Agitated and excited though he was, M. Wilkie had not once ceased to
think of M. de Coralth and the Marquis de Valorsay. What would they
do in such a position, and how should he act to conform himself to the
probable example of these models of deportment? Manifestly he ought to
assume that stolid and insolent air of boredom which is considered a
sure indication of birth and breeding. Convinced of this, and seized
with a laudable desire to emulate such distinguished examples, he had
perched himself upon a trunk, where he still sat with his legs crossed.
He now pretended to suppress a yawn, as he growled, “What! some more
long phrases--and another melodramatic display?”
Absorbed in the memories she had invoked, Madame d’Argeles paid no heed
to Wilkie’s impertinence. “Yes, I must talk with you,” she said, “and
more for your sake than for my own. I must tell you who I am, and
through what strange vicissitudes I have passed. You know what family
I belong to. I will tell you, however--for you may be ignorant of the
fact--that our house is the equal of any in France in lineage, splendor
of alliance, and fortune. When I was a child, my parents lived at the
Hotel de Chalusse, in the Faubourg Saint Germain, a perfect palace,
surrounded by one of those immense gardens, which are no longer seen in
Paris--a real park, shaded with century-old trees. Certainly everything
that money could procure, or vanity desire, was within my reach; and
yet my youth was wretchedly unhappy. I scarcely knew my father, who
was devoured by ambition, and had thrown himself body and soul into
the vortex of politics. Either my mother did not love me, or thought
it beneath her dignity to make any display of sensibility; but at all
events her reserve had raised a wall of ice between herself and me. As
for my brother he was too much engrossed in pleasure to think of a
mere child. So I lived quite alone, too proud to accept the love and
friendship of my inferiors--abandoned to the dangerous inspirations of
solitude, and with no other consolation than my books--books which had
been chosen for me by my mother’s confessor, and which were calculated
to fill my imagination with visionary and romantic fancies. The only
conversation I heard dealt with the means of leaving all the family
fortune to my brother, so that he might uphold the splendor of the name,
and with the necessity of marrying me to some superannuated nobleman who
would take me without a dowry, or of compelling me to enter one of those
aristocratic convents, which are the refuge, and often the prison, of
poor girls of noble birth.
“I do not pretend to justify my fault, I am only explaining it. I
thought myself the most unfortunate being in the world--and such I
really was, since I honestly believed it--when I happened to meet Arthur
Gordon, your father. I saw him for the first time at a fete given at the
house of the Comte de Commarin. How he, a mere adventurer, had succeeded
in forcing his way into the most exclusive society in the world, is a
point which I have never been able to explain. But, alas! it is only too
true that when our glances met for the first time, my heart was stirred
to its inmost depths; I felt that it was no longer mine--that I was no
longer free! Ah! why does not God allow a man’s face to reflect at
least something of his nature? This man, who was a corrupt and audacious
hypocrite, had that air of apparent nobility and frankness which
inspires you with unlimited confidence, and the melancholy expression on
his features seemed to indicate that he had known sorrow, and had good
cause to rail at destiny. In his whole appearance there was certainly
a mysterious and fatal charm. I afterward learned that this was only a
natural result of the wild life he had led. He was only twenty-six, and
he had already been the commander of a slave ship, and had fought in
Mexico at the head of one of those guerilla bands which make politics an
excuse for pillage and murder. He divined only too well the impression
he had made upon my heart. I met him twice afterward in society. He did
not speak to me; he even pretended to avoid me, but standing a little
on one side, he watched my every movement with burning eyes in which
I fancied I could read a passion as absorbing as my own. At last he
ventured to write to me. The moment a letter addressed to me in an
unknown hand was covertly handed me by my maid, I divined that it came
from him. I was frightened, and my first impulse was to take it, not
to my mother--whom I regarded as my natural enemy--but to my father.
However, he chanced to be absent; I kept the letter, I read it, I
answered it--and he wrote again.
“Alas! from that moment my conduct was inexcusable. I knew that it was
worse than a fault to continue this clandestine correspondence. I knew
my parents would never give my hand in marriage to a man who was not of
noble birth. I knew that I was risking my reputation, the spotless honor
of our house, my happiness, and life! Still I persisted--I was possessed
with a strange madness that made me ready to brave every danger.
