Chapter 22

“I gave the driver five francs on condition that he would hurry his horses,” he resumed, “and we were rattling along at a rapid rate, when, suddenly, near the Hotel de Chalusse, I noticed a change in the motion of the vehicle. I looked out and saw that we were driving over a thick layer of straw which had been spread across the street. I can scarcely describe my feelings on seeing this. A cold perspiration came over me--I fancied I saw Marguerite in agony, dying--far from me, and calling me in vain. Without waiting for the vehicle to stop, I sprang to the ground, and was obliged to exercise all my self-control to prevent myself from rushing into the concierge’s lodge, and wildly asking: ‘Who is dying here?’ But an unforeseen difficulty presented itself. It was evident that I ought not to go in person to inquire for Madame Leon. Whom could I send? There were no commissionaires at the street corners, and nothing would have induced me to confide the message to any of the lads in the neighboring wine-shops. Fortunately, my driver--the same who is driving us now--is an obliging fellow, and I intrusted him with the commission, while I stood guard over his horses. Ten minutes later, Madame Leon left the house and came to meet me. I knew her at once, for I had seen her a hundred times with Marguerite when they lived near the Luxembourg; and having seen me pass and repass so often, she recognized me in spite of my changed appearance. Her first words, ‘M. de Chalusse is dead,’ relieved my heart of a terrible weight. I could breathe again. But she was in such haste that she could not stop to tell me any particulars. Still I gave her my letter, and she promised me a prompt reply from Marguerite. Everybody will be up and moving about the house to-night, and she said she could easily make her escape for a few moments. So, at half-past twelve to-night she will be at the little garden gate, and if I am promptly at hand, I shall have a reply from Marguerite.”

Madame Ferailleur seemed to be expecting something more, and as Pascal remained silent, she remarked: “You spoke of a great misfortune. In what does it consist? I do not perceive it.”

With an almost threatening gesture, and in a gloomy voice, he answered: “The misfortune is this: if it had not been for this abominable conspiracy, which has dishonored me, Marguerite would have been my wife before a month had elapsed, for now she is free, absolutely free to obey the dictates of her own will and heart.”

“Then why do you complain?”

“Oh, mother! don’t you understand? How can I marry her? Would it be right for me to think of offering her a dishonored name? It seems to me that I should be guilty of a most contemptible act--of something even worse than a crime--if I dared speak to her of my love and our future before I have crushed the villains who have ruined me.”

Regret, anger, and the consciousness of his present powerlessness drew from him tears which fell upon Madame Ferailleur’s heart like molten lead; but she succeeded in concealing her agony. “All the more reason,” she answered, almost coldly, “why you should not lose a second, but devote all your energy and intelligence to the work of justification.”

“Oh, I shall have my revenge, never fear. But in the meantime, what is to become of HER? Think, mother, she is alone in the world, without a single friend. It is enough to drive one mad!”

“She loves you, you tell me. What have you to fear? Now she will be freed from the persecutions of the suitor they intended to force upon her, whom she has spoken to you about--the Marquis de Valorsay, is it not?”

This name sent Pascal’s blood to his brain. “Ah, the scoundrel!” he exclaimed. “If there was a God in heaven----”

“Wretched boy!” interrupted Madame Ferailleur; “you blaspheme when Providence has already interposed on your behalf. And who suffers most at this moment, do you think?--you, strong in your innocence, or the marquis, who realizes that he has committed an infamous crime in vain?”

The sudden stopping of the cab put an end to their conversation. Leaving the Route d’Asnieres, the driver had turned into the Route de la Revolte, and had drawn up in front of an unpretentious two-storied house which stood entirely alone. “We have arrived, mother,” said Pascal.

A man, who was standing on the threshold, stepped forward to open the cab door. It was the furniture-dealer. “Here you are at last, M. Maumejan,” said he. “Come in, and you’ll see that I’ve strictly fulfilled the conditions of our contract.” His words proved true. He was paid the sum stipulated, and went away satisfied.

“Now, my dear mother,” said Pascal, “allow me to do the honors of the poor abode I have selected.”

He had taken only the ground floor of this humble dwelling. The story above, which had an independent entrance and staircase, was occupied by the quiet family of the owner. Although the space was small, the architect had made the most of it. He had divided it into four small rooms, separated by a corridor; and the kitchen looked out upon a little garden about four times as large as an ordinary sheet. The furniture which Pascal had purchased was more than plain; but it was well suited to this humble abode. It had just been brought in, but any one would have supposed it had been in its place for a couple of years.

“We shall be very comfortable here,” declared Madame Ferailleur. “Yes, very comfortable. By to-morrow evening you won’t recognize the place. I have saved a few trifles from the wreck--some curtains, a couple of lamps, a clock--you’ll see. It’s wonderful how much four trunks can be made to hold.”

