Chapter 8
With the impatient gesture of a man who finds himself compelled to answer an idle question, and assuming an air of hypocritical commiseration, he replied: “Well, since you insist upon it, I know, in Paris--in the Rue de Helder, to be more exact--a nice young fellow, whose lot I have often envied. He has wanted for nothing since the day he came into the world. At school, he had three times as much money as his richest playfellow. When his studies were finished, a tutor was provided--with his pockets full of gold--to conduct this favored youth to Italy, Egypt, and Greece. He is now studying law; and four times a year, with unvarying punctuality, he receives a letter from London containing five thousand francs. This is all the more remarkable, as this young man has neither a father nor a mother. He is alone in the world with his income of twenty thousand francs. I have heard him say, jestingly, that some good fairy must be watching over him; but I know that he believes himself to be the illegitimate son of some great English nobleman. Sometimes, when he has drunk a little too much, he talks of going in search of my lord, his father.”
The effect M. de Coralth had created by these words must have been extremely gratifying to him, for Madame d’Argeles had fallen back in her chair, almost fainting. “So, my dear madame,” he continued, “if I ever had any reason to fancy that you intended causing me any trouble, I should go to this charming youth and say: ‘My good fellow, you are strangely deceived. Your money doesn’t come from the treasure-box of an English peer, but from a small gambling den with which I am very well acquainted, having often had occasion to swell its revenues with my franc-pieces.’ And if he mourned his vanished dreams, I should tell him: ‘You are wrong; for, if the great nobleman is lost, the good fairy remains. She is none other than your mother, a very worthy person, whose only object in life is your comfort and advancement.’ And if he doubted my word, I should bring him to his mother’s house some baccarat night; and there would be a scene of recognition worthy of Fargueil’s genius.”
Any man but M. de Coralth would have had some compassion, for Madame d’Argeles was evidently suffering agony. “It is as I feared!” she moaned, in a scarcely audible voice.
However, he heard her. “What!” he exclaimed in a tone of intense astonishment; “did you really doubt it? No; I can’t believe it; it would be doing injustice to your intelligence and experience. Are people like ourselves obliged to talk in order to understand each other? Should I ever have ventured to do what I have done, in your house, if I had not known the secret of your maternal tenderness, delicacy of feeling, and devotion?”
She was weeping; big tears were rolling down her face, tracing a broad furrow through the powder on her cheeks. “He knows everything!” she murmured; “he knows everything!”
“By the merest chance, I assure you. As I don’t like folks to meddle with my affairs, I never meddle with theirs. As I have just said, it was entirely the work of chance. One April afternoon I came to invite you to a drive in the Bois. I was ushered into this very room where we are sitting now, and found you writing. I said I would wait until you finished your letter; but some one called you, and you hastily left the room. How it was that I happened to approach your writing-table I cannot explain; but I did approach it, and read your unfinished letter. Upon my word it touched me deeply. I can give no better proof of the truth of my assertion than the fact that I can repeat it, almost word for word, even now. ‘DEAR SIR,’--you wrote to your London correspondent--‘I send you three thousand francs, in addition to the five thousand for the regular quarterly payment. Forward the money without delay. I fear the poor boy is greatly annoyed by his creditors. Yesterday I had the happiness of seeing him in the Rue de Helder, and I found him looking pale and careworn. When you send him this money, forward at the same time a letter of fatherly advice. It is true, he ought to work and win an honorable position for himself; but think of the dangers and temptation that beset him, alone and friendless, in this corrupt city.’ There, my dear lady, your letter ended; but the name and address were given, and it was easy enough to understand it. You remember, perhaps, a little incident that occurred after your return. On perceiving that you had forgotten your letter, you turned pale and glanced at me. ‘Have you read it, and do you understand it?’ your eyes asked; while mine replied: ‘Yes, but I shall be silent.’”
“And I shall be silent too,” said Madame d’Argeles.
M. de Coralth took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I knew we should understand each other,” he remarked, gravely. “I am not bad at heart, believe me; and if I had possessed money of my own, or a mother like you----”
She averted her face, fearing perhaps that M. de Coralth might read her opinion of him in her eyes; but after a short pause she exclaimed beseechingly: “Now that I am your accomplice, let me entreat you to do all you possibly can to prevent last night’s affair from being noised abroad.”
“Impossible.”
“If not for M. Ferailleur’s sake, for the sake of his poor widowed mother.”
“Pascal must be put out of the way!”
“Why do you say that? Do you hate him so much then? What has he done to you?”
“To me, personally? Nothing--I even feel actual sympathy for him.”
Madame d’Argeles was confounded. “What!” she stammered; “it wasn’t on your own account that you did this?”
“Why, no.”
