Chapter 20

Poor Kami. He was in despair. “Alas!” he replied, reluctantly, “nothing could be more simple. I wanted to set up a racing stable. Not that I care much for sport. I can scarcely distinguish a horse from a mule--but morning and evening, everybody says to me: ‘Prince, a man like you ought to make your name celebrated on the turf.’ Besides I never open a paper without reading: ‘Such a man ought to be a patron of the noblest of sports.’ At last, I said to myself: ‘Yes, they are right. I ought to take part in racing.’ So I began to look about for some horses. I had purchased several, when the Marquis de Valorsay proposed to sell me some of his, some that were very well known, and that had--so he assured me--won at least ten times the amount they had cost him. I accepted his offer, and visited his stables, where I selected seven of his best horses and paid for them; and I paid a good round price, I assure you. Now comes the knavery. He has not given me the horses I purchased. The real animals, the valuable ones--have been sold in England under false names, and although the horses sent to me may be like the others in appearance, they are really only common animals, wanting both in blood and speed.”

Pascal and the baron exchanged astonished glances. It must be confessed that frauds of every description are common enough in the racing world, and a great deal of dishonest manoeuvring results from greed for gain united with the fever of gambling. But never before had any one been accused of such an audacious and impudent piece of rascality as that which Kami-Bey imputed to Valorsay.

“How did you fail to discover this at the outset, prince?” inquired Pascal in an incredulous tone.

“Because my time was so much occupied.”

“But your servants?”

“Ah! that’s another thing. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if it were proved that the man who has charge of my stables had been bribed by the marquis.”

“Then, how were your suspicions aroused?”

“It was only by the merest chance. A jockey whom I thought of employing had often ridden one of the animals which I fancied myself the owner of. Naturally, I showed him the horse, but he had no sooner set eyes on it than he exclaimed: ‘That the horse! Never! You’ve been cheated, prince!’ Then we examined the others, and the fraud became apparent.”

Knowing Kami’s character better than Pascal, the baron had good reason to distrust the accuracy of these statements. For the Turkish millionaire’s superb contempt of money was only affected. Vanity alone unloosed his purse-strings. He was quite capable of presenting Jenny Fancy with a necklace costing five-and-twenty thousand francs for the sake of seeing his generosity recorded in the Gaulois or the Figaro the next day; but he would refuse to give a trifle to the mother of a starving family. Besides, it was his ambition to be regarded as the most swindled man in Europe. But though he was shamefully imposed upon, it was not voluntarily--for there was a strong dose of Arabian avarice and distrust in his composition.

“Frankly, prince,” said the baron, “your story sounds like one of the wild legends of your native land. Valorsay is certainly no fool. How is it possible that he could have been guilty of so gross a fraud--a fraud which might be, which could not fail to be discovered in twenty-four hours--and which, once proven, would dishonor him forever?”

“Before perpetrating such a piece of deception upon any one else, he would have thought twice; but upon me it’s different. Isn’t it an established fact that a person incurs no risk in robbing Kami-Bey?”

“Had I been in your place I should have quietly instituted an investigation.”

“What good would that have done? Besides, the sale was only conditional, and took place under the seal of secrecy. The marquis reserved the right to take his horses back on payment of a stipulated sum, and the time he was to have for consideration only expired on the day before yesterday.”

“Eh! why didn’t you tell us that at first?” cried the baron.

The marquis’s rascality was now easily explained. Finding himself in a desperate strait, and feeling that his salvation was certain if he could only gain a little time, he had yielded to temptation, saying to himself, like unfaithful cashiers when they first appropriate their employers’ money: “I will pay it back, and no one will ever know it!” However, when the day of settlement came he had found himself in as deplorable a plight as on the day of the robbery, and he had been compelled to yield to the force of circumstances.

“And what do you intend to do, prince?” asked Pascal.

