Chapter 25

Louis hesitated a moment. Should he tell the truth, or not?

“I have sold Clameran,” he finally said.

“The chateau too?”

“Yes.”

“You acted as you thought best,” said Gaston sadly; “but it seems to me that, if I had been in your place, I should have kept the old homestead. Our ancestors lived there for many generations, and our father lies buried there.”

Then seeing Louis appear sad and distressed, he quickly added:

“However, it is just as well; it is in the heart that memory dwells, and not in a pile of old stones. I myself had not the courage to return to Provence. I could not trust myself to go to Clameran, where I would have to look into the park of La Verberie. Alas, the only happy moments of my life were spent there!”

Louis’s countenance immediately cleared. The certainty that Gaston had not been to Provence relieved his mind of an immense weight.

The next day Louis telegraphed to Raoul:

“Wisdom and prudence. Follow my directions. All goes well. Be sanguine.”

All was going well; and yet Louis, in spite of his skilfully applied questions, had obtained none of the information which he had come to obtain.

Gaston was communicative on every subject except the one in which Louis was interested. Was this silence premeditated, or simply unconscious? Louis, like all villains, was ever ready to attribute to others the bad motives by which he himself would be influenced.

Anything was better than this uncertainty; he determined to ask his brother plainly what his intentions were in regard to money matters.

He thought the dinner-table a favorable opportunity, and began by saying:

“Do you know, my dear Gaston, that thus far we have discussed every topic except the most important one?”

“Why do you look so solemn, Louis? What is the grave subject of which you speak?”

“Our father’s estate. Supposing you to be dead, I inherited, and have disposed of it.”

“Is that what you call a serious matter?” said Gaston with an amused smile.

“It certainly is very serious to me; as you have a right to half of the estate, I must account to you for it. You have--”

“I have,” interrupted Gaston, “a right to ask you never to allude to the subject again. It is yours by limitation.”

“I cannot accept it upon those terms.”

“But you must. My father only wished to have one of us inherit his property; we will be carrying out his wishes by not dividing it.”

Seeing that Louis’s face still remained clouded, he went on:

“Ah, I see what annoys you, my dear Louis; you are rich, and think that I am poor, and too proud to accept anything from you. Is it not so?”

Louis started at this question. How could he reply so as not to commit himself?

“I am not rich,” he finally said.

“I am delighted to hear it,” cried Gaston. “I wish you were as poor as Job, so that I might share what I have with you.”

Dinner over, Gaston rose and said:

“Come, I want to visit with you, my--that is, our property. You must see everything about the place.”

Louis uneasily followed his brother. It seemed to him that Gaston obstinately shunned anything like an explanation.

Could all this brotherly confidence be assumed to blind him as to his real plans? Why did Gaston inquire into his brother’s past and future, without revealing his own? Louis’s suspicions were aroused, and he regretted his over-hasty seeking of Gaston.

But his calm, smiling face betrayed none of the anxious thoughts which filled his mind.

He was called upon to praise everything. First he was taken over the house and servants’ quarters, then to the stable, kennels, and the vast, beautifully laid-out garden. Across a pretty meadow was the iron-foundery in full operation. Gaston, with all the enthusiasm of a new proprietor, explained everything, down to the smallest file and hammer.

He detailed all his projects; how he intended substituting wood for coal, and how, besides having plenty to work the forge, he could make immense profits by felling the forest trees, which had hitherto been considered impracticable. He would cut a hundred cords of wood that year.

Louis approved of everything; but only answered in monosyllables, “Ah, indeed! excellent idea; quite a success.”

His mind was tortured by a new pain; he was paying no attention to Gaston’s remarks, but enviously comparing all this wealth and prosperity with his own poverty.

He found Gaston rich, respected, and happy, enjoying the price of his own labor and industry; whilst he--Never had he so cruelly felt the misery of his own condition; and he had brought it on himself, which only made it more aggravating.