She sprang to her feet, and quivering with scorn and indignation, cried: “Ah! then the deed is even more infamous--even more cowardly!” But alarmed by the threatening gleam in M. de Coralth’s eyes, she went no further.
“A truce to these disagreeable truths,” said he, coldly. “If we expressed our opinions of each other without reserve, in this world, we should soon come to hard words. Do you think I acted for my own pleasure? Suppose some one had seen me when I slipped the cards into the pack. If that had happened, I should have been ruined.”
“And you think that no one suspects you?”
“No one. I lost more than a hundred louis myself. If Pascal belonged to our set, people might investigate the matter, perhaps; but to-morrow it will be forgotten.”
“And will he have no suspicions?”
“He will have no proofs to offer, in any case.”
Madame d’Argeles seemed to resign herself to the inevitable. “I hope you will, at least, tell me on whose behalf you acted,” she remarked.
“Impossible,” replied M. de Coralth. And, consulting his watch, he added, “But I am forgetting myself; I am forgetting that that idiot of a Rochecote is waiting for a sword-thrust. So go to sleep, my dear lady, and--till we meet again.”
She accompanied him so far as the landing. “It is quite certain that he is hastening to the house of M. Ferailleur’s enemy,” she thought. And, calling her confidential servant, “Quick, Job,” she said; “follow M. de Coralth. I want to know where he is going. And, above all, take care that he doesn’t see you.”
V.
If through the length and breadth of Paris there is a really quiet, peaceful street, a refuge for the thoughtfully inclined, it is surely the broad Rue d’Ulm, which starts from the Place du Pantheon, and finishes abruptly at the Rue des Feuillantines. The shops are unassuming, and so few that one can easily count them. There is a wine-shop on the left-hand side, at the corner of the Rue de la Vieille-Estrapade; then a little toy-shop, then a washerwoman’s and then a book-binder’s establishment; while on the right-hand you will find the office of the Bulletin, with a locksmith’s, a fruiterer’s, and a baker’s--that is all. Along the rest of the street run several spacious buildings, somewhat austere in appearance, though some of them are surrounded by large gardens. Here stands the Convent of the Sisters of the Cross, with the House of Our Lady of Adoration; while further on, near the Rue des Feuillantines, you find the Normal School, with the office of the General Omnibus Company hard by. At day-time you mostly meet grave and thoughtful faces in the street: priests, savants, professors, and clerks employed in the adjacent public libraries. The only stir is round about the omnibus office; and if occasional bursts of laughter are heard they are sure to come from the Normal School. After nightfall, a person might suppose himself to be at least a hundred leagues from the Boulevard Montmartre and the Opera-House, in some quiet old provincial town, at Poitiers, for instance. And it is only on listening attentively that you can catch even a faint echo of the tumult of Paris.
It was in this street--“out of the world,” as M. de Coralth expressed it--that Pascal Ferailleur resided with his mother. They occupied a second floor, a pretty suite of five rooms, looking out upon a garden. Their rent was high. Indeed, they paid fourteen hundred francs a year. But this was a burden which Pascal’s profession imposed upon him; for he, of course, required a private office and a little waiting-room for his clients. With this exception, the mother and son led a straightened, simple life. Their only servant was a woman who came at seven o’clock to do the heavy work, went home again at twelve, and did not return again until the evening, to serve dinner. Madame Ferailleur attended to everything, not blushing in the least when she was compelled to open the door for some client. Besides, she could do this without the least risk of encountering disrespect, so imposing and dignified were her manners and her person.
M. de Coralth had shown excellent judgment when he compared her to a family portrait. She was, in fact, exactly the person a painter would select to represent some old burgher’s wife--a chaste and loving spouse, a devoted mother, an incomparable housewife--in one phrase, the faithful guardian of her husband’s domestic happiness. She had just passed her fiftieth birthday, and looked fully her age. She had suffered. A close observer would have detected traces of weeping about her wrinkled eyelids; and the twinge of her lips was expressive of cruel anguish, heroically endured. Still, she was not severe, nor even too sedate; and the few friends who visited her were often really astonished at her wit. Besides, she was one of those women who have no history, and who find happiness in what others would call duty. Her life could be summed up in a single sentence: she had loved; she had mourned.
The daughter of a petty clerk in one of the government departments, and merely dowered with a modest portion of three thousand francs, she had married a young man as poor as herself, but intelligent and industrious, whom she loved, and who adored her. This young man on marrying had sworn that he would make a fortune; not that he cared for money for himself, but he wished to provide his idol with every luxury. His love, enhancing his energy, no doubt hastened his success. Attached as a chemist to a large manufacturing establishment, his services soon became so invaluable to his employers that they gave him a considerable interest in the business. His name even obtained an honorable place among modern inventors; and we are indebted to him for the discovery of one of those brilliant colors that are extracted from common coal. At the end of ten years he had become a man of means. He loved his wife as fondly as on the day of their marriage, and he had a son--Pascal.