When his mother set him such a noble example Pascal would have blushed to allow himself to be outdone. He very quietly explained the reasons which had influenced him in choosing these rooms, the principal one being that there was no concierge, and he was therefore assured absolute liberty in his movements, as well as entire immunity from indiscreet gossip. “Certainly, my dear mother,” he added, “it is a lonely and unattractive neighborhood; but you will find all the necessaries of life near at hand. The owner of the house lives on the floor above. I have talked with the wife--they seem to be honest, quiet people--and she will pilot you about. I inquired for some one to do the heavy work, and she mentioned a poor woman named Vantrasson, who lives in the neighborhood, and who is anxious to obtain employment. They were to inform her this evening, and you will see her to-morrow. And above all, don’t forget that you are henceforth Madame Maumejan.”

Occupied with these arrangements for the future, he was still talking, when Madame Ferailleur, drawing out her watch, gently remarked: “And your appointment? You forget that the cab is waiting at the door.”

It was true; he had forgotten it. He caught up his hat, hastily embraced his mother, and sprang into the vehicle. The horses were almost exhausted, but the driver was so willing that he found a means of making them trot as far as the Rue de Courcelles. However, on arriving there, he declared that his animals and himself could endure no more, and after receiving the amount due to him, he departed.

The air was chilly, the night dark, and the street deserted. The gloomy silence was only disturbed at long intervals by the opening or shutting of a door, or by the distant tread of some belated pedestrian. Having at least twenty minutes to wait, Pascal sat down on the curbstone opposite the Hotel de Chalusse, and fixed his eyes upon the building as if he were striving to penetrate the massive walls, and see what was passing within. Only one window--that of the room where the dead man was lying--was lighted up, and he could vaguely distinguish the motionless form of a woman standing with her forehead pressed against the pane of glass. A prey to the indescribable agony which seizes a man when he feels that his life is at stake--that his future is about to be irrevocably decided--Pascal counted the seconds as they passed by. He found it impossible to reflect, to deliberate, to decide on any plan of action. He forgot the tortures he had endured during the last twenty-four hours; Coralth, Valorsay, Madame d’Argeles, the baron, no longer existed for him. He forgot his loss of honor and position, and the disgrace attached to his name. The past was annihilated, as it were, and he could think of no future beyond the next few moments. His physical condition undoubtedly contributed to his mental weakness. He had taken no food that day, and he was faint from want of nourishment. He had come without an overcoat, moreover, and the cold night air chilled him to the bone. There was a strange ringing in his ears, and a mist swam before his eyes. At last the bell at the Beaujon Hospital tolled the appointed hour, and roused him from his lethargy. He seemed to hear a voice crying to him in the darkness, “Up! the hour has come!”

Trembling, and with tottering limbs, he dragged himself to the little gate opening into the gardens of the Chalusse mansion. Soon it softly opened, and Madame Leon appeared. Ah! it was not she that Pascal had hoped to see. Unfortunate man! He had been listening to that mysterious echo of our own desires which we so often mistake for a presentiment; and it had whispered in his heart: “Marguerite herself will come!”

With the candor of wretchedness, he could not refrain from telling Madame Leon the hope he had entertained. But, on hearing him, the housekeeper recoiled with a gesture of outraged propriety, and reproachfully exclaimed: “What are you thinking of, monsieur? What! could you suppose that Mademoiselle Marguerite would abandon her place by her dead father’s bedside to come to a rendezvous? Ah! you should think better of her than that, the dear child!”

He sighed deeply, and in a scarcely audible voice, he asked: “Hasn’t she even sent me a reply?”

“Yes, monsieur, she has; and although it is a great indiscretion on my part, I bring you the letter. Here it is. Now, good-evening. I must go at once. What would become of me if the servants discovered my absence, and found that I had gone out alone----”

She was hurrying away, but Pascal detained her. “Pray wait until I see what she has written,” he said, imploringly. “I shall perhaps be obliged to send her some message in reply.”

Madame Leon obeyed, though with rather bad grace, and not without several times repeating: “Make haste!”--while Pascal ran to a street lamp near by. It was not a letter that Marguerite had sent him, but a short note, written on a scrap of crumpled paper, folded, and not sealed. It was written in pencil; and the handwriting was irregular and indistinct. Still, by the flickering light of the gas, Pascal deciphered the word “Monsieur.” It made him shudder. “Monsieur!” What did this mean? In writing to him of recent times, Marguerite had always said, “My dear Pascal,” or, “My friend.”

