The Count's Millions

by Emile Gaboriau

  V.

  If through the length and breadth of Paris there is a really quiet,peaceful street, a refuge for the thoughtfully inclined, it is surelythe broad Rue d'Ulm, which starts from the Place du Pantheon,and finishes abruptly at the Rue des Feuillantines. The shops areunassuming, and so few that one can easily count them. There isa wine-shop on the left-hand side, at the corner of the Rue de laVieille-Estrapade; then a little toy-shop, then a washerwoman's and thena book-binder's establishment; while on the right-hand you will findthe office of the Bulletin, with a locksmith's, a fruiterer's, and abaker's--that is all. Along the rest of the street run several spaciousbuildings, somewhat austere in appearance, though some of them aresurrounded by large gardens. Here stands the Convent of the Sisters ofthe Cross, with the House of Our Lady of Adoration; while further on,near the Rue des Feuillantines, you find the Normal School, with theoffice of the General Omnibus Company hard by. At day-time you mostlymeet grave and thoughtful faces in the street: priests, savants,professors, and clerks employed in the adjacent public libraries. Theonly stir is round about the omnibus office; and if occasional bursts oflaughter are heard they are sure to come from the Normal School. Afternightfall, a person might suppose himself to be at least a hundredleagues from the Boulevard Montmartre and the Opera-House, in somequiet old provincial town, at Poitiers, for instance. And it is only onlistening attentively that you can catch even a faint echo of the tumultof Paris.

  It was in this street--"out of the world," as M. de Coralth expressedit--that Pascal Ferailleur resided with his mother. They occupied asecond floor, a pretty suite of five rooms, looking out upon a garden.Their rent was high. Indeed, they paid fourteen hundred francs a year.But this was a burden which Pascal's profession imposed upon him; forhe, of course, required a private office and a little waiting-room forhis clients. With this exception, the mother and son led a straightened,simple life. Their only servant was a woman who came at seven o'clock todo the heavy work, went home again at twelve, and did not return againuntil the evening, to serve dinner. Madame Ferailleur attended toeverything, not blushing in the least when she was compelled to open thedoor for some client. Besides, she could do this without the least riskof encountering disrespect, so imposing and dignified were her mannersand her person.

  M. de Coralth had shown excellent judgment when he compared her to afamily portrait. She was, in fact, exactly the person a painter wouldselect to represent some old burgher's wife--a chaste and loving spouse,a devoted mother, an incomparable housewife--in one phrase, the faithfulguardian of her husband's domestic happiness. She had just passed herfiftieth birthday, and looked fully her age. She had suffered. A closeobserver would have detected traces of weeping about her wrinkledeyelids; and the twinge of her lips was expressive of cruel anguish,heroically endured. Still, she was not severe, nor even too sedate; andthe few friends who visited her were often really astonished at her wit.Besides, she was one of those women who have no history, and who findhappiness in what others would call duty. Her life could be summed up ina single sentence: she had loved; she had mourned.

  The daughter of a petty clerk in one of the government departments, andmerely dowered with a modest portion of three thousand francs, she hadmarried a young man as poor as herself, but intelligent and industrious,whom she loved, and who adored her. This young man on marrying had swornthat he would make a fortune; not that he cared for money for himself,but he wished to provide his idol with every luxury. His love, enhancinghis energy, no doubt hastened his success. Attached as a chemist toa large manufacturing establishment, his services soon became soinvaluable to his employers that they gave him a considerable interestin the business. His name even obtained an honorable place among moderninventors; and we are indebted to him for the discovery of one of thosebrilliant colors that are extracted from common coal. At the end of tenyears he had become a man of means. He loved his wife as fondly as onthe day of their marriage, and he had a son--Pascal.

  Unfortunate fellow! One day, in the full sunshine of happiness andsuccess, while he was engaged in a series of experiments for the purposeof obtaining a durable, and at the same time perfectly harmless, green,the chemicals exploded, smashing the mortar which he held, and woundinghim horribly about the head and chest. A fortnight later he died,apparently calm, but in reality a prey to bitter regrets. It was aterrible blow for his poor wife, and the thought of her son alonereconciled her to life. Pascal was now everything to her--her presentand her future; and she solemnly vowed that she would make a noble manof him. But alas! misfortunes never come singly. One of her husband'sfriends, who acted as administrator to the estate, took a contemptibleadvantage of her inexperience. She went to sleep one night possessingan income of fifteen thousand francs, but she awoke to find herselfruined--so completely ruined that she did not know where to obtain herdinner for that same evening. Had she been alone in the world, she wouldnot have grieved much over the catastrophe, but she was sadly affectedby the thought that her son's future was, perhaps, irrevocably blighted,and that, in any case, this disaster would condemn him to enter lifethrough the cramped and gloomy portals of poverty.

