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The Mysteries of Paris V2

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"_These_ are good," said the notary, turning toward his bureau,
whence he took a bundle of stamped papers, to which were annexed two
bills of exchange; he afterward placed one of the notes for a thousand
francs and three rouleaux of one hundred francs on the back of the
papers; then he said to Saint Remy, pointing his finger to the money
and bills, "There is what is to come to you from the forty thousand
francs; my client has ordered me to collect the bill of costs."

The viscount had with great difficulty contained himself while Jacques
Ferrand arranged his accounts. Instead of answering him and taking the
money, he cried, in a voice trembling with anger, "I ask you, sir, why
you said to me, respecting the bank bills that I have just given you,
_that there were such things as forged notes?_"

"Why?"

"Yes."

"Because I have sent for you here concerning a forgery." The notary
turned his green glasses full on the viscount.

"How does this forgery affect me?"

After a moment's pause Ferrand said, with a severe tone, "Are you
acquainted, sir, with the duties of a notary?"

"The duties are perfectly clear to me, sir. I had just now forty
thousand francs; I have now remaining but thirteen hundred."

"You are very jocose, sir. I will tell you, that a notary is to
temporal affairs what a confessor is to spiritual ones; from his
profession he often knows ignoble secrets."

"What next, sir?"

"He is often obliged to be in relations with rogues."

"What after this, sir?"

"He ought, as much as in his power, to prevent an honorable name from
being dragged in the mire."

"What have I in common with all this?"

"Your father has left you a respected name, which you dishoner, sir!"

"What do you dare to say?"

"But for the interest that this name inspires to all honest people,
instead of being cited here before me, you would have been at this
moment before the police."

"I do not comprehend you."

"About two months since, you discounted, through the agency of a
broker, a bill for fifty-eight thousand francs, drawn by the house of
Meulaert and Co., of Hamburgh, in favor of one William Smith, and
payable in three months, at Grimaldi's, banker, in Paris."

"Well!"

"That bill is a forgery."

"That is not true."

"This bill is a forgery! the house of Meulaert has never contracted
any engagement with William Smith; they do not know him."

"Can it be true!" cried Saint Remy, with as much surprise as
indignation, "but then I have been horribly deceived, sir, for I
received this bill as ready money."

"From whom?"

"From William Smith himself; the house of Meulaert is so well known, I
knew so well myself the probity of Smith, that I accepted this bill in
payment of a debt he owed me."

"William Smith has never existed; it is an imaginary person."

"Sir, you insult me!"

"His signature is as false as the others."

"I tell you, sir, that William Smith does exist; but I have, without
doubt, been the dupe of a horrible breach of confidence."

"Poor young man!"

"Explain yourself!" cried Saint Remy, whose anxiety and humiliation
were increased by this ironical pity.

"In a word, the actual holder of the bill is convinced that you have
committed the forgery."

"Sir!"

"He pretends to have the proof; two days ago he came to me to beg me
to send for you here, and to propose to return you this forged note,
under an arrangement. So far, all was right; this is not; and I only
tell you for information. He asks one hundred thousand francs. Today
even, or to-morrow at noon, the forgery will be made known to the
public prosecutor."

"This is indignity!"

"And what is more, absurdity. You are ruined. You were prosecuted for
a sum that you have just paid me, from some resource I do not know of:
this is what I told to this third party. He answered, 'That a certain
great lady, who is very rich, would not leave you in this
embarrassment.'"

"Enough, sir, enough!"

"Another indignity! another absurdity! we agree."

"In short, sir, what do they want?"

"Unworthily to take advantage of an unworthy action. I have consented
to make this proposition known to you, in branding it as an honest man
ought to brand it. Now it is your affair. If you are guilty, choose
between the court of assize or the terms proposed. My part is
altogether professional. I will have nothing more to do with so dirty
a business. The third party's name is M. Petit Jean, oil merchant; he
lives on the banks of the Seine, No. 10, Quai de Billy. Settle with
him. You are worthy of each other, if you are a forger, as he
affirms."

Saint Remy had entered the notary's with an insolent voice and lofty
head. Although he had committed in his life some disgraceful actions,
there remained in him still a certain pride of lineage--a natural
courage which had never failed him. At the commencement of this
conversation, regarding the notary as an adversary quite unworthy of
him, he treated him with contempt.

When Jacques Ferrand spoke of forgery, the viscount felt himself
crushed. He found the notary had the advantage in his turn. Except for
his great self-command, he could not have concealed the great
impression made upon him by this unexpected accusation, for the
consequences might be most fatal to him, of which even the notary had
no idea.

