Chapter 16

Thus, Mademoiselle Marguerite had been able to make her escape without attracting any one’s attention, and she would be able to remain away as many hours as she chose, since the servants would not know how long she had been absent even if they saw her when she returned. An empty cab was passing as she left the house, so she hailed it and got in. The step she was about to take cost her a terrible effort. It was a difficult task for her, a girl naturally so reserved, to confide in a stranger, and open to him her maidenly heart, filled with love for Pascal Ferailleur! Still, she was much calmer than she had been on the previous evening, when she called on the photographer for a facsimile of M. de Valorsay’s letter. Several circumstances combined to reassure her. M. Fortunat knew her already, since he was the agent whom the Count de Chalusse had employed to carry on the investigations which had resulted in her discovery at the foundling asylum. A vague presentiment told her that this man was better acquainted with her past life than she was herself, and that he could, if he chose, tell her her mother’s name--the name of the woman whom the count so dreaded, and who had so pitilessly deserted her. However, her heart beat more quickly, and she felt that she was turning pale when, at Madame Dodelin’s invitation, she at last entered M. Fortunat’s private office. She took in the room and its occupants with a single glance. The handsome appointments of the office surprised her, for she had expected to see a den. The agent’s polite manner and rather elegant appearance disconcerted her, for she had expected to meet a coarse and illiterate boor; and finally, Victor Chupin, who was standing twisting his cap near the fireplace, attired in a blouse and a pair of ragged trousers, fairly alarmed her. Still, no sign of her agitation was perceptible on her countenance. Not a muscle of her beautiful, proud face moved--her glance remained clear and haughty, and she exclaimed in a ringing voice: “I am the late Count de Chalusse’s ward, Mademoiselle Marguerite. You have received my letter, I suppose?”

M. Fortunat bowed with all the grace of manner he was wont to display in the circles where he went wife-hunting, and with a somewhat pretentious gesture he advanced an arm-chair, and asked his visitor to sit down. “Your letter reached me, mademoiselle,” he replied, “and I was expecting you--flattered and honored beyond expression by your confidence. My door, indeed, was closed to any one but you.”

Marguerite took the proffered seat, and there was a moment’s silence. M. Fortunat found it difficult to believe that this beautiful, imposing young girl could be the poor little apprentice whom he had seen in the book-bindery, years before, clad in a coarse serge frock, with dishevelled hair covered with scraps of paper. In the meantime, Marguerite was regretting the necessity of confiding in this man, for the more she looked at him, the more she was convinced that he was not an honest, straightforward person; and she would infinitely have preferred a cynical scoundrel to this plausible and polite gentleman, whom she strongly suspected of being a hypocrite. She remained silent, waiting for M. Fortunat to dismiss the young man in the blouse, whose presence she could not explain, and who stood in a sort of mute ecstasy, staring at her with eyes expressive of the most intense surprise and the liveliest admiration. But weary at last of this fruitless delay, she exclaimed: “I have come, monsieur, to confer with you respecting certain matters which require the most profound secrecy.”

Chupin understood her, for he blushed to the tips of his ears, and started as if to leave the room. But his employer detained him with a gesture.

“Remain, Victor,” he said kindly, and, turning to Mademoiselle Marguerite, he added: “You have no indiscretion to fear from this worthy fellow, mademoiselle. He knows everything, and he has already been actively at work--and with the best result--on your behalf.”

“I don’t understand you, sir,” replied the girl.

M. Fortunat smiled sweetly. “I have already taken your business in hand, mademoiselle,” said he. “An hour after the receipt of your letter I began the campaign.”

“But I had not told you----”

“What you wished of me--that’s true. But I allowed myself to suspect----”

“Ah!”

“I fancied I might conclude that you wished the help of my experience and poor ability in clearing an innocent man who has been vilely slandered, M. Pascal Ferailleur.”

Marguerite sprang to her feet, at once agitated and alarmed. “How did you know this?” she exclaimed.

