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The Mysteries of Paris V2

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"By a miracle! If it only needed, to obtain it, my prayers joined to
yours, I would pray from the bottom of my heart. Alas! there can be no
doubt of her death."

"I know it, alas! sir, the child is dead: and yet, if you wish it, the
evil is not irreparable."

"It is an enigma, madame."

"I will speak, then, more plainly. If my sister finds to-morrow her
child, not only will she be restored to health, but, what is more, she
is sure to marry the father of this child, now as free as she is. My
niece died at six years. Separated from her parents at this tender
age, they have no recollection of her. Suppose that a young girl of
seventeen could be found; that my sister should be told, 'Here is your
child; you have been deceived; certain interests required that she
should be thought dead. The woman who had charge of her, a respectable
notary will affirm, will prove to you that it is she--'"

Jacques Ferrand, after having allowed the countess to speak without
interrupting her, rose suddenly, and cried, in an indigant manner,
"Enough, enough, madame. Oh! this is infamous."

"Sir!"

"To dare to propose to me--to me--to palm off a child--a criminal
action! It is the first time in my life that I have received such an
outrage, and I have not deserved it--heaven knows."

"But, who is wronged by it? My sister and the person she desires to
marry are single; both regret bitterly the child they have lost; to
deceive them is to restore to them happiness--life; it is to assure
some forsaken young girl a most happy lot: thus it is a noble,
generous action, and not a crime."

"Truly," cried the notary, with increasing indignation, "I see how the
most execrable projects can be colored with--"

"But reflect."

"I repeat to you, madame, that it is infamous. It is a shame to see a
woman of your rank contriving such abominations, to which your sister,
I hope, is a stranger."

"Sir!"

"Enough, madame, enough! I am not a gallant, not I. I tell you the
naked truth."

Sarah cast on the notary one of her dark looks, and said coldly, "You
refuse?"

"No new insult, madame!"

"Take care!"

"Threats?"

"Threats! and to prove to you that they will not be in vain, learn, in
the first place, that I have no sister."

"What, madame?"

"I am the mother of this child."

"You?"

"I invented this fable to interest you. You are without pity: I raise
the mask. You want war! well, war be it."

"War! because I refuse to lend myself to a criminal act? what
audacity!"

"Listen to me, sir; your reputation as an honest man is great--known
far and near."

"Because it is merited. You must have lost your reason before you
would have dared to make such a proposition?"

"Better than any one, I know, sir, how much one ought to suspect these
reputations of such strict virtue, which often conceal the gallantries
of women and the scoundrelism of men."

"You dare to say this, madame?"

"Since the commencement of our conversation, I do not know wherefore,
I doubted that you deserve the consideration and esteem which you
enjoy."

"Truly, madame, this doubt does honor to your perspicacity."

"Does it not so? for this doubt is founded on nothing--on mere
instinct--on inexplicable presentiments; but rarely has this boding
deceived me."

"Let us finish this conversation, madame."

"Before we do so, know my determination. I begin by telling you, that
I am convinced of the death of my poor child; but, no matter, I will
pretend she is not dead; the most unlikely events are often brought
about. You are at this moment in such a position that you must have
many envious rivals; they will regard it as a piece of good fortune to
attack you. I will furnish means to them."

"You!"

"I, in attacking you under an absurd pretext, on an irregularity in
the registry of death, let us say--no matter, I will maintain my child
is not dead. As I have the greatest interest in having it believed
that she still lives, although lost, this process will serve me in
giving much notoriety to this affair; a mother who reclaims her child
is always interesting; I shall have on my side those who are envious
of you, your enemies, and all those who are feeling and romantic."

"This is as foolish as wicked. Why should I? For what interest should
I say your child is dead, if she were not?"

"That is true, the motive is sufficiently embarrassing to find.
Happily, lawyers are plenty. But a thought! ah! an excellent one:
wishing to divide with your client the sum paid for the annuity, you
have caused the child to be carried off."

The notary, without moving a muscle of his face, shrugged his
shoulders. "If I had been criminal enough to do that, instead of
sending her off, I would have killed her!"

