Chapter 29

“I had him, Mme. Gypsy, and three other friends to dine with me. After dinner, I made up a game of baccarat, but Prosper took no interest in it, although he was quite tipsy.”

“You must be drunk yourself to come here waking me up in the middle of the night, to hear this idle gabble,” said Louis angrily. “What the devil do you mean by it?”

“Now, don’t be in a hurry; wait until you hear the rest.”

“Morbleu! speak, then!”

“After the game was over, we went to supper; Prosper became intoxicated, and betrayed the secret name with which he closes the money-safe.”

At these words Clameran uttered a cry of triumph.

“What was the word?”

“The name of his friend.”

“Gypsy! Yes, that would be five letters.”

Louis was so excited that he jumped out of bed, slipped on his dressing-gown, and began to stride up and down the chamber.

“Now we have got him!” he said with vindictive satisfaction. “There’s no chance of escape for him now! Ah, the virtuous cashier won’t touch the money confided to him: so we must touch it for him. The disgrace will be just as great, no matter who opens the safe. We have the word; you know where the key is kept.”

“Yes; when M. Fauvel goes out he always leaves the key in the drawer of his secretary, in his chamber.”

“Very good. Go and get this key from Mme. Fauvel. If she does not give it up willingly, use force: so that you get it, that is the point; then open the safe, and take out every franc it contains. Ah, Master Bertomy, you shall pay dear for being loved by the woman whom I love!”

For five minutes Clameran indulged in such a tirade of abuse against Prosper, mingled with rhapsodies of love for Madeleine, that Raoul thought him almost out of his mind.

“Before crying victory,” he said, “you had better consider the drawbacks and difficulties. Prosper might change the word to-morrow.”

“Yes, he might; but it is not probable he will; he will forget what he said while drunk; besides, we can hasten matters.”

“That is not all. M. Fauvel has given orders that no large sum shall be kept in the safe over-night; before closing the bank everything is sent to the Bank of France.”

“A large sum will be kept there the night I choose.”

“You think so?”

“I think this: I have a hundred thousand crowns deposited with M. Fauvel: and if I desire the money to be paid over to me early some morning, directly the bank is opened, of course the money will be kept in the safe the previous night.”

“A splendid idea!” cried Raoul admiringly.

It was a good idea; and the plotters spent several hours in studying its strong and weak points.

Raoul feared that he would never be able to overcome Mme. Fauvel’s resistance. And, even if she yielded the key, would she not go directly and confess everything to her husband? She was fond of Prosper, and would hesitate a long time before sacrificing him.

But Louis felt no uneasiness on this score.

“One sacrifice necessitates another,” he said: “she has made too many to draw back at the last one. She sacrificed her adopted daughter; therefore she will sacrifice a young man, who is, after all, a comparative stranger to her.”

“But madame will never believe any harm of Prosper; she will always have faith in his honor; therefore--”

“You talk like an idiot, my verdant nephew!”

Before the conversation had ended, the plan seemed feasible. The scoundrels made all their arrangements, and fixed the day for committing the crime.

They selected the evening of the 7th of February, because Raoul knew that M. Fauvel would be at a bank-director’s dinner, and Madeleine was invited to a party on that evening.

Unless something unforeseen should occur, Raoul knew that he would find Mme. Fauvel alone at half-past eight o’clock.

“I will ask M. Fauvel this very day,” said Clameran, “to have my money on hand for Tuesday.”

“That is a very short notice, uncle,” objected Raoul. “You know there are certain forms to be gone through, and he can claim a longer time wherein to pay it over.”

“That is true, but our banker is proud of always being prepared to pay any amount of money, no matter how large; and if I say I am pressed, and would like to be accommodated on Tuesday, he will make a point of having it ready for me. Now, you must ask Prosper, as a personal favor to you, to have the money on hand at the opening of the bank.”

Raoul once more examined the situation, to discover if possible a grain of sand which might be converted into a mountain at the last moment.

“Prosper and Gypsy are to be at Vesinet this evening,” he said, “but I cannot ask them anything until I know the banker’s answer. As soon as you arrange matters with him, send me word by Manuel.”

