reading this particular last evening. It is charming,
upon my word! and I am truly a fortunate man!”
In the smoking-room, Pascal could hear the baroness angrily stamp her
foot, as she exclaimed: “It is an outrageous insult--your journalists
are most impertinent.”
“Why? Do they ever trouble honest women?”
“They wouldn’t trouble me if I had a husband who knew how to make them
treat me with respect!”
The baron laughed a strident, nervous laugh, which it was not pleasant
to hear, and which revealed the fact that intense suffering was hidden
beneath all this banter. “Would you like me to fight a duel then? After
twenty years has the idea of ridding yourself of me occurred to you
again? I can scarcely believe it. You know too well that you would
receive none of my money, that I have guarded against that. Besides, you
would be inconsolable if the newspapers ceased talking about you for a
single day. Respect yourself, and you will be respected. The publicity
you complain of is the last anchor which prevents society from drifting
one knows not where. Those who would not listen to the warning voice of
honor and conscience are restrained by the fear of a little paragraph
which might disclose their shame. Now that a woman no longer has a
conscience, the newspapers act in place of it. And I think it quite
right, for it is our only hope of salvation.”
By the stir in the adjoining room, Pascal felt sure that the baroness
had stationed herself before the door to prevent her husband from
leaving her. “Ah! well, monsieur,” she exclaimed, “I declare to you
that I must have Van Klopen’s twenty-eight thousand francs before this
evening. I will have them, too; I am resolved to have them, and you will
give them to me.”
“Oh!” thundered the baron, “you WILL have them--you will----” He paused,
and then, after a moment’s reflection, he said: “Very well. So be it! I
will give you this amount, but not just now. Still if, as you say, it is
absolutely necessary that you should have it to-day, there is a means of
procuring it. Pawn your diamonds for thirty thousand francs--I authorize
you to do so; and I give you my word of honor that I will redeem them
within a week. Say, will you do this?” And, as the baroness made no
reply, he continued: “You don’t answer! shall I tell you why? It is
because your diamonds were long since sold and replaced by imitation
ones; it is because you are head over heels in debt; it is because you
have stooped so low as to borrow your maid’s savings; it is because you
already owe three thousand francs to one of my coachmen; it is because
our steward lends you money at the rate of thirty or forty per cent.”
“It is false!”
The baron sneered. “You certainly must think me a much greater fool than
I really am!” he replied. “I’m not often at home, it’s true--the sight
of you exasperates me; but I know what’s going on. You believe me your
dupe, but you are altogether mistaken. It is not twenty-seven thousand
francs you owe Van Klopen, but fifty or sixty thousand. However, he is
careful not to demand payment. If he brought me a bill this morning, it
was only because you had begged him to do so, and because it had been
agreed he should give you the money back if I paid him. In short, if you
require twenty-eight thousand francs before to-night, it is because M.
Fernand de Coralth has demanded that sum, and because you have promised
to give it to him!”
Leaning against the wall of the smoking-room, speechless and motionless,
holding his breath, with his hands pressed upon his heart, as if to
stop its throbbings, Pascal Ferailleur listened. He no longer thought
of flying; he no longer thought of reproaching himself for his enforced
indiscretion. He had lost all consciousness of his position. The name of
the Viscount de Coralth, thus mentioned in the course of this frightful
scene, came as a revelation to him. He now understood the meaning of the
baron’s conduct. His visit to the Rue d’Ulm, and his promises of help
were all explained. “My mother was right,” he thought; “the baron hates
that miserable viscount mortally. He will do all in his power to assist
me.”
Meanwhile, the baroness energetically denied her husband’s charges. She
swore that she did not know what he meant. What had M. de Coralth to
do with all this? She commanded her husband to speak more plainly--to
explain his odious insinuations.
He allowed her to speak for a moment, and then suddenly, in a harsh,
sarcastic voice, he interrupted her by saying: “Oh! enough! No more
hypocrisy! Why do you try to defend yourself? What matters one crime
more? I know only too well that what I say is true; and if you desire
proofs, they shall be in your hands in less than half an hour. It is a
long time since I was blind--full twenty years! Nothing concerning you
has escaped my knowledge and observation since the cursed day when I
discovered the depths of your disgrace and infamy--since the terrible
evening when I heard you plan to murder me in cold blood. You had grown
accustomed to freedom of action; while I, who had gone off with the
first gold-seekers, was braving a thousand dangers in California, so as
to win wealth and luxury for you more quickly. Fool that I was! No task
seemed too hard or too distasteful when I thought of you--and I was
always thinking of you. My mind was at peace--I had perfect faith in
you. We had a daughter; and if a fear or a doubt entered my mind, I told
myself that the sight of her cradle would drive all evil thoughts
from your heart. The adultery of a childless wife may be forgiven or
explained; but that of a mother, never! Fool! idiot! that I was! With
what joyous pride, on my return after an absence of eighteen months, I
showed you the treasures I had brought back with me! I had two hundred
thousand francs! I said to you as I embraced you: ‘It is yours, my
well-beloved, the source of all my happiness!’ But you did not care for
me--I wearied you! You loved another! And while you were deceiving
me with your caresses, you were, with fiendish skill, preparing a
conspiracy which, if it had succeeded, would have resulted in my death!