[Illustration: THE DUEL]

Sarah shuddered with surprise, remained silent for a moment, then
resumed with bitterness: "For a holy man, that is a thought of crime
profoundly deep! Have I touched to the quick in shooting at random?
This sets me thinking. One last word: you see what kind of a woman I
am--I crush without pity all who cross my path. Reflect well; to-morrow
you must decide! you can do with impunity what you are asked.
In his joy, the father of my child would not discuss the probability
of such a resurrection, if our falsehoods, which will render him so
happy, are adroitly combined. He has, besides, no other proofs of the
death of our child, than what I wrote to him fourteen years since; it
will be easy for me to persuade him that I deceived him on this
subject; for then I had just cause of complaint against him. I will
tell him that in my anger I wished to break, in his eyes, the last
link which still held us together. You cannot therefore in any way be
compromised; affirm only, irreproachable man, affirm that all has been
concerted between you and me and Mrs. Seraphin, and you will be
believed. As to the money placed with you, that concerns me alone; it
shall remain with your client, who must be ignorant of all this;
finally, you shall name your own recompense."

Jacques Ferrand preserved all his coolness, notwithstanding his
position, so strange and dangerous for him. The countess, believing
really in the death of her child, came to ask him to represent as
living this child, whom he had himself _passed for dead_ fourteen
years before. He was too cunning, and knew too well the perils of his
situation, not to comprehend the bearing of Sarah's threats. Although
admirably constructed, the edifice of the notary's reputation was
built on sand. The public as easily detach as they attach themselves,
and are pleased with the right to trample under foot those whom they
once had exalted to the skies. How foresee the consequences of the
first attack on the reputation of Jacques Ferrand? However ridiculous
this attack might be, its boldness alone might awaken suspicion.

The pertinacity of Sarah, and her obduracy, alarmed the notary. This
mother had not shown for a moment any feeling in speaking of her
child; she had only seemed to consider her death as the loss of a
means of action. Such dispositions are implacable in their objects,
and in their vengeance. Wishing to give himself time to seek some
means to avoid the dangerous blow, Ferrand said coldly to Sarah, "You
have asked until noon to-morrow. It is I, madame, who give you until
the next day to renounce a project, of which you know not the gravity.
If, meanwhile, I do not receive a letter from you in which you
announce that you have abandoned this foolish and criminal
undertaking, you will learn to your cost that justice knows how to
protect honest people who refuse to lend themselves to culpable acts."

"That is to say, sir, that you demand one day more to reflect on my
proposition? That is a good sign; I grant it to you. The day after
to-morrow, at this hour, I will return here, and it shall be between us
peace or war; I repeat it to you, a war to the knife, without mercy or
pity;" and Sarah disappeared.

"All goes well," said she to herself. "This miserable young girl, for
whom Rudolph was so much interested--thanks to old One Eye, who has
delivered me from her, is no longer to be feared. The skill of Rudolph
has saved Madame d'Harville from the snare I placed for her, but it is
impossible she can escape from the new plot I have contrived; she will
then be forever lost to him. Then, sad, discouraged, isolated from all
ties, will he not be in such a disposition of mind, that he will not
desire anything better than to be the dupe of a falsehood, to which,
with the aid of the notary, I can give every appearance of truth? And
the notary will assist me for I have alarmed him. I can easily find a
young orphan girl, interesting and poor who, instructed by me, will
fill the part of our child, so bitterly regretted by Rudolph. I know
the grandeur and generosity of his heart. Yes, to give a name and rank
to her whom he believes to be his daughter, until then unhappy and
abandoned, he will renew those ties which I had thought indissoluble.
The predictions of my nurse will at length be realized, and I shall
have this time surely attained the constant aim of my life--a crown."
Hardly had Sarah left the mansion of the notary, than Charles Robert
entered it, descending from an elegant cabriolet: he turned toward the
private cabinet, as one having free admission.




CHAPTER VIII.

CHARLES ROBERT.


The new-comer entered without any ceremony the notary's office, who
was in a very thoughtful and splenetic mood, and who said to him very
roughly, "I reserve the afternoon for my clients; when you wish to
speak to me, come in the morning."

"My dear scribbler" (this was one of the pleasantries of M. Robert),
"it is concerning an important affair, in the first place, and then I
wish to assure you myself concerning the fears that you might have."

"What fears?"

"Do you not know?"

"What?"

"My duel with the Duke de Lucenay. Are you ignorant of it?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Why this duel?"

"Something very serious, which required blood. Just imagine that, in
the face of the whole embassy, M. de Lucenay allowed himself to say to
me, to my face, that I had a cough, a complaint that must be very
ridiculous."

"You fought for this?"

"And what the devil would you have one to fight for? Do you think that
one could, in cold blood, hear one's self accused of having a cough?
and before a charming woman, too; what is more, before a little
marchioness, who, in brief--it could not be overlooked."

