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

by no means let the subject drop, but seized every opportunity of impressing upon her tortured mind that Raoul’s salvation depended entirely upon her.

“No,” she would always reply, “no! Never will I be so base and perfidious to my husband!”

Unfortunate woman! little did she know of the pitfalls which stand ever ready to swallow up wanderers from the path of virtue.

Before a week had passed, she listened to this project, which at first had filled her with horror, with a willing ear, and even began to devise means for its speedy execution.

Yes, after a cruel struggle, she finally yielded to the pressure of Clameran’s politely uttered threats and Raoul’s wheedling entreaties.

“But how,” she asked, “upon what pretext can I receive Raoul?”

“It would be the easiest thing in the world,” replied Clameran, “to admit him as an ordinary acquaintance, and, indeed, to place him on the same footing which I myself occupy⁠—that of an intimate friend and habitué of your drawing-rooms. But Raoul must have more than this; he needs your constant care.”

After torturing Mme. Fauvel for a long time, he finally revealed his scheme.

“We have in our hands,” he said, “the solution of this problem, which may be so easily reached that I regard it as an inspiration.”

Mme. Fauvel eagerly scanned his face as she listened with the pitiable resignation of a martyr.

“Have you not a cousin, a widow lady, who had two daughters, living at St. Remy?” asked Louis.

“Yes, Mme. de Lagors.”

“Precisely so. What fortune has she?”

“She is poor, monsieur, very poor.”

“And, but for the assistance you render her secretly, she would be thrown upon the charity of the world.”

Mme. Fauvel was bewildered at finding the marquis so well informed of her private affairs.

“How could you have discovered this?” she asked.

“Oh, I know all about this affair, and many others besides. I know, for example, that your husband has never met any of your relatives, and that he is not even aware of the existence of your cousin De Lagors. Do you begin to comprehend my plan?”

She not only understood it, but also knew that she would end by being a party to it.

“All will succeed if you follow my instructions,” said Louis. “Tomorrow or next day, you will receive a letter from your cousin at St. Remy, telling you that she has sent her son to Paris on a visit, and begs you to receive and watch over him. Naturally you show this letter to your husband; and a few days afterward he warmly welcomes your nephew, Raoul de Lagors, a handsome, rich, attractive young man, who does everything he can to please you both.”

“Monsieur,” replied Mme. Fauvel, “my cousin is a pious, honorable woman, and nothing would induce her to countenance so shameful a transaction.”

The marquis smiled scornfully, and said:

“Who told you that I intended to confide in her?”

“But you would be obliged to do so! How else?”

“You are very simple, madame. The letter which you will receive, and show to your husband, will be dictated by me, and posted at St. Remy by a friend of mine. If I spoke of the obligations under which you have placed your cousin, it was merely to show you that, in case of accident, her own interest would make her serve you. Do you see any obstacle to this plan, madame?”

Mme. Fauvel’s eyes flashed with indignation.

“Is my will of no account?” she exclaimed. “You seem to have made your arrangements without consulting me at all.”

“Excuse me,” said the marquis, with ironical politeness, “but I knew that you would take the same view of the matter as myself. Your good sense would convince you of the necessity of using every possible means of rescuing your child from destruction.”

“But it is a crime, monsieur, that you propose⁠—an abominable crime! My mind revolts at the very idea of it!”

This speech seemed to arouse all the bad passions slumbering in Clameran’s bosom; and his pale face had a fiendish expression as he fiercely replied:

“We had better end this humbuggery, and come to a clear understanding at once. Before you begin to talk about crime, think over your past life. You were not so timid and scrupulous when you gave yourself up to your lover; neither did you hesitate to faithlessly refuse to share his exile, although for your sake he had just jeopardized his life by killing two men. You felt no scruples at abandoning your child in London; although rolling in wealth, you never even inquired if this poor waif had bread to eat. You felt no scruples about marrying M. Fauvel. Did you tell your confiding husband of the lines of shame concealed beneath that orange wreath? Did you hesitate to confirm and strengthen his happy delusion, that his lips had pressed the first kiss upon your brow? No! All these crimes you indulged in; and, when in Gaston’s name I demand reparation, you indignantly refuse. But, mark my words, madame, it is too late! You ruined the father; but you shall save the son, or, by all the saints in heaven, I swear you shall no longer cheat the world of its esteem.”

“I will obey you, monsieur,” murmured the trembling, frightened woman.

The following week Raoul, now Raoul de Lagors, was seated at the banker’s dinner-table, between Mme. Fauvel and Madeleine.

XVII

It was not without the most painful suffering and self-condemnation that Mme. Fauvel submitted to the will of the pitiless Marquis of Clameran.

She had used every argument and entreaty to soften him; but he merely looked upon her with a triumphant, sneering smile, when she knelt at his feet, implored him to be merciful and spare her the shame and remorse of committing another crime. Spare her this torture, and she would grant anything else he wished, give Raoul all she possessed while alive, and insure him a handsome competency after her death.

Alas! neither tears nor prayers moved him. Disappointed, and almost desperate, she sought the intercession of her son.

Raoul was in a state of furious indignation at the sight of his mother’s distress, and hastened to