File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (ebook reader browser TXT) 📖

Andre listened to these complaints with becoming commiseration, but in reality he was delighted.

Without giving her time to finish her tale, he began to state what he called his view of the matter.

He said that, although he sympathized deeply with the countess, he could not account for her uneasiness about her daughter.

What? Could she be disturbed at having no dowry for her? Why, the rank and beauty of Mlle. Valentine were a fortune in themselves, of which any man might be proud.

He knew more than one man who would esteem himself only too happy if Mlle. Valentine would accept his name, and confer upon him the sweet duty of relieving her mother from all anxiety and care. Finally, he did not think the situation of the countess’s affairs nearly so desperate as she imagined. How much money would be necessary to pay off the mortgages upon La Verberie? About forty thousand francs, perhaps? Indeed! That was but a mere trifle.

Besides, this sum need not be a gift from the son-in-law; if she chose, it might be a loan, because the estate would be his in the end, and in time the land would be double its present value; it would be a pity to sell now. A man, too, worthy of Valentine’s love could never let his wife’s mother want for the comforts and luxuries due to a lady of her age, rank, and misfortunes. He would be only too glad to offer her a sufficient income, not only to provide comfort, but even luxury.

As Andre spoke, in a tone too earnest to be assumed, it seemed to the countess that a celestial dew was dropping upon her pecuniary wounds. Her countenance was radiant with joy, her fierce little eyes beamed with the most encouraging tenderness, her thin lips were wreathed in the most friendly smiles.

One thought disturbed the young engineer.

“Does she understand me seriously?” he thought.

She certainly did, as her subsequent remarks proved. He saw that the would-be sentimental old lady had an eye to business.

“Alas!” she sighed, “La Verberie cannot be saved by forty thousand francs; the principal and interest of the debt amount to sixty thousand.”

“Oh, either forty or sixty thousand is nothing worth speaking of.”

“Four thousand francs is not enough to support a lady respectably,” she said after a pause. “Everything is so dear in this section of the country! But with six thousand francs—yes, six thousand francs would make me happy!”

The young man thought that her demands were becoming excessive, but with the generosity of an ardent lover he said:

“The son-in-law of whom we are speaking cannot be very devoted to Mlle. Valentine, if the paltry sum of two thousand francs were objected to for an instant.”

“You promise too much!” muttered the countess.

“The imaginary son-in-law,” she finally added, “must be an honorable man who will fulfil his promises. I have my daughter’s happiness too much at heart to give her to a man who did not produce—what do you call them?—securities, guarantees.”

“Decidedly,” thought Fauvel with mortification, “we are making a bargain and sale.”

Then he said aloud:

“Of course, your son-in-law would bind himself in the marriage contract to—”

“Never! monsieur, never! Put such an agreement in the marriage contract! Think of the impropriety of the thing! What would the world say?”

“Permit me, madame, to suggest that your pension should be mentioned as the interest of a sum acknowledged to have been received from you.”

“Well, that might do very well; that is very proper.”

The countess insisted upon taking Andre home in her carriage. During the drive, no definite plan was agreed upon between them; but they understood each other so well, that, when the countess set the young engineer down at his own door, she invited him to dinner the next day, and held out her skinny hand which Andre kissed with devotion, as he thought of the rosy fingers of Valentine.

When Mme. de la Verberie returned home, the servants were dumb with astonishment at her good-humor: they had not seen her in this happy frame of mind for years.

And her day’s work was of a nature to elevate her spirits: she had been unexpectedly raised from poverty to affluence. She, who boasted of such proud sentiments, never stopped to think of the infamy of the transaction in which she had been engaged: it seemed quite right in her selfish eyes.

“A pension of six thousand francs!” she thought, “and a thousand crowns from the estate, that makes nine thousand francs a year! My daughter will live in Paris after she is married, and I can spend the winters with my dear children without expense.”

At this price, she would have sold, not only one, but three daughters, if she had possessed them.

But suddenly her blood ran cold at a sudden thought, which crossed her mind.

“Would Valentine consent?”

Her anxiety to set her mind at rest sent her straightway to her daughter’s room. She found Valentine reading by the light of a flickering candle.

“My daughter,” she said abruptly, “an estimable young man has demanded your hand in marriage, and I have promised it to him.”

On this startling announcement, Valentine started up and clasped her hands.

“Impossible!” she murmured, “impossible!”

“Will you be good enough to explain why it is impossible?”

“Did you tell him, mother, who I am, what I am? Did you confess——”

“Your past fully? No, thank God, I am not fool enough for that, and I hope you will have the sense to imitate my example, and keep silent on the subject.”

Although Valentine’s spirit was completely crushed by her mother’s tyranny, her sense of honor made her revolt against this demand.

“You certainly would not wish me to marry an honest man, mother, without confessing to him everything connected with the past? I could never practise a deception so base.”

The countess felt very much like flying into a passion; but she knew that threats would be of no avail in this instance, where resistance would be a duty of conscience with her daughter. Instead of commanding, she entreated.

“Poor child,” she said, “my poor, dear Valentine. If you only knew the dreadful state of our affairs, you would not talk in this heartless way. Your folly commenced our ruin; now it is at its last stage. Do you know that our creditors threaten to drive us away from La Verberie? Then what will become of us, my poor child? Must I in my old age go begging from door to