"Certainly."

"We soldiers, you understand, we are always on the look out. My
seconds, the day before yesterday, had an interview with those of the
duke. I had the question placed very plainly; a duel or a retraction."

"A retraction of what?"

"Of the cough, by Jove, which he allowed himself to attribute to me."
The notary shrugged his shoulders.

"On their side the duke's seconds said, 'We render justice to the
honorable character of M. Charles Robert; but his grace of Lucenay
cannot, ought not, will not retract.' 'Then, gentlemen,' responded my
seconds, 'M. de Lucenay still continues to insist that M. Charles
Robert has a cough?' 'Yes, gentlemen; but he does not intend it as an
attack upon M. Robert's reputation.' 'Then let him retract.' 'No,
gentlemen; M. de Lucenay recognizes M. Robert for a gallant man, but
he insists that he has a cough.' You see there was no way of arranging
so serious an affair."

"None. You were insulted in that which a man holds to be most
respectable."

"So they agreed on the day and hour of meeting, and yesterday morning
at Vincennes, all passed in the most honorable manner. I touched the
duke slightly in the arm with my sword; the seconds declared my honor
satisfied. Then the duke said, in a loud voice, 'I never retract
before an affair; afterward, it is different: it is therefore my duty
to proclaim that I falsely accused M. Charles Robert of having a
cough. Gentlemen, I confess, not only that my loyal adversary has no
cough, but I affirm that he is incapable of ever having it.' Then the
duke extended his hand to me cordially, saying, 'Are you content?
Henceforth we are friends in life until death.' I answered, that I
owed him as much. The duke has done everything that was right. He
might have said nothing at all, or contented himself with saying that
I had not the cough; but to affirm that I never could have one was a
very delicate proceeding on his part."

"This is what I call courage well employed. But what do you mean?"

"My dear banker" (another pleasantry of M. Robert), "it concerns
something of great importance to me. You know that in our agreement,
when I advanced you 350,000 francs, in order that you might finish the
purchase of your notariat, it was stipulated that, by giving you three
months' notice, I could withdraw from you this amount for which you
now pay interest."

"What next?"

"Well!" said M. Robert, with hesitation, "I; no, but--"

"What?"

"You perceive it is pure caprice; an idea to become a landed
proprietor, my dear law-writer."

"Explain yourself; you annoy me."

"In a word, I have been offered a territorial acquisition, and, if it
is not disagreeable to you I should wish, that is to say, I should
desire, to withdraw my funds from you; and I come to give you notice,
according to our agreement."

"Humph!"

"It does not make you angry, I hope!"

"Why should it?"

"Because you might think--"

"I may think?"

"That I am the echo of rumors."

"What rumors?"

"No, nothing; absurdities."

"But, tell me then?"

"It is no reason because there _are_ reports in circulation about
you----"

"About me?"

"There is not a word of truth in it--that you have been doing some bad
business; pure scandal, no doubt, like when we speculated on the
'Change together. That report soon fell to the ground; for I wish that
you and I might become----"

"Then you think your money is no longer safe with me?"

"Not so; but I prefer to have it in my hands."

"Wait a minute."

Ferrand shut the drawer of his bureau, and rose.

"Where are you going to, my dear banker?"

"To look for something to convince you of the truth of the rumors
concerning me," said the notary, ironically. And opening a little
private staircase which led to the pavilion, without going through the
office, he disappeared.

Hardly had he gone when the clerk knocked at the door. "Come in," said
Charles Robert.

"Is not M. Ferrand here?"

"No, my worthy blue-baggist."

"A veiled lady wishes to speak to master instantly, on very pressing
business."

"Worthy fellow, your master will return directly; I will tell him. Is
she pretty?"

"One must be a wizard to find this out; she wears a black veil, so
thick that her face cannot be seen."

"Good, good! I'll take a look at her when I go out."

The clerk left the room.

"Where the devil is he gone to?" said Charles to himself. "If these
reports are absurd, so much the better. Never mind, I prefer to have
my money. I will buy the chateau they have spoken to me of, with
Gothic towers of the time of Louis XIV.; that will give me a noble
appearance. It will not be like my affair with this prude of a Madame
d'Harville--fine game! Oh, no; I have not made my expenses, as the
stupid old portress in the Rue du Temple said, with her fantastic
periwig. This pleasantry has cost meat least a thousand crowns. It is
true, the furniture remains; and I can compromise the marquise. But
here is the scrivener."