After a moment's reflection and silence, he determined--though so
proud, so irritable, so vain of his bravery--to throw himself on the
mercy of this vulgar man, who had so roughly spoken the austere
language of probity. "Sir, you give me a proof of interest for which I
thank you; I regret the harshness of my opening words," said Saint
Remy, in a cordial manner.

"I do not interest myself in you at all," answered the notary,
brutally. "Your father was honor itself; I did not wish to see his
name in the court of assizes, that's all."

"I repeat to yon, sir, that I am incapable of the infamy of which I am
accused."

"You can tell that to M. Petit Jean."

"But I avow that the absence of Mr. Smith, who has so unworthily taken
advantage of my good faith--"

"Infamous Smith!"

"The absence of Mr. Smith places me in a cruel position; I am
innocent; let them accuse me, I will prove it, but such an accusation
always injures a gallant man."

"What next?"

"Be generous enough to use the sum I have just paid you to quiet, in
part, this third person."

"This money belongs to my client--it is sacred."

"But in two or three days I will repay you."

"You cannot do it."

"I have resources."

"None available, at least. Your furniture, your horses, no longer
belong to you, as you may say; which to me has the appearance of
fraud."

"You are very hard, sir. But admitting this, will I not turn
everything into money, in a situation so desperate? Only as it is
impossible for me to procure between this and to-morrow one hundred
thousand francs, I conjure you, employ this money to withdraw this
unhappy draught. Or you, who are so rich, make me an advance; do not
leave me in such a position."

"I make myself responsible for a hundred thousand francs for you!
Really, are you a fool?"

"Sir, I supplicate you, in the name of my father, of whom you have
spoken, be so kind as to--"

"I am kind for those who deserve it," said the notary, rudely; "an
honest man; I hate sharpers; and I should not be sorry to see one of
you fine gentlemen, who are without law or gospel, impious and
debauched, some fine day, standing in the pillory as an example for
others. But, I hear, your horses are very restless, sir viscount,"
said the notary, smiling, and showing his black teeth.

At this moment some one knocked at the door. "Who is it?" asked
Jacques Ferrand.

"Her ladyship the Countess d'Orbigny," said the clerk.

"Beg her to wait a moment."

"It is the step-mother of the Marquise d'Harville," cried Saint Remy.

"Yes, sir. She has an appointment with me; so, good-morning."

"Not a word of this, sir," said Saint Remy, in a threatening tone.

"I have told you, sir, that a notary was as discreet as a confessor."

Jacques Ferrand rang the bell, and the clerk appeared.

"Show in her ladyship." Then, addressing the viscount, he added, "Take
these thirteen hundred francs, sir; it will be so much on account with
M. Petit Jean."

Lady d'Orbigny (formerly Madame Roland) entered as the viscount went
out, his features contracted with rage for having uselessly humiliated
himself before the notary.

"Oh, good-morning, Saint Remy!" said the countess; "it is a long time
since I have seen you."

"Yes, madame; since the marriage of D'Harville, of which I was a
witness, I have not had the honor to meet you," said Saint Remy,
bowing, and suddenly assuming a most smiling and affable expression.
"Since then, you have always remained in Normandy?"

"Dear me! yes. M. d'Orbigny cannot live now but in the country; and
where he lives, I live. Thus you see in me a true 'county lady.' I
have not been to Paris since the marriage of my dear step-daughter
with excellent D'Harville. Do you see him often?"

"D'Harville has become very savage and very morose. I meet him very
seldom in society," said Saint Remy, with a shade of impatience; for
this conversation was insupportable, both from its inopportuneness,
and because the notary seemed to be much amused. But the stepmother of
Madame d'Harville, enchanted at this meeting with a beau of society,
was not the woman to let her prey escape so easily.

"And my dear step-daughter," continued she, "is not, I hope, as savage
as her husband?"

"Madame d'Harville is very fashionable, and always much sought after,
as a pretty woman should be; but I fear, madame, I trespass on your
time, and--"

"Not at all, I assure you. I am quite fortunate to meet the 'mold of
form, the glass of fashion;' in ten minutes I shall know all about
Paris, as if I had never left it. And your dear friend, De Lucenay,
who was with you a witness of D'Harville's marriage?"

"More of an original than ever; he set out for the East, and he
returned just in time to receive yesterday morning a thrust from a
sword; of no great harm, however."

"The poor duke! and his wife, still beautiful and ravishing?"