After a lapse of twenty-three years, all the envy and hate he had felt toward Gaston, when they were boys together, revived.

“What do you think of my purchase?” asked Gaston, when the inspection was over.

“I think you possess, my dear brother, a most splendid piece of property, and on the loveliest spot in the world. It is enough to excite the envy of any poor Parisian.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Certainly.”

“Then, my dear Louis,” said Gaston joyfully, “this property is yours, as well as mine. You like this lovely Bearn more than the dusty streets of Paris? I am very glad that you prefer the comforts of living on your own estate, to the glitter and show of a city life. Everything you can possibly want is here, at your command. And, to employ our time, there is the foundery. Does my plan suit you?”

Louis was silent. A year ago this proposal would have been eagerly welcomed. How gladly he would have seized this offer of a comfortable, luxurious home, after having been buffeted about the world so long! How delightful it would have been to turn over a new leaf, and become an honest man!

But he saw with disappointment and rage that he would now be compelled to decline it.

He was no longer free. He could not leave Paris.

He had become entangled in one of those hazardous plots which are fatal if neglected, and whose failure generally leads the projector to the galleys.

Alone, he could easily remain where he was: but he was trammelled with an accomplice.

“You do not answer me,” said Gaston with surprise; “are there any obstacles to my plans?”

“None.”

“What is the matter, then?”

“The matter is, my dear brother, that the salary of an office which I hold in Paris is all that I have to support me.”

“Is that your only objection? Yet you just now wanted to pay me back half of the family inheritance! Louis, that is unkind; you are not acting as a brother should.”

Louis hung his head. Gaston was unconsciously telling the truth.

“I should be a burden to you, Gaston.”

“A burden! Why, Louis, you must be mad! Did I not tell you I am very rich? Do you suppose that you have seen all I possess? This house and the iron-works do not constitute a fourth of my fortune. Do you think that I would have risked my twenty years’ savings in an experiment of this sort? The forge may be a failure; and then what would become of me, if I had nothing else?

“I have invested money which yields me an income of eighty thousand francs. Besides, my grants in Brazil have been sold, and my agent has already deposited four hundred thousand francs to my credit as part payment.”

Louis trembled with pleasure. He was, at last, to know the extent of the danger hanging over him. Gaston had finally broached the subject which had caused him so much anxiety, and he determined that it should now be explained before their conversation ended.

“Who is your agent?” he asked with assumed indifference.

“My old partner at Rio. He deposited the money at my Paris banker’s.”

“Is this banker a friend of yours?”

“No; I never heard of him until my banker at Pau recommended him to me as an honest, reliable man; he is immensely wealthy, and stands at the head of the financiers in Paris. His name is Fauvel, and he lives on the Rue de Provence.”

Although prepared for hearing almost anything, and determined to betray no agitation, Louis turned deadly pale.

“Do you know this banker?” asked Gaston.

“Only by reputation.”

“Then we can make his acquaintance together; for I intend accompanying you to Paris, when you return there to settle up your affairs before establishing yourself here to superintend the forge.”

At this unexpected announcement of a step which would prove his utter ruin, Louis was stupefied. In answer to his brother’s questioning look, he gasped out.

“You are going to Paris?”

“Certainly I am. Why should I not go?”

“There is no reason why.”

“I hate Paris, although I have never been there. But I am called there by interest, by sacred duties,” he hesitatingly said. “The truth is, I understand that Mlle. de la Verberie lives in Paris, and I wish to see her.”

“Ah!”

Gaston was silent and thoughtful for some moments, and then said, nervously:

“I will tell you, Louis, why I wish to see her. I left our family jewels in her charge, and I wish to recover them.”

“Do you intend, after a lapse of twenty-three years, to claim these jewels?”

“Yes--or rather no. I only make the jewels an excuse for seeing her. I must see her because--because--she is the only woman I ever really loved!”

“But how will you find her?”

“Oh! that is easy enough. Anyone can tell me the name of her husband, and then I will go to see her. Perhaps the shortest way to find out, would be to write to Beaucaire. I will do so to-morrow.”

