It was not enough to tell M. Wilkie the secret of his birth. He must
be taught how to utilize the knowledge. The Viscount de Coralth
devoted himself to this task, and burdened Wilkie with such a host of
injunctions, that it was quite evident he had but a poor opinion of his
pupil’s sagacity. “That woman d’Argeles,” he thought, “is as sharp as
steel. She will deceive this young idiot completely, if I don’t warn
him.”
So he did warn him; and Wilkie was instructed exactly what to do and
say, how to answer any questions, and what position to take up according
to circumstances. Moreover, he was especially enjoined to distrust
tears, and not to let himself be put out of countenance by haughty airs.
The Viscount spent at least an hour in giving explanations and advice,
to the great disgust of M. Wilkie, who, feeling that he was being
treated like a child, somewhat testily declared that he was no fool, and
that he knew how to take care of himself as well as any one else. Still,
this did not prevent M. de Coralth from persisting in his instructions
until he was persuaded that he had prepared his pupil for all possible
emergencies. He then rose to depart. “That’s all, I think,” he remarked,
with a shade of uneasiness. “I’ve traced the plan--you must execute it,
and keep cool, or the game’s lost.”
His companion rose proudly. “If it fails, it won’t be from any fault of
mine,” he answered with unmistakable petulance.
“Lose no time.”
“There’s no danger of that.”
“And understand, that whatever happens, my name is not to be mentioned.”
“Yes, yes.”
“If there should be any new revelations, I will inform you.”
“At the club?”
“Yes, but don’t be uneasy; the affair is as good as concluded.”
“I hope so, indeed.”
Wilkie gave a sigh of relief as he saw his visitor depart. He wished to
be alone, so as to brood over the delights that the future had in store
for him. He was no longer to be limited to a paltry allowance of twenty
thousand francs! No more debts, no more ungratified longings. He would
have millions at his disposal! He seemed to see them, to hold them, to
feel them gliding in golden waves between his fingers! What horses he
would have! what carriages! what mistresses! And a gleam of envy that
he had detected in M. de Coralth’s eyes put the finishing touch to his
bliss. To be envied by this brilliant viscount, his model and his ideal,
what happiness it was!
The reputation that Madame d’Argeles bore had at first cast a shadow
over his joy; but this shadow had soon vanished. He was troubled by no
foolish prejudices, and personally he cared little or nothing for his
mother’s reputation. The prejudices of society must, of course, be
considered. But nonsense! society has no prejudices nowadays when
millionaires are concerned, and asks no questions respecting their
parents. Society only requires passports of the indigent. Besides, no
matter what Madame d’Argeles might have done, she was none the less a
Chalusse, the descendant of one of the most aristocratic families in
France.
Such were Wilkie’s meditations while he was engaged in dressing himself
with more than usual care. He had been quite shocked by the suggestion
that Madame d’Argeles might try to deny him, and he wished to appear
before her in the most advantageous light. His toilette was consequently
a lengthy operation. However, shortly after twelve o’clock he was ready.
He cast a last admiring glance at himself in the mirror, twirled his
mustaches, and departed on his mission. He even went on foot, which was
a concession to what he considered M. de Coralth’s absurd ideas. The
aspect of the Hotel d’Argeles, in the Rue de Berry, impressed him
favorably, but, at the same time, it somewhat disturbed his superb
assurance. “Everything is very stylish here,” he muttered.
A couple of servants--the concierge and Job--were standing at the door
engaged in conversation. M. Wilkie approached them, and in his most
imposing manner, but not without a slight tremble in his voice,
requested to see Madame d’Argeles. “Madame is in the country,” replied
the concierge; “she will not return before this evening. If monsieur
will leave his card.”
“Oh! that’s quite unnecessary. I shall be passing again.”
This, too, was in obedience to the instructions of M. de Coralth, who
had advised him not to send in his name, but to gain admission into
Madame d’Argeles’s presence as speedily as possible, without giving her
time to prepare herself for the interview; and Wilkie had ultimately
decided that these precautions might not prove as superfluous as he had
at first supposed. But this first mishap annoyed him extremely. What
should he do? how should he kill time till the evening? A cab was
passing. He hired it for a drive to the Bois, whence he returned to the
boulevards, played a game of billiards with one of the co-proprietors
of Pompier de Nanterre, and finally dined at the Cafe Riche, devoting as
much time as possible to the operation. He was finishing his coffee when
the clock struck eight. He caught up his hat, drew on his gloves, and
hastened to the Hotel d’Argeles again.
