M. Pascal lived alone on the ground floor of a house situated in the new
quarter St. Georges, and opening on the street. A private entrance was
reserved for the counting-room of the financier, which was managed by a
confidential clerk, assisted by a young deputy who attended to the
writing. Here M. Pascal continued to make very valuable discounts.
The principal entrance of his dwelling, preceded by a vestibule, led to
an antechamber and other rooms. This apartment, without any luxury, was,
nevertheless, comfortable; a valet for the interior and a lad of fifteen
years for errands sufficed for the service of M. Pascal, a man who never
compensated for his immense wealth by abundant expenditure, or
indulgence in those luxuries which support labour and art.
This morning, at half-past nine, M. Pascal, dressed in his morning gown,
was walking up and down the floor of his office with great agitation;
his night had been one of long and feverish sleeplessness. A well-paid
spy, employed for two days to observe what was taking place in the home
of Mlle. Antonine, had reported to M. Pascal the visit of the prince to
President Hubert.
This prompt and significant step left no doubt in the mind of the
financier concerning his own plans in connection with the young girl;
this cruel disappointment was complicated with other resentments: first,
rage at the recognition of the truth that, notwithstanding his millions,
his will, obstinate as it was, was obliged to submit before
impossibilities, all the more painful because he had believed himself
at the very door of success. That was not all. If he had no love for
Antonine, in the noblest acceptation of the word, he did feel for this
child, so lovely and charming, an ardent passion, ephemeral, perhaps,
but of extreme intensity as long as it lasted; and so, with a sort of
ferocious egotism, he reasoned with himself:
"I would like to possess that little girl at any price. I will marry her
if I must, and when I am tired of her an annuity of twelve or fifteen
thousand francs will rid me of her. I am rich enough to gratify myself
in that caprice."
All this, however detestable, was, from the standpoint of society as it
existed, perfectly possible and legal, and it was, we repeat, that
possibility which rendered his want of success so bitter to M. Pascal.
Another thing still: what he felt for Antonine being, after all, only a
sensual desire, did not tolerate the exclusive preference of pure love;
so that, in his passionate longing for this young girl of innocent and
virginal beauty, he had not been less strongly impressed by the
provoking charms of Madeleine, and, by a refinement of sensuality which
aggravated his torture, M. Pascal had all night evoked, by his inflamed
imagination, the contrasting loveliness of these two beautiful
creatures.
And at this hour in which we see him M. Pascal was a prey to the same
torment.
"Curses on me!" said he, promenading with a feverish and unequal step.
"Why did I ever see that damned blonde woman with the black eyebrows,
blue eyes, pale complexion, impudent face, and provoking figure? She
seems to me more attractive even than that little girl hardly grown.
Curses on me! will these two faces always pursue me? or, rather, will my
disordered mind always evoke them? Misery! have I not been fool enough,
brute enough? I do not know how, but the thing was so easy, so
practical, that is what makes me furious. Surely, rich as I am, I ought
to be able to marry this little girl and have the other for a mistress,
because I do not doubt she is the mistress of that archduke, confound
him! and I defy him to give her as much money as I would have given her.
Yes, yes," continued he, clenching his fists in excess of rage, "I am
becoming a fool, a furious fool, but I did not ask to have the Empress
of Russia for a mistress, or to marry the daughter of the Queen of
England or any other queen. What did I wish? To marry a little citizen,
niece of an old magistrate who has not a cent. Are there not thousands
of such marriages? And I could not succeed! and I have thirty millions!
Misery! my fortune is to fine purpose, not to take away a mistress from
this automaton German prince! After all, she only loves him for his
money. He is nearly forty; he is as proud as a peacock, stupid as a
goose, and cold as an icicle. I am younger than he, not any uglier, and
if he is an archduke, am I not a millionaire? And then I have the
advantage of having put him at my feet, for this accursed and insolent
woman heard me treat her imbecile prince as a poor creature; she
reproached him before me for enduring the humiliations I heaped upon
him. She ought to despise that man, and, like all women of her kind,
have a weakness for a rough and energetic man who put this crowned,
lanky fellow at his feet. She treated me cruelly before him, that is
true, but it was to flatter him; we all understand those profligates.