M. Fortunat had left his arm-chair, and was now leaning against the mantel-shelf, in what he considered a most becoming and awe-inspiring attitude, with his thumb in the armhole of his waistcoat. “Ah! nothing could be more simple,” he answered, in much the same tone as a conqueror might assume to explain his feat. “It is part of my profession to penetrate the intentions of persons who deign to honor me with their confidence. So my surmises are correct; at least you have not said the contrary?”

She had said nothing. When her first surprise was over, she vainly endeavored to find a plausible explanation of M. Fortunat’s acquaintance with her affairs, for she was not at all deceived by his pretended perspicacity. Meanwhile, delighted by the supposed effect he had produced, he recklessly continued: “Reserve your amazement for what I am about to disclose, for I have made several important discoveries. It must have been your good angel who inspired you with the idea of coming to me. You would have shuddered if you had realized the dangers that threatened you. But now you have nothing to fear; I am watching. I am here, and I hold in my hand all the threads of the abominable intrigue for ruining you. For it is you, your person, and your fortune that are imperilled. It was solely on your account that M. Ferailleur was attacked. And I can tell you the names of the scoundrels who ruined him. The crime originated with the person who had the most powerful interest in the matter--the Marquis de Valorsay. His agent was a scoundrel who is generally known as the Viscount de Coralth; but Chupin here can tell you his real name and his shameful past. You preferred M. Ferailleur, hence it was necessary to put him out of the way. M. de Chalusse had promised your hand to the Marquis de Valorsay. This marriage was Valorsay’s only resource--the plank that might save the drowning man. People fancy he is rich; but he is ruined. Yes, ruined completely, irretrievably. He was in such desperate straits that he had almost determined to blow his brains out before the hope of marrying you entered his mind.”

“Ah!” thought Chupin, “my employer is well under way.”

This was indeed the case. The name of Valorsay was quite sufficient to set all M. Fortunat’s bile in motion. All thought of his ex-client irritated him beyond endurance. Unfortunately for him, however, his anger in the present instance had ruined his plans. He had intended to take Mademoiselle Marguerite by surprise, to work upon her imagination, to make her talk without saying anything himself, and to remain master of the situation. But on the contrary he had revealed everything; and he did not discover this until it was too late to retrieve his blunder. “How the Marquis de Valorsay has kept his head above water is a wonder to me,” he continued. “His creditors have been threatening to sue him for more than six months. How he has been able to keep them quiet since M. de Chalusse’s death, I cannot understand. However, this much is certain, mademoiselle: the marquis has not renounced his intention of becoming your husband; and to attain that object he won’t hesitate to employ any means that may promise to prove effectual.”

Completely mistress of herself, Mademoiselle Marguerite listened with an impassive face. “I know all this,” she replied, in a frigid tone.

“What! you know----”

“Yes; but there is one thing that baffles my powers of comprehension. My dowry was the only temptation to M. de Valorsay, was it not? Why does he still wish to marry me, now that I have no fortune?”

M. Fortunat had gradually lost all his advantage. “I have asked myself the same question,” he replied, “and I think I have found an answer. I believe that the marquis has in his possession a letter, or a will, or a document of some sort, written by M. de Chalusse--in fact an instrument in which the count acknowledges you as his daughter, and which consequently establishes; your right to his property.”

“And the marquis could urge this claim if he became my husband?”

“Certainly he could.”

M. Fortunat explained M. de Valorsay’s conduct exactly as the old magistrate had done. However, Mademoiselle Marguerite discreetly refrained from committing herself. The great interest that M. Fortunat seemed to take in her affairs aroused her distrust; and she decided to do what he had attempted in vain--that is, allow him to do all the talking, and to conceal all that she knew herself. “Perhaps you are right,” she remarked, “but it is necessary to prove the truth of your assertion.”

“I can prove that Valorsay hasn’t a shilling, and that he has lived for a year by expedients which render him liable to arrest and prosecution at any time. I can prove that he deceived M. de Chalusse as to his financial position. I can prove that he conspired with M. de Coralth to ruin your lover. Wouldn’t this be something?”