“Madame has not yet returned,” said the concierge, who knew that his
mistress had only just risen from her bed, “but I don’t think it will be
long. And if monsieur wishes--”
“No,” replied M. Wilkie brusquely, and he was going off in a furious
passion, when, on crossing the street, he chanced to turn his head and
notice that the reception rooms were brilliantly lighted up. “Ah! I
think that a very shabby trick!” grumbled the intelligent youth. “They
won’t succeed in playing that game on me again. Why, she’s there now!”
It occurred to him that Madame d’Argeles had perhaps described him to
her servants, and had given them strict orders not to admit him.
“I’ll find out if that is the case, even if I have to wait here until
to-morrow morning,” he thought, angrily. However, he had not been on
guard very long, when he saw a brougham stop in front of the mansion,
whereupon the gate opened, as if by enchantment. The vehicle entered the
courtyard, deposited its occupants, and drove away. A second carriage
soon appeared, then a third, and then five or six in quick succession.
“And does she think I’ll wear out my shoe-leather here, while everybody
else is allowed to enter?” he grumbled. “Never!--I’ve an idea.” And,
without giving himself time for further deliberation, he returned to his
rooms, arrayed himself in evening-dress, and sent for his carriage. “You
will drive to No.--in the Rue de Berry,” he said. “There is a soiree
there, and you can drive directly into the courtyard.” The coachman
obeyed, and M. Wilkie realized that his idea was really an excellent
one.
As soon as he alighted, the doors were thrown open, and he ascended
a handsome staircase, heavily carpeted, and adorned with flowers. Two
liveried footmen were standing at the door of the drawing-room, and one
of them advanced to relieve Wilkie of his overcoat, but his services
were declined. “I don’t wish to go in,” said the young man roughly.
“I wish to speak with Madame d’Argeles in private. She is expecting
me--inform her. Here is my card.”
The servant was hesitating, when Job, suspecting some mystery perhaps,
approached. “Take in the gentleman’s card,” he said, with an air of
authority; and, opening the door of a small room on the left-hand side
of the staircase, he invited Wilkie to enter, saying, “If monsieur will
be kind enough to take a seat, I will summon madame at once.”
M. Wilkie sank into an arm-chair, considerably overcome. The air of
luxury that pervaded the entire establishment, the liveried servants,
the lights and flowers, all impressed him much more deeply than he would
have been willing to confess. And in spite of his affected arrogance,
he felt that the superb assurance which was the dominant trait in his
character was deserting him. In his breast, moreover, in the place where
physiologists locate the heart, he felt certain extraordinary movements
which strongly resembled palpitations. For the first time it occurred
to him that this woman, whose peace he had come to destroy, was not only
the heiress of the Count de Chalusse’s millions, but also his mother,
that is to say, the good fairy whose protection had followed him
everywhere since he entered the world. The thought that he was about to
commit an atrocious act entered his mind, but he drove it away. It was
too late now to draw back, or even to reflect.
Suddenly a door opposite the one by which he had entered opened, and
Madame d’Argeles appeared on the threshold. She was no longer the woman
whose anguish and terror had alarmed her guests. During the brief moment
of respite which fate had granted her, she had summoned all her energy
and courage, and had mastered her despair. She felt that her salvation
depended upon her calmness, and she had succeeded in appearing calm,
haughty, and disdainful--as impassive as if she had been a statue. “Was
it you, sir, who sent me this card?” she inquired.
Greatly disconcerted, M. Wilkie could only bow and stammer out an almost
unintelligible answer. “Excuse me! I am much grieved, upon my word! I
disturb you, perhaps----”
“You are Monsieur Wilkie!” interrupted Madame d’Argeles, in a tone of
mingled irony and disdain.
“Yes,” he replied, drawling out the name affectedly, “I am M. Wilkie.”
“Did you desire to speak with me?” inquired Madame d’Argeles, dryly.
“In fact--yes. I should like----”
“Very well. I will listen to you, although your visit is most
inopportune, for I have eighty guests or more in my drawing-room. Still,
speak!”
