File No. 113 Émile Gaboriau (the best books of all time TXT) 📖

through which they could catch the tantalizing strains of a waltz.

It was a fancy ball; and nearly all of the costumes were superb, though some were more original than elegant.

Among the latter was a clown. Everything was in perfect keeping: the insolent eye, coarse lips, high cheekbones, and a beard so red that it seemed to emit flames in the reflection of the dazzling lights.

He wore top-boots, a dilapidated hat on the back of his head, and a shirt-ruffle trimmed with torn lace.

He carried in his left hand a canvas banner, upon which were painted six or eight pictures, coarsely designed like those found in strolling fairs. In his right he waved a little switch, with which he would every now and then strike his banner, like a quack retailing his wares.

Quite a crowd surrounded this clown, hoping to hear some witty speeches and puns; but he kept near the door, and remained silent.

About half-past ten he quitted his post.

M. and Mme. Fauvel, followed by their niece Madeleine, had just entered.

A compact group immediately formed near the door.

During the last ten days, the affair of the Rue de Provence had been the universal topic of conversation; and friends and enemies were alike glad to seize this opportunity of approaching the banker, some to tender their sympathy, and others to offer equivocal condolence, which of all things is the most exasperating and insulting.

Belonging to the battalion of grave, elderly men, M. Fauvel had not assumed a fancy costume, but merely threw over his shoulders a short silk domino.

On his arm leaned Mme. Fauvel, née Valentine de la Verberie, bowing and gracefully greeting her numerous friends.

She had once been remarkably beautiful; and tonight the effect of the soft wax-lights, and her very becoming dress, half restored her youthful freshness and comeliness. No one would have supposed her to be forty-eight years old.

She wore a dress of the later years of Louis the Fourteenth’s reign, magnificent and severe, of embroidered satin and black velvet, without the adornment of a single jewel.

She looked so graceful and elegant in this court dress and powdered hair, that some ill-natured gossips said it was a pity to see a real La Verberie, so well fitted to adorn a queen’s drawing-room, as all her ancestors had done before her, thrown away upon a man whom she had only married for his money.

But Madeleine was the object of universal admiration, so dazzlingly beautiful and queenlike did she appear in her costume of maid of honor, which seemed to have been especially invented to set forth her beautiful figure.

Her loveliness expanded in the perfumed atmosphere and soft light of the ballroom. Never had her hair looked so black, her complexion so exquisite, or her large eyes so brilliant.

Having greeted the hosts, Madeleine took her aunt’s arm, while M. Fauvel wandered through the rooms in search of the card-table, the usual refuge of bored men, when they are enticed to the ballroom by their womankind.

The ball was now at its height.

Two orchestras, led by Strauss and one of his lieutenants, filled the two mansions with intoxicating music. The motley crowd whirled in the waltz until they presented a curious confusion of velvets, satins, laces, and diamonds. Almost every head and bosom sparkled with jewels; the palest cheeks were rosy; heavy eyes now shone like stars; and the glistening shoulders of fair women were like drifted snow in an April sun.

Forgotten by the crowd, the clown had taken refuge in the embrasure of a window, and seemed to be meditating upon the gay scene before him; at the same time, he kept his eye upon a couple not far off.

It was Madeleine, dancing with a splendidly dressed doge. The doge was the Marquis de Clameran.

He appeared to be radiant, rejuvenated, and well satisfied with the impression he was making upon his partner; at the end of a quadrille he leaned over her, and whispered compliments with the most unbounded admiration; and she seemed to listen, if not with pleasure, at least without repugnance. She now and then smiled, and coquettishly shrugged her shoulders.

“Evidently,” muttered the clown, “this noble scoundrel is paying court to the banker’s niece; so I was right yesterday. But how can Mlle. Madeleine resign herself to so graciously receive his insipid flattery? Fortunately, Prosper is not here now.”

He was interrupted by an elderly man wrapped in a Venetian mantle, who said to him:

“You remember, M. Verduret,”⁠—this name was uttered half seriously, half banteringly⁠—“what you promised me?”

The clown bowed with great respect, but not the slightest shade of humility.

“I remember,” he replied.

“But do not be imprudent, I beg you.”

“M. the Count need not be uneasy; he has my promise.”

“Very good. I know the value of it.”

The count walked off; but during this short colloquy the quadrille had ended, and M. de Clameran and Madeleine were lost to sight.

“I shall find them near Mme. Fauvel,” said the clown.

And he at once started in search of the banker’s wife.

Incommoded by the stifling heat of the room, Mme. Fauvel had sought a little fresh air in the grand picture-gallery, which, thanks to the talisman called gold, was now transformed into a fairy-like garden, filled with orange-trees, japonicas, laurel, and many rare exotics.

The clown saw her seated near a grove, not far from the door of the card-room. Upon her right was Madeleine, and near her stood Raoul de Lagors, dressed in a costume of Henri III.

“I must confess,” muttered the clown from his post of observation, “that the young scamp is a very handsome man.”

Madeleine appeared very sad. She had plucked a japonica from a tree near by, and was mechanically pulling it to pieces as she sat with her eyes downcast.

Raoul and Mme. Fauvel were engaged in earnest conversation. Their faces were composed, but the gestures of one and the trembling of the other betrayed a serious discussion.

In the card-room sat the doge, M. de Clameran, so placed as to have full view of Mme. Fauvel and Madeleine, although himself concealed by an angle of the room.

“It is the continuation of yesterday’s scene,” thought