  However, Madame Ferailleur was of too courageous and too proud a naturenot to meet this danger with virile energy. She wasted no time inuseless lamentations. She determined to repair the harm as far as itwas in her power to repair it, resolving that her son's studies at thecollege of Louis-the-Great should not be interrupted, even if she had tolabor with her own hands. And when she spoke of manual toil, it wasno wild, unmeaning exaggeration born of sorrow and a passing flash ofcourage. She found employment as a day-servant and in sewing forlarge shops, until she at last obtained a situation as clerk in theestablishment where her husband had been a partner. To obtain this shewas obliged to acquire a knowledge of bookkeeping, but she was amplyrepaid for her trouble; for the situation was worth eighteen hundredfrancs a year, besides food and lodging. Then only did her effortsmomentarily abate; she felt that her arduous task was drawing to a happyclose. Pascal's expenses at school amounted to about nine hundred francsa year; she did not spend more than one hundred on herself; and thus shewas able to save nearly eight hundred francs a year.

  It must be admitted that she was admirably seconded in her efforts byher son. Pascal was only twelve years old when his mother said to him:"I have ruined you, my son. Nothing remains of the fortune which yourfather accumulated by dint of toil and self-sacrifice. You will beobliged to rely upon yourself, my boy. God grant that in years to comeyou will not reproach me for my imprudence."

  The child did not throw himself into her arms, but holding his headproudly erect, he answered: "I shall love you even more, dear mother,if that be possible. As for the fortune which my father left you, I willrestore it to you again. I am no longer a school-boy, I am a man--as youshall see."

  One could not fail to perceive that he had taken a solemn vow. Althoughhe possessed a remarkable mind, and the power of acquiring knowledgerapidly, he had, so far, worked indifferently, and then only by fits andstarts, whenever examination time drew near. But from that day forwardhe did not lose a moment. His remarks, which were at once comical andtouching, were those of the head of a family, deeply impressed by asense of his own responsibility. "You see," he said to his companions,who were astonished at his sudden thirst for knowledge, "I can't affordto wear out my breeches on the college forms, now that my poor motherhas to pay for them with her work."

  His good-humor was not in the least impaired by his resolve not to spenda single penny of his pocket money. With a tact unusual at his age, orindeed at any other, he bore his misfortunes simply and proudly, withoutany of the servile humility or sullen envy which so often accompaniespoverty. For three years in succession the highest prizes at thecompetitions rewarded him for his efforts; but these successes, far fromelating him unduly, seemed to afford him but little satisfaction."This is only glory," he thought; and his great ambition was to supporthimself.

  He was soon able to do so, thanks to the kindness of the head-master
,who offered him his tuition gratis if he would assist in superintendingsome of the lower classes. Thus one day when Madame Ferailleur presentedherself as usual to make her quarterly payment, the steward replied:"You owe us nothing, madame; everything has been paid by your son."

  She almost fainted; after bearing adversity so bravely, this happinessproved too much for her. She could scarcely believe it. A longexplanation was necessary to convince her of the truth, and then bigtears, tears of joy this time, gushed from her eyes.

  In this way, Pascal Ferailleur paid all the expenses of his educationuntil he had won his degree, arming himself so as to resist the trialsthat awaited him, and giving abundant proof of energy and ability.He wished to be a lawyer; and the law, he was forced to admit, is aprofession which is almost beyond the reach of penniless young men. Butthere are no insurmountable obstacles for those whose hearts are reallyset on an object. On the very day that Pascal inscribed his name as astudent at the law school, he entered an advocate's office as a clerk.His duties, which were extremely tiresome at first, had the two-foldadvantage of familiarizing him with the forms of legal procedure, and offurnishing him with the means of prosecuting his studies. After he hadbeen in the office six months, his employer agreed to pay him eighthundred francs a year, which were increased to fifteen hundred at theend of the second twelvemonth. In three years, when he had passed hisfinal examination qualifying him to practise, his patron raised himto the position of head-clerk, with a salary of three thousand francs,which Pascal was moreover able to increase considerably by drawing updocuments for busy attorneys, and assisting them in the preparation oftheir least important cases.