“I can’t send Manuel, for an excellent reason; he has left me; but I can send another messenger.”

Louis spoke the truth; Manuel was gone. He had insisted on keeping Gaston’s old servant in his service, because he thought it imprudent to leave him at Oloron, where his gossiping might cause trouble.

He soon became annoyed by Manuel’s loyalty, who had shared the perils and good fortunes of an excellent master for many years; and determined to rid himself of this last link which constantly reminded him of Gaston. The evening before, he had persuaded Manuel to return to Arenys-de-mer, a little port of Catalonia, his native place; and Louis was looking for another servant.

After breakfasting together, they separated.

Clameran was so elated by the prospect of success, that he lost sight of the great crime intervening. Raoul was calm, but resolute. The shameful deed he was about to commit would give him riches, and release him from a hateful servitude. His one thought was liberty, as Louis’s was Madeleine.

Everything seemed to progress finely. The banker did not ask for the notice of time, but promised to pay the money at the specified hour. Prosper said he would have it ready early in the morning.

The certainty of success made Louis almost wild with joy. He counted the hours, and the minutes, which passed but too slowly.

“When this affair is ended,” he said to Raoul, “I will reform and be a model of virtue. No one will dare hint that I have ever indulged in any sins, great or small.”

But Raoul became more and more sad as the time approached. Reflection gradually betrayed the blackness of the contemplated crime.

Raoul was bold and determined in the pursuit of his own gratifications and wickedness; he could smile in the face of his best friend, while cheating him of his last napoleon at cards; and he could sleep well after stabbing his enemy in the heart; but he was young.

He was young in sin. Vice had not yet penetrated to his marrow-bones: corruption had not yet crowded into his soul enough to uproot and destroy every generous sentiment.

It had not been so very long since he had cherished a few holy beliefs. The good intentions of his boyhood were not quite obliterated from his sometimes reproachful memory.

Possessing the daring courage natural to youth, he despised the cowardly part forced upon him; this dark plot, laid for the destruction of two helpless women, filled him with horror and disgust. His heart revolted at the idea of acting the part of Judas toward his mother to betray her between two kisses.

Disgusted by the cool villainy of Louis, he longed for some unexpected danger to spring up, some great peril to be braved, so as to excuse himself in his own eyes, to give him the spirit to carry through the scheme; for he would like to reap the benefits without doing the revolting work.

But no; he well knew that he ran no risk, not even that of being arrested and sent to the galleys. For he was certain that, if M. Fauvel discovered everything, he would do his best to hush it up, to conceal every fact connected with the disgraceful story which would implicate his wife. Although he was careful not to breathe it to Clameran, he felt a sincere affection for Mme. Fauvel, and was touched by the indulgent fondness which she so unchangingly lavished upon him. He had been happy at Vesinet, while his accomplice, or rather his master, was at Oloron. He would have been glad to lead an honest life, and could not see the sense of committing a crime when there was no necessity for it. He hated Clameran for not consenting to let the matter drop, now that he was rich enough to live in affluence the rest of his life, and who, for the sake of gratifying a selfish passion, was abusing his power, and endangering the safety and happiness of so many people. He longed for an opportunity of thwarting his plots, if it could be done without also ruining himself.

His resolution, which had been so firm in the beginning, was growing weaker and weaker as the hours rolled on: as the crisis approached, his horror of the deed increased.

Seeing this uncertain state of Raoul’s mind, Louis never left him, but continued to paint for him a dazzling future, position, wealth, and freedom. Possessing a large fortune, he would be his own master, gratify his every wish, and make amends to his mother for his present undutiful conduct. He urged him to take pride in acting his part in this little comedy, which would soon be over without doing harm to anyone.

He prepared, and forced his accomplice to rehearse, the scene which was to be enacted at Mme. Fauvel’s, with as much coolness and precision as if it were to be performed at a public theatre. Louis said that no piece could be well acted unless the actor was interested and imbued with the spirit of his role.

But the more urgently Louis pressed upon him the advantages to be derived from success, the oftener he sounded in his ears the magic words, “five hundred thousand francs,” the more loudly did Raoul’s conscience cry out against the sinful deed.

