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

He told all his friends that business was looking up again in the most unexpected manner; that there were fortunes to be made by those who could command ready cash; and that it was necessary to make up for lost time.

He pretended that the enormous indemnity to be paid to the Prussians would necessitate an enormous movement of capital, financial combinations, a loan, and that so many millions could not be handled without allowing a few little millions to fall into intelligent pockets.

Dazzled by the mere enumeration of those fabulous sums, “I should not be a bit surprised,” said the others, “to see Favoral double and treble his fortune.  What a famous match his daughter will be!”

Alas! never had Mlle. Gilberte felt in her heart so much hatred and disgust for that money, the only thought, the sole subject of conversation, of those around her,—for that cursed money which had risen like an insurmountable obstacle between Marius and herself.

For two weeks past, the communications had been completely restored; and there was as yet no sign of M. de Tregars.  It was with the most violent palpitations of her heart that she awaited each day the hour of the Signor Gismondo Pulei’s lesson:  and more painful each time became her anguish when she heard him exclaim,

“Nothing, not a line, not a word.  The pupil has forgotten his old master!”

But Mlle. Gilberte knew well that Marius did not forget.  Her blood froze in her veins when she read in the papers the interminable list of those poor soldiers who had succumbed during the invasion, —the more fortunate ones under Prussian bullets; the others along the roads, in the mud or in the snow, of cold, of fatigue, of suffering and of want.

She could not drive from her mind the memory of that lugubrious vision which had so much frightened her; and she was asking herself whether it was not one of those inexplicable presentiments, of which there are examples, which announce the death of a beloved person.

Alone at night in her little room, Mlle. Gilberte withdrew from the hiding-place, where she kept it preciously, that package which Marius had confided to her, recommending her not to open it until she was sure that he would not return.  It was very voluminous, enclosed in an envelope of thick paper, sealed with red wax, bearing the arms of Tregars; and she had often wondered what it could possibly contain.  And now she shuddered at the thought that she had perhaps the right to open it.

And she had no one of whom she could ask for a word of hope.  She was compelled to hide her tears, and to put on a smile.  She was compelled to invent pretexts for those who expressed their wonder at seeing her exquisite beauty withering in the bud,—for her mother, whose anxiety was without limit, when she saw her thus pale, her eyes inflamed, and undermined by a continuous fever.

True, Marius, on leaving, had left her a friend, the Count de Villegre; and, if any one knew any thing, he certainly did.  But she could see no way of hearing from him without risking her secret.  Write to him?  Nothing was easier, since she had his address,—Rue Turenne.  But where could she ask him to direct his answer?  Rue St. Gilles?  Impossible!  True, she might go to him, or make an appointment in the neighborhood.  But how could she escape, even for an hour, without exciting Mme. Favoral’s suspicions?

Sometimes it occurred to her to confide in Maxence, who was laboring with admirable constancy to redeem his past.

But what! must she, then, confess the truth,—confess that she, Gilberte, had lent her ears to the words of a stranger, met by chance in the street, and that she looked forward to no happiness in life save through him?  She dared not.  She could not take upon herself to overcome the shame of such a situation.

She was on the verge of despair, the day when the Signor Pulei arrived radiant, exclaiming from the very threshold, “I have news!”

And at once, without surprise at the awful emotion of the girl, which he attributed solely to the interest she felt for him,—him Gismondo Pulei, he went on,—“I did not get them direct, but through a respectable signor with long mustaches, and a red ribbon at his buttonhole, who, having received a letter from my dear pupil, has deigned to come to my room, and read it to me.”

The worthy maestro had not forgotten a single word of that letter; and it was almost literally that he repeated it.

Six weeks after having enlisted, his pupil had been promoted corporal, then sergeant, then lieutenant.  He had fought in all the battles of the army of the Loire without receiving a scratch.  But at the battle of the Maus, whilst leading back his men, who were giving way, he had been shot twice, full in the breast.  Carried dying into an ambulance, he had lingered three weeks between life and death, having lost all consciousness of self.  Twenty-four hours after, he had recovered his senses; and he took the first opportunity to recall himself to the affection of his friends.  All danger was over, he suffered scarcely any more; and they promised him, that, within a month, he would be up, and able to return to Paris.

For the first time in many weeks Mlle. Gilberte breathed freely.  But she would have been greatly surprised, had she been told that a day was drawing near when she would bless those wounds which detained Marius upon a hospital cot.  And yet it was so.

Mme. Favoral and her daughter were alone, one evening, at the house, when loud clamors arose from the street, in the midst of which could be heard drunken voices yelling the refrains of revolutionary songs, accompanied by continuous rumbling sounds.  They ran to the window.  The National Guards had just taken possession of the cannon deposited in the Place Royale.  The reign of the Commune was commencing.

In less than forty-eight hours, people came to regret the worst days of the siege.  Without leaders, without direction, the honest men had lost their heads.  All the braves who had returned at the time of the armistice had again taken flight.  Soon people had to hide or to fly to avoid being incorporated in the battalions of the Commune.  Night and day, around the walls, the fusillade rattled, and the artillery thundered.

Again M. Favoral had given up going to his office.  What’s the use?  Sometimes, with a singular look, he would say to his wife and children,

“This time it is indeed a liquidation.  Paris is lost!”

And indeed they thought so, when at the hour of the supreme struggle, among the detonations of the cannon and the explosion of the shells; they felt their house shaking to its very foundations; when in the midst of the night they saw their apartment as brilliantly lighted as at mid-day by the flames which were consuming the Hotel de Ville and the houses around the Place de la Bastille.  And, in fact, the rapid action of the troops alone saved Paris from destruction.

But towards the end of the following week, matters had commenced to quiet down; and Gilberte learned the return of Marius.