Chapter 23

“But this was not all. There still remained the task of creating for myself one of those scandalous reputations that attract public attention. This proved an easy task, thanks to the assistance of my silent partners, and the innocent simplicity of several of their friends and certain journalists. As for myself, I did my best to insure the success of the horrible farce which was to lend infamous notoriety to the name of Lia d’Argeles. I had magnificent equipages and superb dresses, and I made myself conspicuous at the theatres and all places of public resort. As is generally the case when one is acting contrary to conscience, I called the most absurd sophistries to my assistance. I tried to convince myself that appearances are nothing, that reality is everything, and that it did not matter if I were known as a courtesan since rumor lied, and my life WAS really chaste. When the baron hastened to me and tried to rescue me from the abyss into which I had flung myself; it was too late. I had discovered that the business would prove successful; and for your sake, I longed for money as passionately, as madly, as any miser. Last year my gaming-room yielded more than one hundred and fifty thousand francs clear profit, and I received as my share the thirty-five thousand francs which you squandered. Now you know me as I really am. My associates, my partners, the men whose secret I have faithfully kept, walk the streets with their heads erect. They boast of their unsullied honor, and they are respected by every one. Such is the truth, and I have no reason to make their disgrace known. Besides, if I proclaimed it from the house-tops, no one would believe me. But you are my son, and I owe you the truth, the whole truth!”

In any age but the present, Madame d’Argeles’s story would have seemed absolutely incredible. Nowadays, however, such episodes are by no means rare. Two men--two men of exalted rank and highly respected, to use a common expression--associate in opening a gaming-house under the very eyes of the police, and in coining money out of a woman’s supposed disgrace. ‘Tis after all but an everyday occurrence.

The unhappy woman had told her story with apparent coldness, and yet, in her secret heart, she perhaps hoped that by disclosing her terrible sacrifice and long martyrdom, she would draw a burst of gratitude and tenderness from her son, calculated to repay her for all her sufferings. But the hope was vain. It would have been easier to draw water from a solid rock than to, extract a sympathetic tear from Wilkie’s eyes. He was only alive to the practical side of this narrative, and what impressed him most was the impudent assurance of Madame d’Argeles’s business associates. “Not a bad idea; not bad at all,” he exclaimed. And, boiling over with curiosity, he continued: “I would give something handsome to know those men’s names. Really you ought to tell me. It would be worth one’s while to know.”

Any other person than this interesting young man would have been crushed by the look his mother gave him--a look embodying the deepest disappointment and contempt. “I think you must be mad,” she remarked coldly. And as he sprang up, astonished that any one should doubt his abundant supply of good sense, “Let us put an end to this,” she sternly added.

Thereupon she hastily went into the adjoining room, reappearing a moment later with a roll of papers in her hand. “Here,” she remarked, “is my marriage certificate, your certificate of birth, and a copy of my renunciation--a perfectly valid document, since the court has authorized it, owing to my husband’s absence. All these proofs I am ready and willing to place at your disposal, but on one condition.”

This last word fell like a cold shower-bath upon Wilkie’s exultant joy. “What is this condition?” he anxiously inquired.

“It is that you should sign this deed, which has been drawn up by my notary--a deed by which you pledge yourself to hand me the sum of two million francs on the day you come into possession of the Chalusse property.”

Two millions! The immensity of the sum struck Wilkie dumb with consternation. Nor did he forget that he would be compelled to give the Viscount de Coralth the large reward he had promised him--a reward promised in writing, unfortunately. “I shall have nothing left,” he began, piteously.

But with a disdainful gesture Madame d’Argeles interrupted him. “Set your mind at rest,” said she. “You will still be immensely rich. All the estimates which have been made are far below the mark. When I was a girl I often heard my father say that his income amounted to more than eight hundred thousand francs a year. My brother inherited the whole property, and I would be willing to swear that he never spent more than half of his income.”

Wilkie’s nerves had never been subjected to so severe a shock. He tottered and his brain whirled. “Oh! oh!” he stammered. This was all he could say.