On Monday evening, about six o’clock, Raoul felt so depressed and miserable, that he had almost made up his mind to refuse to move another step, and to tell Louis that he must find another tool to carry out his abominable plot.

“Are you afraid?” asked Clameran, who had anxiously watched these inward struggles.

“Yes, I am afraid. I am not cursed with your ferocious nature and iron will. I am the most miserable dog living!”

“Come, cheer up, my boy! You are not yourself to-day. Don’t fail me at the last minute, when everything depends upon you. Just think that we have almost finished; one more stroke of our oars, and we are in port. You are only nervous: come to dinner, and a bottle of Burgundy will soon set you right.”

They were walking along the boulevard. Clameran insisted upon their entering a restaurant, and having dinner in a private room.

Vainly did he strive, however, to chase the gloom from Raoul’s pale face; he sat listening, with a sullen frown, to his friend’s jests about “swallowing the bitter pill gracefully.”

Urged by Louis, he drank two bottles of wine, in hopes that intoxication would inspire him with courage to do the deed, which Clameran impressed upon his mind must and should be done before many more hours had passed over his head.

But the drunkenness he sought came not; the wine proved false; at the bottom of the last bottle he found disgust and rage.

The clock struck eight.

“The time has come,” said Louis firmly.

Raoul turned livid; his teeth chattered, and his limbs trembled so that he was unable to stand on his feet.

“Oh, I cannot do it!” he cried in an agony of terror and rage.

Clameran’s eyes flashed with angry excitement at the prospect of all his plans being ruined at the last moment. But he dared not give way to his anger, for fear of exasperating Raoul, whom he knew to be anxious for an excuse to quarrel; so he quietly pulled the bell-rope. A boy appeared.

“A bottle of port,” he said, “and a bottle of rum.”

When the boy returned with the bottles, Louis filled a goblet with the two liquors mixed, and handed it to Raoul.

“Drink this,” he said in a tone of command.

Raoul emptied the glass at one draught, and a faint color returned to his ashy cheeks. He arose, and snatching up his hat, cried fiercely:

“Come along!”

But before he had walked half a square, the factitious energy inspired by drink deserted him.

He clung to Clameran’s arm, and was almost dragged along in the direction of the banker’s house, trembling like a criminal on his way to the scaffold.

“If I can once get him in the house,” thought Louis, “and make him begin, the excitement of his mother’s opposition will make him carry it through successfully. The cowardly baby! I would like to wring his neck!”

Although his breast was filled with these thoughts and fears, he was careful to conceal them from Raoul, and said soothingly:

“Now, don’t forget our arrangement, and be careful how you enter the house; everything depends upon your being unconcerned and cool, to avoid arousing suspicion in the eyes of anyone you may meet. Have you a pistol in your pocket?”

“Yes, yes! Let me alone!”

It was well that Clameran had accompanied Raoul; for, when he got in sight of the door, his courage gave way, and he longed to retreat.

“A poor, helpless woman!” he groaned, “and an honest man who pressed my hand in friendship yesterday, to be cowardly ruined, betrayed by me! Ah, it is too base! I cannot!”

“Come, don’t be a coward! I thought you had more nerve. Why, you might as well have remained virtuous and honest; you will never earn your salt in this sort of business.”

Raoul overcame his weakness, and, silencing the clamors of his conscience, rushed up the steps, and pulled the bell furiously.

“Is Mme. Fauvel at home?” he inquired of the servant who opened the door.

“Madame is alone in the sitting-room adjoining her chamber,” was the reply.

Raoul went upstairs.

XX

Clameran’s last injunction to Raoul was:

“Be very cautious when you enter the room; your appearance must tell everything, so you can avoid preliminary explanations.”

The recommendation was useless.

The instant that Raoul went into the little salon, the sight of his pale, haggard face and wild eyes caused Mme. Fauvel to spring up with clasped hands, and cry out:

“Raoul! What has happened? Speak, my son!”

The sound of her tender, affectionate voice acted like an electric shock upon the young bandit. He shook like a leaf. But at the same time his mind seemed to change. Louis was not mistaken in his estimate of his companion’s character. Raoul was on the stage, his part was to be played; his assurance returned to him; his cheating, lying nature assumed the ascendant, and stifled any better feeling in his heart.

