Caught in the Net

by Emile Gaboriau

  CHAPTER XIX.

  A FRIENDLY RIVAL.

  On leaving the Hotel de Mussidan, M. de Breulh-Faverlay dismissedhis carriage, for he felt as a man often does after experiencing someviolent emotion, the absolute necessity for exercise, and to be alonewith his thoughts, and by so doing recover his self-possession. Hisfriends would have been surprised if they had seen him pacing hurriedlyalong the Champs Elysees. The usual calm of his manner had vanished, andthe generally calm expression of his features was entirely absent. As hewalked, he talked to himself, and gesticulated.

  "And this is what we call being a man of the world. We think ourselvestrue philosophers, and a look from a pair of beautiful, pleading eyesscatters all our theories to the winds."

  He had loved Sabine upon the day on which he had asked for her hand,but not so fondly as upon this day when he had learned that she could nolonger be his wife, for, from the moment he had made this discovery, sheseemed to him more gifted and fascinating than ever. No one could havebelieved that he, the idol of society, the petted darling of the women,and the successful rival of the men, could have been refused by theyoung girl to whom he had offered his hand.

  "Yes," murmured he with a sigh, "for she is just the companion for lifethat I longed for. Where could I find so intelligent an intellect andso pure a mind, united with such radiant beauty, so different from thewomen of society, who live but for dress and gossip. Has Sabine anythingin common with those giddy girls who look upon life as a perpetualvalue, and who take a husband as they do a partner, because they cannotdance without one? How her face lighted up as she spoke of him, and howthoroughly she puts faith in him! The end of it all is that I shall diea bachelor. In my old age I will take to the pleasures of the table, foran excellent authority declares that a man can enjoy his four meals aday with comfort. Well, that is something to look forward to certainly,and it will not impair my digestion if my heirs and expectants come andsquabble round my armchair. Ah," he added, with a deep sigh, "my lifehas been a failure."

  M. de Breulh-Faverlay was a very different type of man to that whichboth his friends and his enemies popularly supposed him to be. Upon thedeath of his uncle, he had plunged into the frivolous vortex of Parisiandissipation, but of this he had soon wearied.

  All that he had cared for was to see the doings of his racehorsechronicled in the sporting journals, and occasionally to expend a fewthousand francs in presents of jewelry to some fashionable actress. Buthe had secretly longed for some more honorable manner of fulfilling hisduties in life, and he had determined that before his marriage he wouldsell his stud and break with his old associates entirely; and now thiswished-for marriage would never take place.

  When he entered his club, the traces of his agitation were so visibleupon his face, that some of the card-players stopped their game toinquire if Chambertin, the favorite for the Chantilly cup, had brokendown.

  "No, no," replied he, as he hurriedly made his way to the writing-room,"Chambertin is as sound as a bell."

  "What the deuce has happened to De Breulh?" asked one of the members.

  "Goodness gracious!" remarked the man to whom the question wasaddressed, "he seems in a hurry to write a letter."

  The gentleman was right. M. de Breulh was writing a withdrawal from hisdemand for Sabine's hand to M. de Mussidan, and he found the task byno means an easy one, for on reading it over he found that there wasa valid strain of bitterness throughout it, which would surely attractattention and perhaps cause embarrassing questions to be put to him.

  "No," murmured he, "this letter is quite unworthy of me." And tearing itup, he began another, in which he strung together several conventionalexcuses, alleging the difficulty of breaking off his former habits andof an awkward entanglement which he had been unable to break with, ashe had anticipated. When this little masterpiece of diplomacy wascompleted, he rang the bell, and, handing it to one of the clubservants, told him to take it to the Count de Mussidan's house. Whenthis unpleasant duty was over, M. de Breulh had hoped to experience somefeeling of relief, but in this he was mistaken. He tried cards, but rosefrom the table in a quarter of an hour; he ordered dinner, but appetitewas wanting; he went to the opera, but then he did nothing but yawn, andthe music grated on his nerves. At length he returned home. The day hadseemed interminable, and he could not sleep, for Sabine's face was everbefore him. Who could this man be whom she so fondly loved and preferredbefore all others? He respected her too much not to feel assured thather choice was a worthy one, but his experience had taught him that whenso many men of the world fell into strange entanglements, a poor girlwithout knowledge of the dangers around her might easily be entrapped."If he is worthy of her," thought he, "I will do my best to aid her; butif not, I will open her eyes."