It was very easy to say “speak,” but unfortunately for M. Wilkie he
could not articulate a syllable. His tongue was as stiff, and as dry, as
if it had been paralyzed. He nervously passed and repassed his fingers
between his neck and his collar, but although this gave full play to his
cravat, his words did not leave his throat any more readily. For he had
imagined that Madame d’Argeles would be like other women he had known,
but not at all. He found her to be an extremely proud and awe-inspiring
creature, who, to use his own vocabulary, SQUELCHED him completely. “I
wished to say to you,” he repeated, “I wished to say to you----” But
the words he was seeking would not come; and, so at last, angry with
himself, he exclaimed: “Ah! you know as well as I, why I have come. Do
you dare to pretend that you don’t know?”
She looked at him with admirably feigned astonishment, glanced
despairingly at the ceiling, shrugged her shoulders, and replied: “Most
certainly I don’t know--unless indeed it be a wager.”
“A wager!” M. Wilkie wondered if he were not the victim of some
practical joke, and if there were not a crowd of listeners hidden
somewhere, who, after enjoying his discomfiture, would suddenly make
their appearance, holding their sides. This fear restored his presence
of mind. “Well, then,” he replied, huskily, “this is my reason. I know
nothing respecting my parents. This morning, a man with whom you are
well acquainted, assured me that I was--your son. I was completely
stunned at first, but after a while I recovered sufficiently to call
here, and found that you had gone out.”
He was interrupted by a nervous laugh from Madame d’Argeles. For she was
heroic enough to laugh, although death was in her heart, and although
the nails of her clinched hands were embedded deep in her quivering
flesh. “And you believed him, monsieur?” she exclaimed. “Really, this is
too absurd! I--your mother! Why, look at me----”
He was doing nothing else, he was watching her with all the powers of
penetration he possessed. Madame d’Argeles’s laugh had an unnatural
ring that awakened his suspicions. All Coralth’s recommendations buzzed
confusedly in his ears, and he judged that the moment had come “to do
the sentimental,” as he would have expressed it. So he lowered his head,
and in an aggrieved tone, exclaimed: “Ah! you think it very amusing, I
don’t. Do you realize how wretched it makes one to live as utterly alone
as a leper, without a soul to love or care for you? Other young men have
a mother, sisters, relatives. I have no one! Ah! if---- But I only have
friends while my money lasts.” He wiped his eyes, dry as they were, with
his handkerchief, and in a still more pathetic tone, resumed: “Not that
I want for anything; I receive a very handsome allowance. But when my
relatives have given me the wherewithal to keep me from starving, they
imagine their duty is fulfilled. I think this very hard. I didn’t come
into the world at my own request, did I? I didn’t ask to be born. If
I was such an annoyance to them when I came into existence, why didn’t
they throw me into the river? Then they would have been well rid of me,
and I should be out of my misery!”
He stopped short, struck dumb with amazement, for Madame d’Argeles had
thrown herself on her knees at his feet. “Have mercy!” she faltered;
“Wilkie; my son, forgive me!” Alas! the unfortunate woman had failed in
playing a part which was too difficult for a mother’s heart. “You have
suffered cruelly, my son,” she continued; “but I--I--Ah! you can’t
conceive the frightful agony it costs a mother to separate from her
child! But you were not deserted, Wilkie; don’t say that. Have you not
felt my love in the air around you? YOU forgotten? Know, then, that for
years and years I have seen you every day, and that all my thoughts and
all my hopes are centered in you alone! Wilkie!”
She dragged herself toward him with her hands clasped in an agony of
supplication, while he recoiled, frightened by this outburst of
passion, and utterly amazed by his easily won victory. The poor woman
misunderstood this movement. “Great God!” she exclaimed, “he spurns me;
he loathes me. Ah! I knew it would be so. Oh! why did you come? What
infamous wretch sent you here? Name him, Wilkie! Do you understand, now,
why I concealed myself from you? I dreaded the day when I should blush
before you, before my own son. And yet it was for your sake. Death would
have been a rest, a welcome release for me. But your breath was ebbing
away, your poor little arms no longer had strength to clasp me round the
neck. And then I cried: ‘Perish my soul and body, if only my child can
be saved!’ I believed such a sacrifice permissible in a mother. I am
punished for it as if it were a crime. I thought you would be happy, my
Wilkie. I said to myself that you, my pride and joy, would move freely
and proudly far above me and my shame. I accepted ignominy, so that your
honor might be preserved intact. I knew the horrors of abject poverty,
and I wished to save my son from it. I would have licked up the very
mire in your pathway to save you from a stain. I renounced all hope for
myself, and I consecrated all that was noble and generous in my nature
to you. Oh! I will discover the vile coward who sent you here, who
betrayed my secret. I will discover him and I will have my revenge! You
were never to know this, Wilkie. In parting from you, I took a solemn
oath never to see you again, and to die without the supreme consolation
of feeling your lips upon my forehead.”
