The Lerouge Case by Emile Gaboriau (classic literature list TXT) 📖

“Oh, but it does. I think it lovely . . . besides, it will complete the two dozen.”

It was now Noel’s turn to say: “Ah! . . .” and as Juliette said nothing, he added: “Well, if you are pleased, you do not show it.”

“Oh! so that is what you are driving at!” cried the lady. “I am not grateful enough to suit you! You bring me a present, and I ought at once to pay cash, fill the house with cries of joy, and throw myself upon my knees before you, calling you a great and magnificent lord!”

Noel was unable this time to restrain a gesture of impatience, which Juliette perceived plainly enough, to her great delight.

“Would that be sufficient?” continued she. “Shall I call Charlotte, so that she may admire this superb bracelet, this monument of your generosity? Shall I have the concierge up, and call the cook to tell them how happy I am to possess such a magnificent lover.”

The advocate shrugged his shoulders like a philosopher, incapable of noticing a child’s banter. “What is the use of these insulting jests?” said he. “If you have any real complaint against me, better to say so simply and seriously.”

“Very well,” said Juliette, “let us be serious. And, that being so, I will tell you it would have been better to have forgotten the bracelet, and to have brought me last night or this morning the eight thousand francs I wanted.”

“I could not come.”

“You should have sent them; messengers are still to be found at the street-corners.”

“If I neither brought nor sent them, my dear Juliette, it was because I did not have them. I had trouble enough in getting them promised me for to-morrow. If I have the sum this evening, I owe it to a chance upon which I could not have counted an hour ago; but by which I profited, at the risk of compromising myself.”

“Poor man!” said Juliette, with an ironical touch of pity in her voice. “Do you dare to tell me you have had difficulty in obtaining ten thousand francs,—you?”

“Yes,—I!”

The young woman looked at her lover, and burst into a fit of laughter. “You are really superb when you act the poor young man!” said she.

“I am not acting.”

“So you say, my own. But I see what you are aiming at. This amiable confession is the preface. To-morrow you will declare that your affairs are very much embarrassed, and the day after to-morrow . . . Ah! you are becoming very avaricious. It is a virtue you used not to possess. Do you not already regret the money you have given me?”

“Wretched woman!” murmured Noel, fast losing patience.

“Really,” continued the lady, “I pity you, oh! so much. Unfortunate lover! Shall I get up a subscription for you? In your place, I would appeal to public charity.”

Noel could stand it no longer, in spite of his resolution to remain calm. “You think it a laughing matter?” cried he. “Well! let me tell you, Juliette, I am ruined, and I have exhausted my last resources! I am reduced to expedients!”

The eyes of the young woman brightened. She looked at her lover tenderly. “Oh, if ‘twas only true, my big pet!” said she. “If I only could believe you!”

The advocate was wounded to the heart. “She believes me,” thought he; “and she is glad. She detests me.”

He was mistaken. The idea that a man had loved her sufficiently to ruin himself for her, without allowing even a reproach to escape him, filled this woman with joy. She felt herself on the point of loving the man, now poor and humbled, whom she had despised when rich and proud. But the expression of her eyes suddenly changed, “What a fool I am,” cried she, “I was on the point of believing all that, and of trying to console you. Don’t pretend that you are one of those gentlemen who scatter their money broadcast. Tell that to somebody else, my friend! All men in our days calculate like money-lenders. There are only a few fools who ruin themselves now, some conceited youngsters, and occasionally an amorous old dotard. Well, you are a very calm, very grave, and very serious fellow, but above all, a very strong one.”

“Not with you, anyhow,” murmured Noel.

“Come now, stop that nonsense! You know very well what you are about. Instead of a heart, you have a great big double zero, just like a Homburg. When you took a fancy to me, you said to yourself, ‘I will expend so much on passion,’ and you have kept your word. It is an investment, like any other, in which one receives interest in the form of pleasure. You are capable of all the extravagance in the world, to the extent of your fixed price of four thousand francs a month! If it required a franc more you would very soon take back your heart and your hat, and carry them elsewhere; to one or other of my rivals in the neighborhood.”

“It is true,” answered the advocate, coolly. “I know how to count, and that accomplishment is very useful to me. It enables me to know exactly how and where I have got rid of my fortune.”

“So you really know?” sneered Juliette.

“And I can tell you, madam,” continued he. “At first you were not very exacting, but the appetite came with eating. You wished for luxury, you have it; splendid furniture, you have it; a complete establishment, extravagant dresses, I could refuse you nothing. You required a carriage, a horse, I gave them you. And I do not mention a thousand other whims. I include neither this Chinese cabinet nor the two dozen bracelets. The total is four hundred thousand francs!”

“Are you sure?”

“As one can be who has had that amount, and has it no longer.”

“Four hundred thousand francs, only fancy! Are there no centimes?”

“No.”

“Then, my dear friend, if I make up my bill, you will still owe me something.”

The entrance of the maid with the tea-tray interrupted this amorous duet, of which Noel had experienced more than one repetition. The advocate held his tongue on account of the servant. Juliette did the same on account of her lover, for she had no secrets from Charlotte, who had been with her three years, and with whom she had shared everything, sometimes even her lovers.

Madame Juliette Chaffour was a Parisienne. She was born about 1839, somewhere in the upper end of the Faubourg Montmarte. Her father was unknown. Her infancy was a long alternation of beatings and caresses, equally furious. She had lived as best she could, on sweetmeats and damaged fruit; so that now her stomach could stand anything. At twelve years old she was as thin as a nail, as green as a June apple, and more depraved than the inmates of the prison of St. Lazare. Prudhomme would