  At four o'clock in the morning he was still seated musing before theexpiring embers of his fire; he had made up his mind to see Andre--therewas no difficulty in this, for a man of taste and wealth can find aready excuse for visiting the studio of a struggling artist. He had nofixed plan as to what he would say or do, he left all to chance, andwith this decision he went to bed, and by two in the afternoon he drovestraight to the Rue de la Tour d'Auvergne.

  Andre's discreet portress was as usual leaning on her broom in thegallery as M. de Breulh's magnificent equipage drew up.

  "Gracious me!" exclaimed the worthy woman, dazzled by the gorgeousnessof the whole turnout; "he can't be coming here, he must have mistakenthe house."

  But her amazement reached its height when M. de Breulh, on alighting,asked for Andre.

  "Fourth story, first door to the right," answered the woman; "but I willshow you the way."

  "Don't trouble yourself;" and with these words M. de Breulh ascended thestaircase that led to the painter's studio and knocked on the door. Ashe did so, he heard a quick, light step upon the stairs, and a youngand very dark man, dressed in a weaver's blouse and carrying a tin pailwhich he had evidently just filled with water from the cistern, came up.

  "Are you M. Andre?" asked De Breulh.

  "That is my name, sir."

  "I wish to say a few words to you."

  "Pray come in," replied the young artist, opening the door of his studioand ushering his visitor in. Andre's voice and expression had madea favorable impression upon his visitor; but he was, in spite of hishaving thrown aside nearly all foolish prejudices, a little startled athis costume. He did not, however, allow his surprise to be visible.

  "I ought to apologize for receiving you like this," remarked Andrequickly, "but a poor man must wait upon himself." As he spoke, he threwoff his blouse and set down the pail in a corner of the room.

  "I rather should offer my excuse for my intrusion," returned M. deBreulh. "I came here by the advice of one of my friends;" he stopped foran instant, endeavoring to think of a name.

  "By Prince Crescensi, perhaps," suggested Andre.

  "Yes, yes," continued M. de Breulh, eagerly snatching at the rope theartist held out to him. "The Prince sings your praises everywhere,and speaks of your talents with the utmost enthusiasm. I am, on hisrecommendation, desirous of commissioning you to paint a picture forme, and I can assure you that in my gallery it will have no need to beashamed of its companions."

  Andre bowed, coloring deeply at the compliment.

  "I am obliged to you," said he, "and I trust that you will not bedisappointed in taking the Prince's opinion of my talent."

  "Why should I be so?"

  "Because, for the last four months I have been so busy that I havereally nothing to show you."

  "That is of no importance. I have every confidence in you."

  "Then," returned Andre, "all that we have to do is to choose a subject."

  Andre's manner had by this time so captivated De Breulh that he mutteredto himself, "I really ought to hate this fellow, but on my word I likehim better than any one I have met for a long time."

  Andre had by this time placed a large portfolio on the table. "Here,"said he, "are some twenty or thirty sketches; if any of the
m took yourfancy, you could make your choice."

  "Let me see them," returned De Breulh politely, for having made anestimate of the young man's character, he now wished to see what hisartistic talents were like. With this object in view he examined allthe sketches in the portfolio minutely, and then turned to those on thewalls. Andre said nothing, but he somehow felt that this visit wouldprove the turning-point of his misfortunes. But for all that the youngman's heart was very sad, for it was two days since Sabine had lefthim, promising to write to him the next morning regarding M. deBreulh-Faverlay, but as yet he had received no communication, and hewas on the tenterhooks of expectation, not because he had any doubtof Sabine, but for the reason that he had no means of obtaining anyinformation of what went on in the interior of the Hotel de Mussidan.M. de Breulh had now finished his survey, and had come to the conclusionthat though many of Andre's productions were crude and lacking infinish, yet that he had the true artistic metal in him. He extended hishand to the young man and said forcibly, "I am no longer influenced bythe opinion of a friend. I have seen and judged for myself, and am moredesirous than ever of possessing one of your pictures. I have made mychoice of a subject, and now let us discuss the details."