"You know, madame, that I have the honor to be one of her best
friends; my testimony on this subject would be suspected. Will you,
madame, on your return to Aubiers, do me the honor to remember me to
M. d'Orbigny?"

"He will be very sensible of your kind recollections, I assure you,
for he often asks after you and your success. He says you remind him
of the Duke de Lauzun."

"This comparison alone is quite an eulogium; but, unfortunately for
me, it is much more kind than true. Adieu, madame; for I dare not hope
that you will do me the honor to receive me before your departure."

"I should be distressed if you should take the trouble to call upon
me. I am for a few days at furnished lodgings; but if, this summer or
fall, you pass our way to some of the fashionable country-seats, grant
us a few days only by way of contrast, and to rest yourself with some
poor country-folks from the giddy round of the chateau life, so
elegant and so extravagant; for it is always holidays where you go."

"Madame----"

"I need not tell you how happy D'Orbigny and myself would be to
receive you; but adieu, sir: I fear that the benevolent humorist,"
pointing to the notary, "will become tired of our talk."

"Just the contrary, madame, just the contrary," said Ferrand, in an
accent which redoubled the restrained rage of the viscount.

"Acknowledge that M. Ferrand is a terrible man," continued Madame
d'Orbigny; "but take care, since he is, fortunately for you, charged
with your affairs, he will scold you furiously; he is without pity.
But what do I say? A man like you to have M. Ferrand for notary--it is
a sign of amendment: for every one knows he never lets his clients
commit any follies without informing them of it. Oh! he does not wish
to be the notary of every one." Then, addressing Jacques Ferrand, she
said, "Do you know, Mr. Puritan, that this is a superb conversion you
have made here--to render wise and prudent the king of fashion!"

"It is exactly a conversion, madame; M. le Vicomte leaves ray cabinet
altogether different from what he entered it."

"When I say you perform miracles, it is not astonishing: you are a
saint."

"Oh, madame, you flatter me," said Jacques Ferrand.

Saint Remy profoundly saluted Madame d'Orbigny; and at the moment of
leaving the notary, wishing to try a last effort to soften him, he
said, in a careless manner, which nevertheless disclosed profound
anxiety:

"Decidedly, my dear M. Ferrand, you will not grant me what I ask?"

"Some folly, without doubt! Be inexorable, my dear Puritan," cried
Madame d'Orbigny, laughing. "You hear, sir; I cannot act contrary to
the advice of so handsome a lady."

"My dear M. Ferrand, let us speak seriously of serious things, and you
know that this is so. You refuse decidedly?" asked the viscount, with
anguish he could not conceal.

The notary was cruel enough to appear to hesitate; Saint Remy had a
moment of hope.

"How, man of iron, you relent?" said the step-mother of Madame
d'Harville, laughing; "you submit also to the charms of the
irresistible?"

"Faith, madame, I was on the point of yielding, as you say, but you
make me blush for my weakness," said Ferrand; then turning to the
viscount, with an expression of which he comprehended all the
signification, he continued, "There, seriously, it is impossible; I
will not suffer that, through caprice, you should commit such an
absurdity. M. le Vicomte, I regard myself as the mentor of my clients;
I have no other family, and I should regard myself as an accomplice of
any errors I should allow them to commit."

"Oh! the Puritan, the Puritan!" cried Madame d'Orbigny.

"Yet, see M. Petit Jean; he will think, I am sure, as I do; and, like
me, he will refuse."

Saint Remy left in a state of desperation. After a moment's thought,
he said, "It must be!" Then, addressing his footman, who held open the
door of the carriage, "To Lucenay House." While Saint Remy is on his
way to the duchess, we will be present with the reader at the
interview between Ferrand and the stepmother of Madame d'Harville.




CHAPTER VII.

THE WILL.


Madame D'Orbigny was a slender blonde, with eyebrows nearly white, and
pale blue eyes, almost round; her speech honeyed, her look
hypocritical, her manners insinuating and insidious.

"What a charming young man is the Viscount de Saint Remy!" said she to
Jacques Ferrand, when the viscount had gone.

"Charming; but, madame, let us talk of business. You wrote me from
Normandy that you wished to consult me on some grave affairs."

"Have you not always been my adviser since good Dr. Polidori referred
me to you? Apropos, have you heard from him?" asked Madame d'Orbigny,
in a careless manner.