“This misfortune is the last I shall ever suffer, mother!”

Mme. Fauvel rushed toward him, and, seizing his hand, gazed searchingly into his eyes, as if to read his very soul.

“What is the matter? Raoul, my dear son, do tell me what troubles you.”

He gently pushed her from him.

“The matter is, my mother,” he said in a voice of heart-broken despair, “that I am an unworthy, degenerate son! Unworthy of you, unworthy of my noble father!”

She tried to comfort him by saying that his errors were all her fault, and that he was, in spite of all, the pride of her heart.

“Alas!” he said, “I know and judge myself. No one can reproach me for my infamous conduct more bitterly than does my own conscience. I am not naturally wicked, but only a miserable fool. At times I am like an insane man, and am not responsible for my actions. Ah, my dear mother, I would not be what I am, if you had watched over my childhood. But brought up among strangers, with no guide but my own evil passions, nothing to restrain me, no one to advise me, no one to love me, owning nothing, not even my stolen name, I am cursed with vanity and unbounded ambition. Poor, with no one to assist me but you, I have the tastes and vices of a millionnaire’s son.

“Alas for me! When I found you, the evil was done. Your affection, your maternal love, the only true happiness of my life, could not save me. I, who had suffered so much, endured so many privations, even the pangs of hunger, became spoiled by this new life of luxury and pleasure which you opened before me. I rushed headlong into extravagance, as a drunkard long deprived of liquor seizes and drains to the dregs the first bottle in his reach.”

Mme. Fauvel listened, silent and terrified, to these words of despair and remorse, which Raoul uttered with vehemence.

She dared not interrupt him, but felt certain some dreadful piece of news was coming.

Raoul continued in a sad, hopeless tone:

“Yes, I have been a weak fool. Happiness was within my reach, and I had not the sense to stretch forth my hand and grab it. I rejected a heavenly reality to eagerly pursue a vain phantom. I, who ought to have spent my life at your feet, and daily striven to express my gratitude for your lavish kindness, have made you unhappy, destroyed your peace of mind, and, instead of being a blessing, I have been a curse ever since the first fatal day you welcomed me to your kind heart. Ah, unfeeling brute that I was, to squander upon creatures whom I despised, a fortune, of which each gold piece must have cost you a tear! Too late, too late! With you I might have been a good and happy man!”

He stopped, as if overcome by the conviction of his evil deeds, and seemed about to burst into tears.

“It is never too late to repent, my son,” murmured Mme. Fauvel in comforting tones.

“Ah, if I only could!” cried Raoul; “but no, it is too late! Besides, can I tell how long my good resolutions will last? This is not the first time that I have condemned myself pitilessly. Stinging remorse for each new fault made me swear to lead a better life, to sin no more. What was the result of these periodical repentances? At the first temptation I forgot my remorse and good resolutions. I am weak and mean-spirited, and you are not firm enough to govern my vacillating nature. While my intentions are good, my actions are villainous. The disproportion between my extravagant desires, and the means of gratifying them, is too great for me to endure any longer. Who knows to what fearful lengths my unfortunate disposition may lead me? However, I will take my fate in my own hands!” he finally said with a reckless laugh.

“Oh, Raoul, my dear son,” cried Mme. Fauvel in an agony of terror, “explain these dreadful words; am I not your mother? Tell me what distresses you; I am ready to hear the worst.”

He appeared to hesitate, as if afraid to crush his mother’s heart by the terrible blow he was about to inflict. Then in a voice of gloomy despair he replied:

“I am ruined.”

“Ruined?”

“Yes, ruined; and I have nothing more to expect or hope for. I am dishonored, and all through my own fault; no one is to be blamed but myself.”

“Raoul!”

“It is the sad truth, my poor mother; but fear nothing: I shall not trail in the dust the name which you bestowed upon me. I will at least have the courage not to survive my dishonor. Come, mother, don’t pity me, or distress yourself; I am one of those miserable beings fated to find no peace save in the arms of death. I came into the world with misfortune stamped upon my brow. Was not my birth a shame and disgrace to you? Did not the memory of my existence haunt you day and night, filling your soul with remorse? And now, when I am restored to you after many years’ separation, do I not prove to be a bitter curse instead of a blessing?”

