Jezebel's Daughter

by Wilkie Collins

if you will open the ledger and see that the entry is right. I don't know

  what you think, but my idea is that we keep too much money lying idle in

  these prosperous times. What do you say to using half of the customary

  fund for investment? By the by, our day for dividing the profits is not

  your day in London. When my father founded this business, the sixth of

  January was the chosen date--being one way, among others, of celebrating

  his birthday. We have kept to the old custom, out of regard for his

  memory; and your worthy husband entirely approved of our conduct. I am

  sure you agree with him?"

  "With all my heart," said Mrs. Wagner. "Whatever my good husband thought,

  I think."

  Mr. Keller proceeded to count the Fund. "Fifteen thousand florins," he

  announced. "I thought it had been more than that. If poor dear Engelman

  had been here--Never mind! What does the ledger say?"

  "Fifteen thousand florins," Mrs. Wagner answered.

  "Ah, very well, my memory must have deceived me. This used to be

  Engelman's business; and you are as careful as he was--I can say no

  more."

  Mr. Keller replaced the money in the safe, and hastened back to his own

  office.

  Mrs. Wagner raised one side of the ledger off the desk to close the

  book--stopped to think--and laid it back again.

  The extraordinary accuracy of Mr. Keller's memory was proverbial in the

  office. Remembering the compliment which he had paid to her sense of

  responsibility as Mr. Engelman's successor, Mrs. Wagner was not quite

  satisfied to take it for granted that he had made a mistake--even on the

  plain evidence of the ledger. A reference to the duplicate entry, in her

  private account-book, would at once remove even the shadow of a doubt.

  The last day of the old year was bright and frosty; the clear midday

  light fell on the open page before her. She looked again at the entry,

  thus recorded in figures--"15,000 florins"--and observed a trifling

  circumstance which had previously escaped her.

  The strokes which represented the figures "15" were unquestionably a

  little, a very little, thicker than the strokes which represented the

  three zeros or "noughts" that followed. Had a hair got into the pen of

  the head-clerk, who had made the entry? or was there some trifling defect

  in the paper, at that particular part of the page?

  She once more raised one side of the ledger so that the light fell at an

  angle on the writing. There was a difference between that part of the

  paper on which the figures "15" were written, and the rest of the

  page--and the difference consisted in a slight shine on the surface.

  The side of the ledger dropped from her hand on the desk. She left the

  office, and ran upstairs to her own room. Her private account-book had

  not been wanted lately--it was locked up in her dressing-case. She took

  it out, and referred to it. There was the entry as she had copied it, and

  compared it with the ledger--"20,000 florins."

  "Madame Fontaine!" she said to herself in a whisper.

  CHAPTER XI

  The New Year had come.

  On the morning of the second of January, Mrs. Wagner (on her way to the

  office at the customary hour) was stopped at the lower flight of stairs

  by Madame Fontaine--evidently waiting with a purpose.

  "Pardon me," said the widow, "I must speak to you."

  "These are business hours, madam; I have no time to spare."

  Without paying the slightest heed to this reply--impenetrable, in the

  petrifying despair that possessed her, to all that looks, tones, and

  words could say--Madame Fontaine stood her ground, and obstinately

  repeated, "I must speak to you."

  Mrs. Wagner once more refused. "All that need be said between us has been

  said," she answered. "Have you replaced the money?"

  "That is what I want to speak about?"

  "Have you replaced the money?"

  "Don't drive me mad, Mrs. Wagner! As you hope for mercy yourself, at the

  hour of your death, show mercy to the miserable woman who implores you to

  listen to her! Return with me as far as the drawing-room. At this time of

  day, nobody will disturb us there. Give me five minutes!"

  Mrs. Wagner looked at her watch.

  "I will give you five minutes. And mind, I mean five minutes. Even in

  trifles, I speak the truth."

  They returned up the stairs, Mrs. Wagner leading the way.