"Since his departure from Paris he has not written me once," answered
the notary, no less indifferently. We must inform the reader that
these two personages lied most boldly to each other. The notary had
seen Polidori recently (one of his two accomplices), and had proposed
to him to go to Asnieres, to the Martials, the freshwater pirates (of
whom we shall speak presently), under the name of Dr. Vincent, to
poison Louise Morel. The stepmother of Madame d'Harville came to Paris
expressly to have a conference with this scoundrel, who now went by
the name of Caesar Bradamanti.

"But it is not concerning the good doctor," said Madame d'Orbigny,
"you see me much troubled; my husband is sick--he grows worse daily.
Without causing me serious fears, his condition troubles me, or,
rather, troubles him," continued she, wiping her tearless eyes.

"What is the matter?"

"He continually speaks of his final arrangements--of his will." Here
Madame d'Orbigny hid her face in her handkerchief for some moments.

"That is sad, doubtless," said the notary; "but this precaution is not
alarming. What are his intentions, madame?"

"How can I tell? You know well, when he touches on this subject I
change it."

"But has he said nothing positive?"

"I believe," said Madaine d'Orbigny, in a most disinterested manner,
"I believe he wishes not only to give me all the law allows--but--oh!
hold, I beg you, let us not speak of this!"

"What shall we speak of?"

"Alas! you are right, relentless man; we must return to the sad
subject which brought me here. Well, D'Orbigny carries his kindness so
far as to wish to convert a part of his fortune, and give me a
considerable sum."

"But his daughter--his daughter?" cried Ferrand, with severity. "I
ought to tell you that, for a year past, M. d'Harville has given me
charge of his affairs. I have lately bought for him a magnificent
property. You know my roughness in business. It imports little to me
that M. d'Harville is my client; that which I plead is the cause of
justice. If your husband takes toward his daughter, Madame d'Harville,
a determination which seems to me not proper, I tell you plainly he
must not count on me. Straightforward! such has always been my line of
conduct."

"And mine also. Thus I repeat to my husband always just as you have
said: 'Your daughter has treated you badly; so be it; but that is no
reason to disinherit her.'"

"Very well--all right; and what did he answer?"

"He answered, 'I will leave my daughter twenty-five thousand francs a
year. She had more than a million from her mother; her husband has an
enormous income. Can I not leave the rest to you, my tender friend,
the sole support, the sole consolation of my old age, my guardian
angel?' I repeat these too flattering words," said Madame d'Orbigny,
with a modest sigh, "to show you his goodness toward me; yet I have
always refused his offers; seeing which, he decided to beg me to come
and find you."

"But I do not know M. d'Orbigny."

"But he, like every one else, knows your probity."

"But how did he address you to me?"

"To silence my scruples. He said, 'I do not ask you to consult my
notary, you will think him too much under my orders; but I will leave
it to the decision of a man whose honesty is proverbial, M. Ferrand.
If he finds your delicacy compromised by your acceptance of my offer,
we will talk no more about it; if not, you acquiesce.' 'I consent,'
said I, and in this way you have become our arbitrator. 'If he
approves,' added my husband, 'I will send him a power of attorney to
realize, in my name, my real estate and bank stock; he will keep this
sum on deposit, and, after my death, you will at least have an income
worthy of you."

Never, perhaps, had Ferrand felt more the value of his spectacles than
at this moment. Without them, Madame d'Orbigny would have seen how his
eyes sparkled at the word "deposit."

He answered, however, in a morose tone, "This is troublesome; this is
for the tenth or twelfth time that I have been chosen an arbiter,
always under pretext of my probity; that is the only word in their
mouths--my probity! my probity! Great advantage; it only gives me
trouble and--"

"My good M. Ferrand, come, don't scold; you will write to M.
d'Orbigny; he awaits your letter, to send you his full power to
realize the sum."

"How much is it?"

"He said, I believe, that it was about four or five hundred thousand
francs."

"The amount is not so large as I thought. After all, you have devoted
yourself to M. d'Orbigny. His daughter is very rich--you have nothing;
I can approve of this. It appears to me you might accept."

"Really, you think so?" said Madame d'Orbigny, dupe, like every one
else, of the proverbial honesty of the notary, and not undeceived in
this respect by Polidori.

"You may accept," said he.

"I shall accept then," said Madame d'Orbigny, with a sigh.

The clerk knocked at the door. "Who is it?" demanded Ferrand.

"Her ladyship, the Countess M'Gregor."

"Let her wait a moment."

"I leave you, then, my dear M. Ferrand," said Madame d'Orbigny; "you
will write to my husband, since he desires it, and he will send you
full powers tomorrow."