“Ah! I am still in doubt. I have compelled the marquis to give me the papers in which the exploits of these horses are recorded. These statements will be of service in case of a law-suit. But shall I or shall I not enter a complaint against him? If it were a mere question of money I should let the matter drop; but he has defrauded and deceived me so outrageously that it annoys me. On the other hand, to confess that he has cheated me in this fashion would cover me with ridicule. Besides, the man is a dangerous enemy. And what would become of me if I happened to side against him? I should be compelled to leave Paris. Ah! I’d give ten thousand francs to any one who’d settle this cursed affair for me!”

His perplexity was so great, and his anger so intense, for that once he tore off his eternal fez and flung it on to the table, swearing like a drayman. However, controlling himself at last, he exclaimed in a tone of assumed indifference: “No matter, there’s been enough said on this subject for one day--I’m here to play--so let us begin, baron. For we are wasting precious time, as you so often remark.”

Pascal had nothing more to learn; so he shook hands with the baron, made an appointment with him for the same evening, and went away.

It was only half-past two; a good hour and a half remained at his disposal. “I will profit by this opportunity to eat something,” he thought; a sudden faintness reminding him that he had taken nothing but a cup of chocolate that day. Thereupon perceiving a cafe near by, he entered it, ordered breakfast, and lingered there until it was time to return to the Marquis de Valorsay’s. He would have gone there before the appointed time if he had merely listened to the promptings of his impatience, so thoroughly was he persuaded that this second interview would be decisive. But prudence advised him not to expose himself to the danger of an encounter with Madame Leon and Dr. Jodon.

“Well! Monsieur Maumejan,” cried the marquis, as soon as Pascal made his appearance. He had been counting the seconds with intense anxiety, as his tone of voice unmistakably revealed.

In reply Pascal gravely drew from his pocket twenty-four bank-notes, of a thousand francs each, and he placed them upon the table, saying: “Here is the amount, Monsieur le Marquis. I have, of course, deducted my commission. Now, if you will write and sign a note for twenty-five thousand francs, payable to my order two months hence, our business for to-day will be concluded.”

M. de Valorsay’s hand trembled nervously as he penned the desired note, for, until the very last moment, he had doubted the promises of this unknown agent who had made his appearance so opportunely Then, when the document was signed, he carelessly slipped the money into a drawer and exclaimed: “So here’s the needful to pay my debt of honor; but my embarrassment is none the less great. These twenty-four thousand francs won’t take the place of the hundred thousand which Baron Trigault promised me.”

And, as Pascal made no reply, the marquis began a desultory tramp up and down the smoking-room. He was very pale, his brows were knit; he looked like a man who was meditating a decisive step, and who was calculating the consequences. But having no time to waste in hesitation, he soon paused in front of Pascal, and exclaimed: “Since you have just lent me twenty-four thousand francs, why won’t you lend me the rest?”

But Pascal shook his head. “One risks nothing by advancing twenty-five thousand francs to a person in your position, Monsieur le Marquis. Whatever happens, such a sum as that can always be gathered from the wreck. But double or triple the amount! The deuce! that requires reflection, and I must understand the situation thoroughly.”

“And if I told you that I am--almost ruined, what would you reply?”

“I shouldn’t be so very much surprised.”

M. de Valorsay had now gone too far to draw back. “Ah, well!” he resumed, “the truth is this--my affairs are terribly involved.”

“The devil! You should have told me that sooner.”

“Wait; I am about to retrieve my fortune--to make it even larger than it has ever been. I am on the point of contracting a marriage which will make me one of the richest men in Paris; but I must have a little time to bring the affair to a successful termination, and I need money--and my creditors are pressing me unmercifully. You told me this morning that you once assisted a man who was in a similar position. Will you help me? You can set your own price on your services.”

More easily overcome by joy than by sorrow, Pascal almost betrayed himself. He had attained his object. Still, he succeeded in conquering his emotion, and it was in a perfectly calm voice that he replied: “I can promise nothing until I understand the situation, Monsieur le Marquis. Will you explain it to me? I am listening.”

XIV.

It was nearly midnight when M. Wilkie left the Hotel d’Argeles after the terrible scene in which he had revealed his true character. On seeing him pass out with haggard eyes, colorless lips, and disordered clothing, the servants gathered in the vestibule took him at first for another of those ruined gamblers who not unfrequently left the house with despair in their hearts.