  As he spoke he handed a little sketch to Andre. It was a view ofeveryday life, which the painter had entitled, "Outside the Barrier."Two men with torn garments and wine-flushed faces were struggling intipsy combat, while on the right hand side of the picture lay a woman,bleeding profusely from a cut on the forehead, and two of her terrifiedcompanions were bending over her, endeavoring to restore her toconsciousness. In the background were some flying figures, who werehastening up to separate the combatants. The sketch was one of reallife, denuded of any sham element of romance, and this was the one thatM. de Breulh had chosen. The two men discussed the size of the picture,and not a single detail was omitted.

  "I am sure that you will do all that is right," remarked De Breulh. "Letyour own inspiration guide you, and all will be well." In reality he wasdying to get away, for he felt in what a false position he was, and witha violent effort he approached the money part of the matter.

  "Monsieur," said Andre, "it is impossible to fix a price; whencompleted, a picture may only be worth the canvas that it is painted on,or else beyond all price. Let us wait."

  "Well," broke in M. de Breulh, "what do you say to ten thousand francs?"

  "Too much," returned Andre with a deprecatory wave of his hand; "fartoo much. If I succeed in it, as I hope to do, I will ask six thousandfrancs for it."

  "Agreed!" answered De Breulh, taking from his pocket an elegantnote-case with his crest and monogram upon it and extracting from itthree thousand francs. "I will, as is usual, deposit half the price inadvance."

  Andre blushed scarlet. "You are joking," said he.

  "Not at all," answered De Breulh quietly; "I have my own way of doingbusiness, from which I never deviate."

  In spite of this answer Andre's pride was hurt.

  "But," remarked he, "this picture will not be ready for perhaps six orseven months. I have entered into a contract with a wealthy builder,named Candele, to execute the outside decorations of his house."

  "Never mind that," answered M. de Breulh; "take as long as you like."

  Of course, after this, Andre could offer no further opposition; hetherefore took the money without another word.

  "And now," said De Breulh, as he paused for a moment at the opendoorway, "let me wish you my good luck, and if you will come andbreakfast with me one day, I think I can show you some pictures whichyou will really appreciate." And handing his card to the artist, he wentdownstairs.

  At first Andre did not glance at the card, but when he did so, theletters seemed to sear his eyeballs like a red-hot iron. For a momenthe could hardly breathe, and then a feeling of intense anger tookpossession of him, for he felt that he had been trifled with anddeceived.

  Hardly knowing what he was doing, he rushed out on the landing, and,leaning over the banister, called out loudly, "Sir, stop a moment!"

  De Breulh, who had by this time reached the bottom of the staircase,turned round.

  "Come back, if you please," said Andre.

  After a moment's hesitation, De Breulh obeyed; and when he was againin the studio, Andre addressed him in a voice that quivered withindignation.

  "Take back these notes, sir; I will not accept them."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Only that I have thought the matter over, and that I will not acceptyour commission."

  "And why this sudden change?"

  "You know perfectly well, M. de Breulh-Faverlay."

  The gentleman at once saw that Sabine had mentioned his name to theyoung artist, and with a slight lacking of generous feeling said,--

  "Let me hear your reasons, sir."

  "Because, because----" stammered the young man.

  "Because is not an answer."

  Andre's confusion became greater. He would not tell the whole truth, forhe would have died sooner than bring Sabine's name into the discussion;and he could only see one way out of his difficulty.

  "Suppose I say that I do not like your manner or appearance," returnedhe disdainfully.

  "Is it your wish to insult me, M. Andre?"

  "As you choose to take it."

  M. de Breulh was not gifted with an immense stock of patience. He turnedlivid, and made a step forward; but his generous impulses restrainedhim, and it was in a voice broken by agitation that he said,--

  "Accept my apologies, M. Andre; I fear that I have played a partunworthy of you and of myself. I ought to have given you my name atonce. I know everything."

  "I do not comprehend you," answered Andre in a glacial voice.

  "Why doubt, then, if you do not understand? However, I have given youcause to do so. But, let me reassure you, Mademoiselle Sabine has spokento me with the utmost frankness; and, if you still distrust me, let metell you that this veiled picture is her portrait. I will saymore," continued De Breulh gravely, as the artist still kept silent;"yesterday, at Mademoiselle de Mussidan's request, I withdrew from myposition as a suitor for her hand."

