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

As he spoke, he began to pack all the legal documents which had been confided to him into a large box, which was to be carried to one of his former friends, who would distribute the papers among the people they belonged to. He next made a small bundle of the few important private papers and valuables he possessed; and then, ready for the sacrifice, he took a last survey of the pleasant home where success had smiled so favorably upon his efforts, where he had been so happy, and where he had cherished such bright dreams of the future. Overcome by a flood of recollections, the tears sprang to his eyes. He embraced his mother, and fled precipitately from the house.

“Poor child!” murmured Madame Ferailleur; “poor Pascal!”

Was she not also to be pitied? This was the second time within twenty years that a thunderbolt had fallen on her in the full sunlight of happiness. And yet now, as on the day following her husband’s death, she found in her heart the robust energy and heroic maternal constancy which enable one to rise above every misfortune. It was in a firm voice that she ordered her servant to go in search of the nearest furniture dealer, no matter which, provided he would pay cash. And when the man arrived she showed him through the rooms with stoical calmness. God alone knew how intensely she was suffering. And yet while she was waiting for the dealer, each piece of furniture had acquired an extraordinary value in her eyes. It seemed to her as if each object were a part of herself, and when the man turned and twisted a chair or a table she almost considered it a personal affront.

The rich, who are accustomed from birth to the luxury that surrounds them, are ignorant of the terrible sufferings which attend such cases as these. The persons who do suffer are those of the middle classes, not the parvenus, but those who bid fair to become parvenus when misfortune overtook them. Their hearts bleed when inexorable necessity deprives them of all the little comforts with which they had gradually surrounded themselves, for there is not an object that does not recall a long ungratified desire, and the almost infantile joy of possession. What happiness they felt on the day when they purchased that large arm-chair! How many times they had gone to admire those velvet curtains in the shop windows before buying them! Those carpets represented months of self-denial. And that pretty clock—ah! they had fancied it would only herald the flight of prosperous and pleasant hours. And all these things the dealer handles, and shakes, and jeers at, and depreciates. He will scarcely condescend to purchase. Who would care to buy such trash? He knows that the owner is in need of money, and he profits by this knowledge. It is his business. “How much did this cost you?” he asks, as he inspects one piece of furniture after another.

“So much.”

“Well, you must have been terribly cheated.”

You know very well that if there is a cheat in the world, it is this same man; but what can you say? Any other dealer you might send for would act in the same way. Now, Madame Ferailleur’s furniture had cost some ten thousand francs; and, although it was no longer new, it was worth at least a third of that sum. But she obtained only seven hundred and sixty francs for it. It is true, however, that she was in haste, and that she was paid cash.

Nine o’clock was striking when her trunks were at last piled on a cab, and she called out to the driver: “Take me to the Place du Havre—to the railway station.” Once before, when defrauded by a scoundrel, she had been obliged to part with all her household treasures. Once before she had left her home, taking merely the wreck of her fortune with her. But what a difference between then and now!

Then, the esteem and sympathy of all who knew her was hers, and the admiring praise she received divested the sacrifice of much of its bitterness, and increased her courage two-fold. Now, she was flying secretly, and alone, under an assumed name, trembling at the thought of pursuit or recognition—flying as a criminal flies at thought of his crime, and fear of punishment. She had far less suffered on the day, when, with her son upon her knees, she journeyed to the cemetery, following all that was mortal of the man who had been her only thought, her love, her pride, her happiness, and hope. Though crushed by the sense of her irreparable loss, she had not rebelled against the hand that struck her; but now it was human wickedness that assailed her through her son, and her suffering was like that of the innocent man who perishes for want of power to prove his innocence. Her husband’s death had not caused her such bitter tears as her son’s dishonor. She who was so proud, and who had such good reason to be proud, she could note the glances of scorn she was favored with as she left her home. She heard the insulting remarks made by some of her neighbors, who, like so many folks, found their chief delight in other people’s misfortunes.

“Crocodile tears,” some had exclaimed. “She is going to meet her son; and with what he has stolen they will live like princes in America.” Rumor, which enlarges and misrepresents everything, had, indeed, absurdly exaggerated the affair at Madame d’Argeles’s house. It was reported in the Rue d’Ulm that Pascal had spent every night at the gaming table for more than five years; and that, being an incomparable trickster, he had stolen millions.

Meanwhile, Madame Ferailleur was approaching the station. The cab horse soon slackened its pace to climb the acclivity of the Rue d’Amsterdam; and shortly afterward the vehicle drew up in the courtyard of the railway station. Faithfully observing the directions which had been given her, the worthy woman had her trunks taken to the baggage-room, declaring that she should not leave Paris until the next day, whereupon she received a receipt from the man in charge of the room. She was oppressed by vague apprehensions, and looked closely at every one who passed her; fearing the presence of spies, and knowing full well that the most profound secrecy could alone insure the success of Pascal’s plans. However, she did not see a single suspicious looking person. Some Englishmen—those strange travellers, who are at the same time so foolishly prodigal and so ridiculously miserly—were making a great hue and cry over the four sous gratuity claimed by a poor commissionaire; but these were the only persons in sight.

Partially reassured, Madame Ferailleur hastily ascended the staircase, and entered the large waiting-room. It was here that Pascal had promised to meet her; but, though she looked round on all sides, she did not perceive him. Still, this delay did not alarm her much; nor was it at all strange, since Pascal had scarcely known what he would have to do when he left the house. She seated herself on a bench, as far back in the shade as possible and gazed sadly at the ever-changing throng, when all of a sudden she was startled by a man, who abruptly paused in front of her. This man proved to be Pascal. But his hair had been closely cut, and he had shaved off his beard. And thus shorn, with his smooth face, and with a brown silk neckerchief in lieu of the white muslin tie he usually wore, he was so greatly changed that for an instant his own mother did not recognize him. “Well?” asked Madame Ferailleur, as she realized his identity.

“I have succeeded. We have secured such rooms as I wished for.”

“Where?”