Chapter 7

These words were like the drop which makes the cup overflow. Crimson with anger and assailed by the strangest suspicions, Pascal turned from Madame d’Argeles and hastened into the dining-room. The conversation ceased entirely on his arrival there. He could not fail to understand that he had been the subject of it. A secret instinct warned him that all the men around him were his enemies--though he knew not why--and that they were plotting against him. He also perceived that his slightest movements were watched and commented upon. However he was a brave man; his conscience did not reproach him in the least, and he was one of those persons who, rather than wait for danger, provoke it.

So, with an almost defiant air, he seated himself beside a young lady dressed in pink tulle, and began to laugh and chat with her. He possessed a ready wit, and what is even better, tact; and for a quarter of an hour astonished those around him by his brilliant sallies. Champagne was flowing freely; and he drank four or five glasses in quick succession. Was he really conscious of what he was doing and saying? He subsequently declared that he was not, that he acted under the influence of a sort of hallucination similar to that produced by the inhalation of carbonic gas.

However, the guests did not linger long at the supper-table. “Let us go back!” cried the old gentleman, who had insisted upon the suspension of the game; “we are wasting a deal of precious time here!”

Pascal rose with the others, and in his haste to enter the adjoining room he jostled two men who were talking together near the door. “So it is understood,” said one of them.

“Yes, yes, leave it to me; I will act as executioner.”

This word sent all Pascal’s blood bounding to his heart. “Who is to be executed?” he thought? “I am evidently to be the victim. But what does it all mean?”

Meanwhile the players at the green table had changed places, and Pascal found himself seated not on Ferdinand’s right, but directly opposite him, and between two men about his own age--one of them being the person who had announced his intention of acting as executioner. All eyes were fixed upon the unfortunate advocate when it came his turn to deal. He staked two hundred louis, and lost them. There was a slight commotion round the table; and one of the players who had lost most heavily, remarked in an undertone: “Don’t look so hard at the gentleman--he won’t have any more luck.”

As Pascal heard this ironical remark, uttered in a tone which made it as insulting as a blow, a gleam of light darted through his puzzled brain. He suspected at last, what any person less honest than himself would have long before understood. He thought of rising and demanding an apology; but he was stunned, almost overcome by the horrors of his situation. His ears tingled, and it seemed to him as if the beating of his heart were suspended.

However the game proceeded; but no one paid any attention to it. The stakes were insignificant, and loss or gain drew no exclamation from any one. The attention of the entire party was concentrated on Pascal; and he, with despair in his heart, followed the movements of the cards, which were passing from hand to hand, and fast approaching him again. When they reached him the silence became breathless, menacing, even sinister. The ladies, and the guests who were not playing, approached and leaned over the table in evident anxiety. “My God!” thought Pascal, “my God, if I can only lose!”

He was as pale as death; the perspiration trickled down from his hair upon his temples, and his hands trembled so much that he could scarcely hold the cards. “I will stake four thousand francs,” he faltered.

“I take your bet,” answered a voice.

Alas! the unfortunate fellow’s wish was not gratified; he won. Then in the midst of the wildest confusion, he exclaimed: “Here are eight thousand francs!”

“Taken!”

But as he began to deal the cards, his neighbor sprang up, seized him roughly by the hands and cried: “This time I’m sure of it--you are a thief!”

With a bound, Pascal was on his feet. While his peril had been vague and undetermined, his energy had been paralyzed. But it was restored to him intact when his danger declared itself in all its horror. He pushed away the man who had caught his hands, with such violence that he sent him reeling under a sofa; then he stepped back and surveyed the excited throng with an air of menace and defiance. Useless! Seven or eight players sprang upon him and overpowered him, as if he had been the vilest criminal.

Meanwhile, the executioner, as he had styled himself, had risen to his feet with his cravat untied, and his clothes in wild disorder. “Yes,” he said, addressing Pascal, “you are a thief! I saw you slip other cards among those which were handed to you.”