Besides, he gave me no time to breathe, or reflect. Everywhere,
constantly, every instant, he compelled me to think of him. By some
miracle of address and audacity, he had discovered a means of intruding
upon my presence, even in my father’s house. For instance, every morning
I found the vases in my room full of choice flowers, though I was never
able to discover what hands had placed them there. Ah! how can one help
believing in an omnipresent passion which one inhales with the very air
one breathes! How can one resist it?
“I only discovered Arthur Gordon’s object when it was too late. He
had come to Paris with the fixed determination of trapping some rich
heiress, and forcing her family to give her to him with a large
dowry, after one of those disgraceful scandals which render a marriage
inevitable. At the very same time he was pursuing two other rich young
girls, persuaded that one of the three would certainly become his
victim.
“I was the first to yield. One of those unforeseen events which are
the work of Providence, was destined to decide my fate. Several times,
already, in compliance with Arthur’s urgent entreaties, I had met him at
night time in a little pavilion in our garden. This pavilion contained
a billiard-room and a spacious gallery in which my brother practised
fencing and pistol shooting with his masters and friends. There, thanks
to the liberty I enjoyed, we thought ourselves perfectly secure from
observation, and we were imprudent enough to light the candles. One
night when I had just joined Arthur in the pavilion, I thought I heard
the sound of hoarse, heavy breathing behind me. I turned round in a
fright and saw my brother standing on the threshold. Oh! then I realized
how guilty I had been! I felt that one or the other of these two men--my
lover or my brother--would not leave that room alive.
“I tried to speak, to throw myself between them, but I found I could
neither speak nor move; it was as if I had been turned to stone. Nor did
they exchange a word at first. But at last my brother drew two swords
from their scabbards, and throwing one at Arthur’s feet, exclaimed: ‘I
have no wish to assassinate you. Defend yourself, and save your life if
you can!’ And as Arthur hesitated, and seemed to be trying to gain time
instead of picking up the weapon that was lying on the floor near him,
my brother struck him in the face with the flat side of his sword, and
cried: ‘Now will you fight, you coward! In an instant it was all over.
Arthur caught up the sword, and springing upon my brother, disarmed him,
and wounded him in the breast. I saw this. I saw the blood spurt out
upon my lover’s hands. I saw my brother stagger, beat the air wildly
with his hands, and fall apparently lifeless to the floor. Then I, too,
lost consciousness and fell!”
Any one who had seen Madame d’Argeles as she stood there recoiling in
horror, with her features contracted, and her eyes dilated, would
have realized that by strength of will she had dispelled the mists
enshrouding the past, and distinctly beheld the scene she was
describing. She seemed to experience anew the same agony of terror she
had felt twenty years before; and this lent such poignant intensity to
the interest of her narrative that if M. Wilkie’s heart was not exactly
touched, he was, as he afterward confessed, at least rather interested.
But Madame d’Argeles seemed to have forgotten his existence. She wiped
away the foam-flecked blood which had risen to her lips, and in the same
mournful voice resumed her story.
“When I regained my senses it was morning, and I was lying, still
dressed, on a bed in a strange room. Arthur Gordon was standing at the
foot of the bed anxiously watching my movements. He did not give me time
to question him. ‘You are in my house,’ said he. ‘Your brother is dead!’
Almighty God! I thought I should die as well. I hoped so. I prayed
for death. But, in spite of my sobs, he pitilessly continued: ‘It is a
terrible misfortune which I shall never cease to regret. And yet, it was
his own fault. You, who witnessed the scene, know that it was so.
You can still see on my face the mark of the blow he dealt me. I only
defended myself and you.’ I was ignorant then of the accepted code of
duelling. I did not know that by throwing himself upon my brother before
he was on guard, Arthur Gordon had virtually assassinated him. He relied
upon my ignorance for the success of the sinister farce he was playing.
