XXV
Mme. Favoral, usually so indulgent, was too severe this time; andit was very unjustly that she accused her son. She forgot, andwhat mother does not forget, that he was twenty-five years of age,that he was a man, and that, outside of the family and of herself,he must have his own interests and his passions, his affections andhis duties. Because he happened to leave the house for a few hours,Maxence was surely not forsaking either his mother or his sister.It was not without a severe internal struggle that he had made uphis mind to go out, and, as he was going down the steps,
"Poor mother," he thought. "I am sure I am making her very unhappy;but how can I help it?"
This was the first time that he had been in the street since hisfarther's disaster had been known; and the impression produced uponhim was painful in the extreme. Formerly, when he walked throughthe Rue St. Gilles, that street where he was born, and where he usedto play as a boy, every one met him with a friendly nod or a familiarsmile. True he was then the son of a man rich and highly esteemed;whereas this morning not a hand was extended, not a hat raised, onhis passage. People whispered among themselves, and pointed himout with looks of hatred and irony. That was because he was nowthe son of the dishonest cashier tracked by the police, of the manwhose crime brought disaster upon so many innocent parties.
Mortified and ashamed, Maxence was hurrying on, his head down, hischeek burning, his throat parched, when, in front of a wine-shop,
"Halloo!" said a man; "that's the son. What cheek!"
And farther on, in front of the grocer's.
"I tell you what," said a woman in the midst of a group, "they stillhave more than we have."
Then, for the first time, he understood with what crushing weighthis father's crime would weigh upon his whole life; and, whilstgoing up the Rue Turenne:
"It's all over," he thought: "I can never get over it." And hewas thinking of changing his name, of emigrating to America, andhiding himself in the deserts of the Far West, when, a littlefarther on, he noticed a group of some thirty persons in frontof a newspaper-stand. The vender, a fat little man with a redface and an impudent look, was crying in a hoarse voice,
"Here are the morning papers! The last editions! All about therobbery of twelve millions by a poor cashier. Buy the morningpapers!"
And, to stimulate the sale of his wares, he added all sorts ofjokes of his own invention, saying that the thief belonged to theneighborhood; that it was quite flattering, etc.
The crowd laughed; and he went on,
"The cashier Favoral's robbery! twelve millions! Buy the paper,and see how it's done."
And so the scandal was public, irreparable. Maxence was listeninga few steps off. He felt like going; but an imperative feeling,stronger than his will, made him anxious to see what the papers said.
Suddenly he made up his mind, and, stepping up briskly, he threwdown three sous, seized a paper, and ran as if they had all knownhim.
"Not very polite, the gentleman," remarked two idlers whom he hadpushed a little roughly.
Quick as he had been, a shopkeeper of the Rue Turenne had had timeto recognize him.
"Why, that's the cashier's son!" he exclaimed. "Is it possible?"
"Why don't they arrest him?"
Half a dozen curious fellows, more eager than the rest, ran afterhim to try and see his face. But he was already far off.
Leaning against a gas-lamp on the Boulevard, he unfolded the paperhe had just bought. He had no trouble looking for the article. Inthe middle of the first page, in the most prominent position, heread in large letters,
"At the moment of going to press, the greatest agitation prevails among the stock-brokers and operators at the bourse generally, owing to the news that one of our great banking establishments has just been the victim of a theft of unusual magnitude.
"At about five o'clock in the afternoon, the manager of the Mutual Credit Society, having need of some documents, went to look for them in the office of the head cashier, who was then absent. A memorandum forgotten on the table excited his suspicions. Sending at once for a locksmith, he had all the drawers broken open, and soon acquired the irrefutable evidence that the Mutual Credit had been defrauded of sums, which, as far as now known, amount to upwards of twelve millions.
"At once the police was notified; and M. Brosse, commissary of police, duly provided with a warrant, called at the guilty cashier's house.
"That cashier, named Favoral,--we do not hesitate to name him, since his name has already been made public,--had just sat down to dinner with some friends. Warned, no one knows how, he succeeded in escaping through a window into the yard of the adjoining house, and up to this hour has succeeded in eluding all search.
"It seems that these embezzlements had been going on for years, but had been skillfully concealed by false entries.
"M. Favoral had managed to secure the esteem of all who knew him. He led at home a more than modest existence. But that was only, as it were, his official life. Elsewhere, and under another name, he indulged in the most reckless expenses for the benefit of a woman with whom he was madly in love.
"Who this woman is, is not yet exactly known.
"Some mention a very fascinating young actress, who performs at a theatre not a hundred miles from the Rue Vivienne; others, a lady of the financial high life, whose equipages, diamonds, and dresses are justly famed.
"We might easily, in this respect, give particulars which would astonish many people; for we know all; but, at the risk of seeming less well informed than some others of our morning contemporaries, we will observe a silence which our readers will surely appreciate. We do not wish to add, by a premature indiscretion, any thing to the grief of a family already so cruelly stricken; for M. Favoral leaves behind him in the deepest sorrow a wife and two children,--a son of twenty-five, employed in a railroad office, and a daughter of twenty, remarkably handsome, who, a few months ago, came very near marrying M. C. ----.
"Next--"
Tears of rage obscured Maxence's sight whilst reading the last fewlines of this terrible article. To find himself thus held up topublic curiosity, though innocent, was more than he could bear.
And yet he was, perhaps, still more surprised than indignant. Hehad just learned in that paper more than his father's most intimatefriends knew, more than he knew himself. Where had it got itsinformation? And what could be these other details which the writerpretended to know, but did not wish to publish as yet? Maxence feltlike running to the office of the paper, fancying that they couldtell him there exactly where and under what name M. Favoral led thatexistence of pleasure and luxury, and who the woman was to whom thearticle alluded.
