Other People's Money by Emile Gaboriau (superbooks4u txt) 📖

The young girl could no longer have any doubts:  M. de Tregars had found the means of hearing from her, and letting her hear from him.

The impression she felt contributed no little to give her the patience to endure the obstinate persecution of her father, who, twice a day, never failed to repeat to her: 

“Get ready to properly receive my protege on Saturday.  I have not invited him to dinner:  he will only spend the evening with us.”

And he mistook for a disposition to yield the cold tone in which she answered: 

“I beg you to believe that this introduction is wholly unnecessary.”

Thus, the famous day having come, he told his usual Saturday guests, M. and Mme. Desclavettes, M. Chapelain, and old man Desormeaux: 

“Eh, eh!  I guess you are going to see a future son-in-law!”

At nine o’clock, just as they had passed into the parlor, the sound of carriage-wheels startled the Rue St. Gilles.

“There he is!” exclaimed the cashier of the Mutual Credit.

And, throwing open a window: 

“Come, Gilberte,” he added, “come and see his carriage and horses.”

She never stirred; but M. Desclavettes and M. Chapelain ran.  It was night, unfortunately; and of the whole equipage nothing was visible but the two lanterns that shone like stars.  Almost at the same time the parlor-door flew open; and the servant, who had been properly trained in advance, announced: 

“Monsieur Costeclar.”

Leaning toward Mme. Favoral, who was seated by her side on the sofa,

“A nice-looking man, isn’t he? a really nice-looking man,” whispered Mme. Desclavettes.

And indeed he really thought so himself.  Gesture, attitude, smile, every thing in M. Costeclar, betrayed the satisfaction of self, and the assurance of a man accustomed to success.  His head, which was very small, had but little hair left; but it was artistically drawn towards the temples, parted in the middle, and cut short around the forehead.  His leaden complexion, his pale lips, and his dull eye, did not certainly betray a very rich blood; he had a great long nose, sharp and curved like a sickle; and his beard, of undecided color, trimmed in the Victor Emmanuel style, did the greatest honor to the barber who cultivated it.  Even when seen for the first time, one might fancy that he recognized him, so exactly was he like three or four hundred others who are seen daily in the neighborhood of the Café Riche, who are met everywhere where people run who pretend to amuse themselves,—at the bourse or in the bois; at the first representations, where they are just enough hidden to be perfectly well seen at the back of boxes filled with young ladies with astonishing chignons; at the races; in carriages, where they drink champagne to the health of the winner.

He had on this occasion hoisted his best looks, and the full dress de rigueur—dress-coat with wide sleeves, shirt cut low in the neck, and open vest, fastened below the waist by a single button.

“Quite the man of the world,” again remarked Mme. Desclavettes.

M. Favoral rushed toward him; and the latter, hastening, met him half way, and, taking both his hands into his—“I cannot tell you, dear friend,” he commenced, “how deeply I feel the honor you do me in receiving me in the midst of your charming family and your respectable friends.”

And he bowed all around during this speech, which he delivered in the condescending tone of a lord visiting his inferiors.

“Let me introduce you to my wife,” interrupted the cashier.  And, leading him towards Mme. Favoral—“Monsieur Costeclar, my dear,” said he:  “the friend of whom we have spoken so often.”

M. Costeclar bowed, rounding his shoulders, bending his lean form in a half-circle, and letting his arms hang forward.

“I am too much the friend of our dear Favoral, madame,” he uttered, “not to have heard of you long since, nor to know your merits, and the fact that he owes to you that peaceful happiness which he enjoys, and which we all envy him.”

Standing by the mantel-piece, the usual Saturday evening guests followed with the liveliest interest the evolutions of the pretender.  Two of them, M. Chapelain and old Desormeaux, were perfectly able to appreciate him at his just value; but, in affirming that he made half a million a year, M. Favoral had, as it were, thrown over his shoulders that famous ducal cloak which concealed all deformities.

Without waiting for his wife’s answer, M. Favoral brought his protege in front of Mlle. Gilberte.

“Dear daughter,” said he, “Monsieur Costeclar, the friend of whom I have spoken.”

M. Costeclar bowed still lower, and rounded off his shoulders again; but the young lady looked at him from head to foot with such a freezing glance, that his tongue remained as if paralyzed in his mouth, and he could only stammer out: 

“Mademoiselle! the honor, the humblest of your admirers.”

Fortunately Maxence was standing three steps off—he fell back in good order upon him, and seizing his hand, which he shook vigorously: 

“I hope, my dear sir, that we shall soon be quite intimate friends.  Your excellent father, whose special concern you are, has often spoken to me of you.  Events, so he has confided to me, have not hitherto responded to your expectations.  At your age, this is not a very grave matter.  People, now-a-days, do not always find at the first attempt the road that leads to fortune.  You will find yours.  From this time forth I place at your command my influence and my experience; and, if you will consent to take me for your guide—”

Maxence had withdrawn his hand.

“I am very much obliged to you, sir,” he answered coldly; “but I am content with my lot, and I believe myself old enough to walk alone.”

Almost any one would have lost countenance.  But M. Costeclar was so little put out, that it seemed as though he had expected just such a reception.  He turned upon his heels, and advanced towards M. Favoral’s friends with a smile so engaging as to make it evident that he was anxious to conquer their suffrages.

This was at the beginning of the month of June, 1870.  No one as yet could foresee the frightful disasters which were to mark the end of that fatal year.  And yet there was everywhere in France that indefinable anxiety which precedes great social convulsions.  The plebiscitum had not succeeded in restoring confidence.  Every day the most alarming rumors were put in circulation and it was with a sort of passion that people went in quest of news.

Now, M. Costeclar was a wonderfully well-posted man.  He had, doubtless, on his way, stopped on the Boulevard des Italiens, that blessed ground where nightly the street-brokers labor for the financial prosperity of the country.  He had gone through the Passage de l’Opera, which is, as is well