  It was certainly something wonderful to have achieved such a result inso short a time; but the most difficult part of his task had still tobe accomplished. It was a perilous undertaking to abandon an assuredposition, to cast a certainty aside for the chances of life at the bar.It was a grave step--so grave, indeed, that Pascal hesitated for along time. He was threatened with the danger that always threatenssubordinates who are useful to their superiors. He felt that hisemployer, who was in the habit of relieving himself of his heaviestduties by intrusting them to him, would not be likely to forgive himfor leaving. And on starting on his own account, he could ill afford todispense with this lawyer's good-will. The patronage that could scarcelyfail to follow him from an office where he had served for four yearswas the most substantial basis of his calculations for the future.Eventually he succeeded to his satisfaction, though not without somedifficulty, and only by employing that supreme finesse which consists inabsolute frankness.

  Before his office had been open a fortnight, he had seven or eightbriefs waiting their turn upon his desk, and his first efforts weresuch as win the approving smile of old judges, and draw from them theprediction: "That young man will rise in his profession." He had notdesired to make any display of his knowledge or talent, but merely towin the cases confided to him; and, unlike many beginners, he evincedno inclination to shine at his clients' expense. Rare modesty, and itserved him well. His first ten months of practice brought him abouteight thousand francs, absorbed in part by the expense attaching to asuitable office. The second year his fees increased by about one-half,and, feeling that his position was now assured, he insisted that hismother should resign her clerkship. He proved to her what was indeedthe truth--that by superintending his establishment, she would save morethan she made in her present position.

  From that time the mother and the son had good reason to believe thattheir heroic energy had conquered fate. Clients became so numerous thatPascal found it necessary to draw nearer the business centre, andhis rent was consequently doubled; but the income he derived from hisprofession increased so rapidly that he soon had twelve thousand francssafely invested as a resource against any emergency. Madame Ferailleurnow laid aside the mourning she had worn since her husband's death. Shefelt that she owed it to Pascal; and, besides, after believing there wasno more happiness left for her on earth, her heart rejoiced at her son'ssuccess.

  Pascal was thus on the high-road to fame, when a complication in M.Ferdinand de Coralth's affair, brought that young nobleman to hisoffice. The trouble arose from a little stock exchange operationwhich M. Ferdinand had engaged in--an affair which savored a trifleof knavery. It was strange, but Pascal rather took a liking to M. deCoralth. The honest worker felt interested in this dashing adventurer;he was almost dazzled by his brilliant vices, his wit, his hardihood,conceit, marvellous assurance, and careless impudence; and he studiedthis specimen of the Parisian flora with no little curiosity. M.de Coralth certainly did not confide the secret of his life and hisresources to Pascal but the latter's intelligence should have told himto distrust a man who treated the requirements of morality even morethan cavalierly, and who had infinitely more wants than scruples.However, the young advocate seemed to have no suspicions; they exchangedvisits occasionally, and it was Pascal himself who one day requested theviscount to take him to one of those "Reunions in High Life" which thenewspapers describe in such glowing terms.

  Madame Ferailleur was playing a game of whist with a party of oldfriends, according to her custom every Thursday evening, when M. deCoralth called to invite the young advocate to accompany him to Madamed'Argeles's reception. Pascal considered his friend's invitationexceedingly well timed. He dressed himself with more than ordinary care,and, as usual before going out, he approached his mother to kiss her andwish her good-bye. "How fine you are!" she said, smiling.

  "I am going to a soiree, my dear mother," he replied; "and it isprobable that I shall not return until very late. So don't wait for me,I beg of you; promise me to go to bed at your usual hour."

  "Have you the night-key?"

  "Yes."

  "Very well, then; I will not wait for you. When you come in you willfind your candle and some matches on the buffet in the ante-room. Andwrap yourself up well, for it is very cold." Then raising her foreheadto her son's lips, she gayly added: "A pleasant evening to you, my boy!"

  Faithful to her promise, Madame Ferailleur retired at the usual hour;but she could not sleep. She certainly had no cause for anxiety, andyet the thought that her son was not at home filled her heart withvague misgivings such as she had never previously felt under similarcircumstances. Possibly it was because she did not know where Pascal wasgoing. Possibly M. de Coralth was the cause of her strange disquietude,for she utterly disliked the viscount. Her woman's instinct warned herthat there was something unwholesome about this young man's peculiarhandsomeness, and that it was not safe to trust to his professions offriendship. At all events, she lay awake and heard the clock of theneighboring Normal School strike each successive hour--two, three, andfour. "How late Pascal stays," she said to herself.

  And suddenly a fear more poignant even than her presentiments dartedthrough her mind. She sprang out of bed and rushed to the window. Shefancied she had heard a terrible cry of distress in the deserted street.At that very moment, the insulting word "thief" was being hurled in herson's face. But the street was silent, and deciding that she had beenmistaken, she went back to bed laughing at herself for her fears; andat last she fell asleep. But judge of her terror in the morning when, onrising to let the servant in, she saw Pascal's candle still standing onthe buffet. Was it possible that he had not returned? She hastened tohis room--he was not there. And it was nearly eight o'clock.

