Baron Trigault's Vengeance by Emile Gaboriau (graded readers .TXT) 📖

the Baroness Trigault, and knowing her story, he thought that Coralth’s name might, perhaps, have irritated the baron. “And so,” he quickly continued, “don’t be surprised if, during the coming week, you see the sale of my horses announced.”

“What! you are going to sell——”

“All my horses—yes, baron. I have nineteen; and it will be very strange if I don’t get eight or ten thousand louis for the lot. Domingo alone is worth more than forty thousand francs.”

To talk of selling—of realizing something you possess—rings ominously in people’s ears. The person who talks of selling proclaims his need of money—and often his approaching ruin. “It will save you at least a hundred and fifty or sixty thousand francs a year,” observed the baron.

“Double it and you won’t come up to the mark. Ah! my dear baron, you have yet to learn that there is nothing so ruinous as a racing stable. It’s worse than gambling; and women, in comparison, are a real economy. Ninette costs me less than Domingo, with his jockey, his trainer, and his grooms. My manager declares that the twenty-three thousand francs I won last year, cost me at least fifty thousand.”

Was he boasting, or was he speaking the truth? The baron was engaged in a rapid calculation. “What does Valorsay spend a year?” he was saying to himself. “Let us say two hundred and fifty thousand francs for his stable; forty thousand francs for Ninette Simplon; eighty thousand for his household expenses, and at least thirty thousand for personal matters, travelling, and play. All this amounts to something like four hundred and thirty thousand francs a year. Does his income equal that sum? Certainly not. Then he must have been living on the principal—he is ruined.”

Meanwhile the marquis gayly continued: “You see, I’m going to make a change in my mode of life. Ah! it surprises you! But one must make an end of it, sooner or later. I begin to find a bachelor life not so very pleasant after all; there is rheumatism in prospect, and my digestion is becoming impaired—in short, I feel that it is time for marriage, baron; and—I am about to marry.”

“You!”

“Yes, I. What, haven’t you heard of it, yet? It has been talked of at the club for three days or more.”

“No, this is the first intimation I have received of it. It is true, however, that I have not been to the club for three days. I have made a wager with Kami-Bey, you know—that rich Turk—and as our sittings are eight or ten hours long, we play in his apartments at the Grand Hotel. And so you are to be married,” the baron continued, after a slight pause. “Ah, well! I know one person who won’t be pleased.”

“Who, pray?”

“Ninette Simplon.”

M. de Valorsay laughed heartily. “As if that would make any difference to me!” he exclaimed. And then in a most confidential manner he resumed: “She will soon be consoled. Ninette Simplon is a shrewd girl—a girl whom I have always suspected of having an account book in place of a heart. I know she has at least three hundred thousand francs safely invested; her furniture and diamonds are worth as much more. Why should she regret me? Add to this that I have promised her fifty thousand francs to dry her tears with on my wedding-day, and you will understand that she really longs to see me married.”

“I understand,” replied the baron; “Ninette Simplon won’t trouble you. But I can’t understand why you should talk of economy on the eve of a marriage which will no doubt double your fortune; for I’m sure you won’t surrender your liberty without good and substantial reasons.”

“You are mistaken.”

“How mistaken?”

“Well, I won’t hesitate to confess to you, my dear baron, that the girl I am about to marry hasn’t a penny of her own. My future wife has no dowry save her black eyes—but they are certainly superb ones.”

This assertion seemed to disprove Pascal’s statements. “Can it really be you who are talking in this strain?” cried the baron. “You, a practical, worldly man, give way to such a burst of sentiment?”

“Well, yes.”

The baron opened his eyes in astonishment. “Ah! then you adore your future bride!”

“Adore only feebly expresses my feelings.”

“I must be dreaming.”

Valorsay shrugged his shoulders with the air of a man who has made up his mind to accept the banter of his friends; and in a tone of mingled sentimentality and irony, he said: “I know that it’s absurd, and that I shall be the laughing-stock of my acquaintances. Still it doesn’t matter; I have never been coward enough to hide my feelings. I’m in love, my dear baron, as madly in love as a young collegian—sufficiently in love to watch my lady’s house at night even when I have no possible hope of seeing her. I thought myself blase, I boasted of being invulnerable. Well, one fine morning I woke up with the heart of a youth of twenty beating in my breast—a heart which trembled at the slightest glance from the girl I love, and sent purple flushes to my face. Naturally I tried to reason with myself. I was ashamed of my weakness; but the more clearly I showed myself my folly, the more obstinate my heart became. And perhaps my folly is not such a great one after all. Such perfect beauty united with such modesty, grace, and nobility of soul, such passion, candor and talent, cannot be met twice in a lifetime. I intend to leave Paris. We shall first of all go to Italy, my wife and I. After a while we shall return and install ourselves at Valorsay, like two turtle-doves. Upon my word, my imagination paints a charming picture of the calm and happy life we shall lead there! I don’t deserve such good fortune. I must have been born under a lucky star!”

Had he been less engrossed in his narrative, he would have heard the sound of a stifled oath in the adjoining room; and had he been less absorbed in the part he was playing, he would have observed a cloud on his companion’s brow. The baron was a keen observer, and he had detected a false ring in this apparently vehement outburst of passion. “I understand it now, my dear marquis,” said he; “you have met the descendant of some illustrious but impoverished family.”

“You are wrong. My future bride has no other name than her Christian name of Marguerite.”

“It is a regular romance then!”

“You are quite right; it is a romance. Were you acquainted with the Count de Chalusse, who died a few days ago?”

“No; but I have often heard him spoken of.”

“Well, it is his daughter whom I am about to marry—his illegitimate daughter.”

The baron started. “Excuse me,” said he; “M. de Chalusse was immensely rich, and he was a bachelor. How does it happen then that his daughter, even though she be his illegitimate child, should find herself penniless?”