“Another fellow who’s had bad luck!” they remarked sneeringly to one another.

“No doubt about that. He is pretty effectually used up, judging from appearances,” one of them remarked.

It was not until some moments later that they learned a portion of the truth through the servants who had been on duty upstairs, and who now ran down in great terror, crying that Madame d’Argeles was dying, and that a physician must be summoned at once.

M. Wilkie was already far away, hastening up the boulevard with an agile step. Any one else would have been overcome with shame and sorrow--would have been frightened by the thought of what he had done, and have striven to find some way to conceal his disgrace; but he, not in the least. In this frightful crisis, he was only conscious of one fact--that just as he raised his hand to strike Madame Lia d’Argeles, his mother, a big, burly individual had burst into the room, like a bombshell, caught him by the throat, forced him upon his knees, and compelled him to ask the lady’s pardon. He, Wilkie, to be humiliated in this style! He would never endure that. This was an affront he could not swallow, one of those insults that cry out for vengeance and for blood. “Ah! the great brute shall pay for it,” he repeated, again and again, grinding his teeth. And if he hastened up the boulevard, it was only because he hoped to meet his two chosen friends, M. Costard and the Viscount de Serpillon, the co-proprietors of Pompier de Nanterre.

For he intended to place his outraged honor in their care. They should be his seconds, and present his demand for satisfaction to the man who had insulted him. A duel was the only thing that could appease his furious anger and heal his wounded pride. And a great scandal, which he would be the hero of, was not without a certain charm for him. What a glorious chance to win notoriety at an epoch when newspapers have become public laundries, in which every one washes his soiled linen and dries it in the glare of publicity! He saw his already remarkable reputation enhanced by the interest that always attaches to people who are talked about, and he could hear in advance the flattering whisper which would greet his appearance everywhere: “You see that young man?--he is the hero of that famous adventure,” etc. Moreover, he was already twisting and turning the terms of the notice which his seconds must have inserted in the Figaro, hesitating between two or three equally startling beginnings: “Another famous duel,” or “Yesterday, after a scandalous scene, an encounter,” etc., etc.

Unfortunately, he did not meet either M. Costard or the Viscount de Serpillon. Strange to say, they were not in any of the cafes, where the flower of French chivalry usually congregates, in the company of golden-haired young women, from nine in the evening until one o’clock in the morning. This disappointment grieved M. Wilkie sorely, although he derived some benefit from it, for his disordered attire attracted attention at each place he entered, and acquaintances eagerly inquired: “Where have you come from, and what has happened to you?” Whereupon he replied with an air of profound secrecy: “Pray don’t speak of it. A shocking affair! If it were noised abroad I should be inconsolable.”

At last the cafes began to close, and promenaders became rare. M. Wilkie, much to his regret, was obliged to go home. When he had locked his door and donned his dressing-gown, he sat down to think over the events of the day, and collect his scattered wits. What most troubled and disquieted him was not the condition in which he had left Madame Lia d’Argeles, his mother, who was, perhaps, dying, through his fault! It was not the terrible sacrifice that this poor woman had made for him in a transport of maternal love! It was not the thought of the source from which the money he had squandered for so many years had been derived. No, M. Wilkie was quite above such paltry considerations--good enough for commonplace and antiquated people. “He was too clever for that. Ah! yes. He had a stronger stomach, and was up with the times!” If he were sorely vexed in spirit it was because he thought that the immense property which he had believed his own had slipped, perhaps for ever, from his grasp. For rising threateningly between the Chalusse millions and himself, he pictured the form of his father, this man whom he did not know, but whose very name had made Madame d’Argeles shudder.