  This was the first time that Pascal had spent a night from home withoutwarning his mother in advance; and such an act on the part of a manof his character was sufficient proof that something extraordinaryhad occurred. In an instant all the dangers that lurk in Paris afternightfall flashed through her mind. She remembered all the stories shehad read of men decoyed into dark corners, of men stabbed at the turn ofsome deserted street, or thrown into the Seine while crossing one ofthe bridges. What should she do? Her first impulse was to run to theCommissary of Police's office or to the house of Pascal's friend; buton the other hand, she dared not go out, for fear he might return in herabsence. Thus, i
n an agony of suspense, she waited--counting the secondsby the quick throbbings of her temples, and straining her ears to catchthe slightest sound.

  At last, about half-past eight o'clock, she heard a heavy, uncertainfootfall on the stairs. She flew to the door and beheld her son. Hisclothes were torn and disordered; his cravat was missing, he wore noovercoat, and he was bareheaded. He looked very pale, and his teeth werechattering. His eyes stared vacantly, and his features had an almostidiotic expression. "Pascal, what has happened to you?" she asked.

  He trembled from head to foot as the sound of her voice suddenly rousedhim from his stupor. "Nothing," he stammered; "nothing at all." And ashis mother pressed him with questions, he pushed her gently aside andwent on to his room.

  "Poor child!" murmured Madame Ferailleur, at once grieved and reassured;"and he is always so temperate. Some one must have forced him to drink."

  She was entirely wrong in her surmise, and yet Pascal's sensations wereexactly like those of an intoxicated man. How he had returned home, bywhat road, and what had happened on the way, he could not tell. He hadfound his way back mechanically, merely by force of habit--physicalmemory, as it might be called. He had a vague impression, however, thathe had sat down for some time on a bench in the Champs-Elysees, that hehad felt extremely cold, and that he had been accosted by a policeman,who threatened him with arrest if he did not move on. The last thing hecould clearly recollect was rushing from Madame d'Argeles's house inthe Rue de Berry. He knew that he had descended the staircase slowlyand deliberately; that the servants in the vestibule had stood aside toallow him to pass; and that, while crossing the courtyard, he had thrownaway the candelabrum with which he had defended himself. After that,he remembered nothing distinctly. On reaching the street he had beenovercome by the fresh air, just as a carouser is overcome on emergingfrom a heated dining-room. Perhaps the champagne which he had drank hadcontributed to this cerebral disorder. At all events, even now, inhis own room, seated in his own arm-chair, and surrounded by familiarobjects, he did not succeed in regaining the possession of hisfaculties.

  He had barely strength enough to throw himself on to the bed, and ina moment he was sleeping with that heavy slumber which so oftenseizes hold of one on the occasion of a great crisis, and which has sofrequently been observed among persons condemned to death, on the nightpreceding their execution. Four or five times his mother came to listenat the door. Once she entered, and seeing her son sleeping soundly, shecould not repress a smile of satisfaction. "Poor Pascal!" she thought;"he can bear no excess but excess of work. Heavens! how surprised andmortified he will be when he awakes!"

  Alas! it was not a trifling mortification, but despair, which awaitedthe sleeper on his wakening; for the past, the present, and the futurewere presented simultaneously and visionlike to his imagination.Although he had scarcely regained the full use of his faculties, he was,to some extent, at least capable of reflection and deliberation, and hetried to look the situation bravely in the face. First, as to the past,he had not the shadow of a doubt. He realized that he had fallen into avile trap, and the person who had laid it for him was undoubtedly M. deCoralth, who, seated at his right, had prepared the "hands" with whichhe had won. This was evident. It seemed equally proven that Madamed'Argeles knew the real culprit--possibly she had detected him in theact, possibly he had taken her into his confidence. But what he couldnot fathom was M. de Coralth's motive. What could have prompted theviscount to commit such an atrocious act? The incentive must have beenvery powerful, since he had naturally incurred the danger of detectionand of being considered an accomplice at the least. And then whatinfluence had closed Madame d'Argeles's lips? But after all, whatwas the use of these conjectures? It was an actual, unanswerable, andterrible fact that this infamous plot had been successful, andthat Pascal was dishonored. He was honesty itself, and yet he wasaccused--more than that, CONVICTED--of cheating at cards! He wasinnocent, and yet he could furnish no proofs of his innocence. He knewthe real culprit, and yet he could see no way of unmasking him or evenof accusing him. Do what he would, this atrocious, incomprehensivecalumny would crush him. The bar was closed against him; his career wasended. And the terrible conviction that there was no escape from theabyss into which he had fallen made his reason totter--he felt that hewas incapable of deciding on the best course, and that he must have afriend's advice.