“Wretch!” gasped Pascal.

“I saw you--and I am going to prove it.” So saying he turned to the mistress of the house, who had dropped into an arm-chair, and imperiously asked, “How many packs have we used?”

“Five.”

“Then there ought to be two hundred and sixty cards upon the table.”

Thereupon he counted them slowly and with particular care, and he found no fewer than three hundred and seven. “Well, scoundrel!” he cried; “are you still bold enough to deny it?”

Pascal had no desire to deny it. He knew that words would weigh as nothing against this material, tangible, incontrovertible proof. Forty-seven cards had been fraudulently inserted among the others. Certainly not by him! But by whom? Still he, alone, had been the gainer through the deception.

“You see that the coward will not even defend himself!” exclaimed one of the women.

He did not deign to turn his head. What did the insult matter to him? He knew himself to be innocent, and yet he felt that he was sinking to the lowest depths of infamy--he beheld himself disgraced, branded, ruined. And realizing that he must meet facts with facts, he besought God to grant him an idea, an inspiration, that would unmask the real culprit.

But another person came to his aid. With a boldness which no one would have expected on his part, M. de Coralth placed himself in front of Pascal, and in a voice which betokened more indignation than sorrow, he exclaimed: “This is a terrible mistake, gentlemen. Pascal Ferailleur is my friend; and his past vouches for his present. Go to the Palais de Justice, and make inquiries respecting his character there. They will tell you how utterly impossible it is that this man can be guilty of the ignoble act he is accused of.”

No one made any reply. In the opinion of all his listeners, Ferdinand was simply fulfilling a duty which it would have been difficult for him to escape. The old gentleman who had decided the suspension and the resumption of the game, gave audible expression to the prevailing sentiment of the party. He was a portly man, who puffed like a porpoise when he talked, and whom his companions called the baron. “Your words do you honor--really do you honor,” he said, addressing Ferdinand--“and no possible blame can attach to you. That your friend is not an honest man is no fault of yours. There is no outward sign to distinguish scoundrels.”

Pascal had so far not opened his lips. After struggling for a moment in the hands of his captors, he now stood perfectly motionless, glancing furiously around him as if hoping to discover the coward who had prepared the trap into which he had fallen. For he felt certain that he was the victim of some atrocious conspiracy, though it was impossible for him to divine what motive had actuated his enemies. Suddenly those who were holding him felt him tremble. He raised his head; he fancied he could detect a ray of hope. “Shall I be allowed to speak in my own defence?” he asked.

“Speak!”

He tried to free himself; but those beside him would not relax their hold, so he desisted, and then, in a voice husky with emotion, he exclaimed: “I am innocent! I am the victim of an infamous plot. Who the author of it is I do not know. But there is some one here who must know.” Angry exclamations and sneering laughs interrupted him. “Would you condemn me unheard?” he resumed, raising his voice. “Listen to me. About an hour ago, while you were at supper, Madame d’Argeles almost threw herself at my feet as she entreated me to leave this house. Her agitation astonished me. Now I understand it.”

The gentleman known as the baron turned toward Madame d’Argeles: “Is what this man says true?”

She was greatly agitated, but she answered: “Yes.”

“Why were you so anxious for him to go?”

“I don’t know--a presentiment--it seemed to me that something was going to happen.”

The least observant of the party could not fail to notice Madame d’Argeles’s hesitation and confusion; but even the shrewdest were deceived. They supposed that she had seen the act committed, and had tried to induce the culprit to make his escape, in order to avoid a scandal.

Pascal saw he could expect no assistance from this source. “M. de Coralth could assure you,” he began.

“Oh, enough of that,” interrupted a player. “I myself heard M. de Coralth do his best to persuade you not to play.”

