The Mysteries of Paris V2 by Eugene Sue (page 9)

Angers, like a real ‘wehr-wolf’ as they say, with what remains of his eighty thousand francs, well curtailed, as you may suppose, by his race after this Pole. At Angers he sees no one, except the wife and daughter of his relation, M. de Fermont, who has been dead for some years. And, besides, it would seem as if this was an unfortunate family, for the brother of Madame de Fermont blew his brains out a few weeks since, it is said.”

“And the viscount’s mother?”

“He lost her a long time since. It is on that account that my lord, on his coming of age, has enjoyed the fortune of his mother. So you plainly see, my dear Edward, that as regards inheritance, my lord has nothing, or almost nothing, to expect from his father.”

“Who besides must detest him?”

“He would never see him after the fatal discovery, persuaded that he is the son of the Pole.”

The conversation of the two personages was interrupted by a footman of gigantic size, carefully powdered, although it was hardly eleven o’clock.

“His lordship has rung twice,” said the giant.

Boyer appeared distressed at this neglect; he arose precipitately, and followed the servant with as much eagerness and respect as if he had not been the proprietor of the mansion of his master.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE OLD COUNT DE SAINT REMY.

Two hours had passed since Boyer had gone to attend the viscount, when the father of the last mentioned knocked at the gate of the house in the Rue de Chaillot.

The Count de Saint Remy was a man of tall stature, still active and vigorous, notwithstanding his age; the almost copper color of his skin contrasted strangely with the silvery whiteness of his beard and hair; his heavy, still black eyebrows overshadowed piercing but sunken eyes. Although, from a kind of misanthropy, he wore clothes quite rusty, there was in his whole appearance that which commanded respect. The door of his son’s house flew open, and he entered. A porter in a grand livery of brown and silver, profusely powdered, and wearing silk stockings, appeared on the threshold of an elegant lodge, which had as much resemblance to the smoky den of the Pipelets as a cobbler’s stall could have to the sumptuous shop of a fashionable “emporium.”

“M. de Saint Remy?” demanded the viscount, in a low tone.

The porter, instead of replying, examined with much contempt the white beard, the threadbare coat, and the old hat of the stranger, who held in his hand a large cane.

“M. de Saint Remy?” repeated the count, impatiently, shocked at the impertinent examination of the porter.

“Not at home.” So saying, Pipelet’s rival drew the cord, and with a significant gesture, invited the unknown to retire.

“I will wait,” said the count, and he passed on.

“Stay, friend! one does not enter that way into houses!” cried the porter, running after and taking him by the arm.

“How, scoundrel!” answered the old man, raising his cane; “you dare to touch me!”

“I will dare something else, if you do not walk out at once. I have told you that my lord was out, so walk off.”

At this moment, Boyer, attracted by the sound of voices, made his appearance. “What is the matter?” demanded he.

“M. Boyer, this man will absolutely enter, although I have told him that my lord is out.”

“Let us put a stop to this,” replied the count, addressing Boyer; “I wish to see my son—if he has gone out, I will wait.”

We have said that Boyer was ignorant neither of the existence nor of the misanthropy of the father, and sufficiently a physiognomist, he did not for a moment doubt the identity of the count, but bowed low to him, and answered, “If your lordship will be so good as to follow me, I am at his orders.”

“Go on,” said Saint Remy, who accompanied Boyer, to the profound dismay of the porter.

Preceded by the valet, the count arrived on the first story, and still following his guide, was ushered into a little saloon, situated immediately over the boudoir of the ground floor.

“My lord has been obliged to go out this morning,” said Boyer, “and if your lordship will have the kindness to wait, it will not be long before he returns.” And the valet disappeared.

Remaining alone, the count looked around him with indifference, until suddenly he discovered the picture of his wife, the mother of Florestan de Saint Remy. He folded his arms on his heart, held down his head, as if to avoid the sight of this victim, and walked about with rapid steps.

“And yet I am not certain—he may be my son—sometimes this doubt is frightful to me. If he is my son, then my abandoning him, my refusal ever to see him, are unpardonable. And then to think my name–of which I have ever been so proud–belongs to the son of a man whose heart I could have torn out! Oh! I do not know why I am not bereft of my senses when I think of it.” Saint Remy, continuing to walk with agitation, raised mechanically the curtain which separated the saloon from Florestan’s study and entered the apartment.

He had hardly disappeared for a moment, than a small door, concealed by the tapestry, opened softly, and Madame de Lucenay, wrapped in a shawl of green Cashmere, and wearing a very plain black velvet bonnet, entered the saloon which the count had just left. The duchess, as we have said before, had a key to the little private garden-door; not finding Florestan in the apartments below, she had supposed that, perhaps, he was in his study, and without any fear had come up by a small staircase which led from the boudoir to the first story. Unfortunately, a very threatening visit from M. Badinot had obliged him to go out precipitately.

Madame de Lucenay, seeing no one, was about to enter the cabinet, when the curtains were thrown back, and she found herself face to face with the father of Florestan. She could not restrain a cry of alarm.

“Clotilde!” cried the count, stupefied.

The duchess remained immovable, contemplating with surprise the old white-bearded man, so badly clothed, whose features did not appear altogether strange.

“You, Clotilde!” repeated the count, in a tone of sorrowful reproach, “you here–in my son’s house?”

These last words decided Madame de Lucenay; she at length recognized the father of Florestan, and cried, “M. de Saint Remy!” Her position was so plain and significant, that the duchess disdained to have recourse to a falsehood to explain the motive of her presence in this house; counting on the paternal affection which the count had formerly shown her, she extended her hand, and said, with an air–gracious, cordial, and fearless–which belonged only to her, “Come, do not scold! you are my oldest friend! Do you remember, more than twenty years ago, you called me your dear Clotilde?”

“Yes, I called you thus, but–“

“I know in advance all that you will say to me; you know my motto; _What is, is; what shall be, shall be._”

“Ah, Clotilde!”

“Spare me your reproaches; let me rather speak to you of my joy at seeing you! your presence recalls so many things; my poor father, in the first place; and then my fifteenth year. Ah! fifteen–sweet fifteen!”

“It was because your father was my friend, that–“

“Oh, yes!” answered the duchess, interrupting him, “he loved you so much! Do you remember he called you, laughingly ‘Green Ribbon.’ You always said to him, ‘You will spoil Clotilde; take care!’ and he would answer, embracing me, ‘I believe I spoil her; and I must hurry and spoil her more, for soon fashion will carry her off, and spoil her in its turn.’ Excellent father that I lost!”

A tear glistened in the fine eyes of Madame de Lucenay, and giving her hand to Saint Remy, she said to him, in an agitated voice, “True, I am happy, very happy to see you again; you awaken souvenirs so precious, so dear to my heart! If you have been in Paris for any time,” continued Madame de Lucenay, “it was very unkind in you not to come to see me; we should have talked so much of the past; for you know I begin to arrive at the age when there is a great charm in talking to old friends.”

Perhaps the duchess could not have spoken with more nonchalance if she had been receiving a visit at Lucenay House.

Saint Remy could not refrain from saying, earnestly, “Instead of talking of the past, let us talk of the present. My son may come in at any moment, and–“

“No!” said Clotilde, interrupting him, “I have the key of the private door, and his arrival is always announced by a bell when he comes in by the gate; at this noise I shall disappear as mysteriously as I came, and leave you alone. What a sweet surprise you are going to cause him! you, who have for so long a time abandoned him!”

“Hold! I have reproaches to make you.”

“To me, to me?”

“Certainly! What guide, what assistance had I on entering into society? and, for a thousand things, the counsels of a father are indispensable. Thus, frankly, it has been very wrong in you to–“

Here Madame de Lucenay, giving way to the peculiarity of her character, could not prevent herself from laughing heartily, and saying to the count: “You must avow that the position is at least singular, and that it is very piquant that I should preach to you!”

“It is rather strange; but I deserve neither your sermons nor your praises. I come to my son; but it is not on account of my son. At his age he can no longer need my counsels.”

“What do you mean?”

“You must know for what reasons I detest society and hold Paris in horror!” said the count. “Nothing but circumstances of the last importance could have induced me to leave Angers, and, above all, to come here–in this house! But I have conquered my repugnance, and have recourse to every one who can aid me in researches of great interest to me.”

“Oh! then,” said Madame de Lucenay, with most affectionate eagerness, “I beg you dispose of me, if I can be of any use to you. Is there need of any applications? M. de Lucenay ought to have a certain influence: for, on the days when I go to dine with my great Aunt de Montbrison, he gives a dinner at home to some deputies; this is not done without some motive; this inconvenience must be paid for by some probable advantage. Once more, if we can serve you, command us. There is my young cousin, Duke de Montbrison, connected with all the nobility, perhaps he could do something? In this case, I offer him to you. In a word, dispose of me and mine: you know if I can call myself a devoted friend!”

“I know it; and I do not refuse your assistance; although, however–“

“Come, my dear _Alceste_, we are people of the world, let us act like such, whether we are here or elsewhere, it is of no import, I suppose, to the affair which interests you, and which now interests me extremely, since it is yours. Let us speak of this, and sincerely; I require it.”