  Full of this idea, he hastily changed his clothes, and hurried fromhis room. His mother was watching for him--inclined to laugh at hima little; but a single glance warned her that her son was in terribletrouble, and that some dire misfortune had certainly befallen him."Pascal, in heaven's name, what has happened?" she cried.

  "A slight difficulty--a mere trifle," he replied.

  "Where are you going?"

  "To the Palais de Justice." And such was really the case, for he hopedto meet his most intimate friend there.

  Contrary to his usual custom, he took the little staircase on the right,leading to the grand vestibule, where several lawyers were assembled,earnestly engaged in conversation. They were evidently astonished tosee Pascal, and their conversation abruptly ceased on his approach.They assumed a grave look and turned away their heads in disgust. Theunfortunate man at once realized the truth, and pressed his hand tohis forehead, with a despairing gesture, as he murmured:"Already!--already!"

  However, he passed on, and not seeing his friend, he hurried to thelittle conference hall, where he found five of his fellow-advocates. OnPascal's entrance, two of them at once left the hall, while two of theothers pretended to be very busily engaged in examining a brief whichlay open on the table. The fifth, who did not move, was not the friendPascal sought, but an old college comrade named Dartelle. Pascal walkedstraight toward him. "Well?" he asked.

  Dartelle handed him a Figaro, still damp from the printing-press, butcrumpled and worn, as if it had already passed through more than ahundred hands. "Read!" said he.

  Pascal read as follows: "There was great sensation and a terriblescandal last night at the residence of Madame d'A----, a well-known starof the first magnitude. A score of gentlemen of high rank and immensewealth were enjoying a quiet game of baccarat, when it was observed thatM. F---- was winning in a most extraordinary manner. He was watched anddetected in the very act of dexterously slipping some cards into thepack he held. Crushed by the overpowering evidence against him, heallowed himself to be searched, and without much demur consented torefund the fruit of his knavery, to the amount of two thousand louis.The strangest thing connected with this scandal is, that M. F----, whois an advocate by profession, has always enjoyed an enviable reputationfor integrity; and, unfortunately, this prank cannot be attributed to amomentary fit of madness, for the fact that he had provided himself withthese cards in advance proves the act to have been premeditated. One ofthe persons present was especially displeased. This was the Viscount deC----, who had introduced M. F---- to Madame d'A----. Extremely annoyedby this contretemps, he took umbrage at an offensive remark made by M.de R----, and it was rumored that these gentlemen would cross swords atdaybreak this morning.

  "LATER INTELLIGENCE.--We learn at the moment of going to press that anencounter has just taken place between M. de R---- and M. de C----.M. de R---- received a slight wound in the side, but his condition issufficiently satisfactory not to alarm his friends."

  The paper slipped from Pascal's hand. His features were almostunrecognizable in his passion and despair. "It is an infamous lie!"he said, hoarsely. "I am innocent; I swear it upon my honor!" Dartelleaverted his face, but not quickly enough to prevent Pascal from noticingthe look of withering scorn in his eyes. Then, feeling that he wascondemned, that his sentence was irrevocable, and that there was nolonger any hope: "I know the only thing that remains for me to do!" hemurmured.

  Dartelle turned, his eyes glistening with tears. He seized Pascal'shands and pressed them with sorrowful tenderness, as if taking leave ofa friend who is about to die. "Courage!" he whispered.

  Pascal fled like a madman. "Yes," he r
epeated, as he rushed along theBoulevard Saint-Michel, "that is the only thing left me to do."

  When he reached home he entered his office, double-locked the door, andwrote two letters--one to his mother, the other to the president of theorder of Advocates. After a moment's thought he began a third, but toreit into pieces before he had completed it. Then, without an instant'shesitation, and like a man who had fully decided upon his course, hetook a revolver and a box of cartridges from a drawer in his desk. "Poormother!" he murmured; "it will kill her--but my disgrace would kill hertoo. Better shorten the agony."

