Baron Trigault's Vengeance by Emile Gaboriau (graded readers .TXT) 📖

effect of the message he had brought—quite unconscious of Valorsay’s sufferings and self-constraint. “You think I am jesting, monsieur,” he said, quietly, “but I assure you that the baron is very short of money just now.”

“Nonsense! a man worth seven or eight millions of francs.”

“I should say ten millions, at least.”

“Then the excuse is all the more absurd.”

Pascal shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “It astonishes me, Monsieur le Marquis, to hear YOU speak in this way. It is not the magnitude of a man’s income that constitutes affluence, but rather the way in which that income is spent. In this foolish age, almost all rich people are in arrears. What income does the baron derive from his ten millions of francs? Not more than five hundred thousand. A very handsome fortune, no doubt, and I should be more than content with it. But the baron gambles, and the baroness is the most elegant—in other words, the most extravagant—woman in Paris. They both of them love luxury, and their establishment is kept up in princely style. What are five hundred thousand francs under such circumstances as those? Their situation must be something like that of several millionaires of my acquaintance, who are obliged to take their silver to the pawn-broker’s while waiting for their rents to fall due.”

This excuse might not be true, but it was certainly a very plausible one. Had not a recent lawsuit revealed the fact that certain rich folks, who had an income of more than a hundred thousand francs a year, had kept a thieving coachman for six months, simply because, in all that time, they were not able to raise the eight hundred francs they owed him, and which must be paid before he was dismissed? M. de Valorsay knew this, but a terrible disquietude seized him. Had people begun to suspect HIS embarrassment? Had any rumor of it reached Baron Trigault’s ears? This was what he wished to ascertain. “Let us understand each other, Monsieur Maumejan,” said he; “the baron was unable to procure this money he had promised me to-day—but when will he let me have it?”

Pascal opened his eyes in pretended astonishment, and it was with an air of the utmost simplicity that he replied, “I concluded the baron would take no further action in the matter. I judged so from his parting words: ‘It consoles me a little,’ he said, ‘to think that the Marquis de Valorsay is very rich and very well known, and that he has a dozen friends who will be delighted to do him this trifling service.’”

Until now, M. de Valorsay had cherished a hope that the loan was only delayed, and the certainty that the decision was final, crushed him. “My ruin’s known,” he thought, and feeling that his strength was deserting him, he poured out a brimming glass of Madeira, which he emptied at a single draught. The wine lent him fictitious energy. Fury mounted to his brain; he lost all control over himself, and springing up, with his face purple with rage, he exclaimed: “It’s a shame! an infamous shame! and Trigault deserves to be severely punished. He has no business to keep a man in hot water for three days about such a trifle. If he had said ‘No’ in the first place, I should have made other arrangements, and I shouldn’t now find myself in a dilemma from which I see no possible way of escape. No gentleman would have been guilty of such a contemptible act—no one but a shopkeeper or a thief would have stooped to such meanness! This is the result of admitting these ridiculous parvenus into society, just because they happen to have money.”

It certainly hurt Pascal to hear these insults heaped upon the baron, and it hurt him all the more since they were entirely due to the course he had personally adopted.

However, a gesture, even a frown, might endanger the success of his undertaking, so he preserved an impassive countenance. “I must say that I don’t understand your indignation, Monsieur le Marquis,” he said, coldly. “I can see why you might feel annoyed, but why you should fly into a passion—”

“Ah! you don’t know——” began M. de Valorsay, but he stopped short. It was time. The truth had almost escaped his lips.

“Know what?” inquired Pascal.

But the marquis was again upon his guard. “I have a debt that must be paid this evening, at all hazards—a sacred obligation—in short, a debt of honor.”

“A debt of one hundred thousand francs?”

“No, it is only twenty-five thousand.”

“Is it possible that a rich man like you can be troubled about such a trifling sum, which any one would lend you?”

M. de Valorsay interrupted him with a contemptuous sneer. “Didn’t you just tell me that we were living in an age when no one has any money except those who are in business? The richest of my friends have only enough for themselves, even if they have enough. The time of old stockings, stuffed full of savings, is past! Shall I apply to a banker? He would ask two days for reflection, and he would require the names of two or three of my friends on the note. If I go to my notary, there will be endless forms to be gone through, and remonstrances without number.”

For a moment or more already, Pascal had been moving about uneasily on his chair, like a man who is waiting for an opportunity to make a suggestion, and as soon as M. de Valorsay paused to take breath, he exclaimed: “Upon my word! if I dared——”

“Well?”

“I would offer to obtain you these twenty-five thousand francs.”

“You?”

“Yes, I.”

“Before six o’clock this evening?”

“Certainly.”

A glass of ice-water presented to a parched traveller while journeying over the desert sands of Sahara could not impart greater relief and delight than the marquis experienced on hearing Pascal’s offer. He literally felt that he was restored to life.

For ruin was inevitable if he did not succeed in obtaining twenty-five thousand francs that day. If he could procure that amount he might obtain a momentary respite, and to gain time was the main thing. Moreover, the offer was a sufficient proof that his financial difficulties were not known. “Ah! I have had a fortunate escape,” he thought. “What if I had revealed the truth!”

But he was careful to conceal the secret joy that filled his heart. He feared lest he might say “Yes” too quickly, so betray his secret, and place himself at the mercy of the baron’s envoy. “I would willingly accept your offer,” he exclaimed, “if——”

“If what?”

“Would it be proper for me, after the baron has treated me in such a contemptible manner, to have any dealings with one of his subordinates?”

Pascal protested vigorously. “Allow me to say,” he exclaimed, “that I am not any one’s subordinate. Trigault is my client, like thirty or forty others—nothing more. He employs me in certain difficult and delicate negotiations, which I conduct to the best of my ability. He pays me, and we