Thus saying, the duchess approached the fireplace, and, leaning against it, she put out the prettiest little foot in the world to warm it.

With perfect tact, Madame de Lucenay seized the occasion to speak no more of the viscount, and to converse with M. de Saint Remy on a subject to which he attached much importance.

“You are ignorant, perhaps, Clotilde,” said the count, “that for a long time past I have lived at Angers?”

“No–I knew it.”

“Notwithstanding the isolated state I sought, I had chosen this city, because one of my relations dwelt there, M. de Fermont, who, during my troubles, acted as a brother toward me, having acted as a second in a duel.”

“Yes, a terrible duel; my father told me of it,” said Madame de Lucenay, sadly; “but happily, Florestan is ignorant of this duel, and also of the cause that led to it.”

“I was willing to let him respect his mother,” answered the count, and, suppressing a sigh, he continued, and related to Madame de Lucenay the history of Madame de Fermont up to the time of her leaving Angers for Paris.

That history, if the old count had known and related it all, would have run thus. Baron de Ferment’s brother, ruined by concealed speculations, had left three hundred thousand francs with Jacques Ferrand. But when the baroness, upon her brother’s suicide in desperation, and her husband’s death, had claimed it from that honorable man, the notary had challenged her to produce proofs, of which she had not one, and had, moreover, met her with a demand for two thousand francs, a debt of the baron’s to the notary. So she began to suffer every hardship from this abuse of trust. Presuming this, we let the count proceed:

“At the end of some time,” said he, “I learned that the furniture of the house which she occupied at Angers was sold by her orders, and that this sum had been employed to pay some debts left by Madame de Fermont. Uneasy at this circumstance, I inquired, and learned vaguely that this unfortunate woman and her daughter were in distress–the victims, doubtless, of a bankruptcy. If Madame de Fermont could, in such an extremity, count on any one, it was on me. Yet I received no news from her. You cannot imagine my sufferings–my inquietude. It was absolutely necessary that I should find them, to know why they did not apply to me, poor as I was. I set out for Paris, leaving a person at Angers, who, if by chance any information was obtained, was to advise me.”

“Well?”

“Yesterday I had a letter from Angers; nothing was known. On arriving here I commenced my researches. I went first to the former residence of the brother of Madame de Fermont. Here they told me she lived by the Canal Saint Martin.”

“And this–“

“Had been her lodgings; but she had left, and they were ignorant of her new abode. Since then all my inquiries have been useless; and I have come here, in hopes that she may have applied to the son of her old friend. I am afraid that even this will be in vain.”

For some minutes Madame de Lucenay had listened to the count with redoubled attention; suddenly she said, “Truly, it would be singular if these should be the same as those Madame d’Harville is so much interested for.”

“Who?” asked the count.

“The widow of whom you speak is still young, and of a noble presence?”

“She is so. But how do you know?”

“Her daughter handsome as an angel, and about sixteen?”

“Yes, yes!”

“And is named Claire?”

“Oh, in mercy, speak! where are they?”

“Alas, I know not!”

“You do not know?”

“A lady of my acquaintance, Madame d’Harville, came to me to ask if I know a widow who had a daughter named Claire, and whose brother committed suicide. Madame d’Harville came to me because she had seen these words, ‘Write to Madame de Lucenay,’ traced on the fragment of a letter which this unhappy woman had written to a person unknown, whose aid she entreated.”

“She intended to write to you! Why?”

“I am ignorant; I do not know her.”

“But she knew you!” cried Saint Remy, struck with a sudden idea.

“What do you say?”

“A hundred times she has heard me speak of your father, of you, of your generous and excellent heart. In her trouble, she must have thought of you.”

“This can be thus explained.”

“And how did Madame d’Harville get possession of this letter?”

“I am ignorant; all I know is, that, without knowing where this poor mother and child had taken refuge, she was, I believe, on their track.”

“Then I count upon you, Clotilde, to introduce me to Madame d’Harville; I must see her to-day.”

“Impossible. Her husband has just fallen a victim to a frightful accident. A gun, which he did not know was loaded, went off while in his hands, and killed him on the spot.”

“Oh, this is horrible!”

“She departed immediately, to pass her first mourning at her father’s in Normandy.”

“Clotilde, I conjure you to write to her to-day; ask for whatever information she may possess. Since she interests herself for these poor women, tell her she cannot have a warmer auxiliary than me; my sole desire is to find the widow of my friend, and to partake with her and her daughter the little I possess. It is now my sole family.”

“Always the same—always generous and devoted! Count on me; I will write to-day to Madame d’Harville. Where shall I send her answer?”

“To Asnieres, poste restante.”

“What eccentricity! Why do you lodge there and not at Paris?”

“I hate Paris, on account of the souvenirs it awakens,” answered Saint Remy, with a gloomy air. “My old physician, Dr. Griffin, has a small country-house on the banks of the Seine, near Asnieres; he does not live there in winter, and offered it to me; it is almost a suburb of Paris; I could, after my researches, find there the solitude which pleases me; I have accepted.”

“I will write you, then, at Asnieres; I can, besides, give you now some information which may perhaps serve you, which I received from Madame d’Harville. The ruin of Madame de Fermont has been caused by the roguery of the notary who had the charge of her fortune. He denies the deposit.”

“The scoundrel! What is the fellow’s name?”

“Jacques Ferrand,” said the duchess, without being able to conceal her desire to laugh.

“What a strange being you are, Clotilde! There is nothing in all this but what is serious and sad, yet you laugh!” said the count, surprised and vexed.

“Pardon me, my friend,” answered the duchess; “the notary is such a singular man, and they tell such strange things of him. But, seriously, if his reputation as an honest man is no more merited than his reputation as a pious man (and I declare this usurped), he is a wretch!”

“And he lives—“

“Rue du Gentier.”

“He shall have a visit from me. What you have told me coincides with certain suspicions.”

“What suspicions?”

“From what I can learn respecting the death of the brother of my poor friend, I am almost led to believe that this unfortunate man, instead of committing suicide, has been the victim of an assassination.”

“Goodness! what makes you suppose this?”

“Several reasons, too long to tell you. I leave you now.”

“You leave without seeing Florestan?”

“This interview would be too painful for me–you must comprehend. I only braved it in the hopes of obtaining some information about Madame de Fermont, wishing to neglect no means to find her. Now adieu!”

“Oh, you are without pity!”

“Do you not know?”

“I know that your son has never had more need of your counsels.”

“Is he not rich–happy?”

“Yes; but he does not know mankind. Blindly prodigal, because he is confiding and generous–in everything, everywhere, and always truly noble. I fear he is abused. If you knew what a noble heart he has! I have never dared to lecture him on the subject of his expense and extravagance; in the first place, because I am at least as foolish as he is; and then for other reasons; but you on the contrary could–“

Madame de Lucenay did not finish; suddenly she heard the voice of Florestan de Saint Remy. He entered precipitately into the cabinet adjoining the saloon. After having quickly shut the door, he said, in an agitated voice, to some one who accompanied him, “But it is impossible!”

“But I repeat to you,” answered the clear and piercing voice of M. Badinot, “I repeat to you, that, without this, in four hours you will be arrested. For if he has not this money, our man will go and make a complaint to the attorney-general, and you know the penalty of a forgery like this–the galleys, my poor lord!”

It is impossible to describe the look which Madame de Lucenay and the father of Florestan exchanged on hearing these terrible words.

CHAPTER XXIX.

FATHER AND SON.

On hearing these fearful words addressed to his son by Badinot, the count changed color, and clung to a chair for support. His venerable and respected name dishonored by a man whom he had reason to doubt was his son? His first feeling overcome, the angry looks of the old man, and a threatening gesture which he made as he advanced toward the study revealed a resolution so alarming that Madame de Lucenay caught him by the hand, stopped him, and said, in a low tone, with the most profound conviction, “He is innocent; I swear to you! Listen in silence.”

The count stood still; he wished to believe what the duchess had said was true.

She, on her part, was persuaded of his honesty. To obtain new sacrifices from this woman, so blindly generous–sacrifices which alone had saved him from the threats of Jacques Ferrand–the viscount had sworn to Madame de Lucenay, that, dupe of a scoundrel from whom he had received in payment the forged bill, he ran the risk of being regarded as an accomplice of the forger, having himself put it in circulation.

Madame de Lucenay knew that the viscount was imprudent, prodigal, and careless; but never for a moment had she supposed him capable of an infamous action, not even the slightest indiscretion.

By twice lending him considerable sums under very peculiar circumstances, she had wished to render him a friendly service, the viscount only accepting this money on the express condition of returning it; for there was due to him, he said, more than twice this amount.

His apparent luxurious manner of living allowed her to believe it. Besides, Madame de Lucenay, yielding to her natural kind impulses, had only thought of being useful to Florestan, without any care whether he could repay or not. He affirmed it, and she did not doubt. In answering for the viscount’s honor, in supplicating the old count to listen to the conversation of his son, the duchess thought that he was going to speak of the abuse of confidence of which he had been a victim, and that he would be thus entirely exculpated in the eyes of his father.

“Once more,” continued Florestan, in an agitated voice, “I say this Petit Jean is a scoundrel; he assured me that he had no other bills than those I withdrew yesterday, and three days ago. I thought this one was in circulation: it was payable three months after date, at Adams & Co., London?”

