The Clique of Gold by Emile Gaboriau (inspirational books .txt) 📖

And she, generally, so clearsighted, was not surprised to find that this man, who had been disinterestedness itself, should all of a sudden deplore his losses so bitterly, and value money so highly.

“Why do you not marry a rich woman?” she suddenly asked him.

He replied with a perfection of affected candor which he would not have suspected to be in his power the day before,—

“What? Do you—you, Sarah—give me such advice?”

He said it so naturally, and with such an air of aggrieved surprise, that she was delighted and carried away by it, as if he had made her the most passionate avowal.

“You love me? Do you really, really love me?”

The sound of a key turning in the door interrupted them.

And in an undertone, speaking passionately, she said,—

“Go now! You shall know by to-morrow who she is whom I have chosen for you. Come and breakfast with us at eleven o’clock. Go now.”

And, kissing him on his lips till they burnt with unholy fire, she pushed him out of the room.

The poor man staggered like a drunken man, as he went down the stairs.

“I am playing an abominable game,” he said to himself. “She does love me! What a woman!”

It required nothing less to rouse him from his stupor than the sight of Papa Ravinet, who was waiting for him below, hid in a corner of his carriage.

“Is it you?” he said.

“Yes, myself. And it seems it was well I came. But for me, the count would have kept you; but I came to your rescue by sending him up a letter. Now, tell me all.”

Daniel reported to him briefly, while they were driving along, his conversation with the count and with Sarah. When he had concluded, the old dealer exclaimed,—

“We have the whole matter in our hands now. But there is not a minute to lose. Do you go back to the hotel, and wait for me there. I must go to the court.”

At the hotel Daniel found Henrietta dying with anxiety. Still she only asked after her father. Was it pride, or was it prudence? She did not mention Sarah’s name. They had, however, not much time for conversation. Papa Ravinet came back sooner than they expected, all busy and excited. He drew Daniel aside to give him his last directions, and did not leave him till midnight, when he went away, saying,—

“The ground is burning under our feet; be punctual to-morrow.”

At the precise hour Daniel presented himself in Peletier Street, where the count received him with a delighted air.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “you come just in time. Brian is away; Sir Thorn is out on business; and I shall have to leave you directly after breakfast. You must keep the countess company. Come, Sarah, let us have breakfast.”

It was an ill-omened breakfast.

Under the thick layers of rouge, the count showed his livid pallor; and every moment nervous tremblings shook him from head to foot. The countess affected childish happiness; but her sharp and sudden movements betrayed the storm that was raging in her heart. Daniel noticed that she incessantly filled the count’s glass,—a strong wine it was too,—and that, in order to make him take more, she drank herself an unusual quantity.

It struck twelve, and Count Ville-Handry got up.

“Well,” he said with the air and the voice of a man who braces himself to mount the scaffold, “it must be done; they are waiting for me.”

And, after having kissed his wife with passionate tenderness, he shook hands with Daniel, and went out hurriedly.

Crimson and breathless, Sarah also had risen, and was listening attentively. And, when she was quite sure that the count had gone downstairs, she said,—

“Now, Daniel, look at me! Need I tell you who the woman is whom I have chosen for you? It is—the Countess Ville-Handry.”

He shook and trembled; but he controlled himself by a supreme effort, and calmly smiling, in a half tender, half ironical tone, he replied,—

“Why, oh, why! do you speak to me of unattainable happiness? Are you not married?”

“I may be a widow.”

These words from her lips had a fearful meaning. But Daniel was prepared for them, and said,—

“To be sure you may. But, unfortunately, you, also, are ruined. You are as poor as I am; and we are too clever to think of joining poverty to poverty.”

She looked at him with a strange, sinister smile. She was evidently hesitating. A last ray of reason lighted up the abyss at her feet. But she was drunk with pride and passion; she had taken a good deal of wine; and her usually cool head was in a state of delirium.

“And if I were not ruined?” she said at last in a hoarse voice; “what would you say then?”

“I should say that you are the very woman of whom an ambitious man of thirty might dream in his most glorious visions.”

She believed him. Yes, she was capable of believing that what he said was true; and, throwing aside all restraint, she went on,—

“Well, then, I will tell you. I am rich,—immensely rich. That entire fortune which once belonged to Count Ville-Handry, and which he thinks has been lost in unlucky speculations,—the whole of it is in my hands. Ah! I have suffered horribly, to have to play for two long years the loving wife to this decrepit old man. But I thought of you, my much beloved, my Daniel; and that thought sustained me. I knew you would come back; and I wanted to have royal treasures to give you. And I have them. These much coveted millions are mine, and you are here; and now I can say to you, ‘Take them, they are yours; I give them to you as I give myself to you.’”

She had drawn herself up to her full height as she said this; and she looked splendid and fearful at the same time, in her matchless beauty, diffusing energy and immodesty around her, and shaking her head defiantly, till the waves of golden hair flowed over her shoulders.

The untamed vagabond of the gutter reappeared all of a sudden, breathless and trembling, hoarse, lusting.

Daniel felt as if his reason was giving way. Still he had the strength to say,—

“But unfortunately you are not a widow.”

She drew close up to him, and said in a strident voice,—

“Not a widow? Do you know what Count Ville-Handry is doing at this moment?