THE DUCHESS DE LUCENAY.
Madame de Lucenay slowly approached the desk, in an agitated manner;
he advanced to meet her.
"Who are you, madame, and what do you want with me?" said the notary,
roughly, whose temper, already fretted by the threat of Sarah, was
exasperated at the suspicions of Robert. Besides, the duchess was so
modestly dressed, that the notary saw no reason why he should be civil
to her. As she hesitated to speak, he said, even more harshly, "Will
you explain yourself, madame?"
"Sir," said she, in a trembling voice, trying to conceal her face
under the folds of her veil, "Sir, can one confide a secret to you of
the highest importance?"
"Anything can be confided to me, madame, but I must see and know to
whom I speak."
"That, perhaps, is not necessary. I know that you are honor and
loyalty itself."
"Just so, madame, just so; there is some one there waiting. Who are
you?"
"My name is of no importance, sir. One of my friends--of my relations--
has just left you."
"His name?"
"M. Floreston de Saint Remy."
"Ah!" said the notary, casting on the duchess an inquisitive and
searching glance; then he resumed: "Well, madame!"
"M. de Saint Remy has told me everything, sir."
"What did he tell you?"
"All!"
"But what did he say?"
"You know well."
"I know many things about M. de Saint Remy."
"Alas! sir, a terrible thing."
"I know a great many terrible things about M. de Saint Remy."
"Ah! sir, he told me truly--you are without pity."
"For cheats and forgers like him, yes, I am without pity. Is Saint
Remy your relation? Instead of confessing it, you ought to blush. Do
you come here to weep, to soften me? It is useless; without saying
that you are performing a wretched part for an honest woman, if you
are one."
This brutal insolence was revolting to the pride and patrician blood
of the duchess. She drew herself up, threw her veil back, and with a
proud look, and a firm, imperious voice, she said, "Sir, I am the
Duchess of Lucenay."
This woman assumed so haughty an air, her appearance became so
imposing, that the notary, overcome, charmed, fell back astonished;
took off, mechanically, his black silk cap, and saluted her
profoundly.
Nothing could be, indeed, more graceful and more majestic than the
face and bearing of Madame de Lucenay; yet she was then over thirty
years of age, with a pale face, appearing slightly fatigued; but she
had large sparkling brown eyes, splendid black hair, a fine arched
nose, a proud and ruby lip, dazzling complexion, very white teeth,
tall and slender figure, a form like a "goddess on the clouds," as the
immortal St. Simon says.
She had entered the notary's as a timid woman; all at once she showed
herself a grand, proud, and irritated lady. Never had Jacques Ferrand
in his life met with a woman of so much insolent beauty, at once so
bold and so noble. Although old, ugly, mean, and sordid, Jacques
Ferrand was as capable as any one else of appreciating the style of
beauty of Madame de Lucenay. His hatred and his rage against Saint
Remy augmented with his admiration of the charming duchess. He thought
to himself that this gentleman forger, who had almost kneeled before
him, inspired such love in this grand lady, that she risked a step
which might ruin her. At these thoughts the notary felt his audacity,
which for a moment was paralyzed, restored. Hatred, envy, a kind of
burning, savage resentment kindled in his looks, on his forehead, and
his cheeks--the most shameful and wicked passions. Seeing Madame de
Lucenay on the point of commencing a conversation so delicate, he
expected on her part some turnings, expedients. What was his surprise!
She spoke to him with as much assurance and pride as if it was
concerning the most natural thing in the world, and as if before a man
of his species, she had no thought of the reserve and fitness which
she had certainly shown to her equals. In fact, the gross insolence of
the notary, in wounding her to the quick, had forced Madame de
Lucenay, to quit the humble and imploring part that she had at first
assumed with much trouble; returned to her own dignity, she believed
it to be beneath her to descend to the least concealment with this
scribbler of deeds.
"Sir notary," said the duchess, resolutely, to Jacques Ferrand, "M. de
Saint Remy is one of my friends; he has confided to me the
embarrassing situation in which he finds himself, from the
inconvenience of a double piece of villainy of which he is the victim.
Everything can be managed with money. How much is necessary to
terminate these miserable, shuffling tricks?"
Jacques Ferrand was completely astounded with this cavalier and
deliberate manner of opening the business.
"They ask a hundred thousand francs," answered he, as soon as he had
recovered from his astonishment.
"You shall have your hundred thousand francs; and you will send at
once the bad papers to M. de Saint Remy."
"Where are the hundred thousand francs, your grace?"
"Did I not tell you that you should have them, sir?"
"They must be had to-morrow, before noon, madame; otherwise a
complaint of forgery will be made."
"Well, give this amount; I will be accountable for it; as for you I
will pay you well."
"But, madame, it is impossible."
"You will not tell me, I hope, that a notary like you cannot procure a
hundred thousand francs any day?"
"On what security, madame?"
"What does that mean? Explain yourself."
"Who is to be answerable for this amount?" "I."
"But, madame--"
"Is it necessary for me to tell you that I have property yielding
eighty thousand livres rent, at four leagues from Paris? That will
suffice, I believe, for that which you call guarantee?"
"Yes, madame, by means of a mortgage."
"What does that mean again? Some formality, doubtless. Make it, sir,
make it."
"Such a deed cannot be drawn up under two weeks, and it needs the
consent of your husband, madame."
"But this is my property, mine--mine alone," said the duchess,
impatiently.
"No matter, madame; you are in the power of your husband, and a deed
of mortgage is very long and very minute."
"But once more, sir, you cannot make me believe that it so difficult
to procure one hundred thousand francs in two hours."
"Then, madame, apply to your own notary, to your steward; with me, it
is impossible."
"I have reasons, sir, to keep this a secret," said Madame de Lucenay,
heartily. "You know the rogues who wish to rob M. de Saint Remy; it is
on this account I address myself to you."