‘When I saw your brother fall,’ he continued, ‘I was wild with terror;
and not knowing what I did, I caught you up in my arms and brought you
here. But don’t tremble, I know that you are not in my house of your own
free will. A carriage is below and awaits your orders to convey you
to your parents’ home. It will be easy to find an explanation for last
night’s catastrophe. Slander will not venture to attack such a family
as yours.’ He spoke in the constrained tone, and with that air which a
brave man, condemned to death, would assume in giving utterance to his
last wishes. I felt as if I were going mad. ‘And you!’ I exclaimed,
‘you! What will become of you?’ He shook his head, and with a look
of anguish, replied: ‘Me! What does it matter about me! I am ruined
undoubtedly. So much the better. Nothing matters now that I must live
apart from you’! Ah! he knew my heart. He knew his power! Swayed by an
emotion which was madness rather than heroism, I sprang toward him, and
clasped him in my arms: ‘Then I, too, am lost!’ I cried. ‘Since fate
united us, nothing but death shall separate us. I love you. I am your
accomplice. Let the curse fall upon both!’
“A keen observer would certainly have detected a gleam of fiendish joy
in his eyes. But he protested, or pretended to protest. With feigned
energy he refused to accept such a sacrifice. He could not link my
destiny to his, for misery had ever been his lot; and now that this last
and most terrible misfortune had overtaken him, he was more than ever
convinced that there was a curse hanging over him! He would not suffer
me to bring misery upon myself, and eternal remorse upon him. But the
more he repulsed me, the more obstinately I clung to him. The more
forcibly he showed the horror of the sacrifice, the more I was convinced
that my honor compelled me to make it. So at last he yielded, or seemed
to yield, with transports of gratitude and love. ‘Well! yes, I accept
your sacrifice, my darling!’ he exclaimed. ‘I accept it; and before the
God who is looking down upon us, I swear that I will do all that is in
human power to repay such sublime and marvellous devotion.’ And, bending
over me, he printed a kiss upon my forehead. ‘But we must fly!’ he
resumed, quickly. ‘I have my happiness to defend now! I will not suffer
any one to discover us and separate us now. We must start at once,
without losing a moment, and gain my native land, America. There, we
shall be safe. For rest assured they will search for us. Who knows but
even now the officers of the law are upon our track? Your family is
all-powerful--I am a mere nobody--we should be crushed if they discover
us. They would bury you in a gloomy cloister, and I should be tried as
a common thief, or as a vile assassin.’ My only answer was: ‘Let us go!
Let us go at once!’
“It had been easy for him to foresee what the result of this interview
would be. A vehicle was indeed waiting at the door, but not for
the purpose of conveying me to the Hotel de Chalusse--as was proved
conclusively by the fact that his trunks were already strapped upon it.
Besides, the coachman must have received his instructions in advance for
he drove us straight to the Havre Railway station without a word. It
was not until some months afterward that these trifles, which entirely
escaped my notice at the time, opened my eyes to the truth. When we
reached the station we found a train ready to start, and we took our
places in it. I tried to quiet my conscience with miserable sophistries.
Remembering that God has said to woman: To follow thy husband thou shalt
abandon all else, native land, paternal home, parents and friends, I
told myself that this was the husband whom my heart had instinctively
chosen, and that it was my duty to follow him and share his destiny. And
thus I fled with him, although I thought I left a corpse behind me--the
corpse of my only brother.”
M. Wilkie was actually so much interested that he forgot his anxiety
concerning his attitude, and no longer thought of M. de Coralth and the
Marquis de Valorsay. He even sprang up, and exclaimed: “Amazing!”
But Madame d’Argeles had already resumed: “Such was my great,
inexcusable, irreparable fault. I have told you the whole truth, without
trying either to conceal or justify anything. Listen to my chastisement!
On our arrival at Le Havre the next day, Arthur confessed that he was
greatly embarrassed financially. Owing to our precipitate flight, he had
not had time to realize the property he possessed--at least so he told
me--a banker, on whom he had depended, had moreover failed him, and he
had not sufficient money to pay our passage to New York. This amazed
me. My education had been absurd, like that of most young girls in
my station. I knew nothing of real life, of its requirements and
difficulties. I knew, of course, that there were rich people and poor
people, that money was a necessity, and that those who did not possess
it would stoop to any meanness to obtain it. But all this was not very
clear in my mind, and I never suspected that a few francs more or
less would be a matter of vital importance. So I was not in the least
prepared for the request to which this confession served as preface, and
Arthur Gordon was obliged to ask me point-blank if I did not happen to
have some money about me, or some jewelry which could be converted into
money. I gave him all I had, my purse containing a few louis, a ring and
a necklace, with a handsome diamond cross attached to it. However,
the total value was comparatively small, and such was Arthur’s
disappointment that he made a remark which frightened me even then,
though I did not fully understand its shameful meaning until afterward:
‘A woman who repairs to a rendezvous should always have all the
valuables she possesses about her. One never knows what may happen.’
