As a millionaire and a gambler, Baron Trigault enjoyed all sorts of
privileges. He assumed the right to be brutal, ill-bred, cynical and
bold; to be one of those persons who declare that folks must take them
as they find them. But his rudeness now was so thoroughly offensive
that under any other circumstances the marquis would have resented it.
However, he had special reasons for preserving his temper, so he decided
to laugh.
“Yes, these stories always end in the same way, baron,” said he. “You
haven’t touched a card this morning, and I know your hands are itching.
Excuse me for making you waste precious time, as you say; but what you
have just heard was only a necessary preface.”
“Only a preface?”
“Yes; but don’t be discouraged. I have arrived at the object of my visit
now.”
As Baron Trigault was supposed to enjoy an income of at least eight
hundred thousand francs a year, he received in the course of a
twelvemonth at least a million applications for money or help, and for
this reason he had not an equal for detecting a coming appeal. “Good
heavens!” he thought, “Valorsay is going to ask me for money.” In fact,
he felt certain that the marquis’s pretended carelessness concealed real
embarrassment, and that it was difficult for him to find the words he
wanted.
“So I am about to marry,” M. de Valorsay resumed--“I wish to break off
my former life, to turn over a new leaf. And now the wedding gifts,
the two fetes that I propose giving, the repairs at Valorsay, and the
honeymoon with my wife--all these things will cost a nice little sum.”
“A nice little sum, indeed!”
“Ah, well! as I’m not going to wed an heiress, I fear I shall run a
trifle short. The matter was worrying me a little, when I thought of
you. I said to myself: ‘The baron, who always has money at his disposal,
will no doubt let me have the use of five thousand louis for a year.’”
The baron’s eyes were fixed upon his companion’s face. “Zounds!” he
exclaimed in a half-grieved, half-petulant tone; “I haven’t the amount!”
It was not disappointment that showed itself on the marquis’s face; it
was absolute despair, quickly concealed.
But the baron had detected it; and he realized his applicant’s urgent
need. He felt certain that M. de Valorsay was financially ruined--and
yet, as it did not suit his plans to refuse, he hastily added: “When I
say I haven’t that amount, I mean that I haven’t got it on hand just at
this moment. But I shall have it within forty-eight hours; and if you
are at home at this time on the day after to-morrow, I will send you one
of my agents, who will arrange the matter with you.”
A moment before, the marquis had allowed his consternation to show
itself; but this time he knew how to conceal the joy that filled his
soul. So it was in the most indifferent manner, as if the affair were
one of trivial importance, that he thanked the baron for being so
obliging. Plainly enough, he now longed to make his escape, and indeed,
after rattling off a few commonplace remarks, he rose to his feet and
took his leave, exclaiming: “Till the day after to-morrow, then!”
The baron sank into an arm-chair, completely overcome. A martyr to a
passion that was stronger than reason itself, the victim of a fatal love
which he had not been able to drive from his heart, Baron Trigault had
passed many terrible hours, but never had he been so completely crushed
as at this moment when chance revealed the secret which he had vainly
pursued for years. The old wounds in his heart opened afresh, and his
sufferings were poignant beyond description. All his efforts to
save this woman whom he at once loved and hated from the depths of
degradation, had proved unavailing. “And she has extorted money from the
Count de Chalusse,” he thought; “she sold him the right to adopt their
own daughter.” And so strange are the workings of the human heart, that
this circumstance, trivial in comparison with many others, drove the
unfortunate baron almost frantic with rage. What did it avail him that
he had become one of the richest men in Paris? He allowed his wife eight
thousand francs a month, almost one hundred thousand francs a year,
merely for her dresses and fancies. Not a quarter-day passed, but what
he paid her debts to a large amount, and in spite of all this, she had
sunk so low as to extort money from a man who had once loved her. “What
can she do with it all?” muttered the baron, overcome with sorrow and
indignation. “How can she succeed in spending the income of several
millions?”
A name, the name of Ferdinand de Coralth, rose to his lips; but he did
not pronounce it. He saw Pascal emerging from the smoking-room; and
though he had forgotten the young advocate’s very existence, his
appearance now restored him to a consciousness of reality. “Ah, well!
M. Ferailleur?” he said, like a man suddenly aroused from some terrible
nightmare. Pascal tried to make some reply, but he was unable to do
so--such a flood of incoherent thoughts was seething and foaming in
his brain. “Did you hear, M. de Valorsay?” continued the baron. “Now
we know, beyond the possibility of doubt, who Mademoiselle Marguerite’s
mother is. What is to be done? What would you do in my place?”
“Ah, monsieur! how can I tell?”
“Wouldn’t your first thought be of vengeance! It is mine. But upon whom
can I wreak my vengeance? Upon the Count de Chalusse? He is dead.
Upon my wife? Yes, I might do so; but I lack the courage--Mademoiselle
Marguerite remains.”
“But she is innocent, monsieur; she has never wronged you.”
The baron did not seem to hear this exclamation. “And to make
Mademoiselle Marguerite’s life one long misery,” said he, “I need only
favor her marriage with the marquis. Ah, he would make her cruelly
expiate the crime of her birth.”
“But you won’t do so!” cried Pascal, in a transport, “it would be
shameful; I won’t allow it. Never, I swear before high Heaven! never,
while I live, shall Valorsay marry Marguerite. He may perhaps vanquish
me in the coming struggle; he may lead her to the threshold of the
church, but there he will find me--armed--and I will have justice--human
justice in default of legal satisfaction. And, afterward, the law may
take its course!”