M. Wilkie was seized with terror when he looked his actual situation in the face. What was to become of him? He was certain that Madame d’Argeles would not give him another sou. She could not--he recognized that fact. His intelligence was equal to that. On the other hand, if he ever obtained anything from the count’s estate, which was more than doubtful, would he not be obliged to wait a long time for it? Yes, in all probability such would be the case. Then how should he live, how would he be able to obtain food in the meantime? His despair was so poignant that tears came to his eyes; and he bitterly deplored the step he had taken. Yes, he actually sighed for the past; he longed to live over again the very years in which he had so often complained of his destiny. Then, though not a millionaire by any means, he at least wanted for nothing. Every quarter-day a very considerable allowance was promptly paid him, and, in great emergencies, he could apply to Mr. Patterson, who always sent a favorable answer if not drawn upon too heavily. Yes, he sighed for that time! Ah! if he had only then realized how fortunate he was! Had he not been one of the most opulent members of the society in which he moved? Had he not been flattered and admired more than any of his companions? Had he not found the most exquisite happiness in his part ownership of Pompier de Nanterre!

Now, what remained? Nothing, save anxiety concerning the future, and all sorts of uncertainties and terrors! What a mistake! What a blunder he had made! Ah! if he could only begin again. He sincerely wished that the great adversary of mankind had the Viscount de Coralth in his clutches. For, in his despair, it was the once dear viscount that he blamed, accused, and cursed.

He was in this ungrateful frame of mind when a loud, almost savage, ring came at his door. As his servant slept in an attic upstairs, Wilkie was quite alone in his rooms, so he took the lamp and went to open the door himself. At this hour of the night, the visitor could only be M. Costard or the Viscount de Serpillon, or perhaps both of them. “They have heard that I was looking for them, and so they have hastened here,” he thought.

But he was mistaken. The visitor was neither of these gentlemen, but M. Ferdinand de Coralth in person. Prudence had compelled the viscount to leave Madame d’Argeles’s card-party one of the last, but as soon as he was out of the house he had rushed to the Marquis de Valorsay’s to hold a conference with him, far from suspecting that he was followed, and that an auxiliary of Pascal Ferailleur and Mademoiselle Marguerite was even then waiting for him below--an enemy as formidable as he was humble--Victor Chupin.

At sight of the man who had so long been his model--the friend who had advised what he styled his blunder--Wilkie was so surprised that he almost dropped his lamp. Then as his wrath kindled, “Ah! so it’s you!” he exclaimed, angrily. “You come at a good time!”

But M. de Coralth was too much exasperated to notice Wilkie’s strange greeting. Seizing him roughly by the arm, and closing the door with a kick, he dragged Wilkie back into the little drawing-room. “Yes, it’s I,” he said, curtly. “It’s I--come to inquire if you have gone mad?”

“Viscount!”

“I can find no other explanation of your conduct! What! You choose Madame d’Argeles’s reception day, and an hour when there are fifty guests in her drawing-room to present yourself!”

“Ah, well! it wasn’t from choice. I had been there twice before, and had the doors shut in my face.”

“You ought to have gone back ten times, a hundred times, a thousand times, rather than have accomplished such an idiotic prank as this.”

“Excuse me.”

“What did I recommend? Prudence, calmness and moderation, persuasive gentleness, sentiments of the loftiest nature, tenderness, a shower of tears----”

“Possibly, but----”

“But instead of that, you fall upon this woman like a thunderbolt, and set the whole household in the wildest commotion. What could you be thinking of, to make such an absurd and frightful scene? For you howled and shrieked like a street hawker, and we could hear you in the drawing-room. If all is not irretrievably lost, there must be a special Providence for the benefit of fools!”

In his dismay, Wilkie endeavored to falter some excuses, but he was only able to begin a few sentences which died away, uncompleted in his throat. The violence shown by M. de Coralth, who was usually as cold and as polished as marble, quieted his own wrath. Still toward the last he felt disposed to rebel against the insults that were being heaped upon him. “Do you know, viscount, that I begin to think this very strange,” he exclaimed. “If any one else had led me into such a scrape, I should have called him to account in double-quick time.”

M. de Coralth shrugged his shoulders with an air of contempt, and threateningly replied: “Understand, once for all, that you had better not attempt to bully me! Now, tell me what passed between your mother and yourself?”