Louis made no reply.

Men of his character, when brought face to face with imminent danger, always weigh their words, and say as little as possible, for fear of committing themselves by some indiscreet remark.

Above all things, Louis was careful to avoid raising any objections to his brother’s proposed trip to Paris. To oppose the wishes of a determined man has the effect of making him adhere more closely to them. Each argument is like striking a nail with a hammer. Knowing this, Louis changed the conversation, and nothing more during the day was said of Valentine or Paris.

At night, alone in his room, he brought his cunning mind to bear upon the difficulties of his situation, and wondered by what means he could extricate himself.

At first the case seemed hopeless, desperate. During twenty years, Louis had been at war with society, trusted by none, living upon his wits, and the credulity of foolish men enabling him to gain an income without labor; and, though he generally attained his ends, it was not without great danger and constant dread of detection.

He had been caught at the gaming-table with his hands full of duplicate cards; he had been tracked all over Europe by the police, and obliged to fly from city to city under an assumed name; he had sold to cowards his skilful handling of the sword and pistol; he had been repeatedly thrown into prison, and always made his escape. He had braved everything, and feared nothing. He had often conceived and carried out the most criminal plans, without the slightest hesitation or remorse. And now here he sat, utterly bewildered, unable to think clearly; his usual impudence and ready cunning seemed to have deserted him.

Thus driven to the wall, he saw no means of escape, and was almost tempted to confess all, and throw himself upon his brother’s clemency. Then he thought that it would be wiser to borrow a large sum from Gaston, and fly the country.

Vainly did he think over the wicked experiences of the past: none of the former successful stratagems could be resorted to in the present case.

Fatally, inevitably, he was about to be caught in a trap laid by himself.

The future was fraught with danger, worse than danger--ruin and disgrace.

He had to fear the wrath of M. Fauvel, his wife and niece. Gaston would have speedy vengeance the moment he discovered the truth; and Raoul, his accomplice, would certainly turn against him, and become his most implacable enemy.

Was there no possible way of preventing a meeting between Valentine and Gaston?

None that he could think of.

Their meeting would be his destruction.

Lost in reflection, he paid no attention to the flight of time. Daybreak still found him sitting at the window with his face buried in his hands, trying to come to some definite conclusion what he should say and do to keep Gaston away from Paris.

“It is vain for me to think,” he muttered. “The more I rack my brain, the more confused it becomes. There is nothing to be done but gain time, and wait for an opportunity.”

The fall of the horse at Clameran was what Louis called “an opportunity.”

He closed the window, and, throwing himself upon the bed, was soon in a sound sleep; being accustomed to danger, it never kept him awake.

At the breakfast-table, his calm, smiling face bore no traces of a wakeful, anxious night.

He was in a gayer, more talkative mood than usual, and said he would like to ride over the country, and visit the neighboring towns. Before leaving the table, he had planned several excursions which were to take place during the week.

He hoped to keep Gaston so amused and occupied, that he would forget all about going to Paris in search of Valentine.

He thought that with time, and skilfully put objections, he could dissuade his brother from seeking out his former love. He relied upon being able to convince him that this absolutely unnecessary interview would be painful to both, embarrassing to him, and dangerous to her.

As to the jewels, if Gaston persisted in claiming them, Louis could safely offer to go and get them for him, as he had only to redeem them from the pawnbroker.

But his hopes and plans were soon scattered to the winds.

“You know,” said Gaston, “I have written.”

Louis knew well enough to what he alluded, but pretended to be very much surprised, and said:

“Written? To whom? Where? For what?”

“To Beaucaire, to ask Lafourcade the name of Valentine’s husband.”

“You are still thinking of her?”

“She is never absent from my thoughts.”

“You have not given up your idea of going to see her?”

“Of course not.”

