File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (novels in english .TXT) 📖

share of censure, each mother’s son leading the other astray.

Madeleine had not the heart to undeceive her aunt.

“God grant that what you say may be true,” she said; “if so, this marriage will not be useless. We will write to M. de Clameran to-night.”

“Why to-night, Madeleine? We need not hurry so. Let us wait a little; something else might happen to save us.”

These words, this confidence in chance, in a mere nothing, revealed Mme. Fauvel’s true character, and accounted for her troubles. Timid, hesitating, easily swayed, she never could come to a firm decision, form a resolution, and abide by it, in spite of all arguments brought to bear against it. In the hour of peril she would always shut her eyes and trust to chance for a relief which never came. Never once did she think to ward off trouble by her own exertions.

Quite different was Madeleine’s character. Beneath her gentle timidity lay a strong, self-reliant will. Once decided upon what was right and just, nothing could change her. If it was her duty to make a sacrifice, it was to be carried out to the letter; no hesitation and sighs for what might have been; she shut out all deceitful illusions, and walked straight forward without one look back.

“We had better end the matter at once, dear aunt,” she said, in a gentle, but firm tone. “Believe me, the reality of misfortune is not as painful as its apprehension. You cannot bear the shocks of sorrow, and delusive hopes of happiness, much longer. Do you know what anxiety of mind has done to you? Have you looked in the mirror during the last four months?”

She led her aunt up to the glass, and said:

“Look at yourself.”

Mme. Fauvel was indeed a mere shadow of her former self.

She had reached the perfidious age when a woman’s beauty, like a full-blown rose, fades in a day.

Four months of trouble had made her an old woman. Sorrow had stamped its fatal seal upon her brow. Her fair, soft skin was wrinkled, her golden hair was streaked with silver, and her large, soft eyes had a painfully frightened look.

“Do you not agree with me,” continued Madeleine, pityingly, “that peace of mind is necessary to you? Do you not see that you are a wreck of your former self? It is a miracle that M. Fauvel has not noticed this sad change in you!”

Mme. Fauvel, who flattered herself that she had displayed wonderful dissimulation, shook her head.

“Alas, my poor aunt! you think you concealed your secret from all: you may have blinded my uncle, but I suspected all along that something dreadful was breaking your heart.”

“You suspected what, Madeleine? Not the truth?”

“No, I was afraid— Oh, pardon an unjust suspicion, my dear aunt, but I was wicked enough to suppose–-”

She stopped, too distressed to finish her sentence; then, making a painful effort, she added, as her aunt signed to her to go on:

“I was afraid that perhaps you loved another man than my uncle; it was the only construction that I could put upon your strange conduct.”

Mme. Fauvel buried her face, and groaned. Madeleine’s suspicion was, no doubt, entertained by others.

“My reputation is gone,” she moaned.

“No, dear aunt, no; do not be alarmed about that. No one has had occasion to observe you as I have; it was only a dreadful thought which penetrated my mind in spite of my endeavors to dispel it. Have courage: we two can fight the world and silence our enemies. You shall be saved, aunt: only trust in me.”

The Marquis of Clameran was agreeably surprised that evening by receiving a letter from Mme. Fauvel, saying that she consented to everything, but must have a little time to carry out the plan.

Madeleine, she said, could not break off her engagement with M. Bertomy in a day. M. Fauvel would make objections, for he had an affection for Prosper, and had tacitly approved of the match. It would be wiser to leave to time the smoothing away of certain obstacles which a sudden attack might render insurmountable.

A line from Madeleine, at the bottom of the letter, assured him that she fully concurred with her aunt.

Poor girl! she did not spare herself. The next day she took Prosper aside, and forced from him the fatal promise to shun her in the future, and to take upon himself the responsibility of breaking their engagement.

He implored Madeleine to at least explain the reason of this banishment, which destroyed all of his hopes for happiness.

She quietly replied that her peace of mind and honor depended upon his blind obedience to her will.

He left her with death in his soul.

As he went out of the house, the marquis entered.

Yes, he had the audacity to come in person, to tell Mme. Fauvel that, now he had the promise of herself and Madeleine, he would consent to wait awhile.

He himself saw the necessity of patience, knowing that he was not liked by the banker.

Having the aunt and niece on his side, or rather in his power, he was certain of success. He said to himself that the moment would come when a deficit impossible to be paid would force them to hasten the wedding.

Raoul did all he could to bring matters to a crisis.

Mme. Fauvel went sooner than usual to her country seat, and Raoul at once moved into his house at Vesinet. But living in the country did not lessen his expenses.

Gradually he laid aside all hypocrisy, and now only came to see his mother when he wanted money; and his demands were frequent and more exorbitant each time.

As for the marquis, he prudently absented himself, awaiting the propitious moment.

At the end of three weeks he met the banker at a friend’s, and was invited to dinner the next day.

Twenty people were seated at the table; and, as the dessert was being served, the banker suddenly turned to Clameran and said:

“I have a piece of news for you, monsieur. Have you any relatives of your name?”