“First I should like----”

“Dash it all! Do you suppose that I intend to remain here all night? Tell me what occurred, and be quick about it. And try to speak the truth.”

It was one of M. Wilkie’s greatest boasts that he had an indomitable will--an iron nature. But the viscount exercised powerful influence over him, and, to tell the truth, inspired him with a form of emotion which was nearly akin to fear. Moreover, a glimmer of reason had at last penetrated his befogged brain: he saw that M. de Coralth was right--that he had acted like a fool, and that, if he hoped to escape from the dangers that threatened him, he must take the advice of more experienced men than himself. So, ceasing his recriminations, he began to describe what he styled his explanation with Madame d’Argeles. All went well at first; for he dared not misrepresent the facts.

But when he came to the intervention of the man who had prevented him from striking his mother, he turned crimson, and rage again filled his heart. “I’m sorry I let myself get into such a mess!” he exclaimed. “You should have seen my condition. My shirt-collar was torn, and my cravat hung in tatters. He was much stronger than I--the contemptible scoundrel!--ah! if it hadn’t been for that---- But I shall have my revenge. Yes, he shall learn that he can’t trample a man under foot with impunity. To-morrow two of my friends will call upon him; and if he refuses to apologize or to give me satisfaction, I’ll cane him.”

It was evident enough that M. de Coralth had to exercise considerable constraint to listen to these fine projects. “I must warn you that you ought to speak in other terms of an honorable and honored gentleman,” he interrupted, at last.

“Eh! what! You know him then?”

“Yes, Madame d’Argeles’s defender is Baron Trigault.”

M. Wilkie’s heart bounded with joy, as he heard this name. “Ah! this is capital!” he exclaimed. “What! So it was Baron Trigault--the noted gambler--who owns such a magnificent house in the Rue de la Ville l’Eveque, the husband of that extremely stylish lady, that notorious cocotte----”

The viscount sprang from his chair, and interrupting M. Wilkie: “I advise you, for the sake of your own safety,” he said, measuring his words to give them greater weight, “never to mention the Baroness Trigault’s name except in terms of the most profound respect.”

There was no misunderstanding M. de Coralth’s tone, and his glance said plainly that he would not allow much time to pass before putting his threat into execution. Having always lived in a lower circle to that in which the baroness sparkled with such lively brilliancy, M. Wilkie was ignorant of the reasons that induced his distinguished friend to defend her so warmly; but he DID understand that it would be highly imprudent to insist, or even to discuss the matter. So, in his most persuasive manner, he resumed: “Let us say no more about the wife, but give our attention to the husband. So it was the baron who insulted me! A duel with him--what good luck! Well! he may sleep in peace to-night, but as soon as he is up in the morning he will find Costard and Serpillon on hand. Serpillon has not an equal as a second. First, he knows the best places for a meeting; then he lends the combatants weapons when they have none; he procures a physician; and he is on excellent terms with the journalists, who publish reports of these encounters.”

The viscount had never had a very exalted opinion of Wilkie’s intelligence, but now he was amazed to see how greatly he had overestimated it. “Enough of such foolishness,” he interrupted, curtly. “This duel will never take place.”

“I should like to know who will prevent it?”

“I will, if you persist in such an absurd idea. You ought to have sense enough to know that the baron would kick Serpillon out of the house, and that you would only cover yourself with ridicule. So, between your duel and my help make your choice, and quickly.”

The prospect of sending his seconds to demand satisfaction from Baron Trigault was certainly a very attractive one. But, on the other hand, Wilkie could not afford to dispense with M. de Coralth’s services. “But the baron has insulted me,” he urged.

“Well, you can demand satisfaction when you obtain possession of your property: but the least scandal now would spoil your last chances.”

“I will abandon the project, then,” sighed Wilkie, despondently; “but pray advise me. What do you think of my situation?”

M. de Coralth seemed to consider a moment, and then gravely replied: “I think that, UNASSISTED, you have no chance whatever. You have no standing, no influential connections, no position--you are not even a Frenchman.”