Other People's Money by Emile Gaboriau (superbooks4u txt) 📖

Though any thing might be expected of Mlle. Cesarine, still M. de Tregars seemed visibly astonished.  And she, laughing at his surprise,

“That’s the invariable programme,” she went on; “and that’s why I say I’m glad at the idea of a change, whatever it may be.  You find fault with me for not pitying Mlle. Gilberte.  How could I, since I envy her?  She is happy, because her future is not settled, laid out, fixed in advance.  She is poor; but she is free.  She is twenty; she is pretty; she has an admirable voice; she can go on the stage to-morrow, and be, before six months, one of the pet actresses of Paris.  What a life then!  Ah, that is the one I dream, the one I would have selected, had I been mistress of my destiny.”

But she was interrupted by the noise of the opening door.

The Baroness de Thaller appeared.  As she was, immediately after dinner, to go to the opera, and afterwards to a party given by the Viscountess de Bois d’Ardon, she was in full dress.  She wore a dress, cut audaciously low in the neck, of very light gray satin, trimmed with bands of cherry-colored silk edged with lace.  In her hair, worn high over her head, she had a bunch of fuchsias, the flexible stems of which, fastened by a large diamond star, trailed down to her very shoulders, white and smooth as marble.

But, though she forced herself to smile, her countenance was not that of festive days; and the glance which she cast upon her daughter and Marius de Tregars was laden with threats.  In a voice of which she tried in vain to control the emotion,

“How very kind of you, marquis,” she began, “to respond so soon to my invitation of this morning!  I am really distressed to have kept you waiting; but I was dressing.  After what has happened to M. de Thaller, it is absolutely indispensable that I should go out, show myself:  otherwise our enemies will be going around to-morrow, saying everywhere that I am in Belgium, preparing lodgings for my husband.”

And, suddenly changing her tone,

“But what was that madcap Cesarine telling you?” she asked.

It was with a profound surprise that M. de Tregars discovered that the entente cordiale which he suspected between the mother and daughter did not exist, at least at this moment.

Veiling under a jesting tone the strange conjectures which the unexpected discovery aroused within him,

“Mlle. Cesarine,” he replied, “who is much to be pitied, was telling me all her troubles.”

She interrupted him.

“Do not take the trouble to tell a story, M. le Marquis,” she said.  “Mamma knows it as well as yourself; for she was listening at the door.”

“Cesarine!” exclaimed Mme. de Thaller.

“And, if she came in so suddenly, it is because she thought it was fully time to cut short my confidences.”

The face of the baroness became crimson.

“The child is mad!” she said.

The child burst out laughing.

“That’s my way,” she went on.  “You should not have sent me here by chance, and against my wish.  You made me do it:  don’t complain.  You were sure that I had but to appear, and M. de Tregars would fall at my feet.  I appeared, and—you saw the effect through the keyhole, didn’t you?”

Her features contracted, her eyes flashing, twisting her lace handkerchief between her fingers loaded with rings,

“It is unheard of,” said Mme. de Thaller.  “She has certainly lost her head.”

Dropping her mother an ironical courtesy,

“Thanks for the compliment!” said the young lady.  “Unfortunately, I never was more completely in possession of all the good sense I may boast of than I am now, dear mamma.  What were you telling me a moment since?  ‘Run, the Marquis de Tregars is coming to ask your hand:  it’s all settled.’  And what did I answer?  ‘No use to trouble myself:  if, instead of one million, papa were to give me two, four millions, indeed all the millions paid by France to Prussia, M. de Tregars would not have me for a wife.’”

And, looking Marius straight in the face,

“Am I not right, M. le Marquis?” she asked.  “And isn’t it a fact that you wouldn’t have me at any price?  Come, now, your hand upon your heart, answer.”

M. de Tregars’ situation was somewhat embarrassing between these two women, whose anger was equal, though it manifested itself in a different way.  Evidently it was a discussion begun before, which was now continued in his presence.

“I think, mademoiselle,” he began, “that you have been slandering yourself gratuitously.”

“Oh, no!  I swear it to you,” she replied; “and, if mamma had not happened in, you would have heard much more.  But that was not an answer.”

And, as M. de Tregars said nothing, she turned towards the baroness,

“Ah, ah! you see,” she said.  “Who was crazy,—you, or I?  Ah! you imagine here that money is everything, that every thing is for sale, and that every thing can be bought.  Well, no!  There are still men, who, for all the gold in the world, would not give their name to Cesarine de Thaller.  It is strange; but it is so, dear mamma, and we must make up our mind to it.”

Then turning towards Marius, and bearing upon each syllable, as if afraid that the allusion might escape him,

“The men of whom I speak,” she added, “marry the girls who can starve to death.”

Knowing her daughter well enough to be aware that she could not impose silence upon her, the Baroness de Thaller had dropped upon a chair.  She was trying hard to appear indifferent to what her daughter was saying; but at every moment a threatening gesture, or a hoarse exclamation, betrayed the storm that raged within her.

“Go on, poor foolish child!” she said,—“go on!”

And she did go on.

“Finally, were M. de Tregars willing to have me, I would refuse him myself, because, then—”

A fugitive blush colored her cheeks, her bold eyes vacillated, and, dropping her voice,

“Because, then,” she added, “he would no longer be what he is; because I feel that fatally I shall despise the husband whom papa will buy for me.  And, if I came here to expose myself to an affront which I foresaw, it is because I wanted to make sure of a fact of which a word of Costeclar, a few days ago, had given me an idea, —of a fact which you do not, perhaps, suspect, dear mother, despite your astonishing perspicacity.  I wanted to find out M. de Tregars’ secret; and I have found it out.”

M. de Tregars had