She smiled in a way that was exceedingly irritating to his vanity, and in a tone of good-natured incredulity, she remarked: “It is easy to SAY these things.”

“And to do them,” rejoined M. Fortunat, quickly. “I never promise what I cannot perform. A man should never touch a pen when he is meditating any evil act. Of course, no one is fool enough to write down his infamy in detail. But a man cannot always be on the qui vive. There will be a word in one letter, a sentence in another, an allusion in a third. And by combining these words, phrases, and allusions, one may finally discover the truth.”

He suddenly checked himself, warned of his fresh imprudence by the expression on Mademoiselle Marguerite’s face. She drew back, and looking him full in the eyes, she exclaimed: “Then you have been in M. de Valorsay’s confidence, sir? Would you be willing to swear that you never helped him in his designs?”

A silent and ignored witness of this scene, Victor Chupin was secretly delighted. “Hit!” he thought--“hit just in the bull’s-eye. Zounds! there’s a woman for you! She has beaten the guv’nor on every point.”

M. Fortunat was so taken by surprise that he made no attempt to deny his guilt. “I confess that I acted as M. de Valorsay’s adviser for some time,” he replied, “and he frequently spoke to me of his intention of marrying a rich wife in order to retrieve his shattered fortunes. Upon my word, I see nothing so very bad about that! It is not a strictly honest proceeding, perhaps, but it is done every day. What is marriage in this age? Merely a business transaction, is it not? Perhaps it would be more correct to say that it is a transaction in which one person tries to cheat the other. The fathers-in-law are deceived, or the husband, or the wife, and sometimes all of them together. But when I discovered this scheme for mining M. Ferailleur, I cried ‘halt!’ My conscience revolted at that. Dishonor an innocent man! It was base, cowardly, outrageous! And not being able to prevent this infamous act, I swore that I would avenge it.”

Would Mademoiselle Marguerite accept this explanation? Chupin feared so, and accordingly turning quickly to his employer, he remarked: “To say nothing of the fact that this fine gentleman has swindled you outrageously, shrewd as you are--cheating you out of the forty thousand francs you lent him, and which he was to pay you eighty thousand for.”

M. Fortunat cast a withering look at his clerk, but the mischief was done: denial was useless. He seemed fated to blunder in this affair. “Well, yes,” he declared, “it’s true. Valorsay HAS defrauded me, and I have sworn to have my revenge. I won’t rest until I see him ruined.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite was partially reassured, for she understood his zeal now. Her scorn for the man was only increased; but she was convinced that he would serve her faithfully. “I like this much better,” said she. “It is better to have no concealment. You desire M. de Valorsay’s ruin. I desire the rehabilitation of M. Ferailleur. So our interests are in common. But before acting in this matter, we must know M. Ferailleur’s wishes.”

“They cannot be considered.”

“And why?”

“Because no one knows what has become of him. When the desire for revenge first took possession of me, I at once thought of him. I procured his address, and went to the Rue d’Ulm. But he had gone away. The very day after his misfortune, M. Ferailleur sold his furniture and went away with his mother.”

“I am aware of that, and I have come to ask you to search for him. To discover his hiding-place will be only child’s play to you.”

“Do you suppose I haven’t thought of this?” replied M. Fortunat. “Why, I spent all day yesterday searching for him. By questioning the people in the neighborhood I finally succeeded in ascertaining that Madame Ferailleur left her home in a cab several hours after her son, and took a very large quantity of baggage with her. Well, do you know where she drove? To the Western railway station. I am sure of this, and I know she told a porter there that her destination was London. M. Ferailleur is now en route for America, and we shall never hear of him again!”

Mademoiselle Marguerite shook her head. “You are mistaken, sir,” said she.

“There can be no mistake about what I have just told you.”

“I don’t question the result of your investigations, but appearances are deceitful. I thoroughly understand M. Ferailleur’s character, and he is not the man to be crushed by an infamous calumny. He may seem to fly, he may disappear, he may conceal himself for a time, but it is only to make his vengeance more certain. What! Pascal, who is energy itself, who possesses an iron will, and invincible determination, would he renounce his honor, his future, and the woman he loves without a struggle? If he had felt that his case was hopeless, he would have destroyed himself, and as he has not done so, he is not without hope. He has not left Paris; I am sure of it.”