“Want of money was keeping us prisoners at Le Havre, when Arthur Gordon
chanced to meet an old acquaintance, who was the captain of an American
sailing vessel. He confided his embarrassment to his friend, and the
latter, whose vessel was to sail at the end of the same week, kindly
offered us a free passage. The voyage was one long torture to me, for it
was then that I first served my apprenticeship in shame and disgrace.
By the captain’s offensive gallantry, the lower officers’ familiarity of
manner, and the sailors’ ironical glances whenever I appeared on deck, I
saw that my position was a secret for no one. Everybody knew that I was
the mistress and not the wife of the man whom I called my husband: and,
without being really conscious of it, perhaps, they made me cruelly
expiate my fault. Moreover, reason had regained its ascendency, my eyes
were gradually opening to the truth, and I was beginning to learn the
real character of the scoundrel for whom I had sacrificed all that makes
life desirable.
“Not that he had wholly ceased to practise dissimulation. But after the
evening meal he often lingered at table smoking and drinking with
his friend the captain, and when he joined me afterward, heated with
alcohol, he shocked me by advocating theories which were both novel
and repulsive to me. Once, after drinking more than usual, he entirely
forgot his assumed part, and revealed himself in his true character.
He declared he bitterly regretted that our love affair had ended so
disastrously. It was deplorable to think that so happily conceived and
so skilfully conducted a scheme should have terminated in bloodshed. And
the blow had fallen just as he fancied he had reached the goal; just as
he thought he would reap the reward of his labor. In a few weeks’ more
time he would undoubtedly have gained sufficient influence over me to
persuade me to elope with him. This would, of course, have caused a
great scandal; the next day there would have been a family conclave; a
compromise would have been effected, and finally, a marriage arranged
with a large dowry, to hush up the affair. ‘And I should now be a
rich man,’ he added, ‘a very rich man--I should be rolling through the
streets of Paris in my carriage, instead of being on board this cursed
ship, eating salt cod twice a day, and living on charity.’
“Ah! it was no longer possible to doubt. The truth was as clear as
daylight. I had never been loved, not even an hour, not even a moment.
The loving letters which had blinded me, the protestations of affection
which had deceived me, had been addressed to my father’s millions, not
to myself. And not unfrequently I saw Arthur Gordon’s face darken, as he
talked with evident anxiety about what he could do to earn a living for
himself and me in America. ‘I have had trouble enough to get on alone,’
he grumbled. ‘What will it be now? To burden myself with a penniless
wife! What egregious folly! And yet I couldn’t have acted differently--I
was compelled to do it.’ Why had he been compelled to do it? why had
he not acted differently?--that was what I vainly puzzled my brain
to explain. However, his gloomy fears of poverty were not realized. A
delightful surprise awaited him at New York. A relative had recently
died, leaving him a legacy of fifty thousand dollars--a small fortune.
I hoped that he would now cease his constant complaints, but he seemed
even more displeased than before. ‘Such is the irony of fate,’ he
repeated again and again. ‘With this money, I might easily have married
a wife worth a hundred thousand dollars, and then I should be rich at
last!’ After that, I had good reason to expect that I should soon be
forsaken--but no, shortly after our arrival, he married me. Had he done
so out of respect for his word? I believed so. But, alas! this marriage
was the result of calculation, like everything else he did.
“We were living in New York, when one evening he came home, looking very
pale and agitated. He had a French newspaper in his hand. ‘Read this,’
he said, handing it to me. I took the paper as he bade me, and read
that my brother had not been killed, that he was improving, and that
his recovery was now certain. And as I fell on my knees, bursting into
tears, and thanking God for freeing me from such terrible remorse, he
exclaimed: ‘We are in a nice fix! I advise you to congratulate yourself!
‘From that time forward, I noticed he displayed the feverish anxiety of
a man who feels that he is constantly threatened with some great danger.
A few days afterward, he said to me: ‘I cannot endure this! Have our
trunks ready to-morrow, and we will start South. Instead of calling
ourselves Gordon, we’ll travel under the name of Grant.’ I did not
venture to question him. He had quite mastered me by his cruel tyranny,
and I was accustomed to obey him like a slave in terror of the lash.