“Only I must warn you of a more than probable deception,” pursued Madame d’Argeles. “As my brother was firmly resolved to deprive me even of my rightful portion of the estate, he concealed his fortune in every possible way. It will undoubtedly require considerable time and trouble to gain possession of the whole. However I know a man, formerly the Count de Chalusse’s confidential agent, who might aid you in this task.”

“And this man’s name?”

“Is Isidore Fortunat. I saved his card for you. Here it is.”

M. Wilkie took it up, placed it carefully in his pocket, and then exclaimed: “That being the case, I consent to sign, but after this you need not complain. Two millions at five per cent. ought to greatly alleviate one’s sufferings.”

Madame d’Argeles did not deign to notice this delicate irony. “I will tell you in advance to what purpose I intend to apply this sum,” she said.

“Ah!”

“I intend one of these two millions to serve as the dowry of a young girl who would have been the Count de Chalusse’s sole legatee, if his death had not been so sudden and so unexpected.”

“And the other one?”

“The other I intend to invest for you in such a way that you can only touch the interest of it, so that you will not want for bread after you have squandered your inheritance, even to the very last penny.”

This wise precaution could not fail to shock such a brilliant young man as M. Wilkie. “Do you take me for a fool?” he exclaimed. “I may appear very generous, but I am shrewd enough, never you fear.”

“Sign,” interrupted Madame d’Argeles, coldly.

But he attempted to prove that he was no fool by reading and rereading the contract before he would consent to append his name to it. At last, however, he did so, and stowed away the proofs which insured him the much-coveted property.

“Now,” said Madame d’Argeles, “I have one request to make of you. Whenever your father makes his appearance and lays claim to this fortune, I entreat you to avoid a lawsuit, which would only make your mother’s shame and the disgrace attached to the hitherto stainless name of Chalusse still more widely known. Compromise with him. You will be rich enough to satisfy his greed without feeling it.”

M. Wilkie remained silent for a moment, as if he were deliberating upon the course he ought to pursue. “If my father is reasonable, I will be the same,” he said at last. “I will choose as an arbiter between us one of my friends--a man who acts on the square, like myself--the Marquis de Valorsay.”

“My God! do you know him?”

“He is one of my most intimate friends.”

Madame d’Argeles had become very pale. “Wretched boy!” she exclaimed. “You don’t know that it’s the marquis----” She paused abruptly. One word more and she would have betrayed Pascal Ferailleur’s secret plans, with which she had been made acquainted by Baron Trigault. Had she a right to do this, even to put her son on his guard against a man whom she considered the greatest villain in the world?

“Well?” insisted M. Wilkie, in surprise.

But Madame d’Argeles had recovered her self-possession. “I only wished to warn you against too close a connection with the Marquis de Valorsay. He has an excellent position in society, but yours will be far more brilliant. His star is on the wane; yours is just rising. All that he is regretting, you have a right to hope for. Perhaps even now he is jealous of you, and wishes to persuade you to take some false step.”

“Ah! you little know him!”

“I have warned you.”

M. Wilkie took up his hat, but, though he was longing to depart, embarrassment kept him to the spot. He vaguely felt that he ought not to leave his mother in this style. “I hope I shall soon have some good news to bring you,” he began.

“Before night I shall have left this house,” she answered.

“Of course. But you are going to give me your new address.”

“No.”

“What?--No!”

She shook her head sadly, and in a scarcely audible voice responded: “It is not likely that we shall meet again.”

“And the two millions that I am to turn over to you?”

“Mr. Patterson will collect the money. As for me, say to yourself that I’m dead. You have broken the only link that bound me to life, by proving the futility of the most terrible sacrifices. However, I am a mother, and I forgive you.” Then as he did not move, and as she felt that her strength was deserting her, she dragged herself from the room, murmuring, “Farewell!”

XVI.

Stupefied with astonishment, M. Wilkie stood for a moment silent and motionless. “Allow me,” he faltered at last; “Allow me--I wish to explain.” But Madame d’Argeles did not even turn her head; the door closed behind her and he was left alone.