“Alas, Gaston! you forget that she whom you once loved is now the wife of another, and possibly the mother of a large family. How do you know that she will consent to see you? Why run the risk of destroying her domestic happiness, and planting seeds of remorse in your own bosom?”

“I know I am a fool; but my folly is dear to me, and I would not cure it if I could.”

The quiet determination of Gaston’s tone convinced Louis that all remonstrances would be unavailing.

Yet he remained the same in his manner and behavior, apparently engrossed in pleasure parties; but, in reality, his only thought was the mail. He always managed to be at the door when the postman came, so that he was the first to receive his brother’s letters.

When he and Gaston were out together at the time of the postman’s visit, he would hurry into the house first, so as to look over the letters which were always laid in a card-basket on the hall table.

His watchfulness was at last rewarded.

The following Sunday, among the letters handed to him by the postman, was one bearing the postmark of Beaucaire.

He quickly slipped it into his pocket; and, although he was on the point of mounting his horse to ride with Gaston, he said that he must run up to his room to get something he had forgotten; this was to gratify his impatient desire to read the letter.

He tore it open, and, seeing “Lafourcade” signed at the bottom of three closely written pages, hastily devoured the contents.

After reading a detailed account of events entirely uninteresting to him, Louis came to the following passage relating to Valentine:

“Mlle. de la Verberie’s husband is an eminent banker named Andre Fauvel. I have not the honor of his acquaintance, but I intend going to see him shortly. I am anxious to submit to him a project that I have conceived for the benefit of this part of the country. If he approves of it, I shall ask him to invest in it, as his name will be of great assistance to the scheme. I suppose you have no objections to my referring him to you, should he ask for my indorsers.”

Louis trembled like a man who had just made a narrow escape from death. He well knew that he would have to fly the country if Gaston received this letter.

But though the danger was warded off for the while, it might return and destroy him at any moment.

Gaston would wait a week for an answer, then he would write again; Lafourcade would instantly reply to express surprise that his first letter had not been received; all of this correspondence would occupy about twelve days. In those twelve days Louis would have to think over some plan for preventing Lafourcade’s visit to Paris; since, the instant he mentioned the name of Clameran to the banker, everything would be discovered.

Louis’s meditations were interrupted by Gaston, who called from the lower passage:

“What are you doing, Louis? I am waiting for you.”

“I am coming now,” he replied.

Hastily thrusting Lafourcade’s letter into his trunk, Louis ran down to his brother.

He had made up his mind to borrow a large sum from Gaston, and go off to America; and Raoul might get out of the scrape as best he could.

The only thing which now disturbed him was the sudden failure of the most skilful combination he had ever conceived; but he was not a man to fight against destiny, and determined to make the best of the emergency, and hope for better fortune in his next scheme.

The next day about dusk, while walking along the pretty road leading from the foundery to Oloron, he commenced a little story which was to conclude by asking Gaston to lend him two hundred thousand francs.

As they slowly went along arm in arm, about half a mile from the foundery they met a young laborer who bowed as he passed them.

Louis dropped his brother’s arm, and started back as if he had seen a ghost.

“What is the matter?” asked Gaston, with astonishment.

“Nothing, except I struck my foot against a stone, and it is very painful.”

Gaston might have known by the tremulous tones of Louis’s voice that this was a lie. Louis de Clameran had reason to tremble; in this workman he recognized Raoul de Lagors.

Instinctive fear paralyzed and overwhelmed him.

The story he had planned for the purpose of obtaining the two hundred thousand francs was forgotten; his volubility was gone; and he silently walked along by his brother’s side, like an automaton, totally incapable of thinking or acting for himself.

He seemed to listen, he did listen; but the words fell upon his ear unmeaningly; he could not understand what Gaston was saying, and mechanically answered “yes” or “no,” like one in a dream.

Whilst necessity, absolute necessity, kept him here at Gaston’s side, his thoughts were all with the young man who had just passed by.

