Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Honor of the Name by Emile Gaboriau (free ebook novel TXT) 📖
- Author: Emile Gaboriau
Book online «The Honor of the Name by Emile Gaboriau (free ebook novel TXT) 📖». Author Emile Gaboriau
With such ideas in his brain, the duke could not love his son.
He hated him.
He passionately envied him all the advantages he possessed—his youth, his millions, his physical beauty, and his talents, which were really of a superior order.
We meet every day mothers who are jealous of their daughters, and some fathers!
This was one of those cases.
The duke, however, showed no sign of mental disquietude; and if Martial had possessed less penetration, he would have believed that his father adored him. But if he had detected the duke’s secret, he did not allow him to discover it, nor did he abuse his power.
Their manner toward each other was perfect. The duke was kind even to weakness; Martial full of deference. But their relations were not those of father and son. One was in constant fear of displeasing the other; the other was a little too sure of his power. They lived on a footing of perfect equality, like two companions of the same age.
From this trying situation, Lacheneur had rescued the duke.
The owner of Sairmeuse, an estate worth more than a million, the duke was free from his son’s tyranny; he had recovered his liberty.
What brilliant projects flitted through his brain that night!
He beheld himself the richest landowner in that locality; he was the chosen friend of the King; had he not a right to aspire to anything?
Such a prospect enchanted him. He felt twenty years younger—the twenty years that had been passed in exile.
So, rising before nine o’clock, he went to awaken Martial.
On returning from dining with the Marquis de Courtornieu, the evening before, the duke had gone through the chateau; but this hasty examination by candle-light had not satisfied his curiosity. He wished to see it in detail by daylight.
Followed by his son, he explored one after another of the rooms of the princely abode; and, with every step, the recollections of his infancy crowded upon him.
Lacheneur had respected everything. The duke found articles as old as himself, religiously preserved, occupying the old familiar places from which they had never been removed.
When his inspection was concluded:
“Decidedly, Marquis,” he exclaimed, “this Lacheneur was not such a rascal as I supposed. I am disposed to forgive him a great deal, on account of the care which he has taken of our house in our absence.”
Martial seemed engrossed in thought.
“I think, Monsieur,” he said, at last, “that we should testify our gratitude to this man by paying him a large indemnity.”
This word excited the duke’s anger.
“An indemnity!” he exclaimed. “Are you mad, Marquis? Think of the income that he has received from my estate. Have you forgotten the calculation made for us last evening by the Chevalier de la Livandiere?”
“The chevalier is a fool!” declared Martial promptly. “He forgot that Lacheneur has trebled the value of Sairmeuse. I think that our family honor requires us to bestow upon this man an indemnity of at least one hundred thousand francs. This would, moreover, be a good stroke of policy in the present state of public sentiment, and His Majesty would, I am sure, be much pleased.”
“Stroke of policy”—“public sentiment”—“His Majesty.” One might have obtained almost anything from M. de Sairmeuse by these arguments.
“Heavenly powers!” he exclaimed; “a hundred thousand francs! how you talk! It is all very well for you, with your fortune! Still, if you really think so——”
“Ah! my dear sir, is not my fortune yours? Yes, such is really my opinion. So much so, indeed, that if you will allow me to do so, I will see Lacheneur myself, and arrange the matter in such a way that his pride will not be wounded. His is a devotion which it would be well to retain.”
The duke opened his eyes to their widest extent.
“Lacheneur’s pride!” he murmured. “Devotion which it would be well to retain! Why do you sing in this strain? Whence comes this extraordinary interest?”
He paused, enlightened by a sudden recollection.
“I understand!” he exclaimed; “I understand. He has a pretty daughter.”
Martial smiled without replying.
“Yes, pretty as a rose,” continued the duke; “but one hundred thousand francs! Zounds! That is a round sum to pay for such a whim. But, if you insist upon it——”
Armed with this authorization, Martial, two hours later, started on his mission.
The first peasant he met told him the way to the cottage which M. Lacheneur now occupied.
“Follow the river,” said the man, “and when you see a pine-grove upon your left, cross it.”
Martial was crossing it, when he heard the sound of voices. He approached, recognized Marie-Anne and Maurice d’Escorval, and obeying an angry impulse, he paused.
CHAPTER XI
During the decisive moments of life, when one’s entire future depends upon a word, or a gesture, twenty contradictory inspirations can traverse the mind in the time occupied by a flash of lightning.
On the sudden apparition of the young Marquis de Sairmeuse, Maurice d’Escorval’s first thought was this:
“How long has he been there? Has he been playing the spy? Has he been listening to us? What did he hear?”
His first impulse was to spring upon his enemy, to strike him in the face, and compel him to engage in a hand-to-hand struggle.
The thought of Anne-Marie checked him.
He reflected upon the possible, even probable results of a quarrel born of such circumstances. The combat which would ensue would cost this pure young girl her reputation. Martial would talk of it; and country people are pitiless. He saw this girl, whom he looked so devotedly upon, become the talk of the neighborhood; saw the finger of scorn pointed at her, and possessed sufficient self-control to master his anger. All these reflections had occupied only half a second.
Then, politely touching his hat, and stepping toward Martial:
“You are a stranger, Monsieur,” said he, in a voice which was
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