However strong a man’s nature may be, he always has certain moments of weakness. For instance, at the present moment Wilkie was completely at a loss what to do. Not that he repented, he was incapable of that; but there are hours when the most hardened conscience is touched, and when long dormant instincts at last assert their rights. If he had obeyed his first impulse, he would have darted after his mother and thrown himself on his knees before her. But reflection, remembrance of the Viscount de Coralth, and the Marquis de Valorsay, made him silent the noblest voice that had spoken in his soul for many a long day. So, with his head proudly erect, he went off, twirling his mustaches and followed by the whispers of the servants--whispers which were ready to change into hisses at any moment.

But what did he care for the opinion of these plebeians! Before he was a hundred paces from the house his emotion had vanished, and he was thinking how he could most agreeably spend the time until the hour appointed for his second interview with M. de Valorsay. He had not breakfasted, but “his stomach was out of sorts,” as he said to himself, and it would really have been impossible for him to swallow a morsel. Thus not caring to return home, he started in quest of one of his former intimates, with the generous intention of overpowering him with the great news. Unfortunately he failed to find this friend, and eager to vent the pride that was suffocating him, in some way or other, he entered the shop of an engraver, whom he crushed by his importance, and ordered some visiting cards bearing the inscription W. de Gordon-Chalusse, with a count’s coronet in one of the corners.

Thus occupied, time flew by so quickly that he was a trifle late in keeping his appointment with his dear friend the marquis. Wilkie found M. de Valorsay as he had left him--in his smoking-room, talking with the Viscount de Coralth. Not that the marquis had been idle, but it had barely taken him an hour to set in motion the machinery which he had had in complete readiness since the evening before. “Victory!” cried Wilkie, as he appeared on the threshold. “It was a hard battle, but I asserted my rights. I am the acknowledged heir! the millions are mine!” And without giving his friends time to congratulate him, he began to describe his interview with Madame d’Argeles, presenting his conduct in the most odious light possible, pretending he had indulged in all sorts of harsh rejoinders, and making himself out to be “a man of bronze,” or “a block of marble,” as he said.

“You are certainly more courageous than I fancied,” said M. de Valorsay gravely, when the narrative was ended.

“Is that really so?”

“It is, indeed. Now the world is before you. Let your story be noised abroad--and it will be noised abroad--and you will become a hero. Imagine the amazement of Paris when it learns that Lia d’Argeles was a virtuous woman, who sacrificed her reputation for the sake of her son--a martyr, whose disgrace was only a shameful falsehood invented by two men of rank to increase the attractions of their gambling-den! It will take the newspapers a month to digest this strange romance. And whom will all this notoriety fall upon? Upon you, my dear sir; and as your millions will lend an additional charm to the romance, you will become the lion of the season.”

M. Wilkie was really too much overwhelmed to feel elated. “Upon my word, you overpower me, my dear marquis--you quite overpower me,” he stammered.

“I too have been at work,” resumed the marquis. “And I have made numerous inquiries, in accordance with my promise. I almost regret it, for what I have discovered is--very singular, to say the least. I was just saying so to Coralth when you came in. What I have learned makes it extremely unpleasant for me, to find myself mixed up in the affair; accordingly, I have requested the persons who gave me this information to call here. You shall hear their story, and then you must decide for yourself.” So saying, he rang the bell, and as soon as a servant answered the summons, he exclaimed: “Show M. Casimir in.”

When the lackey had retired to carry out this order, the marquis remarked: “Casimir was the deceased count’s valet. He is a clever fellow, honest, intelligent, and well up in his business--such a man as you will need, in fact, and I won’t try to conceal the fact that the hope of entering your service has aided considerably in unloosening his tongue.”

M. Casimir, who was irreproachably clad in black, with a white cambric tie round his neck, entered the room at this very moment, smiling and bowing obsequiously. “This gentleman, my good fellow,” said M. de Valorsay, pointing to Wilkie, “is your former master’s only heir. A proof of devotion might induce him to keep you with him. What you told me a little while ago is of great importance to him; see if you can repeat it now for his benefit.”