She could not continue; sobs choked her utterance. And for more than a
minute the silence was so profound that one could hear the sound of low
conversation in the hall outside, the exclamations of the players as
they greeted each unexpected turn of luck, and occasionally a cry of
“Banco!” or “I stake one hundred louis!” Standing silent and motionless
near the window, Wilkie gazed with consternation at Madame d’Argeles,
his mother, who was crouching in the middle of the room with her face
hidden in her hands, and sobbing as if her heart would break. He would
willingly have given his third share in Pompier de Nanterre to have
made his escape. The strangeness of the scene appalled him. It was
not emotion that he felt, but an instinctive fear mingled with
commiseration. And he was not only ill at ease, but he was angry
with himself for what he secretly styled his weakness. “Women are
incomprehensible,” he thought. “It would be so easy to explain things
quietly and properly, but they must always cry and have a sort of
melodrama.”
Suddenly the sound of footsteps near the door roused him from his
stupor. He shuddered at the thought that some one might come in. He
hated the very idea of ridicule. So summoning all his courage he went
toward Madame d’Argeles, and, raising her from the floor, he exclaimed:
“Don’t cry so. You grieve me, upon my word! Pray get up. Some one is
coming. Do you hear me? Some one is coming.” Thereupon, as she offered
no resistance, he half led, half carried her to an arm-chair, into
which she sank heavily. “Now she is going to faint!” thought Wilkie,
in despair. What should he do? Call for help? He dared not. However,
necessity inspired him. He knelt at Madame d’Argeles’s feet, and gently
said: “Come, come, be reasonable! Why do you give way like this? I don’t
reproach you!”
Slowly, with an air of humility which was indescribably touching,
she took her hands from her face, and for the first time raised her
tear-stained eyes to her son’s. “Wilkie,” she murmured.
“Madame!”
She heaved a deep sigh, and in a half-stifled voice:
“MADAME!” she repeated. “Will you not call me mother?”
“Yes, of course--certainly. But--only you know it will take me some time
to acquire the habit. I shall do so, of course; but I shall have to get
used to it, you know.”
“True, very true!--but tell me it is not mere pity that leads you to
make this promise? If you should hate me--if you should curse me--how
should I bear it! Ah! when a woman reaches the years of understanding
one should never cease repeating to her: ‘Take care! Your son will be
twenty some day, and you will have to meet his searching gaze. You
will have to render an account of your honor to him!’ My God! If women
thought of this, they would never sin. To be reduced to such a state of
abject misery that one dares not lift one’s head before one’s own son!
Alas! Wilkie, I know only too well that you cannot help despising me.”
“No, indeed. Not at all! What an idea!”
“Tell me that you forgive me!”
“I do, upon my word I do.”
Poor woman, her face brightened. She so longed to believe him! And her
son was beside her, so near that she felt his breath upon her cheek. It
was he indeed. Had they ever been separated? She almost doubted it, she
had lived so near him in thought. It was with a sort of ecstasy that she
looked at him. There was a world of entreaty in her eyes; they seemed
to be begging a caress; she raised her quivering lips to his, but he did
not observe it. For a long time she hesitated, fearing he might spurn
her; but at last, yielding to a supreme impulse, she threw her arms
around his neck, drew him toward her, and pressed him to her heart in
a close embrace. “My son! my son!” she repeated; “to have you with me
again, after all these years!”
Unfortunately, no whirlwind of passion was capable of carrying M. Wilkie
beyond himself. His emotion was now spent and his mind had regained
its usual indifference. He flattered himself that he was a man of
mettle--and he remained as cold as ice beneath his mother’s kisses.
Indeed, he barely tolerated them; and if he did allow her to embrace
him, it was only because he did not know how to refuse. “Will she never
have done?” he thought. “This is a pretty state of things! I must be
very attractive. How Costard and Serpillon would laugh if they saw
me now.” Costard and Serpillon were his intimate friends, the
co-proprietors of the famous steeplechaser.