I should consider myself amply revenged if I could make you suffer for a
single day all the torments that I endured for long months. For this was
not all! You had not even the excuse, if excuse it be, of a powerful,
all-absorbing passion. Convinced of your treachery, I resolved to
ascertain everything, and I discovered that in my absence you had become
a mother. Why didn’t I kill you? How did I have the courage to remain
silent and conceal what I knew? Ah! it was because, by watching you, I
hoped to discover the cursed bastard and your accomplice. It was because
I dreamed of a vengeance as terrible as the offence. I said to myself
that the day would come when, at any risk, you would try to see your
child again, to embrace her, and provide for her future. Fool! fool
that I was! You had already forgotten her! When you received news of my
intended return, she was sent to some foundling asylum, or left to die
upon some door-step. Have you ever thought of her? Have you ever asked
what has become of her? ever asked yourself if she had needed bread
while you have been living in almost regal luxury? ever asked yourself
into what depths of vice she may have fallen?”
“Always the same ridiculous accusation!” exclaimed the baroness.
“Yes, always!”
“You must know, however, that this story of a child is only a vile
slander. I told you so when you spoke of it to me a dozen years
afterward. I have repeated it a thousand times since.”
The baron uttered a sigh that was very like a sob, and without paying
any heed to his wife’s words, he continued: “If I consented to allow
you to remain under my roof, it was only for the sake of our daughter.
I trembled lest the scandal of a separation should fall upon her. But it
was useless suffering on my part. She was as surely lost as you yourself
were; and it was your work, too!”
“What! you blame me for that?”
“Whom ought I to blame, then? Who took her to balls, and theatres and
races--to every place where a young girl ought NOT to be taken? Who
initiated her into what you call high life? and who used her as a
discreet and easy chaperon? Who married her to a wretch who is a
disgrace to the title he bears, and who has completed the work of
demoralization you began? And what is your daughter to-day? Her
extravagance has made her notorious even among the shameless women who
pretend to be leaders of society. She is scarcely twenty-two, and there
is not a single prejudice left for her to brave! Her husband is the
companion of actresses and courtesans; her own companions are no
better--and in less than two years the million of francs which
I bestowed on her as a dowry has been squandered, recklessly
squandered--for there isn’t a penny of it left. And, at this very hour,
my daughter and my son-in-law are plotting to extort money from me. On
the day before yesterday--listen carefully to this--my son-in-law came
to ask me for a hundred thousand francs, and when I refused them, he
threatened if I did not give them to him that he would publish some
letters written by my daughter--by his wife--to some low scoundrel.
I was horrified and gave him what he asked. But that same evening I
learned that the husband and wife, my daughter and my son-in-law, had
concocted this vile conspiracy together. Yes, I have positive proofs
of it. Leaving here, and not wishing to return home that day, he
telegraphed the good news to his wife. But in his delight he made a
mistake in the address, and the telegram was brought here. I opened it,
and read: ‘Papa has fallen into the trap, my darling. I beat my drum,
and he surrendered at once.’ Yes, that is what he dared to write, and
sign with his own name, and then send to his wife--my daughter!”
Pascal was absolutely terrified. He wondered if he were not the victim
of some absurd nightmare--if his senses were not playing him false.
He had little conception of the terrible dramas which are constantly
enacted in these superb mansions, so admired and envied by the passing
crowd. He thought that the baroness would be crushed--that she would
fall on her knees before her husband. What a mistake! The tone of
her voice told him that, instead of yielding, she was only bent on
retaliation.
“Does your son-in-law do anything worse than you?” she exclaimed. “How
dare you censure him--you who drag your name through all the gambling
dens of Europe?”
“Wretch!” interrupted the baron, “wretch!” But quickly mastering
himself, he remarked: “Yes, it’s true that I gamble. People say, ‘That
great Baron Trigault is never without cards in his hands!’ But you know
very well that I really hold gambling in horror--that I loathe it. But
when I play, I sometimes forget--for I must forget. I tried drink, but
it wouldn’t drown thought, so I had recourse to cards; and when the
stakes are large, and my fortune is imperilled, I sometimes lose
consciousness of my misery!”
The baroness gave vent to a cold, sneering laugh, and, in a tone of
mocking commiseration, she said: “Poor baron! It is no doubt in the hope
of forgetting your sorrows that you spend all your time--when you are
not gambling--with a woman named Lia d’Argeles. She’s rather pretty. I
have seen her several times in the Bois----”
“Be silent!” exclaimed the baron, “be silent! Don’t insult an
unfortunate woman who is a thousand times better than yourself.” And,
feeling that he could endure no more--that he could no longer restrain
his passion, he cried: “Out of my sight! Go! or I sha’n’t be responsible
for my acts!”
Pascal heard a chair move, the floor creak, and a moment afterward a
lady passed quickly through the smoking-room. How was it that she did
not perceive him? No doubt, because she was greatly agitated, in spite
of her bravado. And, besides, he was standing a little back in the
shade. But he saw her, and his brain reeled. “Good Lord! what a
likeness!” he murmured.