So the unfortunate fellow’s last and only hope had vanished. Still he made a supreme effort, and addressing Madame d’Argeles: “Madame,” he said, in a voice trembling with anguish? “I entreat you, tell what you know. Will you allow an honorable man to be ruined before your very eyes? Will you abandon an innocent man whom you could save by a single word?” But she remained silent; and Pascal staggered as if some one had dealt him a terrible blow. “It is all over!” he muttered.

No one heard him; everybody was listening to the baron, who seemed to be very much put out. “We are wasting precious time with all this,” said he. “We should have made at least five rounds while this absurd scene has been going on. We must put an end to it. What are you going to do with this fellow? I am in favor of sending for a commissary of police.”

Such was not at all the opinion of the majority of the guests. Four or five of the ladies took flight at the bare suggestion and several men--the most aristocratic of the company--became angry at once. “Are you mad?” said one of them. “Do you want to see us all summoned as witnesses? You have probably forgotten that Garcia affair, and that rumpus at Jenny Fancy’s house. A fine thing it would be to see, no one knows how many great names mixed up with those of sharpers and notorious women!”

Naturally of a florid complexion, the baron’s face now became scarlet. “So it’s fear of scandal that deters you! Zounds, sir! a man’s courage should equal his vices. Look at me.”

Celebrated for his income of eight hundred thousand francs a year, for his estates in Burgundy, for his passion for gaming, his horses, and his cook, the baron wielded a mighty influence. Still, on this occasion he did not carry the day, for it was decided that the “sharper” should be allowed to depart unmolested. “Make him at least return the money,” growled a loser; “compel him to disgorge.”

“His winnings are there upon the table.”

“Don’t believe it,” cried the baron. “All these scoundrels have secret pockets in which they stow away their plunder. Search him by all means.”

“That’s it--search him!”

Crushed by this unexpected, undeserved and incomprehensible misfortune, Pascal had almost yielded to his fate. But the shameful cry: “Search him!” kindled terrible wrath in his brain. He shook off his assailants as a lion shakes off the hounds that have attacked him, and, reaching the fireplace with a single bound, he snatched up a heavy bronze candelabrum and brandished it in the air, crying: “The first who approaches is a dead man!”

He was ready to strike, there was no doubt about it; and such a weapon in the hands of a determined man, becomes positively terrible. The danger seemed so great and so certain that his enemies paused--each encouraging his neighbor with his glance; but no one was inclined to engage in this struggle, by which the victor would merely gain a few bank-notes. “Stand back, and allow me to retire?” said Pascal, imperiously. They still hesitated; but finally made way. And, formidable in his indignation and audacity, he reached the door of the room unmolested, and disappeared.

This superb outburst of outraged honor, this marvellous energy--succeeding, as it did, the most complete mental prostration--and these terrible threats, had proved so prompt and awe-inspiring that no one had thought of cutting off Pascal’s retreat. The guests had not recovered from their stupor, but were still standing silent and intimidated when they heard the outer door close after him.

It was a woman who at last broke the spell. “Ah, well!” she exclaimed, in a tone of intense admiration, “that handsome fellow is level-headed!”

“He naturally desired to save his plunder!”

It was the same expression that M. de Coralth had employed; and which had, perhaps, prevented Pascal from yielding to Madame d’Argeles’s entreaties. Everybody applauded the sentiment--everybody, the baron excepted. This rich man, whose passions had dragged him into the vilest dens of Europe, was thoroughly acquainted with sharpers and scoundrels of every type, from those who ride in their carriages down to the bare-footed vagabond. He knew the thief who grovels at his victim’s feet, humbly confessing his crime, the desperate knave who swallows the notes he has stolen, the abject wretch who bares his back to receive the blows he deserves, and the rascal who boldly confronts his accusers and protests his innocence with the indignation of an honest man. But never, in any of these scoundrels, had the baron seen the proud, steadfast glance with which this man had awed his accusers.

With this thought uppermost in his mind he drew the person who had seized Pascal’s hands at the card-table a little aside. “Tell me,” said he, “did you actually see that young man slip the cards into the pack?”