Unfortunate fellow! One day, in the full sunshine of happiness and success, while he was engaged in a series of experiments for the purpose of obtaining a durable, and at the same time perfectly harmless, green, the chemicals exploded, smashing the mortar which he held, and wounding him horribly about the head and chest. A fortnight later he died, apparently calm, but in reality a prey to bitter regrets. It was a terrible blow for his poor wife, and the thought of her son alone reconciled her to life. Pascal was now everything to her--her present and her future; and she solemnly vowed that she would make a noble man of him. But alas! misfortunes never come singly. One of her husband’s friends, who acted as administrator to the estate, took a contemptible advantage of her inexperience. She went to sleep one night possessing an income of fifteen thousand francs, but she awoke to find herself ruined--so completely ruined that she did not know where to obtain her dinner for that same evening. Had she been alone in the world, she would not have grieved much over the catastrophe, but she was sadly affected by the thought that her son’s future was, perhaps, irrevocably blighted, and that, in any case, this disaster would condemn him to enter life through the cramped and gloomy portals of poverty.
However, Madame Ferailleur was of too courageous and too proud a nature not to meet this danger with virile energy. She wasted no time in useless lamentations. She determined to repair the harm as far as it was in her power to repair it, resolving that her son’s studies at the college of Louis-the-Great should not be interrupted, even if she had to labor with her own hands. And when she spoke of manual toil, it was no wild, unmeaning exaggeration born of sorrow and a passing flash of courage. She found employment as a day-servant and in sewing for large shops, until she at last obtained a situation as clerk in the establishment where her husband had been a partner. To obtain this she was obliged to acquire a knowledge of bookkeeping, but she was amply repaid for her trouble; for the situation was worth eighteen hundred francs a year, besides food and lodging. Then only did her efforts momentarily abate; she felt that her arduous task was drawing to a happy close. Pascal’s expenses at school amounted to about nine hundred francs a year; she did not spend more than one hundred on herself; and thus she was able to save nearly eight hundred francs a year.
It must be admitted that she was admirably seconded in her efforts by her son. Pascal was only twelve years old when his mother said to him: “I have ruined you, my son. Nothing remains of the fortune which your father accumulated by dint of toil and self-sacrifice. You will be obliged to rely upon yourself, my boy. God grant that in years to come you will not reproach me for my imprudence.”
The child did not throw himself into her arms, but holding his head proudly erect, he answered: “I shall love you even more, dear mother, if that be possible. As for the fortune which my father left you, I will restore it to you again. I am no longer a school-boy, I am a man--as you shall see.”
One could not fail to perceive that he had taken a solemn vow. Although he possessed a remarkable mind, and the power of acquiring knowledge rapidly, he had, so far, worked indifferently, and then only by fits and starts, whenever examination time drew near. But from that day forward he did not lose a moment. His remarks, which were at once comical and touching, were those of the head of a family, deeply impressed by a sense of his own responsibility. “You see,” he said to his companions, who were astonished at his sudden thirst for knowledge, “I can’t afford to wear out my breeches on the college forms, now that my poor mother has to pay for them with her work.”
His good-humor was not in the least impaired by his resolve not to spend a single penny of his pocket money. With a tact unusual at his age, or indeed at any other, he bore his misfortunes simply and proudly, without any of the servile humility or sullen envy which so often accompanies poverty. For three years in succession the highest prizes at the competitions rewarded him for his efforts; but these successes, far from elating him unduly, seemed to afford him but little satisfaction. “This is only glory,” he thought; and his great ambition was to support himself.
He was soon able to do so, thanks to the kindness of the head-master, who offered him his tuition gratis if he would assist in superintending some of the lower classes. Thus one day when Madame Ferailleur presented herself as usual to make her quarterly payment, the steward replied: “You owe us nothing, madame; everything has been paid by your son.”
She almost fainted; after bearing adversity so bravely, this happiness proved too much for her. She could scarcely believe it. A long explanation was necessary to convince her of the truth, and then big tears, tears of joy this time, gushed from her eyes.
In this way, Pascal Ferailleur paid all the expenses of his education until he had won his degree, arming himself so as to resist the trials that awaited him, and giving abundant proof of energy and ability. He wished to be a lawyer; and the law, he was forced to admit, is a profession which is almost beyond the reach of penniless young men. But there are no insurmountable obstacles for those whose hearts are really set on an object. On the very day that Pascal inscribed his name as a student at the law school, he entered an advocate’s office as a clerk. His duties, which were extremely tiresome at first, had the two-fold advantage of familiarizing him with the forms of legal procedure, and of furnishing him with the means of prosecuting his studies. After he had been in the office six months, his employer agreed to pay him eight hundred francs a year, which were increased to fifteen hundred at the end of the second twelvemonth. In three years, when he had passed his final examination qualifying him to practise, his patron raised him to the position of head-clerk, with a salary of three thousand francs, which Pascal was moreover able to increase considerably by drawing up documents for busy attorneys, and assisting them in the preparation of their least important cases.