Oh, if I could only take this woman away from him, what a triumph! what
a revenge! what a consolation for my lost marriage! Consolation? No; for
one of these women could not make me forget the other. I do not know if
it is my age, but I have never known such tenacity of desire as I feel
for this little girl. But no matter, if I could only take his mistress
away from this prince, half of my will would be accomplished; and who
knows? This woman is acquainted with Antonine; she seems to have
influence over her. Yes, who knows, if once mine, I would not be able by
means of money to decide her to--Misery!" cried Pascal, with an
explosion of ferocious joy, "what a triumph, to take a wife from this
blond youth, and his beautiful mistress from the archduke! If my fortune
can do it, it shall be done!"
And our hero, holding up his head, seemed to develop into an attitude of
imperious will, while his features took on an expression of satanic joy.
"Come, come," said he, holding his head high; "if I have talked like a
fool and an ingrate, money is a beautiful thing." Then stopping to
reflect awhile he continued:
"Let us see now,--calmness by all means,--we will undertake the thing
well and slowly. My spy will know this evening where the archduke's
mistress lives, at least if she lives in the palace, which is not
probable. Let me find out where she lives," added he, stroking his chin
with a meditative air. "Zounds, I will send to her that old milliner,
Madame Doucet. It is the old way and always the best with these
actresses and such women, for, after all, the mistress of a prince is no
better. She came, her head uncovered, to throw herself unceremoniously
into our conversation; she had no discretion to protect. So I cannot
have a better go-between, a more suitable one, than old Mother Doucet. I
will write to her at once."
M. Pascal was occupied in writing at his desk when his valet entered.
"What is it?" asked the financier, abruptly. "I did not ring."
"Monsieur, it is a lady."
"I have no time."
"She has come for a letter of credit."
"Let her go to the counting-room."
"This lady wishes to speak to M. Pascal."
"Impossible. Let her go to the counting-room."
The valet went out.
Pascal continued to write, but at the end of a few moments the servant
returned.
"When will you finish? What is it now?"
"Monsieur, this lady who--"
"Ah, so you are making a jest, are you? I told you to send her to the
counting-room!"
"This lady has given me a card and asked me to tell monsieur to read
what she has just written at the bottom."
"Well, hand it here. It is insupportable!" said Pascal taking the card,
where he read the following:
* * * * *
"_The Marquise de Miranda._"
* * * * *
Below the name was written with a pencil:
* * * * *
"She had the honour of meeting M. Pascal yesterday at the
Élysée-Bourbon, with his Highness, the Archduke Leopold."
* * * * *
If a thunderbolt had fallen at the feet of M. Pascal he could not have
been more astonished. He could not believe his eyes, and read the card a
second time soliloquising:
"The Marquise de Miranda! She is a marquise, then? Bah! she is a
marquise as Lola Montès is a countess--petticoat nobility; but at any
rate it is she. She here! in my house at the very moment I was taxing my
wits to contrive a meeting with her. Ah, Pascal, my friend Pascal, your
star of gold, for a moment hidden, shines at last in all its brilliancy.
And she comes here under the pretext of a letter of credit. Come, come,
Pascal, my friend, keep calm; one does not find such an opportunity
twice in his life. Think now, if you are sly, you can take the mistress
of the prince and the wife of the blond youth in the same net. Ah, how
my heart beats! I am sure I most look pale."
"Monsieur, what shall I answer this lady?" asked the valet, astonished
at the prolonged silence of his master.
"One minute, you rascal; wait my orders," replied Pascal, abruptly.
"Come, keep calm, keep calm," thought he to himself. "Excitement now
would lose all, would paralyse my plans. It is a terrible part to play,
but having such a fine game at hand, I believe I would blow my brains
out with rage if, through awkwardness now, I should lose it."
After another silence, during which he succeeded in mastering his
agitation, he said to himself:
"I am calm now. Let her come, I can play a sure game." Then he said
aloud to his valet:
"Show the lady in."
The servant went out and soon returned to open the door and announce,
"Madame the Marquise de Miranda."
Madeleine, contrary to her custom, was dressed, as she had said to the
prince, no longer like a grandmother, but with a dainty elegance which
rendered her beauty still more irresistible. A Pamela hat of rice straw,
ornamented with ears of corn mingled with corn-flowers, relieved and
revealed her face and neck; a new gown of white muslin, also strewn with
corn-flowers, delineated the outlines of her incomparable figure, the
finished type of refined elegance, the voluptuous flexibility
characteristic of Mexican Creoles, while her gauze scarf rose and fell
in gentle undulations with the tranquil breathing of her marble bosom.