  There were two doors of entrance to the drawing-room--one, which opened

  from the landing, and a smaller door, situated at the farther end of the

  corridor. This second entrance communicated with a sort of alcove, in

  which a piano was placed, and which was only separated by curtains from

  the spacious room beyond. Mrs. Wagner entered by the main door, and

  paused, standing near the fire-place. Madame Fontaine, following her,

  turned aside to the curtains, and looked through. Having assured herself

  that no person was in the recess, she approached the fire-place, and said

  her first words.

  "You told me just now, madam, that _you_ spoke the truth. Does that imply

  a doubt of the voluntary confession----?"

  "You made no voluntary confession," Mrs. Wagner interposed. "I had

  positive proof of the theft that you have committed, when I entered your

  room. I showed you my private account-book, and when you attempted to

  defend yourself, I pointed to the means of falsifying the figures in the

  ledger which lay before me in your own dressing-case. What do you mean by

  talking of a voluntary confession, after that?"

  "You mistake me, madam. I was speaking of the confession of my

  motives--the motives which, in my dreadful position, forced me to take

  the money, or to sacrifice the future of my daughter's life. I declare

  that I have concealed nothing from you. As you are a Christian woman,

  don't be hard on me!"

  Mrs. Wagner drew back, and eyed her with an expression of contemptuous

  surprise.

  "Hard on you?" she repeated. "Do you know what you are saying? Have you

  forgotten already how I have consented to degrade myself? Must I once

  more remind you of _my_ position? I am bound to tell Mr. Keller that his

  money and mine has been stolen; I am bound to tell him that he has taken

  into his house, and has respected and trusted, a thief. There is my plain

  duty--and I have consented to trifle with it. Are you lost to all sense

  of decency? Have you no idea of the shame that an honest woman must feel,

  when she knows that her unworthy silence makes her--for the time at

  least--the accomplice of your crime? Do you think it was for your

  sake--not to be hard on You--that I have consented to this intolerable

  sacrifice? In the instant when I discovered you I would have sent for Mr.

  Keller, but for the sweet girl whose misfortune it is to be your child.

  Once for all, have you anything to say which it is absolutely necessary

  that I should hear? Have you, or have you not, complied with the

  conditions on which I consented--God help me!--to be what I am?"

  Her voice faltered. She turned away proudly to compose herself. The look

  that flashed out at her from the widow's eyes, the suppressed fury

  strug
gling to force its way in words through the widow's lips, escaped

  her notice. It was the first, and last, warning of what was to come--and

  she missed it.

  "I wished to speak to you of your conditions," Madame Fontaine resumed,

  after a pause. "Your conditions are impossibilities. I entreat you, in

  Minna's interests--oh! not in mine!--to modify them."

  The tone in which those words fell from her lips was so unnaturally

  quiet, that Mrs. Wagner suddenly turned again with a start, and faced

  her.

  "What do you mean by impossibilities? Explain yourself."

  "You are an honest woman, and I am a thief," Madame Fontaine answered,

  with the same ominous composure. "How can explanations pass between you

  and me? Have I not spoken plainly enough already? In my position, I say

  again, your conditions are impossibilities--especially the first of

  them."

  There was something in the bitterly ironical manner which accompanied

  this reply that was almost insolent. Mrs. Wagner's color began to rise

  for the first time. "Honest conditions are always possible conditions to

  honest people," she said.

  Perfectly unmoved by the reproof implied in those words, Madame Fontaine

  persisted in pressing her request. "I only ask you to modify your terms,"

  she explained. "Let us understand each other. Do you still insist on my

  replacing what I have taken, by the morning of the sixth of this month?"

  "I still insist."

  "Do you still expect me to resign my position here as director of the

  household, on the day when Fritz and Minna have become man and wife?"

  "I still expect that."

  "Permit me to set the second condition aside for awhile. Suppose I fail

  to replace the five thousand florins in your reserve fund?"

  "If you fail, I shall do my duty to Mr. Keller, when we divide profits on

  the sixth of the month."