In her rapture, however, Madame d’Argeles did not observe the peculiar
expression on her son’s face. She had compelled him to take a chair
opposite her, and, with nervous volubility, she continued: “If I don’t
deny myself the happiness of embracing you again, it is because I have
not broken the vow I took never to make myself known to you. When I
entered this room, I was firmly resolved to convince you, no matter how,
that you had been deceived. God knows that it was not my fault if I did
not succeed. There are some sacrifices that are above human strength.”
M. Wilkie deigned to smile. “Oh! yes, I saw your little game,” he said,
with a knowing air. “But I had been well posted, and besides, it is not
very easy to fool me.”
Madame d’Argeles did not even hear him. “Perhaps destiny is weary of
afflicting us,” she continued; “perhaps a new life is about to begin.
Through you, Wilkie. I can again be happy. I, who for years have lived
without even hope. But will you have courage to forget?”
“What?”
She hung her head, and in an almost inaudible voice replied, “The past,
Wilkie.”
But with an air of the greatest indifference, he snapped his fingers,
and exclaimed: “Nonsense! What is past is past. Such things are soon
forgotten. Paris has known many such cases. You are my mother; I care
very little for public opinion. I begin by pleasing myself, and I
consult other people afterward; and when they are dissatisfied, I tell
them to mind their own business.”
The poor woman listened to these words with a joy bordering on rapture.
One might have supposed that the strangeness of her son’s expressions
would have surprised her--have enlightened her in regard to his true
character--but no. She only saw and understood one thing--that he had no
intention of casting her off, but was indeed ready to devote himself to
her. “My God!” she faltered, “is this really true? Will you allow me
to remain with you? Oh, don’t reply rashly! Consider well, before you
promise to make such a sacrifice. Think how much sorrow and pain it will
cost you.”
“I have considered. It is decided--mother.”
She sprang up, wild with hope and enthusiasm. “Then we are saved!”
she cried. “Blessed be he who betrayed my secret! And I doubted your
courage, my Wilkie! At last I can escape from this hell! This very night
we will fly from this house, without one backward glance. I will never
set foot in these rooms again--the detested gamblers who are sitting
here shall never see me again. From this moment Lia d’Argeles is dead.”
M. Wilkie positively felt like a man who had just fallen from the
clouds. “What, fly?” he stammered. “Where shall we go, then?”
“To a country where we are unknown, Wilkie--to a land where you will not
have to blush for your mother.”
“But--”
“Trust yourself to me, my son. I know a pleasant village near London
where we can find a refuge. My connections in England are such that you
need not fear the obstacles one generally meets with among foreigners.
M. Patterson, who manages a large manufacturing establishment, will, I
know, be happy to be of service to us--but we shall not be indebted to
any one for long, now that you have resolved to work.”
On hearing these words, M. Wilkie sprang up in dismay. “Excuse me,”
he said, “I don’t understand you. You propose to set me to work in M.
Patterson’s factory? Well, to tell the truth, that doesn’t suit me at
all.”
It was impossible to mistake M. Wilkie’s manner, his tone, or gesture.
They revealed him in his true character. Madame d’Argeles saw her
terrible mistake at once. The bandage fell from her eyes. She had taken
her dreams for realities, and the desires of her own heart for those of
her son. She rose, trembling with sorrow and with indignation. “Wilkie!”
she exclaimed, “Wilkie, wretched boy! what did you dare to hope?”
And, without giving him time to reply, she continued: “Then it was only
idle curiosity that brought you here. You wished to know the source
of the money which you spend like water. Very well, you may see
for yourself. This is a gambling house; one of those establishments
frequented by distinguished personages, which the police ignore, or
which they cannot suppress. The hubbub you hear is made by the players.
Men are ruined here. Some poor wretches have blown their brains out on
leaving the house; others have parted with the last vestige of honor
here. And the business pays me well. One louis out of every hundred that
change hands falls to my share. This is the source of your wealth, my
son.”
This anger, which succeeded such deep grief--this outburst of disdain,
following such abject humility--considerably astonished M. Wilkie.
“Allow me to ask----” he began.
But he was not allowed a hearing. “Fool!” continued Madame d’Argeles,
“did nothing warn you that in coming here you would deprive yourself
forever of the income you received? Did no inward voice tell you that
all would be changed when you compelled me, Lia d’Argeles, to say,
‘Well, yes, it is true; you are my son?’ So long as you did not know
who and what I was, I had a mother’s right to watch over you. I could
help you without disgracing you, without despising you. But now that you
know me, and know what I am, I can do nothing more for you--nothing! I
would rather let you starve than succor you, for I would rather see you
dead than dishonored by my money.”