“Yes, yes,” said the clear and sharp voice of Badinot. “I know, my dear viscount, that you have adroitly managed your affairs; your forgeries were not to be discovered until you were far away. But you have been caught by those more cunning than yourself.”

“Oh! it is very well to tell me this now, wretch that you are!” cried Florestan, furiously; “did you not yourself introduce this person to me, who has negotiated the paper?”

“Come, my dear aristocrat,” answered Badinot, coldly, “be calm! You are very skillful in counterfeiting commercial signatures; it is really wonderful; but that is no reason why you should treat your friends with disagreeable familiarity. If you go on in this way–I leave you to arrange as you please.”

“Do you think one can preserve calmness in such a position? If what you tell me is true–if this complaint is lodged against me to-day, I am lost.”

“It is exactly as I tell you, unless you should have recourse again to your charming providence with the blue eyes.”

“That is impossible.”

“Then be resigned. It is a pity it was the last note! for twenty-five thousand paltry francs, to go and take the air of the south at Toulon–it is ridiculous, absurd, stupid! How could a cunning man like you suffer yourself to be thus cornered?”

“What is to be done? what is to be done? nothing here belongs to me; I have not twenty louis of my own.”

“Your friends?”

“Oh! I owe to all who could lend me; do you think me such a fool as to have waited until to-day to ask them?”

“That is true; pardon me–come, let us talk tranquilly, it is the best way to arrive at a reasonable solution. Just now I wanted to tell you how you were attacked by those who were more cunning than yourself. You did not listen to me.”

“Well, speak, if it can be of any use.”

“Let us recapitulate: you said to me about two months since, ‘I have about one hundred and thirteen thousand francs in bills on different banking-houses, which have some time to run; can you find means to negotiate them for me, my dear Badinot–‘”

“Well! what next?”

“Stop! I asked to see them. Something told me that the bills were forgeries, although perfectly well done. I did not suspect that you, it is true, possessed a caligraphic talent so far advanced; but having the charge of your fortunes, ever since you had no more fortune, I knew you were completely ruined. I had drawn up the deed by which your horses, your carriages, the furniture of this hotel, belonged to Boyer and Patterson. It was not wonderful for me to be astonished at seeing you possess commercial securities of so much value, was it?”

“Do me the favor to spare me your astonishment and let us arrive at the facts.”

“Here they are. I had not enough experience or timidity to care to meddle directly in affairs of that description; I recommended a third person to you, who, not less sharp-sighted than I am, suspected the game you wished to play.”

“That is impossible-he would not have discounted these bills if he had thought them false.”

“How much money did he give you for the one hundred and thirteen thousand francs?”

“Twenty-five thousand francs cash, and the remainder in debts to be recovered.”

“And how much did you ever recover from these?”

“Nothing, you know well enough; they were imaginary; but he certainly risked twenty-five thousand francs.”

“How unfledged you are, my dear lord! Having my commission of a hundred louis to receive, I took good care not to tell this third person the real state of your affairs. He thought you still quite rich, and he knew, besides, that you were adored by a great lady, who was very rich, and who would never have you in embarrassment; he was then pretty sure to get back what he advanced; he ran some risk, to be sure; but he also had a chance of making a great deal of money, and his calculation was a good one; for, the other day you paid him one hundred thousand francs to withdraw the forgery of fifty-eight thousand francs, and yesterday thirty thousand francs for the second; for this last, he had been contented with receiving its real value. How you procured these thirty thousand francs yesterday may the devil run away with me if I know! for you are a man unique. So you see that at the end of the account, if Petit Jean forces you to pay the last draft for twenty-five thousand francs, he will have received from you one hundred and fifty-five thousand francs for twenty-five thousand francs which he paid you; now, I had reason to say that you were in the hands of those more cunning than yourself.”

“But why did he tell me that this last bill, which he presented to-day, was negotiated?”

“Not to alarm you; he also had told you that, with the exception of the fifty-eight thousand francs, the others were in circulation; the first, once paid, yesterday came the second, and to-day the third.”

“The scoundrel!”

“Listen to me, then: every one for himself, as a celebrated lawyer said, and I like the maxim. But let us talk coolly: this proves to you that Petit Jean (and, between us, I should not be surprised if, notwithstanding his holy reputation, Jacques Ferrand was half concerned in these speculations), this proves to you, I say, that Petit Jean, allured by your first payments, speculates on this last bill, quite sure that your friends will not allow you to be dragged before the judges. It is for you to see if these friends are so well used, so drained, that not another golden drop can be squeezed from them, for, if in three hours you have not the twenty-five thousand francs, my noble lord, you are caged.”

“If you were to repeat this to me forever–“

“Perhaps you would consent to pluck a last feather from the wing of that generous duchess.”

“I repeat to you, it must not be thought of. To find in three hours twenty-five thousand francs more, after all the sacrifices she has already made–it would be madness to think of it.”

“To please you, fortunate mortal, one would try an impossibility.”

“Oh! she has already tried it: this was to borrow one hundred thousand francs from her husband, and she succeeded; but these are experiments that cannot be tried twice. Let us see, my dear Badinot, until now you have never had any reason to complain of me. I have always been generous; try to obtain some delay from this miserable Petit Jean. You know I always can find means to recompense those who serve me; this last affair once hushed, I will take a new flight–you shall be content with me.”

“Petit Jean is as inflexible as you are unreasonable.”

“I!”

“Try only to interest once more your generous friend in your sad fate. The devil! Tell her right out the truth; not as you have already said, that you are the dupe, but that you are the forger himself.”

“No, never will I make such an acknowledgment; it would be shame without any advantage.”

“Do you prefer that she should learn it to-morrow by the ‘Police Gazette’?”

“I have three hours left–I can fly.”

“Where will you go without money? Judge now! on the contrary, this last forgery taken up, you will find yourself in a superb position; you would have no more debts. Come, come, promise me to speak once more to the duchess. You are such a rake, you know how to make yourself so interesting in spite of your faults; at the very worst, perhaps, you will be esteemed the less, or even no more, but you will be lifted out of this scrape. Come, promise me to see your friend, and I will run to Petit Jean, and do my best to obtain an hour or two more.”

“Hell! must I drink of shame to the very dregs?”

“Come now! good luck–be tender, charming, fond; I run to Petit Jean: you will find me here until three o’clock; later it will no longer be in time: the public prosecutor’s office is closed after four o’clock.”

Badinot took his departure.

When the door was closed, Florestan was heard to cry, in profound despair, “Lost!”

During this conversation, which unmasked to the count the infamy of his son, and to Madame de Lucenay the infamy of the man whom she had so blindly loved, both remained immovable, scarcely breathing, under the weight of this frightful revelation.

It would be impossible to describe the mute eloquence of the sorrowful scene which passed between this young woman and the count, when there was no longer any doubt of the crime of Florestan. Extending his arm toward the room where his son remained, the old man smiled with bitter irony, cast a withering look on Madame de Lucenay, and seemed to say to her:

“Behold him for whom you have braved all shame, made every sacrifice! Behold him you have reproached me for abandoning!”

The duchess understood the look; for a moment she hung her head under the weight of her shame. The lesson was terrible.

Then by degrees, to the cruel anxiety which had contracted the features of Madame de Lucenay succeeded a kind of noble indignation. The inexcusable faults of this woman were at least palliated by the fidelity of her love, by the boldness of her devotion, by the grandeur of her generosity, by the frankness of her character, and by her inexorable aversion for everything that was cowardly and dishonest.

Still too young, too handsome, too much sought after, to experience the humility of having been made use of, this proud and decided woman, once the illusion of love having vanished, felt neither hatred nor anger; instantaneously, without any transition, a mortal disgust, an icy disdain, killed her affection, until then so lively; it was no longer a woman deceived by her lover, but it was the lady of fashion discovering that a man of her society was a cheat and a forger.

In supposing even that some circumstances might have extenuated the ignominy of Florestan, Madame de Lucenay would not have admitted them; according to her views, the man who overstepped certain limits of honor, either through vice or weakness, no longer existed in her eyes, honor being for her a question of existence or non-existence. The only sorrowful feeling experienced by the duchess, was excited by the terrible effect which this unexpected revelation produced on the count, her old friend. For some moments he appeared not to see nor hear; his eyes were fixed, his head hung down, his arms suspended, his paleness livid, and from time to time a convulsive sigh escaped from his bosom. With a man as resolute as he was energetic, such a state of dejection was more alarming than the most furious bursts of rage.

Madame de Lucenay looked at him with much anxiety. “Courage, my friend,” said she to him, in a low tone, “for you, for me, for this man–I know what remains for me to do.”

The old man looked at her fixedly; then, as if he had been aroused from his stupor by some violent shock, he raised his head, his features assumed a threatening appearance, and, forgetting that his son might hear him, he cried: “And I, also, for you, for me, for this man–I know what I have to do.”

“Who is there?” cried Florestan, surprised.

Madame de Lucenay, fearing to meet the viscount, disappeared through the small door, and descended the private staircase.

Florestan, having again demanded who was there, and receiving no answer, entered the saloon.