Ferrand returned, holding in his hand some papers, which he gave to
Robert.

"Here," said he to him, "are three hundred and fifty thousand francs
in Treasury notes. In a few days we will regulate the interest. Write
me a receipt."

"Eh!" cried Charles, stupefied. "Oh! now don't think, at least, that
I--"

"I think nothing."

"But--"

"This receipt!"

"Dear sir."

"Write; and tell the people who speak to you of my embarrassments how
I answer such suspicions."

"The fact is, as soon as this is known, your credit will only be the
more solid. But, really, take the money; I cannot use it now; I said
in three months."

"M. Charles Robert, no one shall suspect me twice."

"You are angry?"

"The receipt."

"Oh, obstinacy!" said Charles Robert; then he added, writing the
receipt, "There is a lady closely veiled, who wishes to speak to you
on some very pressing business. I shall take a good look at her when I
pass. Here is your receipt; is it right?"

"Very well; now go away by the little staircase."

"But the lady?"

"It is just to prevent your seeing her."

The notary rang for the clerk, saying to him, "Show the lady in.
Adieu, M. Robert."

"Well, I must renounce seeing her. No ill-feeling, eh! scrivener?"

"Believe as much."

"Well, well! adieu."

The notary shut the door on Charles Robert.

After a few moments the clerk introduced the Duchess de Lucenay, very
modestly dressed, wrapped in a large shawl, her face completely
concealed by a thick veil of black lace, which covered her moire hat
of the same color.




CHAPTER IX.

THE DUCHESS DE LUCENAY.


Madame de Lucenay slowly approached the desk, in an agitated manner;
he advanced to meet her.

"Who are you, madame, and what do you want with me?" said the notary,
roughly, whose temper, already fretted by the threat of Sarah, was
exasperated at the suspicions of Robert. Besides, the duchess was so
modestly dressed, that the notary saw no reason why he should be civil
to her. As she hesitated to speak, he said, even more harshly, "Will
you explain yourself, madame?"

"Sir," said she, in a trembling voice, trying to conceal her face
under the folds of her veil, "Sir, can one confide a secret to you of
the highest importance?"

"Anything can be confided to me, madame, but I must see and know to
whom I speak."

"That, perhaps, is not necessary. I know that you are honor and
loyalty itself."

"Just so, madame, just so; there is some one there waiting. Who are
you?"

"My name is of no importance, sir. One of my friends--of my relations--
has just left you."

"His name?"

"M. Floreston de Saint Remy."

"Ah!" said the notary, casting on the duchess an inquisitive and
searching glance; then he resumed: "Well, madame!"

"M. de Saint Remy has told me everything, sir."

"What did he tell you?"

"All!"

"But what did he say?"

"You know well."

"I know many things about M. de Saint Remy."

"Alas! sir, a terrible thing."

"I know a great many terrible things about M. de Saint Remy."

"Ah! sir, he told me truly--you are without pity."

"For cheats and forgers like him, yes, I am without pity. Is Saint
Remy your relation? Instead of confessing it, you ought to blush. Do
you come here to weep, to soften me? It is useless; without saying
that you are performing a wretched part for an honest woman, if you
are one."

This brutal insolence was revolting to the pride and patrician blood
of the duchess. She drew herself up, threw her veil back, and with a
proud look, and a firm, imperious voice, she said, "Sir, I am the
Duchess of Lucenay."

This woman assumed so haughty an air, her appearance became so
imposing, that the notary, overcome, charmed, fell back astonished;
took off, mechanically, his black silk cap, and saluted her
profoundly.

Nothing could be, indeed, more graceful and more majestic than the
face and bearing of Madame de Lucenay; yet she was then over thirty
years of age, with a pale face, appearing slightly fatigued; but she
had large sparkling brown eyes, splendid black hair, a fine arched
nose, a proud and ruby lip, dazzling complexion, very white teeth,
tall and slender figure, a form like a "goddess on the clouds," as the
immortal St. Simon says.

