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

ridiculous fancy added to the many I have been guilty of. But no matter. I have promised. And why, indeed, should this poor girl be held responsible for the sins of her parents? I—I declare myself on her side against the world!”

Madame d’Argeles rose, her face radiant with joy and hope. “Then perhaps we are saved!” she exclaimed. “Ah! I knew when I sent for you that I should not appeal to your heart in vain!”

She took hold of his hand as if to raise it to her lips; but he gently withdrew it, and inquired, with an air of astonishment: “What do you mean?”

“That I have been cruelly punished for not wishing you to assist that unfortunate man who was dishonored here the other evening.”

“Pascal Ferailleur?”

“Yes, he is innocent. The Viscount de Coralth is a scoundrel. It was he who slipped the cards which made M. Ferailleur win, into the pack, and he did it at the Marquis de Valorsay’s instigation.”

The baron looked at Madame d’Argeles with pro-found amazement. “What!” said he; “you knew this and you allowed it? You were cruel enough to remain silent when that innocent man entreated you to testify on his behalf! You allowed this atrocious crime to be executed under your own roof, and under your very eyes?”

“I was then ignorant of Mademoiselle Marguerite’s existence. I did not know that the young man was beloved by my brother’s daughter—I did not know—”

The baron interrupted her, and exclaimed, indignantly: “Ah! what does that matter? It was none the less an abominable action.”

She hung her head, and in a scarcely audible voice replied: “I was not free. I submitted to a will that was stronger than my own. If you had heard M. de Coralth’s threats you would not censure me so severely. He has discovered my secret; he knows Wilkie—I am in his power. Don’t frown—I make no attempt to excuse myself—I am only explaining the position in which I was placed. My peril is imminent; I have only confidence in you—you alone can aid me; listen!”

Thereupon she hastily explained M. de Coralth’s position respecting herself, what she had been able to ascertain concerning the Marquis de Valorsay’s plans, the alarming visit she had received from M. Fortunat, his advice and insinuations, the dangers she apprehended, and her firm determination to deliver Mademoiselle Marguerite from the machinations of her enemies. Madame d’Argeles’s disclosures formed, as it were, a sequel to the confidential revelations of Pascal Ferailleur, and the involuntary confession of the Marquis de Valorsay; and the baron could no longer doubt the existence of the shameful intrigue which had been planned in view of obtaining possession of the count’s millions. And if he did not, at first, understand the motives, he at least began to discern what means had been employed. He now understood why Valorsay persisted in his plan of marrying Mademoiselle Marguerite, even without a fortune. “The wretch knows through Coralth that Madame d’Argeles is a Chalusse,” he said to himself; “and when Mademoiselle Marguerite has become his wife, he intends to oblige Madame d’Argeles to accept her brother’s estate and share it with him.”

At that same moment Madame d’Argeles finished her narrative. “And now, what shall I do?” she added.

The baron was stroking his chin, as was his usual habit when his mind was deeply exercised. “The first thing to be done,” he replied, “is to show Coralth in his real colors, and prove M. Ferailleur’s innocence. It will probably cost me a hundred thousand francs to do so, but I shall not grudge the money. I should probably spend as much or even more in play next summer; and the amount had better be spent in a good cause than in swelling the dividends of my friend Blanc, at Baden.”

“But M. de Coralth will speak out as soon as he finds that I have revealed his shameful past.”

“Let him speak.”

Madame d’Argeles shuddered. “Then the name of Chalusse will be disgraced,” said she; “and Wilkie will know who his mother is.”

“No.”

“But——”

“Ah! allow me to finish, my dear friend. I have my plan, and it is as plain as daylight. This evening you will write to your London correspondent. Request M. Patterson to summon your son to England, under any pretext whatever; let him pretend that he wishes to give him some money, for instance. He will go there, of course, and then we will keep him there. Coralth certainly won’t run after him, and we shall have nothing more to fear on that score.”

“Great heavens!” murmured Madame d’Argeles, “why did this idea never occur to me?”

The baron had now completely recovered his composure. “As regards yourself,” said he, “the plan you ought to adopt is still more simple. What is your furniture worth? About a hundred thousand francs, isn’t it? Very well, then. You will sign me notes, dated some time back, to the amount of a hundred thousand francs. On the day these notes fall due, on Monday, for instance, they will be presented for payment. You will refuse to pay them. A writ will be served, and an attachment placed upon your furniture; but you will offer no resistance. I don’t know if I explain my meaning very clearly.”

“Oh, very clearly!”

“So your property is seized. You make no opposition, and next week we shall have flaming posters on all the walls, telling Paris that the furniture, wardrobe, cashmeres, laces, and diamonds of Madame Lia d’Argeles will be sold without reserve, at public auction, in the Rue Drouot, with the view of satisfying the claims of her creditors. You can imagine the sensation this announcement will create. I can see your friends and the frequenters of your drawing-room meeting one another in the street, and saying: ‘Ah, well! what’s this about poor d’Argeles?’ ‘Pshaw!—no doubt it’s a voluntary sale.’ ‘Not at all; she’s really ruined. Everything is mortgaged above its value.’ ‘Indeed, I’m very sorry to hear it. She was a good creature.’ ‘Oh, excellent; a deal of amusement could be found at her house,—only between you and me——’ ‘Well?’ ‘Well, she was no longer young.’ ‘That’s true. However, I shall attend the sale, and I think I shall bid.’ And, in fact, your acquaintances won’t fail to repair to the Hotel Drouot, and maybe your most intimate friends will yield to their generous impulses sufficiently to offer twenty sous for one of the dainty trifles on your etageres.”

Overcome with shame, Madame d’Argeles hung her head. She had never before so keenly felt the disgrace of her situation. She had never so clearly realized what a deep abyss she had fallen into. And this crushing humiliation came from whom? From the only friend she possessed—from the man who was her only hope, Baron Trigault.

And what made it all the more frightful was, that he did not seem to be in the least degree conscious of the cruelty of his words. Indeed, he continued, in a tone of bitter irony: “Of course, you will have an exhibition before the sale, and you will see all the dolls that hairdressers, milliners and fools call great ladies, come running to the show. They will come to see how a notorious woman lives, and to