  He little fancied at that supreme moment that each of his gestures, eachcontraction of his features, were viewed by the mother whose name hefaltered. Since her son had left her to go to the Palais de Justice, thepoor woman had remained almost crazy with anxiety; and when she heardhim return and lock himself in his office--a thing he had never donebefore--a fearful presentiment was aroused in her mind. Gliding into herson's bedroom, she at once approached the door communicating with hisoffice. The upper part of this portal was of glass; it was possible tosee what was occurring in the adjoining room. When Madame Ferailleurperceived Pascal seat himself at his desk and begin to write, she felta trifle reassured, and almost thought of going away. But a vague dread,stronger than reason or will, riveted her to the spot. A few momentslater, when she saw the revolver in her son's hand, she understoodeverything. Her blood froze in her veins; and yet she had sufficientself-control to repress the cry of terror which sprang to her lips. Sherealized that the danger was terrible, imminent, extreme. Her heart,rather than her bewildered reason, told her that her son's life hung ona single thread. The slightest sound, a word, a rap on the door mighthasten the unfortunate man's deed.

  An inspiration from heaven came to the poor mother. Pascal had contentedhimself with locking the door leading to the ante-room. He had forgottenthis one, or neglected it, not thinking that anybody would approachhis office through his bedroom. But his mother perceived that this dooropened toward her. So, turning the knob with the utmost caution, sheflung it suddenly open, and reaching her son's side with a single bound,she clasped him closely in her arms. "Pascal, wretched boy! what wouldyou do?"

  He was so surprised that his weapon fell from his hand, and he sankback almost fainting in his arm-chair. The idea of denying his intentionnever once occurred to him; besides, he was unable to articulate a word.But on his desk there lay a letter addressed to his mother which wouldspeak for him.

  Madame Ferailleur took it, tore the envelope open, and read: "Forgiveme--I'm about to die. It must be so. I cannot survive dishonor; and I amdishonored."

  "Dishonored!--you!" exclaimed the heartbroken mother. "My God! what doesthis mean? Speak. I implore you: tell me all--you must. I command you todo so. I command you!"

  He complied with this at once supplicating and imperious behest, andrelated in a despairing voice the events which had wrought his woe. Hedid not omit a single particular, but tried rather to exaggerate thanpalliate the horrors of his situation. Perhaps he found a strangesatisfaction in proving to himself that there was no hope left; possiblyhe believed his mother would say: "Yes, you are right; and death is youronly refuge!"

  As Madame Ferailleur listened, however, her eyes dilated with fear andhorror, and she scarcely realized whether she were awake or in themidst of some frightful dream. For this was one of those unexpectedcatastrophes which are beyond the range of human foresight or evenimagination, and which her mind could scarcely conceive or admit. ButSHE did not doubt him, even though his friends had doubted him. Indeed,if he had himself told her that he was guilty of cheating at cards,she would have refused to believe him. When his story was ended,she exclaimed: "And you wished to kill yourself? Did you not think,senseless boy, that your death would give an appearance of truth to thisvile calumny?"

  With a mother's wonderful, sublime instinct, she had found the mostpowerful reason that could be urged to induce Pascal to live. "Did younot feel, my son, that it showed a lack of courage on your part to brandyourself and your name with eternal infamy, in order to escape yourpresent sufferings? This thought ought to have stayed your hand. Anhonest name is a sacred trust which no one has a right to abuse. Yourfather bequeathed it to you, pure and untarnished, and so you mustpreserve it. If others try to cover it with opprobrium, you must live todefend it."

  He lowered his head despondently, and in a tone of profounddiscouragement, he replied: "But what can I do? How can I escape fromthe web which has been woven around me with such fiendish cunning? If Ihad possessed my usual presence of mind at the moment of the accusation,I might have defended and justified myself, perhaps. But now themisfortune is irreparable. How can I unmask the traitor, and what proofsof his guilt can I cast in his face?"

  "All the same, you ought not to yield without a struggle," interruptedMadame Ferailleur, sternly. "It is wrong to abandon a task because it isdifficult; it must be accepted, and, even if one perish in the struggle,there is, at least, the satisfaction of feeling that one has not failedin duty."

  "But, mother----"

  "I must not keep the truth from you, Pascal! What! are you lacking inenergy? Come, my son, rise and raise your head. I shall not let youfight alone. I will fight with you."

  Without speaking a word, Pascal caught hold of his mother's hands andpressed them to his lips. His face was wet with tears. His overstrainednerves relaxed under the soothing influence of maternal tenderness anddevotion. Reason, too, had regained her ascendency. His mother's noblewords found an echo in his own heart, and he now looked upon suicide asan act of madness and cowardice. Madame Ferailleur felt that the victorywas assured, but this did not suffice; she wished to enlist Pascal inher plans. "It is evident," she resumed, "that M. de Coralth is theauthor of this abominable plot. But what could have been his object? Hashe any reason to fear you, Pascal? Has he confided to you, or have youdiscovered, any secret that might ruin him if it were divulged?"

  "No, mother."