“But--”
“What! would you still consent to receive the allowance I have made you,
even if I consented to continue it?”
Had a viper raised its head in M. Wilkie’s path he would not have
recoiled more quickly. “Never!” he exclaimed. “Ah, no! What do you take
me for?”
This repugnance was sincere; there could be no doubt of that, and it
seemed to give Madame d’Argeles a ray of hope. “I have misjudged him,”
she thought. “Poor Wilkie! Evil advice has led him astray; but he is not
bad at heart. In that case, my poor child,” she said aloud, “you must
see that a new life is about to commence for you. What do you intend to
do? How will you gain a livelihood? People must have food, and clothes,
and a roof to shelter them. These things cost money. And where will
you obtain it--you who rebel at the very word work? Ah! if I had only
listened to M. Patterson. He was not blind like myself. He was always
telling me that I was spoiling you, and ruining your future by giving
you so much money. Do you know that you have spent more than fifty
thousand francs during the past two years? How have you squandered them?
Have you been to the law-school a dozen times? No. But you can be seen
at the races, at the opera, in the fashionable restaurants, and at every
place of amusement where a young man can squander money. And who are
your associates? Dissipated and heartless idlers, grooms, gamblers, and
abandoned women.”
A sneer from M. Wilkie interrupted her. To think that any one should
dare to attack his friends, his tastes, and his pleasures. Such a thing
was not to be tolerated. “This is astonishing--astonishing, upon my
word!” said he. “You moralizing! that’s really too good! I should like a
few minutes to laugh; it is too ridiculous!”
Was he really conscious of the cruelty of his ironical words? The blow
was so terrible that Madame d’Argeles staggered beneath it. She was
prepared for anything and everything except this insult from her son.
Still, she accepted it without rebellion, although it was in a tone of
heart-broken anguish that she replied: “Perhaps I have no right to tell
you the truth. I hope the future will prove that I am wrong. However,
you are without resources, and you have no profession. Pray Heaven that
you may never know what it is to be hungry and to have no bread.”
For some time already the ingenious young man had shown unmistakable
signs of impatience. This gloomy prediction irritated him beyond
endurance.
“All this is empty talk,” he interrupted. “I don’t mean to work, for
it’s not at all in my line. Still, I don’t expect to want for anything!
That’s plain enough, I hope.”
Madame d’Argeles did not wince. “What do you mean to do then?” she
asked, coldly. “I don’t understand you.”
He shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “Are we to keep up this farce for
ever?” he petulantly exclaimed. “It doesn’t take with me. You know what
I mean as well as I do. Why do you talk to me about dying of starvation?
What about the fortune?”
“What fortune?”
“Eh? why, my uncle’s, of course! Your brother’s, the Count de Chalusse.”
Now M. Wilkie’s visit, manner, assurance, wheedling, and contradictions
were all explained. That maternal confidence which is so strong in the
hearts of mothers vanished from Madame d’Argeles’s for ever. The depths
of selfishness and cunning she discerned in Wilkie’s mind appalled her.
She now understood why he had declared himself ready to brave public
opinion--why he had proved willing to accept his share of the past
ignominy. It was not his mother’s, but the Count de Chalusse’s estate
that he claimed. “Ah! so you’ve heard of that,” she said, in a tone
of bitter irony. And then, remembering M. Isidore Fortunat, she asked:
“Some one has sold you this valuable secret. How much have you promised
to pay him in case of success?”
Although Wilkie prided himself on being very clever, he did not pretend
to be a diplomatist, and, indeed, he was greatly disconcerted by this
question; still, recovering himself, he replied: “It doesn’t matter how
I obtained the information--whether I paid for it, or whether it cost
me nothing--but I know that you are a Chalusse, and that you are
the heiress of the count’s property, which is valued at eight or ten
millions of francs. Do you deny it?”
Madame d’Argeles sadly shook her head. “I deny nothing,” she replied,
“but I am about to tell you something which will destroy all your plans
and extinguish your hopes. I am resolved, understand, and my resolution
is irrevocable, never to assert my rights. To receive this fortune, I
should be obliged to confess that Lia d’Argeles is a Chalusse--and that
is a confession which no consideration whatever will wring from me.”