The long beard of the old man changed him so much, he was so poorly dressed, that his son, who had not seen him for many years, did not at first recognize him; he advanced rapidly toward him with a menacing air, and said, “Who are you? What do you want here?”

“I am the husband of that woman!” answered the count, showing the portrait of Madame de Saint Remy.

“My father!” cried Florestan, retreating in alarm; and he endeavored to recall to mind the features so long forgotten. Erect, formidable, his looks irritated, his face purple with rage, his white hair thrown back, his arms crossed on his breast, the count, over-awed, confounded his son, who, with his head down, dared not to raise his eyes upon him. Yet Saint Remy, from some secret motive, made a violent effort to remain calm and to conceal his feelings of resentment.

“Father!” said Florestan, in a faltering voice, “you were there!” “I was there.”

“You have heard–“

“All.”

“Oh!” cried the viscount, mournfully, concealing his face in his hands.

There was a moment’s pause. Florestan, at first as much astonished as vexed at the unexpected apparition of his father, soon began to think what he could make out of this incident. “All is not lost,” said he to himself; “the presence of my father is a stroke of fate. He knows all; he will not have his name dishonored; he is not rich, but be must have more than twenty-five thousand francs. Let us play close–address, emotion, and a little tenderness. I will let the duchess alone, and I am saved!”

Then, giving to his charming features an expression of mournful dejection, moistening his eyes with the tears of repentance, assuming his most thrilling tones, his most pathetic manner, he cried, joining his hands with a gesture of despair: “Oh, my father: I am very unhappy! after so many years–to see you again, and at such a moment! I must appear so culpable to you! But deign to listen to me, I entreat you–I supplicate you; permit me, not to justify myself, but to explain to you my conduct; will you, my father?”

Old Saint Remy answered not a word: his features remained immovable: he seated himself, and with his chin resting on the palm of his hand, looked at his son in silence.

If Florestan had known the thoughts which filled the mind of his father with hatred, fury, and vengeance, alarmed at the apparent calmness of the count, he would not have tried to dupe him.

But, ignorant of the suspicions attached to his birth, ignorant of the fault of his mother, Florestan doubted not the success of his trick, believing he had only to soften a father who, at once a misanthrope and very proud of his name, would be capable, rather than see his name dishonored, to decide on any sacrifice.

“My father,” he resumed timidly, “permit me to try, not to exculpate myself, but to tell you how, from involuntary misleadings, I have reached, almost in spite of myself, actions–infamous–I acknowledge.” The viscount took the silence of his father for a tacit consent, and continued:

“When I had the misfortune to lose my mother–my poor mother, who loved me so well–I was not twenty. I found myself alone, without counsel, without protection. Master of a considerable fortune, accustomed to luxury from my childhood, I had made it a habit, a want. Ignorant of the difficulty of earning money, I lavished it without measure. Unfortunately–and I say unfortunately, because this ruined me–my expenses, foolish as they were, by their elegance were remarkable. By good taste I eclipsed people who were ten times richer than I was. This first success intoxicated me. I became a man of luxury as one becomes a warrior or a statesman; yes, I loved luxury, not from vulgar ostentation, but I loved it as the painter loves a picture, as the poet loves poetry; like every other artist, I was jealous of my work; and my work was my luxury. I sacrificed everything to its perfection. I wished it fine, grand, complete, splendidly harmonious in everything, from my stables to my table, from my dress to my house. I wished in everything to be a model of taste and elegance. As an artist, in fine, I was greedy of the applause of the crowd, and of the admiration of people of fashion; this success, so rare, I obtained.”

In speaking thus, the features of Florestan lost by degrees their hypocritical expression; his eyes shone with a kind of enthusiasm; he told the truth; he had been at first reduced by this rather uncommon manner of understanding luxury. He looked inquiringly at his father; he thought he appeared rather softened.

He resumed, with growing warmth: “Oracle and regulator of the fashions, my praise or censure made the law; I was quoted, copied, extolled, admired, and that by the best company in Paris, that is to say, Europe, the world. The women partook of the general infatuation; the most charming disputed for the pleasure of coming to some very select fetes which I gave; and everywhere, and always, nothing was heard but of the incomparable elegance and exquisite taste of these fetes, which the millionaires could neither equal nor eclipse; in fine, I was the Glass of Fashion. This word will tell you all, my father, if you understand it.”

“I understand it, and I am sure that at the galleys you will invent some refined elegance in the manner of carrying your chain, that will become the fashion in the yard, and will be called a la Saint Remy,” said the old man, with bitter irony; then he added, “and Saint Remy is my name!”

It caused Florestan to exercise much control over himself to conceal the wound caused by this sarcasm.

He continued, in a more humble tone: “Alas! my father, it is not from pride that I recall the fact of this success; for, I repeat to you, this success ruined me. Sought after, envied, flattered, praised, not by interested parasites, but by people whose position much surpassed mine, and over whom I only had the advantage derived from elegance– which is to luxury what taste is to the arts–my head was turned; I did not calculate that my fortune must be spent in a few years; little did I heed it. Could I renounce this feverish, dazzling life, in which pleasure succeeded to pleasure, enjoyments to enjoyments, fetes to fetes, intoxications of all sorts to enchantments of all sorts? Oh, if you knew, my father, what it is to be everywhere noticed as the hero of the day; to hear the whisperings which announce your entrance into a saloon; to hear the women say, ‘It is he!–there he is!’ Oh! if you knew—-“

“I know,” said the old man, interrupting his son, and without changing his position; “I know. Yes, the other day, in a public square, there was a crowd, suddenly I heard a noise, like that with which you are received when you go anywhere; then the looks of all, the women especially, were fixed on a very handsome young man, just as they are fixed on you, and they pointed him out, just as they do you, saying, ‘It is he! there he is!’ just exactly as they say of you.”

“But this man, my father?”

“Was a forger they were placing in the pillory.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Florestan, with suppressed rage; then, feigning profound affliction, he added: “My father, have you no pity–what can I say to you now? I do not seek to deny my faults–I only wish to explain to you the fatal cause of them. Ah, well! yes, should you again overwhelm me with cruel sarcasms, I will try to go to the end of this confession–I will try to make you understand this feverish vanity which has ruined me, because then, perhaps, you will pity me. Yes, for one pities a fool–and I was a fool. Shutting my eyes, I abandoned myself to the dazzling vortex, into which I dragged along with me the most charming women, the most amiable men. Stop myself– could I do it? As well say to the poet who exhausts himself, and whose genius is consuming his health, ‘Pause in the midst of the inspiration which carries you away!’ No! I could not; I–I! abdicate this royalty which I exercised, and return, ruined, ashamed, mocked, to the state of a plebeian–unknown; give this triumph to my rivals, whom I had until then defied, ruled, crushed! No, no, I could not! not voluntarily, at least. The fatal day came, when, for the first time, my money was wanting. I was as surprised as if this moment never could happen. Yet I had still my horses, my carriages, and the furniture of this house. My debts paid, I should still have sixty thousand francs– perhaps–what should I do with this trifle? Then, my father, I took the first step in infamy. I was still honest. I had only spent what belonged to me; but then I began to contract debts which I could not pay. I sold all I possessed to two of my people, in order to settle with them, and to be able, for six months longer, to enjoy this luxury which intoxicated me, in spite of my creditors. To provide for my wants at play and foolish expenses, I borrowed, in the first place, from the Jews; then, to pay the Jews, from my friends. These resources exhausted, commenced a new era of my life. From an honest man I had become a chevalier d’industrie, but I was not yet criminal. However, I hesitated. I wished to take a violent resolution. I had proved in several duels that I was not afraid of death. I thought I would kill myself.”

“Indeed?” said the count, ironically.

“You do not believe me, my father?”

“It was too soon, or too late!” added the old man, quite immovable, and in the same attitude.

Florestan, thinking he had alarmed his father in speaking to him of his project of suicide, thought it necessary to get up the scene again for a little stage effect. He opened a closet and took from it a little green crystal vial, and said to the count, placing it on the mantelpiece: “An Italian quack sold me this poison.”

“And–it was for yourself?” said the old man, still leaning on his elbow.

Florestan understood the bearing of his father’s words. His face now expressed real indignation, for he spoke the truth. One day, he had had the idea of killing himself–an ephemeral fantasy; people of his stamp are too cowardly to resolve coldly and without witnesses upon death, which they will boldly meet in a duel through a point of honor. He cried, then, in a tone of truth, “I have fallen very low, but at least not so low as that, my father! It was for myself I reserved the poison!”

“And you were afraid?” said the count, without change of position.

