The Count's Millions by Emile Gaboriau (big screen ebook reader .txt) 📖

It is in vain that the law has endeavored to shield private life from prying eyes. The scribes who pander to Parisian curiosity surmount all obstacles and brave every danger. Thanks to the “High Life” reporters, every newspaper reader is aware that twice a week—Mondays and Thursdays—Madame Lia d’Argeles holds a reception at her charming mansion in the Rue de Berry. Her guests find plenty of amusement there. They seldom dance; but card-playing begins at midnight, and a dainty supper is served before the departure of the guests.

It was on leaving one of these little entertainments that that unfortunate young man, Jules Chazel, a cashier in a large banking-house, committed suicide by blowing out his brains. The brilliant frequenters of Madame d’Argeles’s entertainments considered this act proof of exceeding bad taste and deplorable weakness on his part. “The fellow was a coward,” they declared. “Why, he had lost hardly a thousand louis!”

He had lost only that, it is true—a mere trifle as times go. Only the money was not his; he had taken it from the safe which was confided to his keeping, expecting, probably, to double the amount in a single night. In the morning, when he found himself alone, without a penny, and the deficit staring him in the face, the voice of conscience cried, “You are a thief!” and he lost his reason.

The event created a great sensation at the time, and the Petit Journal published a curious story concerning this unfortunate young man’s mother. The poor woman—she was a widow—sold all she possessed, even the bed on which she slept, and when she had succeeded in gathering together twenty thousand francs—the ransom of her son’s honor—she carried them to the banker by whom her boy had been employed. He took them, without even asking the mother if she had enough left to purchase her dinner that evening; and the fine gentleman, who had won and pocketed Jules Chazel’s stolen gold, thought the banker’s conduct perfectly natural and just. It is true that Madame d’Argeles was in despair during forty-eight hours or so; for the police had begun a sort of investigation, and she feared this might frighten her visitors and empty her drawing-rooms. Not at all, however; on the contrary, she had good cause to congratulate herself upon the notoriety she gained through this suicide. For five days she was the talk of Paris, and Alfred d’Aunay even published her portrait in the Illustrated Chronicle.

Still, no one was able to say exactly who Madame Lia d’Argeles was. Who was she, and whence did she come? How had she lived until she sprang up, full grown, in the sunshine of the fashionable world? Did the splendid mansion in the Rue de Berry really belong to her? Was she as rich as she was supposed to be? Where had she acquired such manners, the manners of a thorough woman of the world, with her many accomplishments, as well as her remarkable skill as a musician? Everything connected with her was a subject of conjecture, even to the name inscribed upon her visiting cards—“Lia d’Argeles.”

But no matter. Her house was always filled to over-flowing; and at the very moment when the Marquis de Valorsay and M. Fortunat were speaking of her, a dozen coroneted carriages stood before her door, and her rooms were thronged with guests. It was a little past midnight, and the bi-weekly card party had just been made up, when a footman announced, “Monsieur le Vicomte de Coralth! Monsieur Pascal Ferailleur!”

Few of the players deigned to raise their heads. But one man growled, “Good—two more players!” And four or five young men exclaimed, “Ah! here’s Ferdinand! Good evening, my dear fellow!”

M. de Coralth was very young and remarkably good-looking, almost too good-looking, indeed; for his handsomeness was somewhat startling and unnatural. He had an exceedingly fair complexion, and large, melting black eyes, while a woman might have envied him his wavy brown hair and the exquisite delicacy of his skin. He dressed with