“No, not exactly. But you know what we agreed at supper? We were sure that he was cheating; and it was necessary to find some pretext for counting the cards.”

“What if he shouldn’t be guilty, after all?”

“Who else could be guilty then? He was the only winner.”

To this terrible argument--the same which had silenced Pascal--the baron made no reply. Indeed his intervention became necessary elsewhere, for the other guests were beginning to talk loudly and excitedly around the pile of gold and bank-notes which Pascal had left on the table. They had counted it, and found it to amount to the sum of thirty-six thousand three hundred and twenty francs; and it was the question of dividing it properly among the losers which was causing all this uproar. Among these guests, who belonged to the highest society--among these judges who had so summarily convicted an innocent man, and suggested the searching of a supposed sharper only a moment before--there were several who unblushingly misrepresented their losses. This was undeniable; for on adding the various amounts that were claimed together a grand total of ninety-one thousand francs was reached. Had this man who had just fled taken the difference between the two sums away with him? A difference amounting almost to fifty-five thousand francs? No, this was impossible; the supposition could not be entertained for a moment. However, the discussion might have taken an unfortunate turn, had it not been for the baron. In all matters relating to cards, his word was law. He quietly said, “It is all right;” and they submitted.

Nevertheless, he absolutely refused to take his share of the money; and after the division, rubbing his hands as if he were delighted to see this disagreeable affair concluded, he exclaimed: “It is only six o’clock; we have still time for a few rounds.”

But the other guests, pale, disturbed, and secretly ashamed of themselves, were eager to depart, and in fact they were already hastening to the cloak-room. “At least play a game of ecarte,” cried the baron, “a simple game of ecarte, at twenty louis a point.”

But no one listened, and he reluctantly prepared to follow his departing friends, who bowed to Madame d’Argeles on the landing, as they filed by, M. de Coralth, who was among the last to retire, had already reached the staircase, and descended two or three steps, when Madame d’Argeles called to him. “Remain,” said she; “I want to speak with you.”

“You will excuse me,” he began; “I----”

But she again bade him “remain” in such an imperious tone that he dared not resist. He reascended the stairs, very much after the manner of a man who is being dragged into a dentist’s office, and followed Madame d’Argeles into a small boudoir at the end of the gambling-room. As soon as the door was closed and locked, the mistress of the house turned to her prisoner. “Now you will explain,” said she. “It was you who brought M. Pascal Ferailleur here.”

“Alas! I know only too well that I ought to beg your forgiveness. However, this affair will cost me dear myself. It has already embroiled me in a difficulty with that fool of a Rochecote, with whom I shall have to fight in less than a couple of hours.”

“Where did you make his acquaintance?”

“Whose--Rochecote’s?”

Madame d’Argeles’s sempiternal smile had altogether disappeared. “I am speaking seriously,” said she, with a threatening ring in her voice. “How did you happen to become acquainted with M. Ferailleur?”

“That can be very easily explained. Seven or eight months ago I had need of an advocate’s services, and he was recommended to me. He managed my case very cleverly, and we kept up the acquaintance.”

“What is his position?”

M. de Coralth’s features wore an expression of exceeding weariness as if he greatly longed to go to sleep. He had indeed installed himself in a large arm-chair, in a semi-recumbent position. “Upon my word, I don’t know,” he replied. “Pascal had always seemed to be the most irreproachable man in the world--a man you might call a philosopher! He lives in a retired part of the city, near the Pantheon, with his mother, who is a widow, a very respectable woman, always dressed in black. When she opened the door for me, on the occasion of my first visit, I thought some old family portrait had stepped down from its frame to receive me. I judge them to be in comfortable circumstances. Pascal has the reputation of being a remarkable man, and people supposed he would rise very high in his profession.”

“But now he is ruined; his career is finished.”