Nevertheless, he continued: “I have not had the courage to resist the entreaties made to me by the Count de Chalusse, my father, in his last agony. I have solemnly pledged myself to become the wife of the Marquis de Valorsay.

“One cannot break a promise made to the dying. I shall keep mine, even though my heart break. I shall do my duty. God will give me strength and courage. Forget her whom you loved. She is now the betrothed of another, and honor commands her to forget your very name. Once more, and for the last time, farewell! If you love me, you will not try to see me again. It would only add to my misery.

“Think as though she were dead--she who signs herself--MARGUERITE.”

The commonplace wording of this letter, and the mistakes in spelling that marred it, entirely escaped Pascal’s notice. He only understood one thing, that Marguerite was lost to him, and that she was on the point of becoming the wife of the vile scoundrel who had planned the snare which had ruined him at the Hotel d’Argeles. Breathless, despairing, and half crazed with rage, he sprang toward Madame Leon. “Marguerite, where is she?” he demanded, in a hoarse, unnatural voice; “I must see her!”

“Oh! monsieur, what do you ask? Is it possible? Allow me to explain to you----” But the housekeeper was unable to finish her sentence, for Pascal had caught her by the hands, and holding them in a vicelike grip, he repeated: “I must see Marguerite, and speak to her. I must tell her that she has been deceived; I will unmask the scoundrel who----”

The frightened housekeeper struggled with all her might, trying her best to reach the little gate which was standing open. “You hurt me!” she cried. “Are you mad? Let me go or I shall call for help?” And twice indeed she shouted in a loud voice, “Help! murder!”

But her cries were lost in the stillness of the night. If any one heard them, no one came; still they recalled Pascal to a sense of the situation, and he was ashamed of his violence. He released Madame Leon, and his manner suddenly became as humble as it had been threatening. “Excuse me,” he said, entreatingly. “I am suffering so much that I don’t know what I’m doing. I beseech you to take me to Mademoiselle Marguerite, or else run and beg her to come here. I ask but a moment.”

Madame Leon pretended to be listening attentively; but, in reality, she was quietly manoeuvring to gain the garden gate. Soon she succeeded in doing so, whereupon, with marvellous strength and agility, she pushed Pascal away, and sprang inside the garden, closing the gate after her, and saying as she did so, “Begone, you scoundrel!”

This was the final blow; and for more than a minute Pascal stood motionless in front of the gate, stupefied with mingled rage and sorrow. His condition was not unlike that of a man who, after falling to the bottom of a precipice, is dragging himself up, all mangled and bleeding, swearing that he will yet save himself, when suddenly a heavy stone which he had loosened in his descent, falls forward and crushes him. All that he had so far endured was nothing in comparison with the thought that Valorsay would wed Marguerite. Was such a thing possible? Would God permit such a monstrous iniquity? “No, that shall never be,” he muttered. “I will murder the scoundrel rather; and afterward justice may do whatever it likes with me.”

He experienced that implacable, merciless thirsting for vengeance which does not even recoil before the commission of a crime to secure satisfaction, and this longing inflamed him with such energy that, although he had been so utterly exhausted a few moments before--he was not half an hour in making his way back to his new home. His mother, who was waiting for him with an anxious heart, was surprised by the flush on his cheeks, and the light glittering in his eyes. “Ah, you bring good news,” she exclaimed.

His only answer was to hand her the letter which Madame Leon had given him, saying as he did so, “Read.”

Madame Ferailleur’s eyes fell upon the words: “Once more, and for the last time, farewell!” She understood everything, turned very pale, and in a trembling voice exclaimed: “Don’t grieve, my son; the girl did not love you.”

“Oh, mother! if you knew----”

But she checked him with a gesture, and lifting her head proudly, she said: “I know what it is to love, Pascal--it is to have perfect faith. If the whole world had accused your father of a crime, would a single doubt of his innocence have ever entered my mind? This girl has doubted you. They have told her that you cheated at cards--and she has believed it. You have failed to see that this oath at the bedside of the dying count is only an excuse.”

It was true; the thought had not occurred to Pascal. “My God!” he cried in agony; “are you the only one who believes in my innocence?”

“Without proofs--yes. It must be your task to obtain these proofs.”

“And I shall obtain them,” he rejoined, in a tone of determination. “I am strong now that I have Marguerite’s life to defend--for they have deceived her, mother, or she would never have given me up. Oh! don’t shake your head. I love her, and so I trust her.”

XVII.

M. Isidore Fortunat was not the man to go to sleep over a plan when it was once formed. Whenever he said to himself, “I’ll do this, or that,” he did it as soon as possible--that very evening, rather than the next day. Having sworn that he would find out Madame d’Argeles’s son, the heir to the Count de Chalusse’s millions, it did not take him long to decide which of his agents he would select to assist him in this difficult task. Thus his first care, on returning home, was to ask his bookkeeper for Victor Chupin’s address.