However, during our long journey, I learned the cause of our flight and
change of name.
“‘Your brother, d--n him,’ he said, one day, ‘is hunting for me
everywhere! He wants to kill me or to deliver me up to justice, I don’t
know which. He pretends that I tried to murder him!’ It was strange;
but Arthur Gordon, who was bravery personified, and who exposed himself
again and again to the most frightful dangers, felt a wild, unreasoning,
inconceivable fear of my brother. It was this dread that had decided
him to burden himself with me. He feared that if he left me, lying
unconscious beside my brother’s lifeless form, I might on recovering my
senses reveal the truth, and unconsciously act as his accuser. You were
born in Richmond, Wilkie, where we remained nearly a month, during which
time I saw but little of your father. He had formed the acquaintance
of several rich planters, and spent his time hunting and gambling with
them. Unfortunately, fifty thousand dollars could not last long at this
rate; and, in spite of his skill as a gambler, he returned home one
morning ruined. A fortnight later when he had sold our effects, and
borrowed all the money he could, we embarked again for France. It
was not until we reached Paris that I discovered the reasons that had
influenced him in returning to Europe. He had heard of my father and
mother’s death, and intended to compel me to claim my share of the
property. He dared not appear in person on account of my brother. At
last the hour of my vengeance had arrived; for I had taken a solemn oath
that this scoundrel who had ruined me should never enjoy the fortune
which had been his only object in seducing me. I had sworn to die inch
by inch and by the most frightful tortures rather than give him one
penny of the Chalusse millions. And I kept my word.
“When I told him that I was resolved not to assert my rights, he seemed
utterly confounded. He could not understand how the down-trodden slave
dared to revolt against him. And when he found that my decision was
irrevocable, I thought he would have an attack of apoplexy. It made him
wild with rage to think that he was only separated from this immense
fortune--the dream of his life--by a single word of mine, and to find
that he had not the power to extort that word from me. Then began a
struggle between us, which became more and more frightful as the
money he possessed gradually dwindled away. But it was in vain that he
resorted to brutal treatment; in vain that he struck me, tortured me,
and dragged me about the floor by the hair of my head! The thought that
I was avenged, that his sufferings equalled mine, increased my courage
a hundredfold, and made me almost insensible to physical pain. He
would certainly have been the first to grow weary of the struggle, if
a fiendish plan had not occurred to him. He said to himself that if
he could not conquer the wife, he COULD conquer the mother and he
threatened to turn his brutality to you, Wilkie. To save you--for I knew
what he was capable of--I pretended to waver, and I asked twenty-four
hours for reflection. He granted them. But the next day I left him
forever, flying from him with you in my arms.”
M. Wilkie turned white, and a cold chill crept up his spine. However,
it was not pity for his mother’s sufferings, nor shame for his father’s
infamy that agitated him, but ever the same terrible fear of incurring
the enmity of this dangerous coveter of the Chalusse millions. Would
he be able to hold his father at bay even with the assistance of M. de
Coralth and the Marquis de Valorsay? A thousand questions rose to his
lips, for he was eager to hear the particulars of his mother’s flight;
but Madame d’Argeles hurried on with her story as if she feared her
strength would fail before she reached the end.
“I was alone with you, Wilkie, in this great city,” she resumed. “A
hundred francs was all that I possessed. My first care was to find a
place of shelter. For sixteen francs a month, which I was compelled to
pay in advance, I found a small, meagrely furnished room in the Faubourg
Saint Martin. It was badly ventilated and miserably lighted, but still
it was shelter. I said to myself that we could live there together by my
work, Wilkie. I was a proficient in feminine accomplishments; I was an
excellent musician, and I thought I should have no difficulty in earning
the four or five francs a day which I considered absolutely necessary
for our subsistence. Alas! I discovered only too soon what chimerical
hopes I had cherished. To give music lessons it is necessary to obtain
pupils. Where should I find them? I had no one to recommend me, and I
scarcely dared show myself in the streets, so great was my fear that
your father would discover our hiding-place. At last, I decided to try
to find some employment in needlework, and timidly offered my services
at several shops. Alas! it is only those who have gone about from door
to door soliciting work who know the misery of the thing. To ask alms
would be scarcely more humiliating. People sneered at me, and replied
(when they deigned to reply at all) that ‘there was no business doing,
and they had all the help they wanted.’ My evident inexperience was
probably the cause of many of these refusals, as well as my attire, for
I still had the appearance of being a rich woman. Who knows what they
took me for? Still the thought of you sustained me, Wilkie, and nothing
daunted me.