“Certainly! You can be quite sure that by this evening all Paris will know what occurred here last night.”

He paused, meeting Madame Argeles’s look of withering scorn with a cleverly assumed air of astonishment. “You are a villain! Monsieur de Coralth,” she said, indignantly.

“I--and why?”

“Because it was you who slipped those cards, which made M. Ferailleur win, into the pack; I saw you do it! And yielding to my entreaties, the young fellow was about to leave the house when you, intentionally, prevented him from saving himself. Oh! don’t deny it.”

M. de Coralth rose in the coolest possible manner. “I deny nothing, my dear lady,” he replied, “absolutely nothing. You and I understand each other.”

Confounded by his unblushing impudence, Madame d’Argeles remained speechless for a moment. “You confess it!” she cried, at last. “You dare to confess it! Were you not afraid that I might speak and state what I had seen?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “No one would have believed you,” he exclaimed.

“Yes, I should have been believed, Monsieur de Coralth, for I could have given proofs. You must have forgotten that I know you, that your past life is no secret to me, that I know who you are, and what dishonored name you hide beneath your borrowed title! I could have told my guests that you are married--that you have abandoned your wife and child, leaving them to perish in want and misery--I could have told them where you obtain the thirty or forty thousand francs you spend each year. You must have forgotten that Rose told me everything, Monsieur--Paul!”

She had struck the right place this time, and with such precision that M. de Coralth turned livid, and made a furious gesture, as if he were about to fell her to the ground. “Ah, take care!” he exclaimed; “take care!”

But his rage speedily subsided, and with his usual indifferent manner, and in a bantering tone, he said: “Well, what of that? Do you fancy that the world doesn’t already suspect what you could reveal? People have suspected me of being even worse than I am. When you proclaim on the housetops that I am an adventurer, folks will only laugh at you, and I shall be none the worse for it. A matter that would crush a dozen men like Pascal Ferailleur would not injure me in the least. I am accustomed to it. I must have luxury and enjoyment, everything that is pleasant and beautiful--and to procure all this, I do my very best. It is true that I don’t derive my income from my estate in Brie; but I have plenty of money, and that is the essential thing. Besides, it is so difficult to earn a livelihood nowadays, and the love of luxury is so intense that no one knows at night what he may do--or, rather, what he won’t do--the next day. And last, but not least, the people who ought to be despised are so numerous that contempt is an impossibility. A Parisian who happened to be so absurdly pretentious as to refuse to shake hands with such of his acquaintances as were not irreproachable characters, might walk for hours on the Boulevards without finding an occasion to take his hands out of his pockets.”

M. de Coralth talked well enough, and yet, in point of fact, all this was sheer bravado on his part. He knew better than any one else, on what a frail and uncertain basis his brilliant existence was established. Certainly, society does show great indulgence to people of doubtful reputation. It shuts its eyes and refuses to look or listen. But this is all the more reason why it should be pitiless when a person’s guilt is positively established. Thus, although he assumed an air of insolent security, the “viscount” anxiously watched the effect of his words upon Madame d’Argeles. Fortunately for himself, he saw that she was abashed by his cynicism; and so he resumed: “Besides, as our friend, the baron, would say, we are wasting precious time in discussing improbable, and even impossible, suppositions. I was sufficiently well acquainted with your heart and your intelligence, my dear madame, to be sure that you would not speak a word to my disparagement.”

“Indeed! What prevented me from doing so?”

“I did; or perhaps I ought rather to say, your own good sense, which closed your mouth when Monsieur Pascal entreated you to speak in his defence. I am entitled to considerable indulgence, madame, and a great deal ought to be forgiven me. My mother, unfortunately, was an honest woman, who did not furnish me with the means of gratifying every whim.”

Madame d’Argeles recoiled as if a serpent had suddenly crossed her path.

“What do you mean?” she faltered.

“You know as well as I do.”

“I don’t understand you--explain yourself.”