It was certainly something wonderful to have achieved such a result in so short a time; but the most difficult part of his task had still to be accomplished. It was a perilous undertaking to abandon an assured position, to cast a certainty aside for the chances of life at the bar. It was a grave step--so grave, indeed, that Pascal hesitated for a long time. He was threatened with the danger that always threatens subordinates who are useful to their superiors. He felt that his employer, who was in the habit of relieving himself of his heaviest duties by intrusting them to him, would not be likely to forgive him for leaving. And on starting on his own account, he could ill afford to dispense with this lawyer’s good-will. The patronage that could scarcely fail to follow him from an office where he had served for four years was the most substantial basis of his calculations for the future. Eventually he succeeded to his satisfaction, though not without some difficulty, and only by employing that supreme finesse which consists in absolute frankness.
Before his office had been open a fortnight, he had seven or eight briefs waiting their turn upon his desk, and his first efforts were such as win the approving smile of old judges, and draw from them the prediction: “That young man will rise in his profession.” He had not desired to make any display of his knowledge or talent, but merely to win the cases confided to him; and, unlike many beginners, he evinced no inclination to shine at his clients’ expense. Rare modesty, and it served him well. His first ten months of practice brought him about eight thousand francs, absorbed in part by the expense attaching to a suitable office. The second year his fees increased by about one-half, and, feeling that his position was now assured, he insisted that his mother should resign her clerkship. He proved to her what was indeed the truth--that by superintending his establishment, she would save more than she made in her present position.
From that time the mother and the son had good reason to believe that their heroic energy had conquered fate. Clients became so numerous that Pascal found it necessary to draw nearer the business centre, and his rent was consequently doubled; but the income he derived from his profession increased so rapidly that he soon had twelve thousand francs safely invested as a resource against any emergency. Madame Ferailleur now laid aside the mourning she had worn since her husband’s death. She felt that she owed it to Pascal; and, besides, after believing there was no more happiness left for her on earth, her heart rejoiced at her son’s success.
Pascal was thus on the high-road to fame, when a complication in M. Ferdinand de Coralth’s affair, brought that young nobleman to his office. The trouble arose from a little stock exchange operation which M. Ferdinand had engaged in--an affair which savored a trifle of knavery. It was strange, but Pascal rather took a liking to M. de Coralth. The honest worker felt interested in this dashing adventurer; he was almost dazzled by his brilliant vices, his wit, his hardihood, conceit, marvellous assurance, and careless impudence; and he studied this specimen of the Parisian flora with no little curiosity. M. de Coralth certainly did not confide the secret of his life and his resources to Pascal but the latter’s intelligence should have told him to distrust a man who treated the requirements of morality even more than cavalierly, and who had infinitely more wants than scruples. However, the young advocate seemed to have no suspicions; they exchanged visits occasionally, and it was Pascal himself who one day requested the viscount to take him to one of those “Reunions in High Life” which the newspapers describe in such glowing terms.
Madame Ferailleur was playing a game of whist with a party of old friends, according to her custom every Thursday evening, when M. de Coralth called to invite the young advocate to accompany him to Madame d’Argeles’s reception. Pascal considered his friend’s invitation exceedingly well timed. He dressed himself with more than ordinary care, and, as usual before going out, he approached his mother to kiss her and wish her good-bye. “How fine you are!” she said, smiling.
“I am going to a soiree, my dear mother,” he replied; “and it is probable that I shall not return until very late. So don’t wait for me, I beg of you; promise me to go to bed at your usual hour.”
“Have you the night-key?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, then; I will not wait for you. When you come in you will find your candle and some matches on the buffet in the ante-room. And wrap yourself up well, for it is very cold.” Then raising her forehead to her son’s lips, she gayly added: “A pleasant evening to you, my boy!”
Faithful to her promise, Madame Ferailleur retired at the usual hour; but she could not sleep. She certainly had no cause for anxiety, and yet the thought that her son was not at home filled her heart with vague misgivings such as she had never previously felt under similar circumstances. Possibly it was because she did not know where Pascal was going. Possibly M. de Coralth was the cause of her strange disquietude, for she utterly disliked the viscount. Her woman’s instinct warned her that there was something unwholesome about this young man’s peculiar handsomeness, and that it was not safe to trust to his professions of friendship. At all events, she lay awake and heard the clock of the neighboring Normal School strike each successive hour--two, three, and four. “How late Pascal stays,” she said to herself.