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

There was so much dignity in her sorrow, and so imposing was her attitude, that the baker stood abashed.

“Ah! if that’s the way,” he stammered awkwardly; “and since you meddle with it, mademoiselle—” And he retreated precipitately, growling at the same time threats and excuses, and slamming the doors after him hard enough to break the partitions.

“What a disgrace!” murmured Mme. Favoral.  Crushed by this last scene, she was choking; and her children had to carry her to the open window.  She recovered almost at once; but thus, through the darkness, bleak and cold, she had like a vision of her husband; and, throwing herself back,

“O great heavens!” she uttered, “where did he go when he left us?  Where is he now?  What is he doing?  What has become of him?”

Her married life had been for Mme. Favoral but a slow torture.  It was in vain that she would have looked back through her past life for some of those happy days which leave their luminous track in life, and towards which the mind turns in the hours of grief.  Vincent Favoral had never been aught but a brutal despot, abusing the resignation of his victim.  And yet, had he died, she would have wept bitterly over him in all the sincerity of her honest and simple soul.  Habit!  Prisoners have been known to shed tears over the grave of their jailer.  Then he was her husband, after all, the father of her children, the only man who existed for her.  For twenty-six years they had never been separated:  they had sat at the same table:  they had slept side by side.

Yes, she would have wept over him.  But how much less poignant would her grief have been than at this moment, when it was complicated by all the torments of uncertainty, and by the most frightful apprehensions!

Fearing lest she might take cold, her children had removed her to the sofa, and there, all shivering,

“Isn’t it horrible,” she said, “not to know any thing of your father? —to think that at this very moment, perhaps, pursued by the police, he is wandering in despair through the streets, without daring to ask anywhere for shelter.”

Her children had no time to answer and comfort her; for at this moment the door-bell rang again.

“Who can it be now?” said Mme. Favoral with a start.

This time there was no discussion in the hall.  Steps sounded on the floor of the dining-room; the door opened; and M. Desclavettes, the old bronze-merchant, walked, or rather slipped into the parlor.

Hope, fear, anger, all the sentiments which agitated his soul, could be read on his pale and cat-like face.

“It is I,” he commenced.

Maxence stepped forward.

“Have you heard any thing from my father, sir?”

“No,” answered the old merchant, “I confess I have not; and I was just coming to see if you had yourselves.  Oh, I know very well that this is not exactly the hour to call at a house; but I thought, that, after what took place this evening, you would not be in bed yet.  I could not sleep myself.  You understand a friendship of twenty years’ standing!  So I took Mme. Desclavettes home, and here I am.”

“We feel very thankful for your kindness,” murmured Mme. Favoral.

“I am glad you do.  The fact is, you see, I take a good deal of interest in the misfortune that strikes you,—a greater interest than any one else.  For, after all, I, too, am a victim.  I had intrusted one hundred and twenty thousand francs to our dear Vincent.”

“Alas, sir!” said Mlle. Gilberte.

But the worthy man did not allow her to proceed.  “I have no fault to find with him,” he went on—“absolutely none.  Why, dear me! haven’t I been in business myself? and don’t I know what it is?  First, we borrow a thousand francs or so from the cash account, then ten thousand, then a hundred thousand.  Oh! without any bad intention, to be sure, and with the firm resolution to return them.  But we don’t always do what we wish to do.  Circumstances sometimes work against us, if we operate at the bourse to make up the deficit we lose.  Then we must borrow again, draw from Peter to pay Paul.  We are afraid of being caught:  we are compelled, reluctantly of course, to alter the books.  At last a day comes when we find that millions are gone, and the bomb-shell bursts.  Does it follow from this that a man is dishonest?  Not the least in the world:  he is simply unlucky.”

He stopped, as if awaiting an answer; but, as none came, he resumed,

“I repeat, I have no fault to find with Favoral.  Only then, now, between us, to lose these hundred and twenty thousand francs would simply be a disaster for me.  I know very well that both Chapelain and Desormeaux had also deposited funds with Favoral.  But they are rich:  one of them owns three houses in Paris, and the other has a good situation; whereas I, these hundred and twenty thousand francs gone, I’d have nothing left but my eyes to weep with.  My wife is dying about it.  I assure you our position is a terrible one.”

To M. Desclavettes,—as to the baker a few moments before,

“We have nothing,” said Maxence.

“I know it,” exclaimed the old merchant.  “I know it as well as you do yourself.  And so I have come to beg a little favor of you, which will cost you nothing.  When you see Favoral, remember me to him, explain my situation to him, and try to make him give me back my money.  He is a hard one to fetch, that’s a fact.  But if you go right about it, above all, if our dear Gilberte will take the matter in hand.”

“Sir!”

“Oh!  I swear I sha’n’t say a word about it, either to Desormeaux or Chapelain, nor to any one else.  Although reimbursed, I’ll make as much noise as the rest,—more noise, even.  Come, now, my dear friends, what do you say?”

He was almost crying.

“And where the deuse,” exclaimed Maxence, “do you expect my father to take a hundred and twenty thousand francs?  Didn’t you see him go without even taking the money that M. de Thaller had brought?”

A smile appeared upon M. Desclavettes’ pale lips.

“That will do very well to say, my dear Maxence;” he said, “and some people may believe it.  But don’t say it to your old friend, who knows too much about business for that.  When a man puts off, after borrowing twelve millions from his employers, he would be a great fool if he had not put away two or three in safety.  Now, Favoral is not a fool.”

Tears of shame and anger started from Mlle. Gilberte’s eyes.

“What you are saying is abominable, sir!” she exclaimed.