“He lives in the Faubourg Saint-Denis,” replied the bookkeeper, “at No.--.”

“Very well,” muttered M. Fortunat; “I’ll go there as soon as I have eaten my dinner.” And, indeed, as soon as he had swallowed his coffee, he requested Madame Dodelin to bring him his overcoat, and half an hour later he reached the door of the house where his clerk resided.

The house was one of those huge, ungainly structures, large enough to shelter the population of a small village, with three or four courtyards, as many staircases as there are letters in the alphabet, and a concierge who seldom remembers the names of the tenants except on quarter-days when he goes to collect the rent, and at New Year, when he expects a gratuity. But, by one of those lucky chances made expressly for M. Fortunat, the porter did recollect Chupin, knew him and was kindly disposed toward him, and so he told the visitor exactly how and where to find him. It was very simple. He had only to cross the first courtyard, take staircase D, on the left-hand side, ascend to the sixth floor, go straight ahead, etc., etc.

Thanks to this unusual civility, M. Fortunat did not lose his way more than five times before reaching the door upon which was fastened a bit of pasteboard bearing Victor Chupin’s name. Noticing that a bell-rope hung beside the door, M. Fortunat pulled it, whereupon there was a tinkling, and a voice called out, “Come in!” He complied, and found himself in a small and cheaply furnished room, which was, however, radiant with the cleanliness which is in itself a luxury. The waxed floor shone like a mirror; the furniture was brilliantly polished, and the counterpane and curtains of the bed were as white as snow. What first attracted the agent’s attention was the number of superfluous articles scattered about the apartment--some plaster statuettes on either side of a gilt clock, an etagere crowded with knickknacks, and five or six passable engravings. When he entered, Victor Chupin was sitting, in his shirt-sleeves, at a little table, where, by the light of a small lamp, and with a zeal that brought a flush to his cheeks, he was copying, in a very fair hand a page from a French dictionary. Near the bed, in the shade, sat a poorly but neatly clad woman about forty years of age, who was knitting industriously with some long wooden needles.

“M. Victor Chupin?” inquired M. Fortunat.

The sound of his voice made the young man spring to his feet. He quickly lifted the shade from his lamp, and, without attempting to conceal his astonishment, exclaimed: “M’sieur Fortunat!--at this hour! Where’s the fire?” Then, in a grave manner that contrasted strangely with his accustomed levity: “Mother,” said he, “this is one of my patrons, M’sieur Fortunat--you know--the gentleman whom I collect for.”

The knitter rose, bowed respectfully, and said: “I hope, sir, that you are pleased with my son, and that he’s honest.”

“Certainly, madame,” replied the agent; “certainly. Victor is one of my best and most reliable clerks.”

“Then I’m content,” said the woman, reseating herself.

Chupin also seemed delighted “This is my good mother, sir,” said he. “She’s almost blind now; but, in less than six months she will be able to stand at her window and see a pin in the middle of the street, so the physician who is treating her eyes promised me; then we shall be all right again. But take a seat, sir. May we venture to offer you anything?”

Although his clerk had more than once alluded to his responsibilities, M. Fortunat was amazed. He marvelled at the perfume of honesty which exhaled from these poor people, at the dignity of this humble woman, and at the protecting and respectful affection evinced by her son--a young man, whose usual tone of voice and general behavior had seemed to indicate that he was decidedly a scapegrace. “Thanks, Victor,” he replied, “I won’t take any refreshment. I’ve just left the dinner-table. I’ve come to give you my instructions respecting a very important and very urgent matter.”

Chupin at once understood that his employer wished for a private interview. Accordingly, he took up the lamp, opened a door, and, in the pompous tone of a rich banker who is inviting some important personage to enter his private room, he said: “Will you be kind enough to step into my chamber, m’sieur?”

The room which Chupin so emphatically denominated his “chamber” was a tiny nook, extraordinarily clean, it is true, but scantily furnished with a small iron bedstead, a trunk, and a chair. He offered the chair to his visitor, placed the lamp on the trunk, and seated himself on the bed, saying as he did so: “This is scarcely on so grand a scale as your establishment, m’sieur; but I am going to ask the landlord to gild the window of my snuff-box.”

M. Fortunat was positively touched. He held out his hand to his clerk and exclaimed: “You’re a worthy fellow, Chupin.”

“Nonsense, m’sieur, one does what one can; but, zounds! how hard it is to make money honestly! If my good mother could only see, she would help me famously, for there is no one like her for work! But you see one can’t become a millionaire by knitting!”

“Doesn’t your father live with you?”