  "And you will expose me in this way, knowing that you make the marriage

  impossible--knowing that you doom my daughter to shame and misery for the

  rest of her life?"

  "I shall expose you, knowing that I have kept your guilty secret to the

  last moment--and knowing what I owe to my partner and to myself. You have

  still four days to spare. Make the most of your time."

  "I can do absolutely nothing in the time."

  "Have you tried?"

  The suppressed fury in Madame Fontaine began to get beyond her control.

  "Do you think I should have exposed myself to the insults that you have

  heaped upon me if I had _not_ tried?" she asked. "Can I get the money

  back from the man to whom it was paid at Wurzburg, when my note fell due

  on the last day of the old year? Do I know anybody who will lend me five

  thousand florins? Will my father do it? His house has been closed to me

  for twenty years--and my mother, who might have interceded for me, is

  dead. Can I appeal to the sympathy and compassion (once already refused

  in the hardest terms) of my merciless relatives in this city? I have

  appealed! I forced my way to them yesterday--I owned that I owed a sum of

  money which was more, far more, than I could pay. I drank the bitter cup

  of humiliation to the dregs--I even offered my daughter's necklace as

  security for a loan. Do you want to know what reply I received? The

  master of the house turned his back on me; the mistress told me to my

  face that she believed I had stolen the necklace. Was the punishment of

  my offense severe enough, when I heard those words? Surely I have

  asserted some claim to your pity, at last? I only want more time. With a

  few months before me--with my salary as housekeeper, and the sale of my

  little valuables, and the proceeds of my work for the picture-dealers--I

  can, and will, replace the money. You are rich. What is a loan of five

  thousand florins to you? Help me to pass through the terrible ordeal of

  your day of reckoning on the sixth of the month! Help me to see Minna

  married and happy! And if you still doubt my word, take the pearl

  necklace as security that you will suffer no loss."

  Struck speechless by the outrageous audacity of this proposal, Mrs.

  Wagner answered by a look, and advanced to the door. Madame Fontaine

  instantly stopped her.

  Wait!" cried the desperate creature. "Think--before you refuse me!"

  Mrs. Wagner's indignation found its way at last into words. "I deserved

  this," she said, "when I allowed you to speak to me. Let me pass, if you

  please."

  Madame Fontaine made a last effort--she fell on her knees. "Your hard

  words have roused my pride," she said; "I have forgotten that I am a

  disgraced woman; I have not spoken humbly enough. See! I am humbled

  now--I implore your mercy on my knees. This is not only _my_ last chance;

  it is Minna's last chance. Don't blight my poor girl's life, for my

  fault!"

  "For the second time, Madame Fontaine, I request you to let me pass.

  "Without an answer to my entreaties? Am I not even worthy of an answer?"

  "Your entreaties are an insult. I forgive you the insult."

  Madame Fontaine rose to her feet. Every trace of agitation disappeared

  from her face and her manner. "Yes," she said, with the unnatural

  composure that was so strangely out of harmony with the terrible position

  in which she stood--"Yes, from your point of view, I can't deny that it

  may seem like an insult. When a thief, who has already robbed a person of

  money, asks that same person to lend her more money, by way of atoning

  for the theft, there is something very audacious (on the surface) in such

  a request. I can't fairly expect you to understand the despair which

  wears such an insolent look. Accept my apologies, madam; I didn't see it

  at first in that light. I must do what I can, while your merciful silence

  still protects me from discovery--I must do what I can between this and

  the sixth of the month. Permit me to open the door for you." She opened

  the drawing-room door, and waited.

  Mrs. Wagner's heart suddenly quickened its beat.

  Under what influence? Could it be fear? She was indignant with herself at

  the bare suspicion of it. Her face flushed deeply, under the momentary

  apprehension that some outward change might betray her. She left the

  room, without even trusting herself to look at the woman who stood by the

  open door, and bowed to her with an impenetrable assumption of respect as

  she passed out.

  Madame Fontaine remained in the drawing-room.