“I confess it, I recoiled before this dreadful extremity; nothing was yet desperate, the persons whom I owed were rich, and could wait. At my age, with my relations, I hoped for a moment, if not to repair my fortune, at least to assure myself an honorable independent position in its place. Several of my friends, perhaps, less capable than myself had made rapid strides in diplomacy. I had a velleity of ambition. I had only to request, and I was attached to the legation of Gerolstein. Unfortunately, some days after this nomination, a gambling debt contracted with a man I hated placed me in the most cruel embarrassment. I had exhausted every resource. A fatal idea occurred to me. Believing myself certain of impunity, I committed an infamous action. You see, my father, I conceal nothing from you. I confess the ignominy of my conduct. I seek to extenuate nothing. One of two resolutions remains for me to take, and I have now to decide which. The first is to kill myself, and to leave your name dishonored, for if I do not pay to-day even the twenty-five thousand francs, the complaint is made, the affair known, and, dead or living, I am ruined. The second means is to throw myself in the hands of my father, to say to you, save your son, save your name from infamy, and I swear to leave to-morrow for Africa, to enlist as a soldier, and either to be killed or to return some day honorably reinstated. What I now tell you, my father, is true. In face of the extremity which overwhelms me, I have no other way. Decide; either I die covered with shame, or thanks to you, I will live to repair my faults. These are not the threats and words of a young man, my father. I am now twenty-five; I bear your name; I have courage enough either to kill myself, or to become a soldier, for I will not go to the galleys.”

The count arose.

“I will not have my name dishonored,” said he coldly to Florestan.

“Oh, my father! my savior!” cried the viscount, warmly; and he was about to throw himself into the arms of his father, when he, with an icy gesture, checked the impulse.

“They wait for you until three o’clock, at the house of this man who has the forgery?”

“Yes, my father; and it is now two o’clock.”

“Let us pass into your cabinet–give me something to write with.”

“Here, my father.” The count seated himself before the desk of his son, and wrote with a firm hand:

“I engage to pay this night, at ten o’clock, the 25,000 francs which are owed by my son.

“COUNT DE SAINT REMY.”

“Your creditor insists upon having the money; notwithstanding his threats, this engagement of mine will make him consent to a new delay; he can go to Mr. Dupont, banker, in the Rue de Richelieu, No. 7, who will inform him of the value of this note.”

“Oh, father! however can–“

“You may expect me to-night; at ten o’clock. I will bring you the money. Let your creditor be here.”

“Yes, father, and after to-morrow, I start for Africa. You shall see if I am ungrateful. Then, perhaps, when I have reinstated myself, you will accept my thanks.”

“You owe me nothing; I have said my name shall be no further dishonored; it shall not be,” said M. de Saint Remy, calmly; and taking his cane, which he had placed on the bureau, he turned toward the door.

“Father, your hand at least!” said Florestan, in a supplicating tone.

“Here, to-night, at ten-o’clock,” replied the count, refusing his hand. And he departed.

“Saved!” cried Florestan, joyfully, “saved!” then, after a moment’s reflection, he added, “saved! almost. No matter; so far good. Perhaps to-night I will acknowledge the other thing; he is in train; he will not stop halfway and let his sacrifice be useless, because he refuses a second. Yet why tell him? Who will know it? Never mind; if nothing is discovered, I will keep the money that he will give me to pay this last debt. I had a great deal of trouble to move him, this devil of a man! The bitterness of his sarcasms made me doubt my success; but my threat of suicide, the fear of having his name dishonored, decided him; that was the lucky stroke. He is, doubtless, not so poor as he pretends to be, if he possesses a hundred thousand francs. He must have saved money, living as he does. Once more, I say his coming was a lucky chance. He has a cross look, but, at the bottom, I think he is a good fellow; but I must hasten to this bailiff.” He rang the bell. Boyer appeared.

“Why did you not inform me that my father was here? you are very negligent.”

“Twice I endeavored to speak to you when you came through the garden with M. Badinot; but, probably, preoccupied by your conversation with M. Badinot, you made a motion with the hand not to be interrupted. I did not permit myself to insist. I should be deeply wounded if my lord could believe me guilty of negligence.”

“Very well; tell Edward to harness immediately Orion–no–Plower, to the cabriolet.”

Boyer bowed respectfully; as he was about to retire, some one knocked at the door.

“Come in!” said Florestan.

A second valet appeared, holding in his hand a small salver. Boyer took hold of the salver with a kind of jealous officiousness, and came and presented it to the viscount, who took from it a rather voluminous envelope, sealed with black wax. The valets retired ceremoniously. The viscount opened the package. It contained twenty-five thousand francs, in treasury notes; with no other information.

“Decidedly,” cried he, with joy, “the day is lucky–sacred! this time, completely saved. I shall go to the jeweler’s–and yet–perhaps–no, let us wait–they can have no suspicion of me–twenty-five thousand francs are good to keep; pardieu! I was a fool ever to doubt my star; at the moment it seems most obscured does it not appear more brilliant than ever? But where does this money come from? the writing of the address is unknown to me; let me look at the seal–the cipher; yes, yes, I am not mistaken–an N and an L–it is Clotilde! How has she known?–and not a word–it is strange! How apropos! Oh I reflect–I made a rendezvous for this morning–these threats of Badinot upset me. I had forgotten Clotilde–after having waited some time, she has gone. Doubtless, this is sent as a delicate hint that she fears I shall forget her on account of my monetary embarrassments. Yes, it is an indirect reproach for not addressing myself to her as usual. Good Clotilde–always the same!–generous as a queen! What a pity to come again from her–still so handsome! Sometimes I regret it; but I have never asked her until, at the last extremity, I have been forced to it.”

“The cabriolet is ready,” said Boyer.

“Who brought this letter?”

“I am uninformed, my lord.”

“Exactly–I will ask at the door; but tell me, is there no one below?” added the viscount, looking at Boyer in a significant manner.

“There is no longer any one, my lord.”

“I was not deceived,” thought Florestan. “Clotilde has waited for me, and has gone away.”

“Will my lord have the goodness to grant me two minutes?” said Boyer.

“Speak, but make haste.”

“Mr. Patterson and I have understood that his Grace the Duke of Montbrison was about to establish himself; if your lordship would have the goodness to propose to let him have his house all furnished, as well as the stables, it would be a good occasion for us to dispose of all; and, perhaps, might also suit my lord.”

“You are right, Boyer! I should much prefer it. I will see Montbrison, and will speak to him about it. What are your conditions?”

“Your lordship understands that we ought to try to profit as much as we can by his generosity.”

“And gain by your bargain? nothing can be plainer! Come, what is the price?”

“For the whole, two hundred and sixty thousand francs, my lord.”

“How much do you and Patterson make?”

“About forty thousand francs, my lord.”

“Very pretty! However, so much the better; for, after all, I am satisfied with you, and if I had had a will to make, I should have left this sum to you and Patterson.” The viscount went out to go, in the first place, to his creditor and Madame de Lucenay, whom he did not suspect of having overheard his conversation with Badinot.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE INTERVIEW.

Lucenay House was one of those princely habitations of the Faubourg Saint Germain which the unobstructed view renders so magnificent. A modern house could have been placed with ease in the space occupied by the staircase of one of these palaces; and an entire ward on the ground they covered.

Toward nine o’clock in the evening of this same day, the enormous gateway was opened to a glittering carriage, which, after having described a scientific curve in the immense court stopped before a covered porch, which led to an antechamber.

While the stampings of the two vigorous and mettlesome horses resounded on the pavement, a gigantic footman opened the emblazoned door, and a young man descended slowly from this brilliant vehicle, and not less slowly mounted the five or six steps of the porch.

This was the Viscount de Saint Remy.

On leaving his creditor, who, satisfied with the engagement made by the Count de Saint Remy, had granted the delay asked, and agreed to come to Rue Chaillot at ten o’clock, Florestan was come to thank Madame de Lucenay for the new service she had rendered; but, not having met the duchess in the morning, he came in great spirits, certain to find her at the hour she habitually reserved for him.

From the obsequiousness of the two footmen in the antechamber who ran to open the door as soon as they recognized the carriage; from the profoundly respectful air with which the rest of the liveried servants spontaneously arose as the viscount passed, one could easily see that he was looked upon as the second, if not the real master of the mansion.

When the Duke de Lucenay entered his house, his umbrella in his hand, and his feet in huge overshoes (he detested riding in the daytime), the same domestic evolutions were repeated, and always respectfully; yet to the eyes of an observer, there was a great difference of expression between the reception given to the husband, and that which was reserved for the _cicisbeo_.

The same respectful eagerness was manifested in the saloon of the valets when Florestan entered there; in a moment, one of them preceded him, to announce him to Madame de Lucenay.

Never had Florestan been more conceited; never did he feel more easy, more sure of himself, more irresistible. The victory which he had gained in the morning over his father; the new proof of attachment from Madame de Lucenay; the joy at having so miraculously escaped from so cruel a position; his renewed confidence in his star, gave to his handsome face an expression of boldness and good humor which rendered him still more seducing. In fine, he never was more pleased with himself; and he had reason.

A last glance in a mirror completed the excellent opinion that Florestan had of himself.

The valet opened the folding doors of the saloon, and announced, “His lordship the Viscount de Saint Remy.”

The astonishment and indignation of the duchess were indescribable. She thought the count must have told his son that she also had overheard all.

We have said before, that, on learning the infamy of Florestan, the love of Madame de Lucenay was at once changed into utter disdain.

Being engaged out that evening, she was, although without diamonds, dressed with her usual taste and magnificence: this splendid toilet; the rouge which she wore boldly; her beauty, quite striking at night; her figure of “the goddess sailing on clouds,” rendered still more striking a dignity, which no one possessed more than she did, and which she pushed, when it was necessary, to a most superlative haughtiness.