  "Then he must be the vile instrument of some even more despicable being.Reflect, my son. Have you wounded any of your friends? Are you sure thatyou are in nobody's way? Consider carefully. Your profession has itsdangers; and those who adopt it must expect to make bitter enemies."

  Pascal trembled. It seemed to him as if a ray of light at last illuminedthe darkness--a dim and uncertain ray, it is true, but still a gleam oflight.

  "Who knows!" he muttered; "who knows!"

  Madame Ferailleur reflected a few moments, and the nature of herreflections brought a flush to her brow. "This is one of those casesin which a mother should overstep reserve," said she. "If you had amistress, my son----"

  "I have none," he answered, promptly. Then his own face flushed, andafter an instant's hesitation, he added: "But I entertain the mostprofound and reverent love for a young girl, the most beautiful andchaste being on earth--a girl who, in intelligence and heart, is worthyof you, my own mother."

  Madame Ferailleur nodded her head gravely, as much as to say that shehad expected to find a woman at the bottom of the mystery. "And who isthis young girl?" she inquired. "What is her name?"

  "Marguerite."

  "Marguerite who?"

  Pascal's embarrassment increased. "She has no other name," he replied,hurriedly, "and she does not know her parents. She formerly lived in ourstreet with her companion, Madame Leon, and an old female servant. Itwas there that I saw her for the first time. She now lives in the houseof the Count de Chalusse, in the Rue de Courcelles."

  "In what capacity?"

  "The count has always taken care of her--she owes her education to him.He acts as her guardian; and although she has never spoken to me on thesubject, I fancy that the Count de Chalusse is her father."

  "And does this girl love you, Pascal?"

  "I believe so, mother. She has promised me that she will have no otherhusband than myself."

  "And the count?"

  "He doesn't know--he doesn't even suspect anything about it. Day afterday I have been trying t
o gather courage to tell you everything, and toask you to go to the Count de Chalusse. But my position is so modest asyet. The count is immensely rich, and he intends to give Marguerite anenormous fortune--two millions, I believe----"

  Madame Ferailleur interrupted him with a gesture. "Look no further," shesaid; "you have found the explanation."

  Pascal sprang to his feet with crimson cheeks, flaming eyes, andquivering lips. "It may be so," he exclaimed; "it may be so! The count'simmense fortune may have tempted some miserable scoundrel. Who knows butsome one may have been watching Marguerite, and have discovered that Iam an obstacle?"

  "Something told me that my suspicions were correct," said MadameFerailleur. "I had no proofs, and yet I felt sure of it."

  Pascal was absorbed in thought. "And what a strange coincidence," heeventually remarked. "Do you know, the last time I saw Marguerite,a week ago, she seemed so sad and anxious that I felt alarmed. Iquestioned her, but at first she would not answer. After a littlewhile, however, as I insisted, she said: 'Ah, well, I fear the count isplanning a marriage for me. M. de Chalusse has not said a word to me onthe subject, but he has recently had several long conferences in privatewith a young man whose father rendered him a great service in formeryears. And this young man, whenever I meet him, looks at me in such apeculiar manner.'"

  "What is his name?" asked Madame Ferailleur.

  "I don't know--she didn't mention it; and her words so disturbed methat I did not think of asking. But she will tell me. This evening, ifI don't succeed in obtaining an interview, I will write to her. If yoursuspicions are correct, mother, our secret is in the hands of threepersons, and so it is a secret no longer----"

  He paused suddenly to listen. The noise of a spirited altercationbetween the servant and some visitor, came from the ante-room. "I tellyou that he IS at home," said some one in a panting voice, "and I mustsee him and speak with him at once. It is such an urgent matter that Ileft a card-party just at the most critical moment to come here."

  "I assure you, monsieur, that M. Ferailleur has gone out."

  "Very well; I will wait for him, then. Take me to a room where I can sitdown."

  Pascal turned pale, for he recognized the voice of the individual whohad suggested searching him at Madame d'Argeles's house. Nevertheless,he opened the door; and a man, with a face like a full moon, and who waspuffing and panting like a locomotive, came forward with the assuranceof a person who thinks he may do anything he chooses by reason of hiswealth. "Zounds!" he exclaimed. "I knew perfectly well that youwere here. You don't recognize me, perhaps, my dear sir. I am BaronTrigault--I came to----"

  The words died away on his lips, and he became as embarrassed as if hehad not possessed an income of eight hundred thousand francs a year. Thefact is he had just perceived Madame Ferailleur. He bowed to her, andthen, with a significant glance at Pascal he said: "I should like tospeak to you in private, monsieur, in reference to a matter--"

  Great as was Pascal's astonishment, he showed none of it on his face."You can speak in my mother's presence," he replied, coldly; "she knowseverything."

