by Eugène Sue
“Oh, thank you, Louis, thank you for sharing my feeling for my poor godmother, my second mother,” exclaimed Mariette, gratefully.
And the girl bent over Madame Lacombe to embrace her, but the invalid, pushing her away, said, angrily:
“Can’t you see that he is only amusing himself at our expense? Marry you? Pension me for life? Was such a thing ever heard of? He wants to get around me, that is all, and if he is rich, as he says he is, he will only fool you, and some fine day you’ll hear of his marriage with another girl, so I forbid him ever to set foot in this house again.”
“But you will at least allow me to present myself here in company with my father to make a formal request for Mariette’s hand in marriage?”
“Oh, yes, when you come for that purpose it will be when two Sundays come together,” answered the old woman, sneeringly.
“It will be to-morrow, Madame Lacombe.”
Then, turning to the young girl, he added:
“Farewell, Mariette. I shall come to-morrow, accompanied by my father.”
On hastening to his father’s office a few moments afterward, Louis found it closed, and ascertained upon inquiry that M. Richard had not been there at all that day. Amazed at this strange change in the old man’s regular habits, Louis hastened to the lodgings they shared in the Rue de Grenelle.
CHAPTER XI.
HIDDEN TREASURE.
AS LOUIS WAS passing the porter’s lodge, that functionary remarked to him:
“Your father went out a couple of hours ago, M. Louis. He left this note for you, which I was to take to the office where you are employed, if you did not return before two o’clock in the afternoon.”
The young man took the note. It read as follows:
“My Dear Son: — I am in receipt of a few lines from my friend, Ramon, who apprises me of his intention of leaving Dreux in company with his daughter almost simultaneously with his letter. He will, consequently, reach Paris to-day. As he has never been on a railway in his life, and is anxious to try that mode of travel, he will stop at Versailles, and he wishes us to meet him there. We can visit the palace, and afterward come on to Paris together by one of the late trains.
“I am to meet Ramon at the Hôtel du Reservoir. If we should leave there to visit the palace before you arrive, you can easily find us. It is understood that this meeting with Mlle. Ramon is not to compromise you in the least. I merely desire that you should take advantage of this opportunity to see the injustice of your prejudice against that young lady. Besides, whatever your plans may be, you must realise that it would be very discourteous to Ramon, one of my most particular friends, to fail to keep the appointment he has made with us. So come, my dear Louis, if only for appearance’s sake.
“From your father who loves you, and who has but one desire in the world, — your happiness.
“A. Richard.”
But Louis, in spite of the deference he usually showed to his father’s wishes, did not go to Versailles, feeling the utter uselessness of another meeting with Mlle. Ramon, as he was now even more than ever determined to marry Mariette.
The discovery of his father’s wealth made no change in the industrious habits of Louis, who hastened to the office to perform his usual duties, and apologise for his absence during the morning. A desire to atone for that, as well as the preparation of several important documents, kept him at the office much later than usual. As he was preparing to leave, one of his fellow clerks rushed in excitedly, exclaiming:
“Ah, my friend, such a terrible calamity has occurred!”
“What has happened?”
“There has been a frightful accident on the Versailles railroad.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Louis, turning pale.
“The Paris train was derailed, several cars were telescoped, they took fire, nearly all the passengers were either crushed or burned to death, and—”
Louis could wait to hear no more. Forgetting his hat entirely, he rushed out of the office, and, running to a neighbouring cab-stand, he sprang into one of the vehicles, saying to the coachman:
“Twenty francs pourboire if you take me to the Versailles railway station at the top of your speed, — and from there, but I don’t know yet, — only start, in Heaven’s name start at once!”
“On the right or left bank of the river, monsieur?” asked the coachman, gathering up the lines.
“What?”
“There are two roads, monsieur, one on the right, the other on the left bank of the river.”
“I want to go to the road where that terrible accident just occurred.”
“This is the first I have heard of it, monsieur.”
Louis drove back to the office to inquire of the fellow clerk who had brought the news, but, finding no one there, he ran out and was about to enter the cab again when the driver said:
“I have just learned that the accident was on the left line, monsieur.”
Louis accordingly ordered him to drive to that station. Here the sad news was confirmed. He also learned at what point on the line the accident had occurred. The main road and then a cross road enabled him to reach Bas Mendon about nightfall, and, guided by the blaze of the burning cars, he soon found the scene of the catastrophe.
The press of the time gave such graphic accounts of this frightful calamity that is not necessary to enter into further particulars; we will merely say that all night Louis searched in vain for his father among the charred, disfigured, and terribly mutilated bodies. About four o’clock in the morning the young man, overcome with grief and fatigue, returned to Paris, with a faint hope that his father might have been one of the few who had escaped injury, and that he might have returned home during the night.
The carriage had scarcely reached the house before Louis sprang out and ran to the porter’s lodge.