"Your confidence infinitely honors me, madame; but I cannot do what
you ask."
"You have not this amount?"
"I have much more than this sum in bank bills, or in gold--here--here,
in my safe."
"Oh, what a waste of words! Is it my signature you wish? I give it
you; let us finish."
"In admitting, madame, that you are the Duchess of Lucenay."
"Come in an hour's time to the Hôtel de Lucenay, sir: I will sign at
home what is necessary to be signed."
"Will his grace sign also?"
"I do not understand you, sir."
"Your signature alone is of no value to me, madame."
Jacques Ferrand enjoyed with cruel delight the impatience of the
duchess, who, under the appearance of _sang froid_ and disdain,
concealed the most painful anguish. She was for a moment at the end of
her resources. The evening previous, her jeweler had advanced her a
considerable sum on her diamonds, some of which were confided to
Morel, the artisan. This sum had served to pay the bills of Saint
Remy, and disarm other creditors; Dubreul, the farmer at Arnouville,
was more than a year in advance, and besides, time was wanting;
unfortunately for Madame de Lucenay, two of her friends, to whom she
could have had recourse in an extreme situation, were then absent from
Paris. In her eyes, the viscount was innocent; he had told her, and
she believed it, that he was the dupe of two rogues; but her situation
was none the less terrible. He accused, he dragged to prison! Then,
even if he should take to flight would his name be any less dishonored
by such a suspicion?
"Since you possess the sum I ask for, sir, and my guarantee is
sufficient, why do you refuse me?"
"Because men have their caprices as well as women, madame."
"But what is this caprice, which makes you act thus against your
interest? for, I repeat to you, make your conditions; whatever they
may be, I accept them!"
"Your grace will accept all the conditions?" said the notary, with a
singular expression.
"All! two, three, four thousand francs--more, if you will; for I tell
you," added the duchess, frankly, in a tone almost affectionate, "I
have no resource but in you, sir--in you alone. It will be impossible
for me to find elsewhere that which I ask you for to-morrow; and it
must be--you understand--it must be absolutely. Thus, I repeat to you,
whatever condition you impose on me for this service, I accept."
In his blindness, he had interpreted in an unworthy manner the last
words of the duchess. It was an idea as stupid as it was infamous; but
we have already said that sometimes Jacques Ferrand became a tiger or
a wolf; then the beast overpowered the man. He arose quickly and
advanced toward the duchess. She, thunder-struck, rose at the same
moment and regarded him with astonishment.
"You will not regard the cost?" cried he, in a broken voice,
approaching still nearer to the duchess. "Well, this sum I will lend
to you on one condition, one single condition--and I swear that----"
He could not finish his declaration.
By one of those strange contradictions of human nature at the sight of
the hideous face of M. Ferrand, at the mere thought of what his
conditions might be, Madame de Lucenay, notwithstanding her
inquietudes and troubles, burst out in a laugh so frank, so loud, so
mirthful, that the notary recoiled confounded.
Without giving him time to utter a word, the duchess, abandoning
herself more and more to her hilarity, pulled down her veil, and
between two renewed bursts of laughter, said to the notary, who was
almost blind with rage, hatred, and fury, "I prefer, upon the whole,
to ask this favor openly of the duke." She then went out, continuing
to laugh so loudly that, though the door of the cabinet was closed,
the notary could still hear her.
Jacques Ferrand returned to his senses only to curse his imprudence
bitterly. Yet, by degrees he reassured himself in thinking that the
duchess could not speak of this interview without gravely compromising
herself.
Nevertheless, it was a bad day for him. He was buried in the blackest
thoughts, when the private door of his cabinet was opened, and Mrs.
Seraphin entered wildly.
"Oh, Ferrand!" cried she, clasping her hands, "you were right enough
in saying that we should some day regret having spared her life!"
"Whose?"
"That cursed little girl's."
"How?"
"A one-eyed woman, whom I did not know, to whom Tournemine delivered
the little girl to rid us of her, fourteen years ago, when we said she
was dead. Oh, who would have thought it!"
"Speak!"
"This woman has just been here; she was below just now. She told me
she knew it was I who gave up the child."
"Malediction! who could have told her? Tournemine is at the galleys."
"I denied everything, treating her as a liar. But she maintains that
she has found this child again, now grown up; that she knows where she
is, and that it only depends upon herself to discover everything."
"Is hell unchained against me to-day?" cried the notary, in a fit of
rage that rendered him hideous.
"What shall be said to the woman? What must we promise, to keep her
silent?"
"Does she look as if she were poor?"
"As I treated her like a beggar, she shook her reticule--there was
money in it."
"And she knows where this young girl is now?"
"She declares she knows."
"And she is the daughter of Countess M'Gregor!" said the notary to
himself, "who just now offered me so much to say that her child was
not dead! And the child lives. I can restore her to her! Yes; but this
false certificate of death--if any inquiry is made, I am lost! This
crime may put them on the scent of others." After a moment's thought,
he said to Madame Seraphin, "This one-eyed woman knows where the girl
is?"
"Yes."
"And this woman will return to-morrow?"
"To-morrow."
"Write to Polidori to be here to-night at nine o'clock."
"Do you mean to get rid of the girl and the old woman? It will be too
much for one time, Ferrand!"
"I tell you to write to Folidori to be here to-night by nine o'clock."
At the close of this day, Rudolph said to Murphy, who had not been
able to see the notary, "Let M. de Graun send a courtier off at once.
Cicily must be in Paris in six days."
"Once more that infernal she-devil! the execrable wife of poor David,
as handsome as she is infamous! For what good, your highness?"
"For what good, Sir Walter? In a month's time you may ask this
question of the notary, Jacques Ferrand."