"I will write."

"Adieu, my worthy and good counselor."

"Ah! you people of the world do not know how disagreeable it is to
take charge of such deposits--the responsibility which bears on us. I
tell you there is nothing more detestable than this fine reputation
for probity which brings one nothing but drudgery."

"And the admiration of good people."

"Praise the Lord! I place otherwise than here below the recompense I
seek for," said Ferrand, in a sanctified tone.

To Madame d'Orbigny succeeded Countess Sarah M'Gregor.

Sarah entered the cabinet of the notary with her habitual coolness and
assurance. Jacques Ferrand did not know her; he was ignorant of the
object of her visit. He observed her very closely, in the hope to make
a new dupe; and, notwithstanding the impassibility of the marble face,
he remarked a slight tremor, which appeared to him to betray concealed
embarrassment.

The notary arose from his chair, and handed a seat to the countess,
saying, "You asked for a meeting, madame, yesterday. I was so much
occupied that I could not send you an answer until this morning; I
make you a thousand excuses."

"I desired to see you, sir, on business of the greatest importance.
Your reputation has made me hope my business with you will be
successful."

The notary bowed in his chair. "I know, sir, that your discretion is
well tried."

"It is my duty, madame."

"You are, sir, a rigid and incorruptible man."

"Granted, madame."

"Yet, if one should say to you, sir, it depends on you to restore
life--more than life--reason to an unhappy mother, would you have the
courage to refuse?"

"State facts, madame, I will answer."

"About fourteen years since, in December, 1824, a young man, dressed
in mourning, came to propose to you to take, for an annuity, the sum
of one hundred and fifty thousand francs, for a child of three years,
whose parents desired to remain unknown."

"Continue, madame," said the notary, avoiding a direct answer.

"You consented to receive this amount, and to assure the child an
income of eight thousand francs. The one-half of this amount was to be
added to the capital until its majority; the other half was to be paid
by you to the person who should take charge of this little girl."

"Continue, madame."

"At the end of two years," said Sarah, without being able to conquer a
slight emotion, "the 28th November, 1827, this child died."

"Before continuing this conversation, madame, I shall ask you what
interest you have in this affair?"

"The mother of this little girl is my _sister_, sir; I have here,
for proof of what I advance, the publication of the death of this poor
little thing, the letters from the person who had care of her, the
receipt of one of your clients, with whom you placed the fifty
thousand crowns."

"Let me see these papers, madame."

Quite astonished not to be believed at her word, Sarah drew from a
portfolio several papers, which the notary closely examined.

"Ah, well, madame, what do you want? The notice of the death is quite
correct; the fifty thousand crowns became the property of M. Petit
Jean, my client, by the death of the child; as to the interests, they
were always punctually paid by me until its decease."

"Nothing can be more correct than your conduct in this affair; sir, I
am pleased to acknowledge it. The woman to whom the child was confided
has also a right to our gratitude; she has taken the greatest care of
my poor little niece."

"That is true, madame; I was so much pleased with her conduct, that,
after the death of the child, I took her in my service; she is still
there."

"Mrs. Seraphin is in your service, sir?"

"For fourteen years, as housekeeper."

"Since it is thus, sir, she can be of great assistance, if you will
grant a demand which will appear strange, perhaps, even culpable at
first; but, when you shall know with what intention--"

"A culpable demand, madame; I do not think you are any more capable of
making than I am of hearing it."

"I know, sir, that you are the last person to whom one should address
such a request; but I place all my hopes--my sole hope--in your pity.
In every case I rely on your discretion."

"Yes, madame."

"I continue, then. The death of this poor little girl has cast her
mother into such a state, her grief is as poignant at the present day
as it was fourteen years since; and, after having feared for her life,
to-day we fear for her reason."

"Poor mother!" said Ferrand, with a sigh.

"Oh! yes, very unfortunate mother, sir; for she could only blush at
the birth of her daughter, at the time she lost her; while now
circumstances are such, that my sister, if her child still lived,
could own her, be proud of her, never leave her. Thus, this incessant
regret, joined to other griefs, makes us fear for her reason."

"Unfortunately, nothing can be done for her."

"Oh, yes."

"How, madame?"

"Suppose some one should come and say to the poor mother. 'Your child
was supposed to be dead; she is not; the woman who had care of her
infancy can affirm it.'"

"Such a falsehood would be cruel, madame. Why cause vain hopes to this
poor mother?"

"But if this was not a falsehood, sir; or, rather, if this supposition
could be realized?"

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