“I finally succeeded in obtaining some bands of muslin to embroider, and
some pieces of tapestry work to fill in. Unremunerative employment, no
doubt, especially to one ignorant of the art of working quickly, rather
than well. By rising with daylight, and working until late at night,
I scarcely succeeded in earning twenty sous a day. And it was not long
before even this scanty resource failed me. Winter came, and the cold
weather with it. One morning I changed my last five-franc piece--it
lasted us a week. Then I pawned and sold everything that was not
absolutely indispensable until nothing was left me but my patched dress
and a single skirt. And soon an evening came when the owner of our
miserable den turned us into the street because I could no longer pay
the rent.
“This was the final blow! I tottered away, clinging to the walls for
support; too weak from lack of food to carry you. The rain was falling,
and chilled us to the bones. You were crying bitterly. And all that
night and all the next day, aimless and hopeless, we wandered about the
streets. I must either die of want or return to your father. I preferred
death. Toward evening--instinct having led me to the Seine--I sat down
on one of the stone benches of the Point-Neuf, holding you on my knees
and watching the flow of the dark river below. There was a strange
fascination--a promise of peace in its depths--that impelled me almost
irresistibly to plunge into the flood. If I had been alone in the world,
I should not have stopped to consider a second, but on your account,
Wilkie, I hesitated.”
Moved by the thought of the danger he had escaped, M. Wilkie shuddered.
“B-r-r-r!” he growled. “You did well to hesitate.”
She did not even hear him, but continued: “I at last decided that it
was best to put an end to this misery, and rising with difficulty, I was
approaching the parapet, when a gruff voice beside us exclaimed: ‘What
are you doing there?’ I turned, thinking some police officer had spoken,
but I was mistaken. By the light of the street lamp, I perceived a man
who looked some thirty years of age, and had a frank and rather genial
face. Why this stranger instantly inspired me with unlimited confidence
I don’t know. Perhaps it was an unconscious horror of death that made me
long for any token of human sympathy. However it may have been, I told
him my story, but not without changing the names, and omitting many
particulars. He had taken a seat beside me on the bench, and I saw big
tears roll down his cheeks as I proceeded with my narrative. ‘It is
ever so! it is ever so!’ he muttered. ‘To love is to incur the risk of
martyrdom. It is to offer one’s self as a victim to every perfidy, to
the basest treason and ingratitude.’ The man who spoke in this fashion
was Baron Trigault. He did not allow me to finish my story. ‘Enough!’ he
suddenly exclaimed, ‘follow me!’ A cab was passing, he made us get in,
and an hour later we were in a comfortable room, beside a blazing fire,
with a generously spread table before us. The next day, moreover, we
were installed in a pleasant home. Alas! why wasn’t the baron generous
to the last? You were saved, Wilkie, but at what a price!”
She paused for a moment, her face redder than fire; but soon mastering
her agitation, she resumed: “There was one great cause of dissension
between the baron and myself. I wished you to be educated, Wilkie,
like the son of a noble family, while he desired you should receive the
practical training suited to a youth who would have to make his own way
in the world, and win position, fortune, and even name for himself.
Ah! he was a thousand times right, as events have since proved only too
well! But maternal love blinded me, and, after an angry discussion,
he went away, declaring he would not see me again until I became more
reasonable. He thought that reflection would cure me of my folly.
Unfortunately, he was not acquainted with the fatal obstinacy which is
the distinguishing characteristic of the Chalusse family. While I was
wondering how I could find the means of carrying the plans I had formed
for you into execution, two of the baron’s acquaintances presented
themselves, with the following proposal: Aware of the enormous profits
derived by clandestine gambling dens, they had conceived the project of
opening a public establishment on a large scale, where any Parisian or
foreigner, if he seemed to be a gentleman, and possessed of means,
would find no difficulty in obtaining admission. By taking certain
precautions, and by establishing this gambling den in a private
drawing-room, they believed the scheme practicable, and came to suggest
that I should keep the drawing-room in question, and be their partner
in the enterprise. Scarcely knowing what I pledged myself to, I accepted
their offer, influenced--I should rather say decided--by the
exalted positions which both these gentlemen occupied, by the public
consideration they enjoyed, and the honored names they bore. And that
same week this house was rented and furnished, and I was installed in it
under the name of Lia d’Argeles.