M. Fortunat was not convinced. In his opinion this was only sentiment and rubbish. Still there was one person present who was deeply impressed by the confidence of this young girl, who was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, and whose devotion and energy filled his heart with admiration, and this person was Chupin. He stepped forward with his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, and in a feeling voice he exclaimed: “I understand your idea! Yes, M. Ferailleur is in Paris. And I shall be unworthy of the name of Chupin, if I don’t find him for you in less than a fortnight!”

XII.

Mademoiselle Marguerite knew Pascal Ferailleur. Suddenly struck down in the full sunlight of happiness by a terrible misfortune, he, of course, experienced moments of frenzy and terrible depression; but he was incapable of the cowardice which M. Fortunat had accused him of.

Mademoiselle Marguerite only did him justice when she said that the sole condition on which he could consent to live was that of consecrating his life, and all his strength, intelligence and will to confounding this infamous calumny. And still she did not know the extent of Pascal’s misfortune. How could she suppose that he believed himself deserted by her? How could she know the doubts and fears and the anguish that had been roused in his heart by the note which Madame Leon had given him at the garden gate? What did she know of the poignant suspicions that had rent his mind, after listening to Madame Vantrasson’s disparaging insinuations?

It must be admitted that he was indebted to his mother alone for his escape from suicide--that grim madness that seizes hold of so many desperate, despairing men. And it was still to his mother--the incomparable guardian of his honor--that he owed his resolution on the morning he applied to Baron Trigault. And his courage met with its first reward.

He was no longer the same man when he left the princely mansion which he had entered with his heart so full of anguish. He was still somewhat bewildered with the strange scenes which he had involuntarily witnessed, the secrets he had overheard, and the revelations which had been made to him; but a light gleamed on the horizon--a fitful and uncertain light, it is true, but nevertheless a hopeful gleam. At least, he would no longer have to struggle alone. An honest and experienced man, powerful by reason of his reputation, his connections and his fortune, had promised him his help. Thanks to this man whom misfortune had made a truer friend than years could have done, he would have access to the wretch who had deprived him both of his honor and of the woman he loved. He knew the weak spot in the marquis’s armor now; he knew where and how to strike, and he felt sure that he should succeed in winning Valorsay’s confidence, and in obtaining irrefutable proofs of his villainy.

Pascal was eager to inform his mother of the fortunate result of his visit, but certain arrangements which were needful for the success of his plans required his attention, and it was nearly five o’clock when he reached the Route de la Revolte. Madame Ferailleur was just returning home when he arrived, which surprised him considerably, for he had not known that she had intended going out. The cab she had used was still standing before the door, and she had not had time to take off her shawl and bonnet when he entered the house. She uttered a joyful cry on perceiving her son. She was so accustomed to read his secret thoughts on his face, that it was unnecessary for him to say a word; before he had even opened his lips, she cried: “So you have succeeded?”

“Yes, mother, beyond my hopes.”

“I was not deceived, then, in the worthy man who came to offer us his assistance?”

“No, certainly not. Do what I may, I can never repay him for his generosity and self-denial. If you knew, my dear mother, if you only knew----”

“What?”

He kissed her as if he wished to apologize for what he was about to say, and then he quickly replied: “Marguerite is the daughter of Baroness Trigault.”

Madame Ferailleur started back, as if she had seen a reptile spring up in her pathway. “The daughter of the baroness!” she faltered. “Great Heavens!”

“It is the truth, mother; listen to me.” And in a voice that trembled with emotion, he rapidly related all he had learned by his visit to the baron, softening the truth as much as he could without concealing it. But prevarication was useless. Madame Ferailleur’s indignation and disgust were none the less evident. “That woman is a shameless creature,” she said, coldly, when her son’s narrative was concluded.