  The baron's surprise found vent in a positive distortion of hisfeatures. "Ah!" said he, in three different tones; "ah! ah!" And asno one had offered him a seat, he approached an arm-chair and tookpossession of it, exclaiming, "You will allow me, I trust? Those stairshave put me in such a state!"

  In spite of his unwieldy appearance, this wealthy man was endowed withgreat natural shrewdness and an unusually active mind. And while hepretended to be engaged in recovering his breath he studied the roomand its occupants. A revolver was lying on the floor beside a torn andcrumpled letter, and tears were still glittering in the eyes of MadameFerailleur and her son. A keen observer needed no further explanation ofthe scene.

  "I will not conceal from you, monsieur," began the baron, "that Ihave been led here by certain compunctions of conscience." And,misinterpreting a gesture which Pascal made, "I mean what I say," hecontinued; "compunctions of conscience. I have them occasionally. Yourdeparture this morning, after that deplorable scene, caused certaindoubts and suspicions to arise in my mind; and I said to myself, 'Wehave been too hasty; perhaps this young man may not be guilty.'"

  "Monsieur!" interrupted Pascal, in a threatening tone.

  "Excuse me, allow me to finish, if you please. Reflection, I mustconfess, only confirmed this impression, and increased my doubts. 'Thedevil!' I said to myself again; 'if this young man is innocent, theculprit must be one of the habitues of Madame d'Argeles's house--that isto say, a man with whom I play twice a week, and whom I shall play withagain next Monday.' And then I became uneasy, and here I am!" Was theabsurd reason which the baron gave for his visit the true one? It wasdifficult to decide. "I came," he continued, "thinking that a look atyour home would teach me something; and now I have seen it, I am readyto take my oath that you are the victim of a vile conspiracy."

  So saying he noisily blew his nose, but this did not prevent him fromobserving the quiet joy of Pascal and his mother. They were amazed. Butalthough these words were calculated to make them feel intensely happy,they still looked at their visitor with distrust. It is not natural fora person to interest himself in other people's misfortunes, unless hehas some special motive for doing so; and what could this singular man'sobject be?

  However, he did not seem in the slightest degree disconcerted by theglacial reserve with which his advances were received. "It is clearthat you are in some one's way," he resumed, "and that this some one hasinvented this method of ruining you. There can be no question about it.The intention became manifest to my mind the moment I read the paragraphconcerning you in the Figaro. Have you seen it? Yes? Well, what do youthink of it? I would be willing to swear that it was written from notesfurnished by your enemy. Moreover, the particulars are incorrect, and Iam going to write a line of correction which I shall take to the officemyself." So saying he transported his unwieldy person to Pascal's desk,and hastily wrote as follows:

  "MR. EDITOR,

  "As a witness of the scene that took place at Madame d'A----s's house last night, allow me to make an important correction. It is only too true that extra cards were introduced into the pack, but that they were introduced by M. F---- is not proven, since he was NOT SEEN to do it. I know that appearances are against him, but he nevertheless possesses my entire confidence and esteem.

  "BARON TRIGAULT."

  Meanwhile Madame Ferailleur and her son had exchanged significantglances. Their impressions were the same. This man could not be anenemy. When the baron had finished his letter, and had read it aloud,Pascal, who was deeply moved, exclaimed: "I do not know how to expressmy gratitude to you, monsieur; but if you really wish to serve me, praydon't send that note. It would cause you a great deal of trouble andannoyance, and I should none the less be obliged to relinquish thepractice of my profession--besides, I am especially anxious to beforgotten for a time."

  "So be it--I understand you; you hope to discover the traitor, and youdo not wish to put him on his guard. I approve of your prudence. Butremember my words: if you ever need a helping hand, rap at my door; andwhen you hold the necessary proofs, I will furnish you with the means ofrendering your justification even more startling than the affront." Heprepared to go, but before crossing the threshold, he turned and said:"In future I shall watch the fingers of the player who sits on my lefthand. And if I were in your place, I would obtain the notes from whichthat newspaper article was written. One never knows the benefit that maybe derived, at a certain moment, from a page of writing."

  As he started off, Madame Ferailleur sprang from her chair. "Pascal,"she exclaimed, "that man knows something, and your enemies are his; Iread it in his eyes. He, too, distrusts M. de Coralth."

  "I understood him, mother, and my mind is made up. I must disappear.From this moment Pascal Ferailleur no longer exists."

  That same evening two large vans were standing outside MadameFerailleur's house. She had sold her furniture
without reserve, and wasstarting to join her son, who had already left for Le Havre, she said,in view of sailing to America.