“But this was not all. There still remained the task of creating
for myself one of those scandalous reputations that attract public
attention. This proved an easy task, thanks to the assistance of my
silent partners, and the innocent simplicity of several of their friends
and certain journalists. As for myself, I did my best to insure the
success of the horrible farce which was to lend infamous notoriety
to the name of Lia d’Argeles. I had magnificent equipages and superb
dresses, and I made myself conspicuous at the theatres and all places of
public resort. As is generally the case when one is acting contrary to
conscience, I called the most absurd sophistries to my assistance. I
tried to convince myself that appearances are nothing, that reality is
everything, and that it did not matter if I were known as a courtesan
since rumor lied, and my life WAS really chaste. When the baron hastened
to me and tried to rescue me from the abyss into which I had flung
myself; it was too late. I had discovered that the business would prove
successful; and for your sake, I longed for money as passionately, as
madly, as any miser. Last year my gaming-room yielded more than one
hundred and fifty thousand francs clear profit, and I received as my
share the thirty-five thousand francs which you squandered. Now you know
me as I really am. My associates, my partners, the men whose secret
I have faithfully kept, walk the streets with their heads erect. They
boast of their unsullied honor, and they are respected by every one.
Such is the truth, and I have no reason to make their disgrace known.
Besides, if I proclaimed it from the house-tops, no one would believe
me. But you are my son, and I owe you the truth, the whole truth!”
In any age but the present, Madame d’Argeles’s story would have seemed
absolutely incredible. Nowadays, however, such episodes are by no means
rare. Two men--two men of exalted rank and highly respected, to use a
common expression--associate in opening a gaming-house under the very
eyes of the police, and in coining money out of a woman’s supposed
disgrace. ‘Tis after all but an everyday occurrence.
The unhappy woman had told her story with apparent coldness, and yet,
in her secret heart, she perhaps hoped that by disclosing her terrible
sacrifice and long martyrdom, she would draw a burst of gratitude and
tenderness from her son, calculated to repay her for all her sufferings.
But the hope was vain. It would have been easier to draw water from a
solid rock than to, extract a sympathetic tear from Wilkie’s eyes.
He was only alive to the practical side of this narrative, and what
impressed him most was the impudent assurance of Madame d’Argeles’s
business associates. “Not a bad idea; not bad at all,” he exclaimed.
And, boiling over with curiosity, he continued: “I would give something
handsome to know those men’s names. Really you ought to tell me. It
would be worth one’s while to know.”
Any other person than this interesting young man would have been
crushed by the look his mother gave him--a look embodying the deepest
disappointment and contempt. “I think you must be mad,” she remarked
coldly. And as he sprang up, astonished that any one should doubt his
abundant supply of good sense, “Let us put an end to this,” she sternly
added.
Thereupon she hastily went into the adjoining room, reappearing a moment
later with a roll of papers in her hand. “Here,” she remarked, “is
my marriage certificate, your certificate of birth, and a copy of my
renunciation--a perfectly valid document, since the court has authorized
it, owing to my husband’s absence. All these proofs I am ready and
willing to place at your disposal, but on one condition.”
This last word fell like a cold shower-bath upon Wilkie’s exultant joy.
“What is this condition?” he anxiously inquired.
“It is that you should sign this deed, which has been drawn up by my
notary--a deed by which you pledge yourself to hand me the sum of two
million francs on the day you come into possession of the Chalusse
property.”
Two millions! The immensity of the sum struck Wilkie dumb with
consternation. Nor did he forget that he would be compelled to give
the Viscount de Coralth the large reward he had promised him--a reward
promised in writing, unfortunately. “I shall have nothing left,” he
began, piteously.