“Has my father returned?” he exclaimed.
“No, M. Louis.”
“Ah! there can be no further doubt, then,” murmured Louis. “Dead! dead!”
His knees gave way under him, and he was obliged to sit down. After resting a few moments in the room of the porter, who offered him the usual condolences, Louis went slowly up to his room.
On seeing the bare, poorly furnished room so long shared with a father who had loved him so devotedly, and who had just met with such a frightful death, Louis’s grief became uncontrollable, and he threw himself down on the bed, and, burying his face in his hands, wept long and bitterly.
About half an hour afterward he heard some one knock at the door, and the porter entered.
“What do you want?” asked Louis.
“I am sorry to disturb you at such a time, monsieur, but the coachman—”
“What coachman?” asked Louis, who in his grief had forgotten all about the carriage.
“Why, the coachman you kept all night. He says you promised him twenty francs drink money, which, with his charge for yesterday afternoon and last night, makes forty-nine francs in all that you owe him, and he wants his money.”
“Pay him and let him go!” responded the young man, with sorrowful impatience.
“But forty-nine francs is a large sum of money, and I haven’t that much, M. Louis.”
“Good Heavens! what is to be done?” exclaimed Louis, suddenly aroused by this demand of the material interests of life. “I have no money, either.”
And he spoke the truth, for he had never had at his disposal one-fourth of the amount that he owed the coachman.
“Then why did you keep the carriage so long, and above all, why did you promise the driver such a large pourboire? You must be mad! What are you going to do? Hadn’t you better see if there is any money in your father’s desk?”
These last words reminded Louis of a fact which, in his grief, he had entirely forgotten. His father was rich, and thinking that there might be some money concealed somewhere in the room, but not wishing to institute a search for it in the porter’s presence, he said:
“I may need the cab again this morning,
so tell the man to wait. If I am not down in half an hour, you can come back again, and I will give you the money.”
The porter went out, and the young man, thus left alone, experienced a feeling almost akin to remorse, as he thought of the search he was about to make, — a search which at such a moment seemed almost sacrilege, but necessity left him no choice.
The furniture of the room consisted of a writing-desk, a bureau, and a big chest similar to those seen in the houses of well-to-do peasants, and which was divided into two compartments, one above the other.
Louis examined the desk and bureau, but found no money in either of them. The keys of the chest were in their respective locks. He opened both compartments, but saw only a few articles of clothing. A long drawer separated the two compartments. In this drawer there was nothing except a few unimportant papers; but the idea that there might be some secret compartment occurred to Louis, so he took the drawer out of the chest, and proceeded to examine it. A careful search resulted in the discovery of a small brass knob in the left side of the drawer. He pressed this knob, and immediately saw the board which apparently formed the bottom of the drawer move slowly out, disclosing to view another opening below, about four inches deep, and extending the entire length of the drawer. This space was partitioned off into a number of small compartments, and each of these compartments was filled with piles of gold pieces of different denominations and nationalities. It was evident that each coin must have been carefully polished, for they all sparkled as brilliantly as if they had just come out of the mint.
Louis, in spite of his profound grief, stood a moment as if dazzled at the sight of this treasure, the value of which he knew must be very considerable. On recovering from his surprise a little, he noticed a paper in the first compartment, and, recognising his father’s handwriting, he read these words:
“This collection of gold pieces was begun on the 7th of September, 1803. Its market value is 287,634 francs, 10 centimes. See Clause IV. of my will, entrusted to the keeping of Master Marainville, No. 28 Rue St. Anne, with whom is likewise deposited all my title-deeds, mortgages, stocks, and bonds. See also the sealed envelope under the piles of Spanish double pistoles, in fifth compartment.”
Louis removed several piles of the large, heavy coins designated, and found an envelope sealed with black.
Upon this envelope was written in bold characters:
“To My Dearly-beloved Son.”
Just as Louis picked up the envelope some one knocked at the door, and remembering that he had told the porter to return, he had barely time to take out one of the coins and close the chest before that functionary entered.
The porter examined the coin which the young man handed to him with quite as much surprise as curiosity, exclaiming, with a wondering air:
“What a handsome gold piece! One would suppose it had just been coined. I never saw one like it before.”
“Go and pay the cabman with it!”
“But how much is a big gold piece like this worth, monsieur?”
“More than I owe. Go and get it changed, and pay the coachman.”
“Did your father leave many of these big gold pieces, M. Richard?” asked the porter, in a mysterious tone. “Who would have supposed that old man—”
“Go!” thundered Louis, exasperated at the heartlessness of the question, “go and pay the coachman, and don’t come back.”
The porter beat a hasty retreat, and Louis, to guard against further intrusion, locked the door and returned to the chest.
Before opening his father’s letter the young man, almost in spite of himself, gazed for a moment at the glittering treasure, but this time, though he reproached himself for the thought at such a moment, he remembered Mariette, and said to himself that one-fourth of the wealth that was lying there before him would assure his wife’s comfort and independence for life.