She imagined that this declaration would silence and discomfit Wilkie,
but she was mistaken. If he had been obliged to depend upon himself he
would perhaps have been conquered by it; but he was armed with weapons
which had been furnished by the cunning viscount. So he shrugged his
shoulders, and coolly replied: “In that case we should remain poor, and
the government would take possession of our millions. One moment. I
have something to say in this matter. You may renounce your claim, but I
shall not renounce mine. I am your son, and I shall claim the property.”
“Even if I entreated you on my knees not to do so?”
“Yes.”
Madame d’Argeles’s eyes flashed. “Very well. I will show you that this
estate can never be yours. By what right will you lay claim to it?
Because you are my son? But I will deny that you are. I will declare
upon oath that you are nothing to me, and that I don’t even know you.”
But even this did not daunt Wilkie. He drew from his pocket a scrap
of paper, and flourishing it triumphantly, he exclaimed: “It would
be extremely cruel on your part to deny me, but I foresaw such a
contingency, and here is my answer, copied from the civil code: ‘Article
341. Inquiry as to maternity allowed, etc., etc.’”
What the exact bearing of Wilkie’s threat might be Madame d’Argeles did
not know. But she felt that this Article 341 would no doubt destroy her
last hope; for the person who had chosen this weapon from the code to
place it in Wilkie’s hand must have chosen it carefully. She understood
the situation perfectly. With her experience of life, she could not fail
to understand the despicable part Wilkie was playing. And though it was
not her son who had conceived this odious plot, it was more than enough
to know that he had consented to carry it into execution. Should she try
to persuade Wilkie to abandon this shameful scheme? She might have done
so if she had not been so horrified by the utter want of principle which
she had discovered in his character. But, under the circumstances, she
realized that any effort in this direction would prove unavailing. So
it was purely from a sense of duty and to prevent her conscience from
reproaching her that she exclaimed: “So you will apply to the courts in
order to constrain me to acknowledge you as my son?”
“If you are not reasonable----”
“That is to say, you care nothing for the scandal that will be created
by such a course. In order to prove yourself a member of the Chalusse
family you will begin by disgracing the name and dragging it through the
mire.”
Wilkie had no wish to prolong this discussion. So much talk about an
affair, which, in his opinion, at least, was an extremely simple one,
seemed to him utterly ridiculous, and irritated him beyond endurance.
“It strikes me this is much ado about nothing,” he remarked. “One would
suppose, to hear you talk, that you were the greatest criminal in the
world. Goodness is all very well in its way, but there is such a thing
as having too much of it! Break loose from this life to-morrow, assume
your rightful name, install yourself at the Hotel de Chalusse, and in
a week from now no one will remember that you were once known as Lia
d’Argeles. I wager one hundred louis on it. Why, if people attempted to
rake up the past life of their acquaintances, they should have far too
much to do. Folks do not trouble themselves as to whether a person has
done this or that; the essential thing is to have plenty of money. And
if any fool speaks slightingly of you, you can reply: ‘I have an income
of five hundred thousand francs,’ and he’ll say no more.”
Madame d’Argeles listened, speechless with horror and disgust. Was it
really her son who was speaking in this style, and to her of all people
in the world? M. Wilkie misunderstood her silence. He had an excellent
opinion of himself, but he was rather surprised at the effect of his
eloquence. “Besides, I’m tired of vegetating, and having only one name,”
he continued. “I want to be on the move. Even with the small allowance
I’ve had, I have gained a very good position in society; and if I had
plenty of money I should be the most stylish man in Paris. The count’s
estate belongs to me, and so I must have it--in fact, I will have it.
So believe me when I tell you that it will be much better for you if you
acknowledge me without any fuss! Now, will you do so? No? Once, twice,
three times? Is it still no? Very well then; to-morrow, then, you may
expect an official notice. I wish you good-evening.”
He bowed; he was really going, for his hand was already on the
door-knob. But Madame d’Argeles detained him with a gesture. “One word
more,” she said, in a voice hoarse with emotion.
He scarcely deigned to come back, and he made no attempt to conceal his
impatience. “Well, what is it?” he asked, hastily.
“I wish to give you a bit of parting advice. The court will undoubtedly
decide in your favor; I shall be placed in possession of my brother’s
estate; but neither you nor I will have the disposal of these millions.”
“Why?”
“Because, though this fortune belongs to me, the control of it belongs
to your father.”