Pascal made no reply. He knew only too well that his mother was right, and yet it wounded him cruelly to hear her speak in this style. For the baroness was Marguerite’s mother after all.

“So,” continued Madame Ferailleur, with increasing indignation, “creatures do exist who are destitute even of the maternal instincts of animals. I am an honest woman myself; I don’t say it in self-glorification, it’s no credit to me; my mother was a saint, and I loved my husband; what some people call duty was my happiness, so I may be allowed to speak on this subject. I don’t excuse infidelity, but I can understand how such a thing is possible. Yes, I can understand how a beautiful young woman, who is left alone in a city like Paris, may lose her senses, and forget the worthy man who has exiled himself for her sake, and who is braving a thousand dangers to win a fortune for her. The husband who exposes his honor and happiness to such terrible risk, is an imprudent man. But when this woman has erred, when she has given birth to a child, how she can abandon it, how she can cast it off as if it were a dog, I cannot comprehend. I could imagine infanticide more easily. No, such a woman has no heart, no bowels of compassion. There is nothing human in her! For how could she live, how could she sleep with the thought that somewhere in the world her own child, the flesh of her flesh, was exposed to all the temptations of poverty, and the horrors of shame and vice? And she, the possessor of millions, she, the inmate of a palace, thinking only of dress and pleasure! How was it that she didn’t ask herself every minute, ‘Where is my daughter now, and what is she doing? What is she living on? Has she shelter, clothes and food? To what depths of degradation she may have sunk? Perhaps she has so far lived by honest toil, and perhaps at this very moment this support fails her, and she is abandoning herself to a life of infamy.’ Great God! how does this woman dare to step out of doors? On seeing the poor wretches who have been driven to vice by want, how can she fail to say to herself: ‘That, perhaps, is my daughter!’”

Pascal turned pale, moved to the depths of his soul by his mother’s extraordinary vehemence. He trembled lest she should say: “And you, my son, would you marry the child of such a mother?” For he knew his mother’s prejudices, and the great importance she attached to a spotless reputation transmitted from parent to child, from generation to generation. “The baroness knew that her husband adored her, and hearing of his return she became terrified; she lost her senses,” he ventured to say in extenuation.

“Would you try to defend her?” exclaimed Madame Ferailleur. “Do you really think one can atone for a fault by a crime?”

“No, certainly not, but----”

“Perhaps you would censure the baroness more severely if you knew what her daughter has suffered--if you knew the perils and miseries she has been exposed to from the moment her mother left her on a door-step, near the central markets, till the day when her father found her. It is a miracle that she did not perish.”

Where had Madame Ferailleur learned these particulars? Pascal asked himself this question without being able to answer it. “I don’t understand you, mother,” he faltered.

“Then you know nothing of Mademoiselle Marguerite’s past life. Is it possible she never told you anything about it?”

“I only know that she has been very unhappy.”

“Has she never alluded to the time when she was an apprentice?”

“She has only told me that she earned her living with her own hands at one time of her life.”

“Well, I am better informed on the subject.”

Pascal’s amazement was changed to terror. “You, mother, you!”

“Yes; I--I have been to the asylum where she was received and educated. I have had a conversation with two Sisters of Charity who remember her, and it is scarcely an hour since I left the people to whom she was formerly bound as an apprentice.”

Standing opposite his mother with one hand convulsively clutching the back of the chair he was leaning on, Pascal tried to nerve himself for some terrible blow. For was not his life at stake? Did not his whole future depend upon the revelations Madame Ferailleur was about to make? “So this was your object in going out, mother?” he faltered.

“Yes.”

“And you went without warning me?”

“Was it necessary? What! you love a young girl, you swear in my presence that she shall be your wife, and you think it strange that I should try to ascertain whether she is worthy of you or not? It would be very strange if I did not do so.”

“This idea occurred to you so suddenly!”

Madame Ferailleur gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders, as if she were astonished to have to answer such puerile objections. “Have you already forgotten the disparaging remarks made by our new servant, Madame Vantrasson?”

“Good Heavens!”