The proud, determined character of the duchess is known to the reader; let him imagine her look, when the viscount, smiling, advanced toward her, and said in loving tones, “My dear Clotilde, how kind you are! how much you—-” The viscount could not finish.

The duchess was seated, and had not stirred; but her actions, the glance of her eye, revealed a contempt at once so calm and so withering, that Florestan stopped short. He could not say a word, or make a step in advance. Never had Madame de Lucenay conducted herself thus toward him. He could not believe it to be the same woman whom he had always found so tender and affectionate. His first surprise over, Florestan was ashamed of his weakness; he resumed his habitual audacity; making a step toward Madame de Lucenay to take her hand, he said to her in the most caressing manner, “Clotilde, how is this? I have never seen you so handsome, and yet–“

“Oh! this is too impudent!” cried the duchess, recoiling with such unequivocal disgust and pride, that Florestan once more was surprised and confounded.

However, assuming a little assurance, he said to her: “You will inform me, at least, Clotilde, the cause of this sudden change? What have I done? What do you wish?”

Without replying to him, Madame de Lucenay looked at him from head to foot, with an expression so insulting that Florestan felt the flush of resentment mount to his forehead, and he cried, “I know, madame, you are habitually very hasty in your ruptures. Is it a rupture you wish?”

“The pretension is curious!” said Madame de Lucenay, with a burst of sardonic laughter. “Know that when a lackey robs me–I do not break with him–I turn him out.”

“Madame!”

“Let us put a stop to this,” said the duchess, in a decided and haughty tone. “Your presence is repugnant to me! What do you want here? Have you not got your money?”

“I was right then. I guessed it was you. These twenty-five thousand francs–“

“Your last forgery is withdrawn, is it not? The honor of your family name is saved. It is saved. Go away. Ah! believe–I much regret this money–it would have succored so many honest people; but it was necessary to think of your father’s shame and of mine.”

“Then, Clotilde, you know all! Oh! look you now; nothing remains for me but to die,” cried Florestan in the most pathetic and despairing tone.

A burst of indignant laughter from the duchess replied to this tragical exclamation, and she added, between two fits of hilarity, “I never could have thought that infamy could make itself so ridiculous!”

“Madame!” cried Florestan, almost blind with rage.

The folding doors were thrown open suddenly, and a valet announced, “His Grace the Duke de Montbrison!”

Notwithstanding his habitual self-command, Florestan could hardly restrain himself, which a man more accustomed to society than the duke would certainly have remarked. Montbrison was scarcely eighteen.

Let the reader imagine the charming face of a young girl, fair, white, and red, whose rosy lips and smooth chin shall be slightly shaded with an incipient beard; add to this, large brown eyes, still slightly timid, a figure as graceful as that of the duchess, and he will have, perhaps, an idea of the appearance of this young duke, the most ideal Cherubino that a Countess and a Susanna had ever put on a woman’s cap, after admiring the whiteness of his ivory neck.

The viscount had the weakness or the audacity to remain.

“How kind you are, Conrad, to have thought of me tonight!” said Madame de Lucenay in the most affectionate tone, extending her beautiful hand to the young duke who hastened to shake hands with his cousin; but Clotilde shrugged her shoulders, and said to him gayly, “You may kiss them, cousin: you wear your gloves.”

“Pardon me, cousin,” said the youth; and he pressed his lips on the charming hand she presented him.

“What are you going to do this evening, Conrad?” demanded the duchess, without taking the least notice of Florestan.

“Nothing, cousin; when I leave here, I am going to my club.”

“Not at all: you shall accompany M. de Lucenay and me to Madame de Senneval’s; it is her night; she has already asked me several times to present you.”

“Cousin, I shall be too happy to place myself under your orders.”

“And besides, frankly, I do not like to see you so soon accustom yourself to this taste for clubs; you have every requisite to be perfectly well received and even sought after in society. So you must go oftener.”

“Yes, cousin.”

“And as I am with you pretty much on the footing of a grandmother, my dear Conrad, I am disposed to be very maternal. You are emancipated it is true; but still I think you will have need for a long time of a tutor. And you must absolutely accept of me.”

“With joy, with delight, my cousin!” said the young duke with vivacity.

It is impossible to describe the mute rage of Florestan, who remained standing, leaning against the chimney-piece.

Neither the duke nor Clotilde paid any attention to him. Knowing how quickly Madame de Lucenay decided on anything, he imagined that she pushed her audacity and contempt so far that she wished to play the coquette openly and before him with the young duke.

It was not so; the duchess felt for her young cousin an affection quite maternal. But the young duke was so handsome, he seemed so happy at the gracious reception of his young cousin, that Florestan was exasperated by jealousy, or rather by pride; his heart writhed under the cruel stings of envy, inspired by Conrad de Montbrison, who, rich and charming, entered so splendidly this life of pleasures, which he was leaving–he, ruined, despised, disgraced.

Saint Remy was brave–with the bravery of the head, if we may so express it, which, through anger or vanity, causes one to face a duel; but vile and corrupted, he had not that courage of the heart which triumphs over evil propensities, or which at least gives one the energy to escape infamy by a voluntary death.

Furious at the sovereign contempt of the duchess, thinking he saw a successor in the young duke, Saint Remy resolved to match the insolence of Clotilde, and, if it was necessary, to select a quarrel with Conrad. The duchess, irritated at the audacity of Florestan, did not look at him; and Montbrison, in his attraction toward his cousin, forgetting the usages of society, had neither bowed nor said a word to the viscount, whom he knew perfectly.

He advanced toward Conrad, whose back was turned toward him, touched his arm lightly, and said, in an ironical and dry tone, “Good-evening, your grace; a thousand pardons for not having perceived you before.”

Montbrison, feeling that he had been wanting in politeness, turned quickly, and said, cordially, “Sir, I am confused, truly, but I dare hope that my cousin, who has caused my want of attention, will be pleased to make my excuses, and–“

“Conrad!” said the duchess, incensed at the impudence of Florestan, who persisted in remaining and braving her; “Conrad, it is right; no excuses; it is not worth the trouble.”

Montbrison, believing that his cousin reproached him in a playful manner for being too formal, said gayly to the viscount, who was white with rage, “I shall not insist, sir, since my cousin forbids. You see her tutelage commences.”

“And this tutelage will not stop there, my dear sir, be quite assured. Thus, in this view of the case (which her grace the duchess will readily approve, I do not doubt), an idea has just struck me to make you a proposition.”

“Me, sir?” said Conrad, beginning to dislike the sneering tone of Florestan.

“You. I leave in some days for Gerolstein. I wish to dispose of my house, all furnished, and my stables; you also should make _an arrangement_.” The viscount emphasized these last words, looking at Madame de Lucenay. “It would be very piquant, would it not, your grace?”

“I do not comprehend you, sir,” said Montbrison, more and more astonished.

“I will tell you, Conrad, why you cannot accept the offer which has been made you,” said Clotilde.

“And why cannot his grace accept my offer, madame?”

“My dear Conrad, that which is proposed to be sold to you is already sold to others. You comprehend? You would have the inconvenience of being robbed as on the highway.”

Florestan bit his lips with rage. “Take care, madame,” cried he.

“How? threats here?” said Conrad.

“Come now, Conrad, pay no attention,” said Madame de Lucenay, eating a bonbon imperturbably. “A man of honor ought not, nor may not, commit himself with this gentleman. If he insists, I will tell you wherefore.”

A terrible scene was perhaps about to take place, when the doors were again thrown open, and the Duke de Lucenay entered, and, according to custom, with much noise and disturbance.

“How, my dear! not ready?” said he to his wife. “Why, it is astonishing–surprising! Good-evening, Saint Remy; good-evening, Conrad. Oh, you see before you the most despairing of men–that is to say, I cannot sleep; I cannot eat; I am stupefied; I cannot get used to it. Poor D’Harville, what an event!” And M. de Lucenay, throwing himself backward on a sofa, threw his hat from him with a gesture of despair, and, crossing his left leg over the right knee, he took his foot in his hand, continuing to utter exclamations of grief.

The emotions of Conrad and Florestan had time to be subdued before M. de Lucenay, the least observing man in the world, had perceived anything.

Madame de Lucenay, not from embarrassment–she was not a woman to be untimely embarrassed–but the presence of Florestan was repugnant and unsupportable, said to the duke, “When you are ready, we will go. I am to present Conrad to Madame de Senneval.”

“No!” said the duke; and, throwing down a cushion, he arose quickly, and began to walk about, violently gesticulating. “I cannot help but think of poor D’Harville; can you, Saint Remy?”

“Truly, a frightful event!” said the viscount, who, with hatred and rage in his heart, sought the looks of Montbrison; but he, after the last words of his cousin, not from want of courage, but from pride, turned away from a man so terribly debased.

“Pray, my lord,” said the duchess to her husband, “do not regret M. d’Harville in a manner so noisy, and, above all, so singularly. Ring, if you please, for my servants.”

“Only to think,” said M. de Lucenay, seizing hold of the bell-pull, “three days ago he was full of life, and now, what remains of him? Nothing, nothing, nothing!” These last three exclamations were accompanied by three pulls of the bell so violent, that the cord broke which he held in his hand, separated from the upper string, and fell upon a candelabra filled with waxlights, and overturned two; one fell upon the mantelpiece, and broke a beautiful little vase of Sevres china; the other rolled on the ground, and set fire to a rug of ermine, which, for a moment in a blaze, was almost immediately extinguished by Conrad.

