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The Mysteries of Paris V2

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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."

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