In his anxiety to secure a good situation, M. Casimir had ventured to apply to the Marquis de Valorsay; he had talked a good deal, and the marquis had conceived the plan of making him an unsuspecting accomplice. “I never deny my words,” replied the valet, “and since monsieur is the heir to the property, I won’t hesitate to tell him that immense sums have been stolen from the late count’s estate.”

M. Wilkie bounded from his chair. “Immense sums!” he exclaimed. “Is it possible!”

“Monsieur shall judge. On the morning preceding his death, the count had more than two millions in bank-notes and bonds stowed away in his escritoire, but when the justice of the peace came to take the inventory, the money could not be found. We servants were terribly alarmed, for we feared that suspicion would fall upon us.”

Ah! if Wilkie had only been alone he would have given vent to his true feelings. But here, under the eyes of the marquis and M. de Coralth, he felt that he must maintain an air of stoical indifference. He ALMOST succeeded in doing so, and in a tolerably firm voice he remarked: “This is not very pleasant news. Two millions! that’s a good haul. Tell me, my friend, have you any clue to the thief?”

The valet’s troubled glance betrayed an uneasy conscience, but he had gone too far to draw back. “I shouldn’t like to accuse an innocent person,” he replied, “but there was some one who constantly had access to that escritoire.”

“And who was that?”

“Mademoiselle Marguerite.”

“I don’t know the lady.”

“She’s a young girl who is--at least people say--the count’s illegitimate daughter. Her word was law in the house.”

“What has become of her?”

“She has gone to live with General de Fondege, one of the count’s friends. She wouldn’t take her jewels and diamonds away with her, which seemed very strange, for they are worth more than a hundred thousand francs. Even Bourigeau said to me: ‘That’s unnatural, M. Casimir.’ Borigeau is the concierge of the house, a very worthy man. Monsieur will not find his equal.”

Unfortunately, this tribute to the merits of the valet’s friend was interrupted by the arrival of a footman, who, after tapping respectfully at the door, entered the room and exclaimed: “The doctor is here, and desires to speak with Monsieur le Marquis.”

“Very well,” replied M. de Valorsay, “ask him to wait. When I ring, you can usher him in.” Then addressing M. Casimir, he added:

“You may retire for the present, but don’t leave the house. M. Wilkie will acquaint you with his intentions by and by.”

The valet thereupon backed out of the room, bowing profoundly.

“There is a story for you!” exclaimed M. Wilkie as soon as the door was closed. “A robbery of two millions!”

The marquis shook his head, and remarked, gravely: “That’s a mere nothing. I suspect something far more terrible.”

“What, pray? Upon my word! you frighten me.”

“Wait! I may be mistaken. Even the doctor may lie deceived. But you shall judge for yourself.” As he spoke, he pulled the bell-rope, and an instant after, the servant announced: “Dr. Jodon.”

It was, indeed, the same physician who had annoyed Mademoiselle Marguerite by his persistent curiosity and impertinent questions, at the Count de Chalusse’s bedside; the same crafty and ambitious man, constantly tormented by covetousness, and ready to do anything to gratify it--the man of the period, in short, who sacrificed everything to the display by which he hoped to deceive other people, and who was almost starving in the midst of his mock splendor.

M. Casimir was an innocent accomplice, but the doctor knew what he was doing. Interviewed on behalf of the Marquis de Valorsay by Madame Leon, he had fathomed the whole mystery at once. These two crafty natures had read and understood each other. No definite words had passed between them--they were both too shrewd for that; and yet, a compact had been concluded by which each had tacitly agreed to serve the other according to his need.

As soon as the physician appeared, M. de Valorsay rose and shook hands with him; then, offering him an arm-chair, he remarked: “I will not conceal from you, doctor, that I have in some measure prepared this gentleman”--designating M. Wilkie--“for your terrible revelation.”

By the doctor’s attitude, a keen observer might have divined the secret trepidation that always precedes a bad action which has been conceived and decided upon in cold blood.