At the same moment, two valets, summoned by the loud ringing, arrived in haste, and found M. de Lucenay with the bell rope in his hand, the duchess laughing violently at this ridiculous cascade of candies, and Montbrison partaking the hilarity of his cousin.

Saint Remy alone did not laugh.

[Illustration: CAPITAL AND LABOR IN HARMONY ]

Lucenay, quite habituated to such accidents, preserved a serious countenance; he threw the rope to one of the servants, and said, “The coach!”

When he became a little more calm, the duchess said, “Really, sir, there is no one else in the world but yourself who could have caused a laugh at so lamentable an event.”

“Lamentable! you may well say frightful! horrible! Now, only see, since yesterday I have been thinking how many persons there are, even in my own family, who I would rather should have died than poor D’Harville. My nephew Emberval, for instance, who is so tiresome with his stammering; or your aunt Merinville, who is always talking of her nerves, her blues, and who swallows every day, while waiting for her dinner, an abominable potpie, just like a bricklayer’s wife! Do you think much of your aunt Merinville?”

“Hush! your grace is crazy!” said the duchess, shrugging her shoulders.

“But it is true,” answered the duke; “one would give a hundred indifferent persons for a friend. Is it not so, Saint Remy?”

“Doubtless.”

“It is always that old story of the tailor. Do you know, Conrad, the story of the tailor?”

“No, cousin.”

“You will understand at once the allegory. A tailor was condemned to be hung; there was no other tailor in the village; what do the inhabitants do? They said to the judge, ‘Your honor, we have only one tailor, and we have three shoemakers; if it is all the same to you to hang one of the shoemakers in the place of the tailor, we shall have quite enough with two shoemakers.’ Do you comprehend the allegory, Conrad?”

‘Yes, cousin.”

“And you, Saint Remy?”

“I also.”

“The coach,” said one of the servants.

“Oh! but why do you not wear your diamonds?” said M. de Lucenay, unexpectedly; “with this dress they would look devilish well.”

Saint Remy shuddered.

“For one poor little time that we go out together,” continued the duke, “you might have honored me with your diamonds. They are really very handsome. Have you ever seen them, Saint Remy?”

“Yes; his lordship knows them by heart,” said Clotilde. “Give me your arm, Conrad.”

Lucenay followed the duchess with Saint Remy, who was almost beside himself with rage.

“Are you not coming with us to the Sennevals’?” said Lucenay to him.

“No, impossible,” answered he hastily.

“By the way, Saint Remy, Madame de Senneval is another one–what do I say, one?–two-whom I would sacrifice willingly; for her husband is also on my list.”

“What list?”

“Of those persons whom I would willingly see die, if poor D’Harville could have remained.”

While Montbrison was assisting his cousin with her mantle, Lucenay said to him, “Since you are going with us, Conrad, order your carriage to follow ours, unless you will go, Saint Remy; then you can give me a place, and I will tell you a story worth two of the tailor’s.”

“I thank you,” said Florestan, dryly: “I cannot accompany you.”

“Then, good-bye. Have you had a dispute with my wife? See, she is getting into the carriage without speaking to you!”

“Cousin!” said Conrad, waiting through deference for the duke.

“Get in, get in,” cried he: and stopping for a moment in the porch, he admired the viscount’s equipage.

“Are these your sorrels, Saint Remy?”

“Yes.”

“And your fat driver–what a figure! Just see how he holds his horses in his hands! I must confess, there is no one but a Saint Remy who has the best of everything.”

“Madame de Lucenay and her cousin are waiting,” said Florestan, with bitterness.

“It is true; how rude I am! Soon again, Saint Remy. Oh, I forgot; if you have nothing better to do, come and dine with us to-morrow. Lord Dudley has sent me from Scotland some grouse and heathcocks. Just imagine something monstrous. It is agreed, is it not?”

The duke joined his wife and Conrad. Saint Remy remained alone, and saw the carriage depart; his own drew up, and as he took his seat he cast a look of rage, hatred, and despair on this house, where he had so often entered as a master, and which he now left, ignominiously driven away.

“Home,” he said, roughly.

“To the hotel,” said the footman to Patterson, shutting the door.

The bitter and sorrowful thoughts of Florestan on his way home can easily be imagined. As he entered, Boyer, who was waiting for him at the lodge, said, “My lord, the count is upstairs.”

“It is well.”

“There is also a man there, to whom the count has given an appointment at ten o’clock.”

“Well, well. Oh, what a day!” said Florestan, as he was going upstairs to meet his father, whom he found in the saloon where the morning’s interview had taken place. “A thousand pardons, father, for not being here when you arrived; but I—-“

“The man who holds this forged draft is here?”

“Yes, father, below.”

“Send for him to come up.”

Florestan rang the bell; Boyer answered.

“Tell M. Petit Jean to come here.”

“Yes, my lord;” and Boyer disappeared.

“How kind you are, father, to remember your promise!”

“I always remember what I promise.”

“How grateful! How can I ever prove—-“

“I will not have my name dishonored; it shall not be.”

“It shall not be; no; and it shall never be more, I swear to you, father.”

The count looked at his son in a singular manner, and repeated, “No, it shall never be more!” Then, with a sneering laugh, he added, “You are a conjuror!”

“I read my resolution in my heart.”

The count made no reply, but walked up and down the room with his hands in the large pockets of his overcoat.

“M. Petit Jean,” said Boyer, introducing a man with a low and cunning expression of face.

“Where is that bill?” said the count.

“Here it is, sir,” said Petit Jean (a man of straw of Jacques Ferrand) presenting it.

“Is that it?” said the count to his son.

“Yes, father.”

The count drew from the pocket of his waistcoat twenty-five notes of one thousand francs each, handed them to his son, and said, “Pay!”

Florestan paid, and took the draft with a profound sigh of satisfaction.

M. Petit Jean placed the bills carefully in an old pocket-book, and retired. Saint Remy went with him out of the room, while Florestan prudently tore up the note.

“At least the twenty-five thousand francs from Clotilde remain. If nothing is discovered, it is a consolation. But how she has treated me! Now, what can my father have to say to Petit Jean?”

The noise of a key turned in a lock made the viscount shudder.

His father re-entered; his pallor had increased.

“I thought I heard some one lock the door of my cabinet, father?”

“Yes, I locked it.”

“You, father!” cried Florestan, surprised.

The count placed himself so that his son could not descend the private stairs which led to out-doors.

Florestan, alarmed, began to remark the sinister look of his father, and followed all his movements with anxiety. Without being able to explain it, he felt alarmed. “Father, what is the matter?”

“This morning, on seeing me, your sole thought has been this: Father will not have his name dishonored; he will pay, if I can manage to make him believe in my assumed repentance.”

“Oh! can you think that–“

“Do not interrupt me. I have been your dupe; you have neither shame nor regret, nor remorse: you are rotten to the heart; you have never had an honest sentiment; you have not robbed as long as you had enough to satisfy your caprices; that is what is called probity by rich people of your stamp; then followed want of decency, then baseness, crime, and forgery. This is only the first period of your life–it is beautiful and pure compared to that which awaits you.”

“If I did not change my conduct, I acknowledge; but I will change, father. I have sworn it to you.”

“You would not change.”

“But–“

“You could not change! Driven from the society to which you have been accustomed, you would soon become criminal, like the wretches with whom you would associate: a robber inevitably, and, if necessary, an assassin. There is your future life.”

“I an assassin!”

“Yes, because you are a coward!”

“I have fought duels, and I have proved–“

“I tell you, you are a coward! You have preferred infamy to death! A day will come when you will prefer the impunity of your new crimes to the life of others! That cannot be; I arrive in time to save, henceforth, at least, my name from public dishonor. It must be finished.”

“How, father, finished! what do you mean to say?” cried Florestan, more and more alarmed at the expression of his father and his increasing paleness.

Suddenly some one knocked violently at the door of the cabinet. Florestan made a movement, as if to open it, but his father seized him with an iron hand, and withheld him.

“Who knocks?” demanded the former.

“In the name of the law, open, open!” said a voice.

“This forgery was not, then, the last?” said the count, in a low voice, looking at his son with a terrible scowl.

“Yes, father, I swear it,” answered Florestan, trying in vain to release himself from the hold.

“In the name of the law open!” repeated the voice.

“What do you want?” demanded the count.

“I am an officer of police; I come to make a search on account of a robbery of diamonds, of which M. de Saint Remy is accused. M. Baudoin, jeweler, has the proofs. If you do not open, sir, I shall be obliged to break in the door.”

“A robber already! I was not deceived,” said the count, in a low tone. “I came to kill you–I have delayed too long.”

“To kill me!”

“My name is enough dishonored! let us finish: I have two pistols here– you are going to blow out your brains, otherwise I will do it for you, and I will say you killed yourself to escape shame.”

And the count, with frightful _sang-froid_, drew from his pocket a pistol, and with his disengaged hand gave it to his son, saying:

“Come, proceed, if you are not a coward.”