But with a disdainful gesture Madame d’Argeles interrupted him. “Set
your mind at rest,” said she. “You will still be immensely rich. All the
estimates which have been made are far below the mark. When I was a girl
I often heard my father say that his income amounted to more than eight
hundred thousand francs a year. My brother inherited the whole property,
and I would be willing to swear that he never spent more than half of
his income.”
Wilkie’s nerves had never been subjected to so severe a shock. He
tottered and his brain whirled. “Oh! oh!” he stammered. This was all he
could say.
“Only I must warn you of a more than probable deception,” pursued Madame
d’Argeles. “As my brother was firmly resolved to deprive me even of
my rightful portion of the estate, he concealed his fortune in every
possible way. It will undoubtedly require considerable time and trouble
to gain possession of the whole. However I know a man, formerly the
Count de Chalusse’s confidential agent, who might aid you in this task.”
“And this man’s name?”
“Is Isidore Fortunat. I saved his card for you. Here it is.”
M. Wilkie took it up, placed it carefully in his pocket, and then
exclaimed: “That being the case, I consent to sign, but after this
you need not complain. Two millions at five per cent. ought to greatly
alleviate one’s sufferings.”
Madame d’Argeles did not deign to notice this delicate irony. “I will
tell you in advance to what purpose I intend to apply this sum,” she
said.
“Ah!”
“I intend one of these two millions to serve as the dowry of a young
girl who would have been the Count de Chalusse’s sole legatee, if his
death had not been so sudden and so unexpected.”
“And the other one?”
“The other I intend to invest for you in such a way that you can only
touch the interest of it, so that you will not want for bread after you
have squandered your inheritance, even to the very last penny.”
This wise precaution could not fail to shock such a brilliant young man
as M. Wilkie. “Do you take me for a fool?” he exclaimed. “I may appear
very generous, but I am shrewd enough, never you fear.”
“Sign,” interrupted Madame d’Argeles, coldly.
But he attempted to prove that he was no fool by reading and rereading
the contract before he would consent to append his name to it. At last,
however, he did so, and stowed away the proofs which insured him the
much-coveted property.
“Now,” said Madame d’Argeles, “I have one request to make of you.
Whenever your father makes his appearance and lays claim to this
fortune, I entreat you to avoid a lawsuit, which would only make your
mother’s shame and the disgrace attached to the hitherto stainless name
of Chalusse still more widely known. Compromise with him. You will be
rich enough to satisfy his greed without feeling it.”
M. Wilkie remained silent for a moment, as if he were deliberating upon
the course he ought to pursue. “If my father is reasonable, I will be
the same,” he said at last. “I will choose as an arbiter between us one
of my friends--a man who acts on the square, like myself--the Marquis de
Valorsay.”
“My God! do you know him?”
“He is one of my most intimate friends.”
Madame d’Argeles had become very pale. “Wretched boy!” she exclaimed.
“You don’t know that it’s the marquis----” She paused abruptly. One word
more and she would have betrayed Pascal Ferailleur’s secret plans, with
which she had been made acquainted by Baron Trigault. Had she a right
to do this, even to put her son on his guard against a man whom she
considered the greatest villain in the world?
“Well?” insisted M. Wilkie, in surprise.
But Madame d’Argeles had recovered her self-possession. “I only wished
to warn you against too close a connection with the Marquis de Valorsay.
He has an excellent position in society, but yours will be far more
brilliant. His star is on the wane; yours is just rising. All that he is
regretting, you have a right to hope for. Perhaps even now he is jealous
of you, and wishes to persuade you to take some false step.”
“Ah! you little know him!”
“I have warned you.”
M. Wilkie took up his hat, but, though he was longing to depart,
embarrassment kept him to the spot. He vaguely felt that he ought not to
leave his mother in this style. “I hope I shall soon have some good news
to bring you,” he began.
“Before night I shall have left this house,” she answered.
“Of course. But you are going to give me your new address.”
“No.”
“What?--No!”
She shook her head sadly, and in a scarcely audible voice responded: “It
is not likely that we shall meet again.”
“And the two millions that I am to turn over to you?”
“Mr. Patterson will collect the money. As for me, say to yourself
that I’m dead. You have broken the only link that bound me to life, by
proving the futility of the most terrible sacrifices. However, I am a
mother, and I forgive you.” Then as he did not move, and as she felt
that her strength was deserting her, she dragged herself from the room,
murmuring, “Farewell!”