“To tell the truth,” he began, speaking slowly, and with some difficulty, “now that the moment for speaking has come, I almost hesitate. Our profession has painful exigencies. Perhaps it is now too late. If there had been any of the count’s relatives in the house, or even an heir at the time, I should have insisted upon an autopsy. But now----”

On hearing the word “autopsy,” M. Wilkie looked round with startled eyes. He opened his lips to interrupt the speaker, but the physician had already resumed his narrative. “Besides, I had only suspicions,” he said, “suspicions based, it is true, upon strange and alarming circumstances. I am a man, that is to say, I am liable to error. In the kingdom of science it would be unpardonable temerity on my part to affirm----”

“To affirm what?” interrupted M. Wilkie.

The physician did not seem to hear him, but continued in the same dogmatic tone. “The count apparently died from an attack of apoplexy, but certain poisons produce similar and even identical symptoms which are apt to deceive the most experienced medical men. The persistent efforts of the count’s intellect, his muscular rigidity alternating with utter relaxation, the dilation of the pupils of his eyes, and more than aught else the violence of his last convulsions, have led me to ask myself if some criminal had not hastened his end.”

Whiter than his shirt, and trembling like a leaf, M. Wilkie sprang from his chair. “I understand!” he exclaimed. “The count was murdered--poisoned.”

But the physician replied with an energetic protest. “Oh, not so fast!” said he. “Don’t mistake my conjectures for assertions. Still, I ought not to conceal the circumstances which awakened my suspicions. On the morning preceding his attack, the count took two spoonfuls of the contents of a vial which the people in charge could not or would not produce. When I asked what this vial contained, the answer was: ‘A medicine to prevent apoplexy.’ I don’t say that this is false, but prove it. As for the motive that led to the crime, it is apparent at once. The escritoire contained two millions of francs, and the money has disappeared. Show me the vial, find the money, and I will admit that I am wrong. But until then, I shall have my suspicions.”

He did not speak like a physician but like an examining magistrate, and his alarming deductions found their way even to M. Wilkie’s dull brain. “Who could have committed the crime?” he asked.

“It could only have been the person likely to profit by it; and only one person besides the count knew that the money was in the house, and had possession of the key of this escritoire.”

“And this person?”

“Is the count’s illegitimate daughter, who lived in the house with him--Mademoiselle Marguerite.”

M. Wilkie sank into his chair again, completely overwhelmed. The coincidence between the doctor’s deposition and M. Casimir’s testimony was too remarkable to pass unnoticed. Further doubt seemed impossible. “Ah! this is most unfortunate!” faltered Wilkie. “What a pity! Such difficulties never assail any one but me! What am I to do?” And in his distress he glanced from the doctor to the Marquis de Valorsay, and then at M. de Coralth, as if seeking inspiration from each of them.

“My profession forbids my acting as an adviser in such cases,” replied the physician, “but these gentlemen have not the same reasons for keeping silent.”

“Excuse me,” interrupted the marquis quickly; “but this is one of those cases in which a man must be left to his own inspirations. The most I can do, is to say what course I should pursue if I were one of the deceased count’s relatives or heirs.”

“Pray tell me, my dear marquis,” sighed Wilkie. “You would render me an immense service by doing so.”

M. de Valorsay seemed to reflect for a moment; and then he solemnly exclaimed: “I should feel that my honor required me to investigate every circumstance connected with this mysterious affair. Before receiving a man’s estate, one must know the cause of his death, so as to avenge him if he has been foully murdered.”

For M. Wilkie the oracle had spoken. “Such is my opinion exactly,” he declared. “But what course would you pursue, my dear marquis? How would you set about solving this mystery?”

“I should appeal to the authorities.”

“Ah!”

“And this very day, this very hour, without losing a second, I should address a communication to the public prosecutor, informing him of the robbery which is patent to any one, and referring to the possibility of foul play.”

“Yes, that would be an excellent idea; but there is one slight drawback--I don’t know how to draw up such a communication.”

“I know no more about it than you do yourself; but any lawyer or notary will give you the necessary information. Are you acquainted with any such person? Would you like me to give you the address of my business man? He is a very clever fellow, who has almost all the members of my club as his clients.”

This last reason was more than sufficient to fix M. Wilkie’s choice. “Where can I find him?” he inquired.