“None that I know of, monsieur.”

“I am surprised. About a week ago, I became acquainted with another Marquis of Clameran.”

Although so hardened by crime, impudent enough to deny anything, Clameran was so taken aback that he sat with pale face and a blank look, silently staring at M. Fauvel.

But he soon recovered enough self-control to say hurriedly:

“Oh, indeed! That is strange. A Clameran may exist; but I cannot understand the title of marquis.”

M. Fauvel was not sorry to have the opportunity of annoying a guest whose aristocratic pretensions had often piqued him.

“Marquis or not,” he replied, “the Clameran in question seems to be able to do honor to the title.”

“Is he rich?”

“I have reason to suppose that he is very wealthy. I have been notified to collect for him four hundred thousand francs.”

Clameran had a wonderful faculty of self-control; he had so schooled himself that his face never betrayed what was passing in his mind. But this news was so startling, so strange, so pregnant of danger, that his usual assurance deserted him.

He detected a peculiar look of irony in the banker’s eye.

The only persons who noticed this sudden change in the marquis’s matter were Madeleine and her aunt. They saw him turn pale, and exchange a meaning look with Raoul.

“Then I suppose this new marquis is a merchant,” said Clameran after a moment’s pause.

“That I don’t know. All that I know is, that four hundred thousand francs are to be deposited to his account by some ship-owners at Havre, after the sale of the cargo of a Brazilian ship.”

“Then he comes from Brazil?”

“I do not know, but I can give you his Christian name.”

“I would be obliged.”

M. Fauvel arose from the table, and brought from the next room a memorandum-book, and began to read over the names written in it.

“Wait a moment,” he said, “let me see—the 22nd, no, it was later than that. Ah, here it is: Clameran, Gaston. His name is Gaston, monsieur.”

But this time Louis betrayed no emotion or alarm; he had had sufficient time to recover his self-possession, and nothing could not throw him off his guard.

“Gaston?” he queried, carelessly. “I know who he is now. He must be the son of my father’s sister, whose husband lived at Havana. I suppose, upon his return to France, he must have taken his mother’s name, which is more sonorous than his father’s, that being, if I recollect aright, Moirot or Boirot.”

The banker laid down his memorandum-book, and, resuming his seat, went on:

“Boirot or Clameran,” said he, “I hope to have the pleasure of inviting you to dine with him before long. Of the four hundred thousand francs which I was ordered to collect for him, he only wishes to draw one hundred, and tells me to keep the rest on running account. I judge from this that he intends coming to Paris.”

“I shall be delighted to make his acquaintance.”

Clameran broached another topic, and seemed to have entirely forgotten the news told him by the banker.

Although apparently engrossed in the conversation of his neighbor at the table, he closely watched Mme. Fauvel and her niece.

He saw that they were unable to conceal their agitation, and stealthily exchanged significant looks.

Evidently the same terrible idea had crossed their minds.

Madeleine seemed more nervous and startled than her aunt. When M. Fauvel uttered Gaston’s name, she saw Raoul begin to draw back in his chair and glance in a frightened manner toward the window, like a detected thief looking for means of escape.

Raoul, less experienced than his uncle, was thoroughly discountenanced. He, the original talker, the lion of a dinner-party, never at a loss for some witty speech, was now perfectly dumb; he sat anxiously watching Louis.

At last the dinner ended, and as the guests passed into the drawing-room, Clameran and Raoul managed to remain last in the dining-room.

When they were alone, they no longer attempted to conceal their anxiety.

“It is he!” said Raoul.

“I have no doubt of it.”

“Then all is lost; we had better make our escape.”

But a bold adventurer like Clameran had no idea of giving up the ship till forced to do so.

“Who knows what may happen?” he asked, thoughtfully. “There is hope yet. Why did not that muddle-headed banker tell us where this Clameran is to be found?”

Here he uttered a joyful exclamation. He saw M. Fauvel’s memorandum-book lying on the table.

“Watch!” he said to Raoul.

Seizing the note-book, he hurriedly turned over the leaves, and, in an undertone, read:

“Gaston, Marquis of Clameran, Oloron, Lower Pyrenees.”

“Well, does finding out his address assist us?” inquired Raoul, eagerly.

“It may save us: that is all. Let us return to the drawing-room; our absence might be observed. Exert yourself to appear unconcerned and gay. You almost betrayed us once by your agitation.”

“The two women suspect something.”

“Well, suppose they do?”

“The best thing that we can do is escape; the sooner we leave Paris, the better.”

“Do you think we should do any better in London? Don’t be so easily frightened. I am going to plant my batteries, and I warrant they will prove successful.”

They joined the other guests. But, if their conversation had not been overheard their movements had been watched.

Madeleine looked through the half-open door, and saw Clameran consulting her uncle’s note-book, and whispering to Raoul. But what benefit would she derive from this proof of the marquis’s villany? She knew now that he was plotting to obtain her fortune, and she would be forced to yield it