But in the mean time he had reached his hotel,--the Hotel desFolies. After a moment of hesitation,
"Bash!" he thought, "I have the whole day to call at the office ofthe paper."
And he started in the corridor of the hotel, a corridor that was solong, so dark, and so narrow, that it gave an idea of the shaft ofa mine, and that it was prudent, before entering it, to make surethat no one was coming in the opposite direction. It was from theneighboring theatre, des Folies-Nouvelles (now the Theatre Dejazet),that the hotel had taken its name.
It consists of the rear building of a large old house, and has nofrontage on the Boulevard, where nothing betrays its existence,except a lantern hung over a low and narrow door, between a cafeand a confectionery-shop. It is one of those hotels, as there area good many in Paris, somewhat mysterious and suspicious, ill-kept,and whose profits remain a mystery for simple-minded folks. Whooccupy the apartments of the first and second story? No one knows.Never have the most curious of the neighbors discovered the faceof a tenant. And yet they are occupied; for often, in theafternoon, a curtain is drawn aside, and a shadow is seen to move.In the evening, lights are noticed within; and sometimes the soundof a cracked old piano is heard.
Above the second
story, the mystery ceases. All the upper rooms,the price of which is relatively modest, are occupied by tenantswho may be seen and heard,--clerks like Maxence, shop-girls fromthe neighborhood, a few restaurant-waiters, and sometimes some poordevil of an actor or chorus-singer from the Theatre Dejazet, theCircus, or the Chateau d'Eau. One of the great advantages of theHotel des Folies--and Mme. Fortin, the landlady, never failed topoint it out to the new tenants, an inestimable advantage, shedeclared--was a back entrance on the Rue Beranger.
"And everybody knows," she concluded, "that there is no chance ofbeing caught, when one has the good luck of living in a house thathas two outlets."
When Maxence entered the office, a small, dark, and dirty room,the proprietors, M. and Mme. Fortin were just finishing theirbreakfast with an immense bowl of coffee of doubtful color, ofwhich an enormous red cat was taking a share.
"Ah, here is M. Favoral!" they exclaimed.
There was no mistaking their tone. They knew the catastrophe;and the newspaper lying on the table showed how they had heard it.
"Some one called to see you last night," said Mme. Fortin, a largefat woman, whose nose was always besmeared with snuff, and whosehoneyed voice made a marked contrast with her bird-of-prey look.
"Who?"
"A gentleman of about fifty, tall and thin, with a long overcoat,coming down to his heels."
Maxence imagined, from this description, that he recognized his ownfather. And yet it seemed impossible, after what had happened, thathe should dare to show himself on the Boulevard du Temple, whereeverybody knew him, within a step of the Cafe Turc, of which hewas one of the oldest customers.
"At what o'clock was he here?" he inquired.
"I really can't tell," answered the landlady. "I was half asleepat the time; but Fortin can tell us."
M. Fortin, who looked about twenty years younger than his wife, wasone of those small men, blonde, with scanty beard, a suspiciousglance, and uneasy smile, such as the Madame Fortins know how tofind, Heaven knows where.
"The confectioner had just put up his shutters," he replied:"consequently, it must have been between eleven and a quarter-pasteleven."
"And didn't he leave any word?" said Maxence.
"Nothing, except that he was very sorry not to find you in. And,in fact, he did look quite annoyed. We asked him to leave his name;but he said it wasn't worth while, and that he would call again."
At the glance which the landlady was throwing toward him from thecorner of her eyes, Maxence understood that she had on the subjectof that late visitor the same suspicion as himself.
And, as if she had intended to make it more apparent still,
"I ought, perhaps, to have given him your key," she said.
"And why so, pray?"
"Oh! I don't know, an idea of mine, that's all. Besides, Mlle.Lucienne can probably tell you more about it; for she was therewhen the gentleman came, and I even think that they exchanged afew words in the yard."
Maxence, seeing that they were only seeking a pretext to questionhim, took his key, and inquired,
"Is--Mlle. Lucienne at home?"
"Can't tell. She has been going and coming all the morning, andI don't know whether she finally staid in or out. One thing issure, she waited for you last night until after twelve; and shedidn't like it much, I can tell you."
Maxence started up the steep stairs; and, as he reached the upperstories, a woman's voice, fresh and beautifully toned, reached hisears more and more distinctly.
She was singing a popular tune,--one of those songs which aremonthly put in circulation by the singing cafes--
"To hope! O charming word, Which, during all life, Husband and children and wife Repeat in common accord! When the moment of success From us ever further slips, 'Tis Hope from its rosy lips Whispers, To-morrow you will bless. 'Tis very nice to run, But to have is better fun."
"She is in," murmured Maxence, breathing more freely.
Reaching the fourth story, he stopped before the door which facedthe stairs, and knocked lightly.
At once, the voice, which had just commenced another verse stoppedshort, and inquired, "Who's there?"
"I, Maxence!"
"At this hour!" replied the voice with an ironical laugh. "That'slucky. You have probably forgotten that we were to go to thetheatre last night, and start for St. Germain at seven o'clockthis morning."
"Don't you know then?" Maxence began, as soon as he could put in aword.
"I know that you did not come home last night."
"Quite true. But when I have told you--"
"What? the lie you have imagined? Save yourself the trouble."
"Lucienne, I beg of you, open the door."
"Impossible, I am dressing. Go to your own room: as soon as I amdressed, I'll join you."
And, to cut short all these explanations, she took up her song again:
"Hope, I've waited but too long For thy manna divine! I've drunk enough of thy wine, And I know thy siren song: Waiting for a lucky turn, I have wasted my best days: Take up thy magic-lantern And elsewhere display its rays. 'Tis very nice to run, But to have is better fun!"
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