Then he tried to forget the cruel stratagem his father had resorted to, and even comforted himself with the thought that he should have secured the old man’s consent to his marriage with Mariette eventually, and that, though he might not have confessed to the wealth he possessed, he would at least have provided comfortably for the young couple.
The discovery of this treasure excited in Louis’s breast none of that avaricious or revengeful joy that the heirs of misers often feel when they think of the cruel privations a parent’s avarice has imposed upon them.
On the contrary, it was with devout respect that the young man broke the seal of the letter which doubtless contained his aged father’s last wishes.
CHAPTER XII.
A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE.
THIS COMMUNICATION, DATED about two months before, read as follows:
“My Beloved Son: — When you read these lines I shall have ceased to live.
“You have always believed me to be poor; on the contrary, I leave you a large fortune accumulated by avarice.
“I have been a miser. I do not deny it. On the contrary, I glory in the fact.
“And these are my reasons:
“Up to the time of your birth, — which deprived me of your mother, — I had, without being extravagant, been indifferent about increasing either my own patrimony or the dowry my wife had brought me; but as soon as I had a son, that desire to make ample provision for him which is the sacred duty of every parent gradually aroused a spirit of economy, then of parsimony, and finally of avarice, in my breast.
“Besides, the privations I imposed upon myself did not affect you in your infancy. Born sturdy and robust, the wholesome simplicity of your bringing up was rather beneficial than otherwise, tending as it did to the development of an excellent constitution.
“When you were old enough to begin your education, I sent you to one of the best schools open to the poor, at first, I must admit, purely from motives of economy, but afterward, because I considered such a training the best preparation for an honest, industrious life. The success of this plan even exceeded my expectations. Reared with the children of the poor, you acquired none of those luxurious, extravagant tastes, and felt none of the bitter envy and jealousy, that so often exert a fatal influence upon a young man’s future. You were thus spared much of the chagrin which is no less bitter because the victim of it is a child.
“It is generally supposed that because children of entirely different conditions in life wear the same uniform, eat at the same table, and pursue the same studies, a feeling of equality exists between them.
“This is a great mistake.
“Social inequality is as keenly felt among children as in the social world.
“The son of a wealthy tradesman or a great nobleman generally displays the same pride and arrogance at ten years of age as at twenty-five.
“As for you, reared with children of the people, you heard them all talk of the hard toil of their parents, and the necessity of labour was thus impressed upon your mind almost from infancy.
“Other schoolmates told of the privations and poverty which the members of their households were obliged to endure, and in this way you became accustomed to our poverty.
“At the age of fifteen, I made you compete for a scholarship in the admirable institution in which you completed your studies, and your early education already began to bear excellent fruits, for, though many of your schoolmates were wealthy or of noble lineage, contact with them never impaired your sterling qualities, or made you envious or discontented.
“At the age of seventeen you entered the office of a notary, an intimate friend of mine, who alone knows the secret of my great wealth, and who has charge of my investments. Up to this time, this friend’s discretion has equalled his devotion, and, thanks to him, you have acquired a fair knowledge of law, and also of business methods, which will be of immense service to you in the management of the very handsome property I have amassed.
“My conscience does not reproach me in the least, consequently, though sometimes I admit I fear you may address this reproach to my memory:
“‘While yo
u were amassing all this wealth, father, how could you bear to see me subjected to such cruel privations?’
“But the recollection of the many times you have remarked to me that, though we were poor, you were perfectly contented, and that you craved wealth only for my sake, always drove this fear from my heart.
“In fact, your invariable good humour, the evenness of your disposition, your natural gaiety, and your devoted affection for me have always convinced me that you were contented with your lot; besides, I shared it. What I earned as a scrivener, together with your earnings, have enabled us to live without touching any of the income from my property, which has consequently been accumulating in prudent hands for the last twenty years, so at this present writing the fortune I leave to you amounts to over two millions and a half.
“I do not know how many more years I have to live, but if I live ten years longer I shall have reached the allotted age of man. You will be thirty-five, and I shall have amassed a fortune of four or five millions, as property doubles itself in ten years.
“So, in all probability, you will have reached middle age when you come into possession of this large property, and the sober, frugal, and laborious habits acquired in infancy will have become second nature with you; so will you not be in the best possible condition to inherit the wealth I have amassed for you, and to use it wisely and well?
“If I had acted differently, what benefit would have accrued to either of us?
“If I had been lavish in my expenditures, I should have reduced you to poverty.
“If I had contented myself with spending my income only, then, instead of devoting ourselves to some useful employment, we should probably have led idle, aimless lives; instead of living frugally, we should have indulged in luxuries and more or less vain display; in short, we should have led such a life as nearly all wealthy people of the middle class lead.