“Ungrateful boy! Have I ever reproached you?”

“Never! Your poor Raoul will die with your beloved name on his lips; his last words a prayer to Heaven to heap blessings upon your head, and reward your long-suffering devotion.”

“Die? You die, my son!”

“It must be, my dear mother; honor compels it. I am condemned by judges from whose decision no appeal can be taken--my conscience and my will.”

An hour ago, Mme. Fauvel would have sworn that Raoul had made her suffer all the torments that a woman could endure; but now she felt that all her former troubles were nothing compared with her present agony.

“My God! Raoul, what have you been doing?”

“Money was intrusted to me: I gambled and lost it.”

“Was it a large sum?”

“No; but more than I can replace. My poor mother, have I not taken everything from you? Did you not give me your last jewel?”

“But M. de Clameran is rich. He placed his fortune at my disposal. I will order the carriage, and go to him.”

“But M. de Clameran is absent, and will not return to Paris until next week; and if I do not have the money this evening, I am lost. Alas! I have thought deeply, and, although it is hard to die so young, still fate wills it so.”

He pulled a pistol from his pocket, and, with a forced smile, said:

“This will settle everything.”

Mme. Fauvel was too excited and frightened to reflect upon the horror of Raoul’s behavior, and that these wild threats were a last resort for obtaining money. Forgetful of the past, careless of the future, her every thought concentrated upon the present, she comprehended but one fact: that her son was about to commit suicide, and that she was powerless to prevent the fearful deed.

“Oh, wait a little while my son!” she cried. “Andre will soon return home, and I will ask him to give me--How much did you lose?”

“Thirty thousand francs.”

“You shall have them to-morrow.”

“But I must have the money to-night.”

Mme. Fauvel wrung her hands in despair.

“Oh! why did you not come to me sooner, my son? Why did you not have confidence enough in me to come at once for help? This evening! There is no one in the house to open the money-safe; if it were not for that--if you had only come before Andre went out--”

“The safe!” cried Raoul, with sudden joy, as if this magic word had thrown a ray of light upon his dark despair; “do you know where the key is kept?”

“Yes: it is in the next room.”

“Well!” he exclaimed, with a bold look that caused Mme. Fauvel to lower her eyes, and keep silent.

“Give me the key, mother,” he said in a tone of entreaty.

“Oh, Raoul, Raoul!”

“It is my life I am asking of you.”

These words decided her; she snatched up a candle, rushed into her chamber, opened the secretary, and took out M. Fauvel’s key.

But, when about to hand it to Raoul, she seemed to suddenly see the enormity of what she was doing.

“Oh, Raoul! my son,” she murmured, “I cannot! Do not ask me to commit such a dreadful deed!”

He said nothing, but sadly turned to leave the room; then coming back to his mother said:

“Ah, well; it makes but little difference in the end! At least, you will give me one last kiss, before we part forever, my darling mother!”

“What could you do with the key, Raoul?” interrupted Mme. Fauvel. “You do not know the secret word of the buttons.”

“No; but I can try to open it without moving the buttons.”

“You know that money is never kept in the safe over-night.”

“Nevertheless, I can make the attempt. If I open the safe, and find money in it, it will be a miracle, showing that Heaven has pitied my misfortune, and provided relief.”

“And if you are not successful, will you promise me to wait until to-morrow, to do nothing rash to-night?”

“I swear it, by my father’s memory.”

“Then take the key and follow me.”

Pale and trembling, Raoul and Mme. Fauvel passed through the banker’s study, and down the narrow staircase leading to the offices and cash-room below.

Raoul walked in front, holding the light, and the key of the safe.

Mme. Fauvel was convinced that it would be utterly impossible to open the safe, as the key was useless without the secret word, and of course Raoul had no way of discovering what that was.

Even granting that some chance had revealed the secret to him, he would find but little in the safe, since everything was deposited in the Bank of France. Everyone knew that no large sum was ever kept in the safe after banking hours.

The only anxiety she felt was, how Raoul would bear the disappointment, and how she could calm his despair.