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The Mysteries of Paris V2

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"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."

"Love you, La Goualeuse! But, do you not recollect what you told the
others, to prevent them from beating me? 'It is not her alone you
beat, it is also her child.' Well! for the same reason, I do not love
you for myself alone, but also for my child."

"Thank you, thank you, Mont Saint Jean; you give me pleasure to hear
you say that."

At this moment, Madame Armand, the inspectress, entered the court.
After having sought for Fleur-de-Marie with her eyes, she came to her
with a satisfied and smiling air. "Good news, my child!"

"What do you say, madame?" cried La Goualeuse, rising.

"Your friends have not forgotten you; they have obtained your liberty.
The director has just received the notice."

"Can it be possible, madame! Oh! what happiness!" The emotion of
Fleur-de-Marie was so violent, that she turned pale, put her hand to
her heart, which beat violently, and fell back on her seat.

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