She had entered the notary's as a timid woman; all at once she showed
herself a grand, proud, and irritated lady. Never had Jacques Ferrand
in his life met with a woman of so much insolent beauty, at once so
bold and so noble. Although old, ugly, mean, and sordid, Jacques
Ferrand was as capable as any one else of appreciating the style of
beauty of Madame de Lucenay. His hatred and his rage against Saint
Remy augmented with his admiration of the charming duchess. He thought
to himself that this gentleman forger, who had almost kneeled before
him, inspired such love in this grand lady, that she risked a step
which might ruin her. At these thoughts the notary felt his audacity,
which for a moment was paralyzed, restored. Hatred, envy, a kind of
burning, savage resentment kindled in his looks, on his forehead, and
his cheeks--the most shameful and wicked passions. Seeing Madame de
Lucenay on the point of commencing a conversation so delicate, he
expected on her part some turnings, expedients. What was his surprise!
She spoke to him with as much assurance and pride as if it was
concerning the most natural thing in the world, and as if before a man
of his species, she had no thought of the reserve and fitness which
she had certainly shown to her equals. In fact, the gross insolence of
the notary, in wounding her to the quick, had forced Madame de
Lucenay, to quit the humble and imploring part that she had at first
assumed with much trouble; returned to her own dignity, she believed
it to be beneath her to descend to the least concealment with this
scribbler of deeds.

"Sir notary," said the duchess, resolutely, to Jacques Ferrand, "M. de
Saint Remy is one of my friends; he has confided to me the
embarrassing situation in which he finds himself, from the
inconvenience of a double piece of villainy of which he is the victim.
Everything can be managed with money. How much is necessary to
terminate these miserable, shuffling tricks?"

Jacques Ferrand was completely astounded with this cavalier and
deliberate manner of opening the business.

"They ask a hundred thousand francs," answered he, as soon as he had
recovered from his astonishment.

"You shall have your hundred thousand francs; and you will send at
once the bad papers to M. de Saint Remy."

"Where are the hundred thousand francs, your grace?"

"Did I not tell you that you should have them, sir?"

"They must be had to-morrow, before noon, madame; otherwise a
complaint of forgery will be made."

"Well, give this amount; I will be accountable for it; as for you I
will pay you well."

"But, madame, it is impossible."

"You will not tell me, I hope, that a notary like you cannot procure a
hundred thousand francs any day?"

"On what security, madame?"

"What does that mean? Explain yourself."

"Who is to be answerable for this amount?" "I."

"But, madame--"

"Is it necessary for me to tell you that I have property yielding
eighty thousand livres rent, at four leagues from Paris? That will
suffice, I believe, for that which you call guarantee?"

"Yes, madame, by means of a mortgage."

"What does that mean again? Some formality, doubtless. Make it, sir,
make it."

"Such a deed cannot be drawn up under two weeks, and it needs the
consent of your husband, madame."

"But this is my property, mine--mine alone," said the duchess,
impatiently.

"No matter, madame; you are in the power of your husband, and a deed
of mortgage is very long and very minute."

"But once more, sir, you cannot make me believe that it so difficult
to procure one hundred thousand francs in two hours."

"Then, madame, apply to your own notary, to your steward; with me, it
is impossible."

"I have reasons, sir, to keep this a secret," said Madame de Lucenay,
heartily. "You know the rogues who wish to rob M. de Saint Remy; it is
on this account I address myself to you."

"Your confidence infinitely honors me, madame; but I cannot do what
you ask."

"You have not this amount?"

"I have much more than this sum in bank bills, or in gold--here--here,
in my safe."

"Oh, what a waste of words! Is it my signature you wish? I give it
you; let us finish."

"In admitting, madame, that you are the Duchess of Lucenay."

"Come in an hour's time to the Hôtel de Lucenay, sir: I will sign at
home what is necessary to be signed."

"Will his grace sign also?"

"I do not understand you, sir."

"Your signature alone is of no value to me, madame."

Jacques Ferrand enjoyed with cruel delight the impatience of the
duchess, who, under the appearance of _sang froid_ and disdain,
concealed the most painful anguish. She was for a moment at the end of
her resources. The evening previous, her jeweler had advanced her a
considerable sum on her diamonds, some of which were confided to
Morel, the artisan. This sum had served to pay the bills of Saint
Remy, and disarm other creditors; Dubreul, the farmer at Arnouville,
was more than a year in advance, and besides, time was wanting;
unfortunately for Madame de Lucenay, two of her friends, to whom she
could have had recourse in an extreme situation, were then absent from
Paris. In her eyes, the viscount was innocent; he had told her, and
she believed it, that he was the dupe of two rogues; but her situation
was none the less terrible. He accused, he dragged to prison! Then,
even if he should take to flight would his name be any less dishonored
by such a suspicion?

"Since you possess the sum I ask for, sir, and my guarantee is
sufficient, why do you refuse me?"

"Because men have their caprices as well as women, madame."

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