The baron looked at him with deep emotion. “Ah, you know what it is to
love!” he exclaimed; and in a hollow voice, he added: “and thus it was
that I loved Marguerite’s mother.”
The breakfast-table had not been cleared, and a large decanter of water
was still standing on it. The baron poured out two large glasses, which
he drained with feverish avidity, and then he began to walk aimlessly
about the room.
Pascal held his peace. It seemed to him that his own destiny was being
decided in this man’s mind, that his whole future depended upon the
determination he arrived at. A prisoner awaiting the verdict of the jury
could not have suffered more intense anxiety. At last, when a minute,
which seemed a century, had elapsed, the baron paused. “Now as before,
M. Ferailleur,” he said, roughly, “I’m for you and with you. Give me
your hand--that’s right. Honest people ought to protect and assist one
another when scoundrels assail them. We will reinstate you in public
esteem, monsieur. We will unmask Coralth, and we will crush Valorsay
if we find that he is really the instigator of the infamous plot that
ruined you.”
“What, monsieur! Can you doubt it after your conversation with him?”
The baron shook his head. “I’ve no doubt but what Valorsay is ruined
financially,” said he. “I am certain that my hundred thousand francs
will be lost forever if I lend them to him. I would be willing to swear
that he bet against his own horse and prevented the animal from winning,
as he is accused of doing.”
“You must see, then--”
“Excuse me--all this does NOT explain the great discrepancy between your
allegations and his story. You assure me that he cares nothing whatever
for Mademoiselle Marguerite; he pretends that he adores her.”
“Yes, monsieur, yes--the scoundrel dared to say so. Ah! if I had not
been deterred by a fear of losing my revenge!”
“I understand; but allow me to conclude. According to you, Mademoiselle
Marguerite possesses several millions. According to him, she hasn’t a
penny of her own. Which is right? I believe he is. His desire to borrow
a hundred thousand francs of me proves it; and, besides, he wouldn’t
have come this morning to tell me a falsehood, which would be discovered
to-morrow. Still, if he is telling the truth, it is impossible to
explain the foul conspiracy you have suffered by.”
This objection had previously presented itself to Pascal’s mind, and
he had found an explanation which seemed to him a plausible one. “M. de
Chalusse was not dead,” said he, “when M. de Coralth and M. de Valorsay
decided on this plan of ridding themselves of me. Consequently,
Mademoiselle Marguerite was still an heiress.”
“That’s true; but the very day after the commission of the crime, the
accomplices must have discovered that it could do them no good; so, why
have they still persisted in their scheme?”
Pascal tried to find a satisfactory answer, but failed.
“There must be some iniquitous mystery in this affair, which neither you
nor I suspect,” remarked the baron.
“That is exactly what my mother told me.”
“Ah! that’s Madame Ferailleur’s opinion? Then it is a good one. Come,
let us reason a little. Mademoiselle Marguerite loved you, you say?”
“Yes.”
“And she has suddenly broken off the engagement?”
“She wrote to me that the Count de Chalusse extorted from her a promise
on his death-bed, that she would marry the Marquis de Valorsay.”
The baron sprang to his feet. “Stop,” he cried--“stop! We now have a
clue to the truth, perhaps. Ah! so Mademoiselle Marguerite has written
to you that M. de Chalusse commanded her to marry the marquis! Then the
count must have been fully restored to consciousness before he breathed
his last. On the other hand, Valorsay pretends that Mademoiselle
Marguerite is left without resources, simply because the count died
too suddenly to be able to write or to sign a couple of lines. Can you
reconcile these two versions of the affair, M. Ferailleur? Certainly
not. Then which version is false? We must ascertain that point. When
shall you see Mademoiselle Marguerite again?”
“She has requested me NEVER to try to see her again.”
“Very well! She must be disobeyed. You must discover some way of seeing
her without anyone’s knowledge. She is undoubtedly watched, so don’t
write on any account.” He reflected for a moment, and then added: “We
shall, perhaps, become morally certain of Valorsay’s and Coralth’s
guilt, but there’s a wide difference between this and the establishment
of their guilt by material proofs. Two scoundrels who league to ruin an
honest man don’t sign a contract to that effect before a notary. Proofs!
Ah! where shall we find them? We must gain an intimate knowledge of
Valorsay’s private life. The best plan would be to find some man devoted
to our interests who would watch him, and insinuate himself into his
confidence.”
Pascal interrupted the baron with an eager gesture. Hope glittered in
his eyes. “Yes!” he exclaimed, “yes; it is necessary that M. de Valorsay
should be watched by a man of quick perception--a man clever enough
to make himself useful to the marquis, and capable of rendering him an
important service in case of need. I will be the man, monsieur, if you
will allow me. The thought occurred to me just now while I was listening
to you. You promised to send some one to Valorsay’s house with money.
I entreat you to allow me to take the place of the man you intended to
send. The marquis doesn’t know me, and I am sufficiently sure of myself
to promise you that I will not betray my identity. I will present myself
as your agent; he will give me his confidence. I shall take him money or
fair promises, I shall be well received, and I have a plan----”
He was interrupted by a rap at the door. The next moment a footman
entered, and informed his master that a messenger wished to speak to him
on urgent business. “Let him come in,” said the baron.
It was Job, Madame Lia d’Argeles’s confidential servant, who entered
the room. He bowed respectfully, and, with an air of profound mystery
exclaimed: “I have been looking for the baron everywhere. I was ordered
by madame not to return without him.”
“Very well,” said M. Trigault. “I will go with you at once.”