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

be this: M. de Chalusse left the house with two millions in his possession; and while he was absent, he either disposed of that enormous sum—or else it was stolen from him.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite shuddered. “Oh! stolen,” she faltered.

“Yes, my child—anything is possible. We must consider the situation in every possible light. But to continue. Where was M. de Chalusse going?”

“To the house of a gentleman who would, he thought, be able to furnish the address given in the letter he had torn up.”

“What was this gentleman’s name?”

“Fortunat.”

The magistrate wrote the name down on his tablets, and then, resuming his examination, he said: “Now, in reference to this unfortunate letter which, in your opinion, was the cause of the count’s death, what did it say?”

“I don’t know, monsieur. It is true that I helped the count in collecting the fragments, but I did not read what was written on them.”

“That is of little account. The main thing is to ascertain who wrote the letter. You told me that it could only have come from the sister who disappeared thirty years ago, or else from your mother.”

“That was, and still is, my opinion.”

The magistrate toyed with his ring; and a smile of satisfaction stole over his face. “Very well!” he exclaimed, “in less than five minutes I shall be able to tell you whether the letter was from your mother or not. My method is perfectly simple. I have only to compare the handwriting with that of the letters found in the escritoire.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite sprang up, exclaiming: “What a happy idea!”

But without seeming to notice the girl’s surprise, he added: “Where are the remnants of this letter which you and the count picked up in the garden?”

“M. de Chalusse placed them in his pocket.”

“They must be found. Tell the count’s valet to look for them.”

The girl rang; but M. Casimir, who was supposed to be engaged in making preparations for the funeral, was not in the house. However, another servant and Madame Leon offered their services, and certainly displayed the most laudable zeal, but their search was fruitless; the fragments of the letter could not be found. “How unfortunate!” muttered the magistrate, as he watched them turn the pockets of the count’s clothes inside out. “What a fatality! That letter would probably have solved the mystery.”

Compelled to submit to this disappointment, he returned to the study; but he was evidently discouraged. Although he did not consider the mystery insoluble, far from it, he realized that time and research would be required to arrive at a solution, and that the affair was quite beyond his province. One hope alone remained.

By carefully studying the last words which M. de Chalusse had written and spoken he might arrive at the intention which had dictated them. Experience had wonderfully sharpened his penetration, and perhaps he might discover a hidden meaning which would throw light upon all this doubt and uncertainty. Accordingly, he asked Mademoiselle Marguerite for the paper upon which the count had endeavored to pen his last wishes; and in addition he requested her to write on a card the dying man’s last words in the order they had been uttered. But on combining the written and the spoken words the only result obtained was as follows:—“My entire fortune—give—friends—against—Marguerite—despoiled—your mother—take care.” These twelve incoherent words revealed the count’s absorbing and poignant anxiety concerning his fortune and Marguerite’s future, and also the fear and aversion with which Marguerite’s mother inspired him. But that was all; the sense was not precise enough for any practical purpose. Certainly the word “give” needed no explanation. It was plain that the count had endeavored to write, “I give my entire fortune.” The meaning of the word “despoiled” was also clear. It had evidently been wrung from the half-unconscious man by the horrible thought that Marguerite—his own daughter, unquestionably—would not have a penny of all the millions he had intended for her. “Take care” also explained itself. But there were two words which seemed absolutely incomprehensible to the magistrate, and which he vainly strove to connect with the others in an intelligible manner. These were the words “friends” and “against,” and they were the most legibly written of all. For the thirtieth time the magistrate was repeating them in an undertone, when a rap came at the door, and almost immediately Madame Leon entered the room.

“What is it?” inquired Mademoiselle Marguerite.

Laying a package of letters, addressed to M. de Chalusse, on the desk, the housekeeper replied: “These have just come by the post for the poor count. Heaven rest his soul!” And then handing a newspaper to Mademoiselle Marguerite, she added, in an unctuous tone: “And some one left this paper for mademoiselle at the same time.”

“This paper—for me? You must be mistaken.”

“Not at all. I was in the concierge’s lodge when the messenger brought it; and he said it was for Mademoiselle Marguerite, from one of her friends.” And with these words she made one of her very best courtesies, and withdrew.

The girl had taken the newspaper, and now, with an air of astonishment and apprehension, she slowly unfolded it. What first attracted her attention was a paragraph on the first page marked round with red chalk. The paper had evidently been sent in order that she might read this particular passage, and accordingly she began to peruse it. “There was a great sensation and a terrible scandal last evening at the residence of Madame d’A——, a well known star of the first magnitude——”

It was the shameful article which described the events that had robbed Pascal of his honor. And to make assurance doubly sure, to prevent the least mistake concerning the printed initials, the coward who sent the paper had appended the names of the persons mixed up in the affair, at full length, in pencil. He had written d’Argeles, Pascal Ferailleur, Ferdinand de Coralth, Rochecote. And yet, in spite of these precautions, the girl did not at first seize the full meaning of the article; and she was obliged to read it over again. But when she finally understood it—when the horrible truth burst upon her—the paper fell from her nerveless hands, she turned as pale as death, and, gasping for breath, leaned heavily against the wall for support.

Her features expressed such terrible suffering that the magistrate sprang from his chair with a bound. “What has happened?” he eagerly asked.

She tried to reply, but finding herself unable to do so, she pointed to the paper lying upon the floor, and gasped: “There! there!”

The magistrate understood everything at the first glance; and this man, who had witnessed so much misery—who had been the confidant of so many martyrs—was filled with consternation at thought of the misfortunes which destiny was heaping upon this defenceless girl. He approached her, and led her gently to an arm-chair, upon which she sank, half fainting. “Poor child!” he murmured. “The man you had chosen—the man whom you would have sacrificed everything for—is Pascal Ferailleur, is he not?”

“Yes, it is he.”

“He is an advocate?”