  Andre had already been touched by De Breulh's frank and open manner, andthese last words entirely conquered him.

  "I can never thank you enough," began he.

  But De Breulh interrupted him.

  "A man should not be thanked for performing his duty. I should lie toyou if I said that I am not painfully surprised at her communication;but tell me, had you been in my place, would you not have acted in thesame manner?"

  "I think that I should."

  "And now we are friends, are we not?" and again De Breulh held out hishand, which Andre clasped with enthusiasm.

  "Yes, yes," faltered he.

  "And now," continued De Breulh, with a forced smile, "let us say no moreabout the picture, which was, after all, merely a pretext. As I camehere I said to myself, 'If the man to whom Mademoiselle de Mussidan hasgiven her heart is worthy of her, I will do all I can to advance hissuit with her family!' I came here to see what you were like; and nowI say to you, do me a great honor, and permit me to place myself, myfortune, and the influence of my friends, at your disposal."

  The offer was made in perfect good faith, but Andre shook his head.

  "I shall never forget your kindness in making this offer, but----"; hepaused for a moment, and then went on: "I will be as open as you havebeen, and will tell you the whole truth. You may think me foolish; butremember, though I am poor, I have still my self-respect to maintain. Ilove Sabine, and would give my life for her. Do not be offended at whatI am about to say. I would, however, sooner give up her hand than beindebted for it to you."

  "But this is mere madness."

  "No, sir, it is the purest wisdom; for were I to accede to your wishes,I should feel deeply humiliated by the thought of your self-denial; forI should be madly jealous of the part you were playing. You are of highbirth and princely fortune, while I am utterly friendless and unknown;all that I am defici
ent in you possess."

  "But I have been poor myself," interposed De Breulh, "and perhapsendured even greater miseries than ever you have done. Do you know whatI was doing at your age? I was slowly starving to death at Sonora, andhad to take the humblest position in a cattle ranch. Do you think thatthose days taught me nothing?"

  "You will be able to judge me all the more clearly then," returnedAndre. "If I raise myself up to Sabine's level, as she begged me to,then I shall feel that I am your equal; but if I accept your aid, I amyour dependent; and I will obey her wishes or perish in the effort."

  Up to this moment the passion which stirred Andre's inmost soul hadbreathed in every word he uttered; but, checking himself by a mightyeffort, he resumed in a tone of greater calmness,--

  "But I ought to remember how much we already owe you, and I hope thatyou will allow me to call myself your friend?"

  M. de Breulh's noble nature enabled him to understand Andre's scruples;his feelings, however, would not for the instant enable him to speak.He slowly put the notes back in their receptacle, and then said in a lowvoice,--

  "Your conduct is that of an honorable man; and remember this, at alltimes and seasons you may rely upon De Breulh-Faverlay. Farewell!"

  As soon as he was alone, Andre threw himself into an armchair, and musedover this unexpected interview, which had proved a source of such solaceto his feelings. All that he now longed for was a letter from Sabine.At this moment the portress entered with a letter. Andre was so occupiedwith his thoughts that he hardly noticed this act of condescension onthe part of the worthy woman.

  "A letter!" exclaimed he; and, tearing it open, he glanced at thesignature. But Sabine's name was not there; it was signed Modeste.What could Sabine's maid have to say to him? He felt that some greatmisfortune was impending, and, trembling with excitement, he read theletter.

  "SIR,--

  "I write to tell you that my mistress has succeeded in the matter shespoke of to you; but I am sorry to say that I have bad news to give you,for she is seriously ill."

  "Ill!" exclaimed Andre, crushing up the letter in his hands, and dashingit upon the floor. "Ill! ill!" he repeated, not heeding the presenceof the portress; "why, she may be dead;" and, snatching up his hat, hedashed downstairs into the street.

  As soon as the portress was left alone, she picked up the letter,smoothed it out, and read it.

  "And so," murmured she, "the little lady's name was Sabine--a prettyname; and she is ill, is she? I expect that the old gent who called thismorning, and asked so many questions about M. Andre, would give a gooddeal for this note; but no, that would not be fair."