What had brought Raoul to Oloron? What plot was he hatching? Why was he disguised as a laborer? Why had he not answered the many letters which Louis had written him from Oloron? He had ascribed this silence to Raoul’s carelessness, but now he saw it was premeditated. Something disastrous must have happened at Paris; and Raoul, afraid to commit himself by writing, had come himself to bring the bad news. Had he come to say that the game was up, and they must fly?

But, after all, perhaps he was mistaken in supposing this to be his accomplice. It might be some honest workman bearing a strong resemblance to Raoul.

If he could only run after this stranger, and speak to him! But no, he must walk on up to the house with Gaston, quietly, as if nothing had happened to arouse his anxiety. He felt as if he would go mad if his brother did not move faster; the uncertainty was becoming intolerable.

His mind filled with these perplexing thoughts, Louis at last reached the house; and Gaston, to his great relief, said that he was so tired that he was going directly to bed.

At last he was free!

He lit a cigar, and, telling the servant not to sit up for him, went out.

He knew that Raoul, if it was Raoul, would be prowling near the house, waiting for him.

His suspicions were well founded.

He had barely proceeded thirty yards, when a man suddenly sprang from behind a tree, and stood before him.

The night was clear, and Louis recognized Raoul.

“What is the matter?” he impatiently demanded; “what has happened?”

“Nothing.”

“What! Do you mean to say that nothing has gone wrong in Paris--that no one is on our track?”

“Not the slightest danger of any sort. And moreover, but for your inordinate greed of gain, everything would have succeeded admirably; all was going on well when I left Paris.”

“Then why have you come here?” cried Louis fiercely. “Who gave you permission to desert your post, when your absence might bring ruin upon us? What brought you here?”

“That is my business,” said Raoul with cool impertinence.

Louis seized the young man’s wrists, and almost crushed them in his vicelike grasp.

“Explain this strange conduct of yours,” he said, in a tone of suppressed rage. “What do you mean by it?”

Without apparent effort Raoul released his hands from their imprisonment, and jeeringly said:

“Hein! Gently, my friend! I don’t like being roughly treated; and, if you don’t know how to behave yourself, I have the means of teaching you.”

At the same time he drew a revolver from his pocket.

“You must and shall explain yourself,” insisted Louis: “if you don’t----”

“Well, if I don’t? Now, you might just as well spare yourself the trouble of trying to frighten me. I intend to answer your questions when I choose; but it certainly won’t be here, in the middle of the road, with the bright moonlight showing us off to advantage. How do you know people are not watching us this very minute? Come this way.”

They strode through the fields, regardless of Gaston’s plants, which were trampled under foot in order to take a short cut.

“Now,” began Raoul, when they were at a safe distance from the road, “now, my dear uncle, I will tell you what brings me here. I have received and carefully read your letters. I read them over again. You wished to be prudent; and the consequence was, that your letters were unintelligible. Only one thing did I understand clearly: we are in danger.”

“Only the more reason for your watchfulness and obedience.”

“Very well put: only, before braving danger, my venerable and beloved uncle, I want to know its extent. I am not a man to retreat in the hour of peril, but I want to know exactly how much risk I am running.”

“I told you to keep quiet, and follow my directions.”

“But to do this would imply that I have perfect confidence in you, my dear uncle,” said Raoul, sneeringly.

“And why should you not? What reasons for distrust have you after all that I have done for you? Who went to London, and rescued you from a state of privation and ignominy? I did. Who gave you a name and position when you had neither? I did. And who is working now to maintain your present life of ease, and insure you a splendid future? I am. And how do you repay me?”

“Superb, magnificent, inimitable!” said Raoul, with mocking derision. “But, while on the subject, why don’t you prove that you have sacrificed yourself for my sake? You did not need me as a tool for carrying out plans for your own benefit; did you? oh no, not at all! Dear, kind, generous, disinterested uncle! You ought to have the Montyon prize; I think I must recommend you as the most deserving person I have ever met!”

Clameran was so angry at these jeering words that he feared to trust himself to speak.