  She violently closed the door with a stroke of her hand--staggered across

  the room to a sofa--and dropped on it. A hoarse cry of rage and despair

  burst from her, now that she was alone. In the fear that someone might

  hear her, she forced her handkerchief into her mouth, and fastened her

  teeth into it. The paroxysm passed, she sat up on the sofa, and wiped the

  perspiration from her face, and smiled to herself. "It was well I stopped

  here," she thought; "I might have met someone on the stairs."

  As she rose to leave the drawing-room, Fritz's voice reached her from the

  far end of the corridor.

  "You are out of spirits, Minna. Come in, and let us try what a little

  music will do for you."


  The door leading into the recess was opened. Minna's voice became audible

  next, on the inner side of the curtains.

  "I am afraid I can't sing to-day, Fritz. I am very unhappy about mamma.

  She looks so anxious and so ill; and when I ask what is troubling her,

  she puts me off with an excuse."

  The melody of those fresh young tones, the faithful love and sympathy

  which the few simple words expressed, seemed to wring with an unendurable

  pain the whole being of the mother who heard them. She lifted her hands

  above her head, and clenched them in the agony which could only venture

  to seek that silent means of relief. With swift steps, as if the sound of

  her daughter's voice was unendurable to her, she made for the door. But

  her movements, on ordinary occasions the perfection of easy grace, felt

  the disturbing influence of the agitation that possessed her. In avoiding

  a table on one side, as she passed it, she struck against a chair on the

  other.

  Fritz instantly opened the curtains, and looked through. "Why, here is

  mamma!" he exclaimed, in his hearty boyish way.

  Minna instantly closed the piano, and hastened to her mother. When Madame

  Fontaine looked at her, she paused, with an expression of alarm. "Oh, how

  dreadfully pale and ill you look!" She advanced again, and tried to throw

  her arms round her mother, and kiss her. Gently, very gently, Madame

  Fontaine signed to her to draw back.

  "Mamma! what have I done to offend you?"

  "Nothing, my dear."

  "Then why won't you let me come to you?"

  "No time now, Minna. I have something to do. Wait till I have done it."

  "Not even one little kiss, mamma?"

  Madame Fontaine hurried out of the room without answering and ran up the

  stairs without looking back. Minna's eyes filled with tears. Fritz stood

  at the open door, bewildered.

  "I wouldn't have believed it, if anybody had told me," he said; "your

  mother seems to be afraid to let you touch her."

  Fritz had made many mistaken guesses in his time--but, for once, he had

  guessed right. She _was_ afraid.

  CHAPTER XII

  As the presiding genius of the household, Madame Fontaine was always

  first in the room when the table was laid for the early German dinner. A

  knife with a speck on the blade, a plate with a suspicion of dirt on it,

  never once succeeded in escaping her observation. If Joseph folded a

  napkin carelessly, Joseph not only heard of it, but suffered the

  indignity of seeing his work performed for him to perfection by the

  housekeeper's dexterous hands.

  On the second day of the New Year, she was at her post as usual, and

  Joseph stood convicted of being wasteful in the matter of wine.

  He had put one bottle of Ohligsberger on the table, at the place occupied

  by Madame Fontaine. The wine had already been used at the dinner and the

  supper of the previous day. At least two-thirds of it had been drunk.

  Joseph set down a second bottle on the opposite side of the table, and

  produced his corkscrew. Madame Fontaine took it out of his hand.

  "Why do you open that bottle, before you are sure it will be wanted?" She

  asked sharply. "You know that Mr. Keller and his son prefer beer."

  "There is so little left in the other bottle," Joseph pleaded; "not a

  full tumbler altogether."

  "It may be enough, little as it is, for Mrs. Wagner and for me." With

  that reply she pointed to the door. Joseph retired, leaving her alone at

  the table, until the dinner was ready to be brought into the room.

  In five minutes more, the family assembled at their meal.

  Joseph performed his customary duties sulkily, resenting the