After new and fruitless efforts to escape from the bands of the count, his son fell backward, overcome with fright and pale with horror. From the terrible and inexorable looks of his father, he saw there was no pity to expect from him.

“Father!” he cried.

“You must die!”

“I repent!”

“It is too late! Do you hear? they will break down the door!”

“I will expiate my faults!”

“They are going to enter! Must I, then, kill you?”

“Pardon!”

“The door will give way! You will have it so.” And the count placed the pistol against the breast of his son.

The viscount saw that he was lost. He took a sudden and desperate resolution; no longer struggling with his father, he said, with firmness and resignation, “You are right, my father; give me this pistol. There is infamy enough attached to my name; the life that awaits me is frightful, it is not worth contending for. Give me the pistol. You shall see if I am a coward.” And he extended his hand. “But, at least, a word, one single word of consolation, of pity, of farewell,” said Florestan. His trembling lips and ashy paleness evinced the emotion of his trying situation.

“If this should be my son!” thought the count, hesitating to give him the instrument, “if this is my son, I ought still less to hesitate at this sacrifice.” The door of the cabinet was broken in with a tremendous crash.

“Father–they come–oh! I feel now that death is a benefaction. Thanks, thanks! but at least your hand, and pardon me!”

Notwithstanding his firmness, the count could not prevent a shudder, and said, in a broken voice, “I pardon you.”

“Father, the door opens; go to them; do not let them suspect you, at least. And then, if they enter here, they will prevent me from finishing. Adieu.”

The footsteps of several persons were heard in the adjoining apartment.

Florestan pointed the pistol to his heart.

It was discharged at the moment when the count, to escape this horrible scene had turned away, and rushed out of the room, the curtains closing after him.

At the noise of the explosion, at the sight of the count, pale and trembling, the commissary stopped suddenly at the threshold of the door, making a sign for his officers not to advance.

Informed by Badinot that the viscount was closeted with his father, the magistrate at once comprehended everything, and respected his great sorrow.

“Dead,” cried the count, concealing his face in his hand; “dead!” repeated he, overwhelmed. “It was right–better death than infamy, but it is frightful!”

“My lord,” said the magistrate, sadly after a few moments’ silence, “spare yourself a sorrowful spectacle; leave this house. Now there remains for me a duty to perform still more painful than that which brought me here.”

“You are right, sir,” said Saint Remy. “As to the victim of the robbery, you can tell him to call at M. Dupont’s, banker.”

“Rue du Richelieu. He is well known,” answered the magistrate.

“At what amount are the stolen diamonds estimated?”

“At about thirty thousand francs, my lord; the person who bought them, through whom the robbery was discovered, gave that amount for them to your son.”

“I can yet pay this, sir. Let the jeweler call the day after to-morrow on my banker; I will settle with him.”

The commissary bowed, and the count departed. As soon as he was gone, the magistrate, profoundly touched at this unexpected scene, turned toward the saloon, the curtains of which were down. He raised them with emotion.

“Nobody!” cried he, astonished, looking round the room, and not seeing the least trace of the tragic event which was supposed to have occurred.

Then, remarking the small door in the tapestry, he ran thither. It was locked on the other side. “A trick,” cried he in a rage; “he has undoubtedly made his escape in this way.”

And, in fact, the viscount, before his father, pointed the pistol at his heart, but he had afterwards very dexterously discharged it under his arm, and immediately fled.

Notwithstanding the most active researches in all parts of the house, he was not to be found.

During the conversation between his father and the commissary, he had rapidly gained the boudoir, thence the conservatory, the back street and finally the Champs Elysees.

CHAPTER XXXI.

GOOD-BYE IN PRISON.

The morning after these last-mentioned events a touching scene took place in Saint Lazare, at the hour of the recreation of the prisoners.

On this day, during the promenade of her companions, Fleur-de-Marie was seated on a bench near the basin, already called hers. By a sort of tacit agreement, the prisoners abandoned this place, which she loved, for the sweet influence of the girl had much increased. Goualeuse preferred this seat near the fountain, because the moss which grew around the border of the reservoir recalled to her mind the verdure of the fields, and even the limpid water with which it was filled made her think of the little river of Bouqueval village.

To the sad gaze of a prisoner, a tuft of grass is a meadow, a flower is a garden.

Confiding in the kind promise of Madame d’Harville, Fleur-de-Marie had been expecting for two days to leave Saint Lazare. Although she had no reason for inquietude at the delay, she from her habitual misfortunes, hardly dared to hope soon for freedom.

Naturally, from the expectation of so soon seeing her friends at Bouqueval and Rudolph, Fleur-de-Marie should have been transported with joy.

It was not so. Her heart beat sadly; her thoughts returned without ceasing to the words and lofty looks of Madame d’Harville, when the poor prisoner had spoken with so much enthusiasm of her benefactor.

With singular intuition, Goualeuse had thus discovered a part of the lady’s secret.

“The warmth of my gratitude for M. Rudolph has wounded this young lady, so handsome, and of a rank so elevated,” thought Fleur-de-Marie. “Now I comprehend the bitterness of her words! she expressed disdainful jealousy! She, jealous of me! then she loves him, and I love him, also! My love must have betrayed itself in spite of me! To love him–I–a creature forever ruined! ungrateful, and wretch that I am! Oh! if that were so, rather death a hundred times.”

Let us hasten to say, the unhappy child, who seemed doomed to every kind of martyrdom, exaggerated what she called her love. To her profound gratitude toward Rudolph was joined an involuntary admiration of the grace, strength, and beauty which distinguished him above all; nothing less material, nothing more pure than this admiration, but it existed lively and powerful, because physical beauty is always attractive.

And then, besides, the voice of blood, so often denied, mute, unknown, or disowned, sometimes makes itself heard; these bursts of passionate tenderness, which drew Fleur-de-Marie toward Rudolph, and alarmed her because in her ignorance she misconstrued their tendency, resulted from mysterious sympathies as evident, but also as inexplicable, as the resemblance of features. In a word, Fleur-de-Marie, learning that she was Rudolph’s daughter, could have at once accounted for her feelings toward him; then, completely enlightened, she could admire without any scruple the beauty of her father.

Thus is explained the dejectedness of Fleur-de-Marie, although she expected at any moment to leave Saint Lazare.

Fleur-de-Marie, melancholy and pensive, was then seated on a bench near the basin, regarding with a kind of mechanical interest the gambols of two daring birds that came to sport on the curbstone. She ceased for a moment to work on a little child’s frock which she was hemming. It is necessary to say that this belonged to the generous offering made to Mont Saint Jean by the prisoners, thanks to the touching intervention of Fleur-de-Marie.

The poor, deformed _protegee_ of La Goualeuse was seated at her feet; quite busy in making a little cap; from time to time she cast on her benefactress a look at once grateful, timid, and devoted–the look of a dog to his master.

The beauty, charms, and adorable sweetness of Fleur-de-Marie inspired this degraded woman with as much affection as respect.

There is always something holy and grand, even in the aspirations of a heart debased, which, for the first time, opens itself to gratitude; and, until then, no one had caused Mont Saint Jean to experience the religious ardor of a sentiment so new to her. At the end of a few moments, Fleur-de-Marie shuddered slightly, wiped away a tear, and resumed her sewing.

“You will not, then, take a little rest during the recreation, my angel?” said Mont Saint Jean to Goualeuse.

“As I have given no money to buy the lavette, I must furnish my proportion in work,” answered the girl.

“Your part! why, without you, instead of this fine white linen, and warm fustian, to clothe my child, I should only have had those rags which were trampled in the mud. I am very grateful toward my companions; they have been very kind to me, it is true: but you! oh, you! How, then, shall I explain myself?” added the poor creature, hesitatingly, and very much embarrassed to express her thoughts. “Hold!” resumed she; “there is the sun, is it not? there is the sun!”

“Yes, Mont Saint Jean, I listen,” answered Fleur-de-Marie, inclining her enchanting face toward the hideous visage of her companion.

“You will laugh at me,” answered she, sadly; “I want to speak, and I don’t know how.”

“Say on, Mont Saint Jean.”

“Have you not the eyes of an angel!” said the prisoner, looking at Fleur-de-Marie in a kind of ecstasy; “your beautiful eyes encourage me. Come, I will try to say what I wish. There is the sun, is it not? It is very warm, it makes our prison gay, it is pleasant to see and feel, is it not?”

“Without doubt.”

“Well, let us suppose–this sun did not make itself, and if one is grateful to it, so much the more reason–“

“To be grateful toward Him who created it, you mean, Mont Saint Jean! You are right; hence, you should pray to Him, adore Him–it is God.”

“That’s it, there’s my idea,” cried the prisoner, joyfully; “that’s it; I ought to be grateful to my companions, but I ought to pray to you, adore you, La Goualeuse, for it is you who have rendered them good to me, instead of being wicked as they were.”

“But, if I am good, as you say, Mont Saint Jean, it is God who has made me so; it is, then, He whom you must thank.”

“Ah! marry–perhaps so, then, since you say so,” answered the prisoner; “if it pleases you to have it so, very well.”‘

“Yes, my poor Mont Saint Jean, pray to Him often. This will be the best way of proving to me that you love me a little.”