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

And, formidable in his indignation and audacity, he reached the door of the room unmolested, and disappeared.

This superb outburst of outraged honor, this marvellous energy—succeeding, as it did, the most complete mental prostration—and these terrible threats, had proved so prompt and awe-inspiring that no one had thought of cutting off Pascal’s retreat. The guests had not recovered from their stupor, but were still standing silent and intimidated when they heard the outer door close after him.

It was a woman who at last broke the spell. “Ah, well!” she exclaimed, in a tone of intense admiration, “that handsome fellow is level-headed!”

“He naturally desired to save his plunder!”

It was the same expression that M. de Coralth had employed; and which had, perhaps, prevented Pascal from yielding to Madame d’Argeles’s entreaties. Everybody applauded the sentiment—everybody, the baron excepted. This rich man, whose passions had dragged him into the vilest dens of Europe, was thoroughly acquainted with sharpers and scoundrels of every type, from those who ride in their carriages down to the bare-footed vagabond. He knew the thief who grovels at his victim’s feet, humbly confessing his crime, the desperate knave who swallows the notes he has stolen, the abject wretch who bares his back to receive the blows he deserves, and the rascal who boldly confronts his accusers and protests his innocence with the indignation of an honest man. But never, in any of these scoundrels, had the baron seen the proud, steadfast glance with which this man had awed his accusers.

With this thought uppermost in his mind he drew the person who had seized Pascal’s hands at the card-table a little aside. “Tell me,” said he, “did you actually see that young man slip the cards into the pack?”

“No, not exactly. But you know what we agreed at supper? We were sure that he was cheating; and it was necessary to find some pretext for counting the cards.”

“What if he shouldn’t be guilty, after all?”

“Who else could be guilty then? He was the only winner.”

To this terrible argument—the same which had silenced Pascal—the baron made no reply. Indeed his intervention became necessary elsewhere, for the other guests were beginning to talk loudly and excitedly around the pile of gold and bank-notes which Pascal had left on the table. They had counted it, and found it to amount to the sum of thirty-six thousand three hundred and twenty francs; and it was the question of dividing it properly among the losers which was causing all this uproar. Among these guests, who belonged to the highest society—among these judges who had so summarily convicted an innocent man, and suggested the searching of a supposed sharper only a moment before—there were several who unblushingly misrepresented their losses. This was undeniable; for on adding the various amounts that were claimed together a grand total of ninety-one thousand francs was reached. Had this man who had just fled taken the difference between the two sums away with him? A difference amounting almost to fifty-five thousand francs? No, this was impossible; the supposition could not be entertained for a moment. However, the discussion might have taken an unfortunate turn, had it not been for the baron. In all matters relating to cards, his word was law. He quietly said, “It is all right;” and they submitted.

Nevertheless, he absolutely refused to take his share of the money; and after the division, rubbing his hands as if he were delighted to see this disagreeable affair concluded, he exclaimed: “It is only six o’clock; we have still time for a few rounds.”

But the other guests, pale, disturbed, and secretly ashamed of themselves, were eager to depart, and in fact they were already hastening to the cloak-room. “At least play a game of ecarte,” cried the baron, “a simple game of ecarte, at twenty louis a point.”

But no one listened, and he reluctantly prepared to follow his departing friends, who bowed to Madame d’Argeles on the landing, as they filed by, M. de Coralth, who was among the last to retire, had already reached the staircase, and descended two or three steps, when Madame d’Argeles called to him. “Remain,” said she; “I want to speak with you.”

“You will excuse me,” he began; “I——”

But she again bade him “remain” in such an imperious tone that he dared not resist. He reascended the stairs, very much after the manner of a man who is being dragged into a dentist’s office, and followed Madame d’Argeles into a small boudoir at the end of the gambling-room. As soon as the door was closed and locked, the mistress of the house turned to her prisoner. “Now you will explain,” said she. “It was you who brought M. Pascal Ferailleur here.”

“Alas! I know only too well that I ought to beg your forgiveness. However, this affair will cost me dear myself. It has already embroiled me in a difficulty with that fool of a Rochecote, with whom I shall have to fight in less than a couple of hours.”

“Where did you make his acquaintance?”

“Whose—Rochecote’s?”

Madame d’Argeles’s sempiternal smile had altogether disappeared. “I am speaking seriously,” said she, with a threatening ring in her voice. “How did you happen to become acquainted with M. Ferailleur?”

“That can be very easily explained. Seven or eight months ago I had need of an advocate’s services, and he was recommended to me. He managed my case very cleverly, and we kept up the acquaintance.”

“What is his position?”

M. de Coralth’s features wore an expression of exceeding weariness as if he greatly longed to go to sleep. He had indeed installed himself in a large arm-chair, in a semi-recumbent position. “Upon my word, I don’t know,” he replied. “Pascal had always seemed to be the most irreproachable man in the world—a man you might call a philosopher! He lives in a retired part of the city, near the Pantheon, with his mother, who is a widow, a very respectable woman, always dressed in black. When she opened the door for me, on the occasion of my first visit, I thought some old family portrait had stepped down from its frame to receive me. I judge them to be in comfortable circumstances. Pascal has the reputation of being a remarkable man, and people supposed he would rise very high in his profession.”

“But now he is ruined; his career is finished.”

“Certainly! You can be quite sure that by this evening all Paris will know what occurred here last night.”

He paused, meeting Madame Argeles’s look of withering scorn with a cleverly assumed air of astonishment. “You are a villain! Monsieur de Coralth,” she said, indignantly.

“I—and why?”

“Because it was you who slipped those cards, which made M. Ferailleur win, into the pack; I saw you do it! And yielding to my entreaties, the young fellow was about to leave the house when you, intentionally, prevented him from saving himself. Oh! don’t deny it.”

M. de Coralth rose in the coolest possible manner. “I deny nothing, my dear lady,” he replied, “absolutely nothing. You and I understand each other.”