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

“What!” said he.  “You are in trouble, I kindly come to offer my services, and this is the way you receive me!  You prefer to work, do you?  Go ahead then, my lovely one, prick your pretty fingers, and redden your eyes.  My time will come.  Fatigue and want, cold in the winter, hunger in all seasons, will speak to your little heart of that kind Costeclar who adores you, like a big fool that he is, who is a serious man and who has money,—much money.”

Beside herself,

“Wretch!” cried the girl, “leave, leave at once.”

“One moment,” said a strong voice.

M. Costeclar looked around.

Marius de Tregars stood within the frame of the open door.

“Marius!” murmured Mlle. Gilberte, rooted to the spot by a surprise hardly less immense than her joy.

To behold him thus suddenly, when she was wondering whether she would ever see him again; to see him appear at the very moment when she found herself alone, and exposed to the basest outrages, —it was one of those fortunate occurrences which one can scarcely realize; and from the depth of her soul rose something like a hymn of thanks.

Nevertheless, she was confounded at M. Costeclar’s attitude.  According to her, and from what she thought she knew, he should have been petrified at the sight of M. de Tregars.

And he did not even seem to know him.  He seemed shocked, annoyed at being interrupted, slightly surprised, but in no wise moved or frightened.  Knitting his brows,

“What do you wish?” he inquired in his most impertinent tone.

M. de Tregars stepped forward.  He was somewhat pale, but unnaturally calm, cool, and collected.  Bowing to Mlle. Gilberte,

“If I have thus ventured to enter your apartment, mademoiselle,” he uttered gently, “it is because, as I was going by the door, I thought I recognized this gentleman’s carriage.”

And, with his finger over his shoulder, he was pointing to M. Costeclar.

“Now,” he went on, “I had reason to be somewhat astonished at this, after the positive orders I had given him never to set his feet, not only in this house, but in this part of the city.  I wished to find out exactly.  I came up:  I heard—”

All this was said in a tone of such crushing contempt, that a slap on the face would have been less cruel.  All the blood in M. Costeclar’s veins rushed to his face.

“You!” he interrupted insolently:  “I do not know you.”

Imperturbable, M. de Tregars was drawing off his gloves.

“Are you quite certain of that?” he replied.  “Come, you certainly know my old friend, M. de Villegre?”

An evident feeling of anxiety appeared on M. Costeclar’s countenance.

“I do,” he stammered.

“Did not M. Villegre call upon you before the war?”

“He did.”

“Well, ‘twas I who sent him to you; and the commands which he delivered to you were mine.”

“Yours?”

“Mine.  I am Marius de Tregars.”

A nervous shudder shook M. Costeclar’s lean frame.  Instinctively his eye turned towards the door.

“You see,” Marius went on with the same gentleness, “we are, you and I, old acquaintances.  For you quite remember me now, don’t you?  I am the son of that poor Marquis de Tregars who came to Paris, all the way from his old Brittany with his whole fortune, —two millions.”

“I remember,” said the stock-broker:  “I remember perfectly well.”

“On the advice of certain clever people, the Marquis de Tregars ventured into business.  Poor old man!  He was not very sharp.  He was firmly persuaded that he had already more than doubled his capital, when his honorable partners demonstrated to him that he was ruined, and, besides, compromised by certain signatures imprudently given.”

Mlle. Gilberte was listening, her mouth open, and wondering what Marius was aiming at, and how he could remain so calm.

“That disaster,” he went on, “was at the time the subject of an enormous number of very witty jokes.  The people of the bourse could hardly admire enough these bold financiers who had so deftly relieved that candid marquis of his money.  That was well done for him; what was he meddling with?  As to myself, to stop the prosecutions with which my father was threatened, I gave up all I had.  I was quite young, and, as you see, quite what you call, I believe, ‘green.’  I am no longer so now.  Were such a thing to happen to me to-day, I should want to know at once what had become of the millions:  I would feel all the pockets around me.  I would say, ‘Stop thief!’”

At every word, as it were, M. Costeclar’s uneasiness became more manifest.

“It was not I,” he said, “who received the benefit of M. de Tregars’ fortune.”

Marius nodded approvingly.

“I know now,” he replied, “among whom the spoils were divided.  You, M. Costeclar, you took what you could get, timidly, and according to your means.  Sharks are always accompanied by small fishes, to which they abandon the crumbs they disdain.  You were but a small fish then:  you accommodated yourself with what your patrons, the sharks, did not care about.  But, when you tried to operate alone, you were not shrewd enough:  you left proofs of your excessive appetite for other people’s money.  Those proofs I have in my possession.”

M. Costeclar was now undergoing perfect torture.

“I am caught,” he said, “I know it:  I told M. de Villegre so.”

“Why are you here, then?”

“How did I know that the count had been sent by you?”

“That’s a poor reason, sir.”

“Besides, after what has occurred, after Favoral’s flight, I thought myself relieved of my engagement.”

“Indeed!”

“Well, if you insist upon it, I am wrong, I suppose.”

“Not only you are wrong,” uttered Marius still perfectly cool, “but you have committed a great imprudence.  By failing to keep your engagements, you have relieved me of mine.  The pact is broken.  According to the agreement, I have the right, as I leave here, to go straight to the police.”

M. Costeclar’s dull eye was vacillating.

“I did not think I was doing wrong,” he muttered.  “Favoral was my friend.”

“And that’s the reason why you were coming to propose to Mlle. Favoral