The Count's Millions, Emile Gaboriau [top 100 books of all time checklist TXT] 📗

The agent had been preparing himself for this moment, and yet he trembled. “I am deeply grieved, monsieur,” he replied, with a doleful smile; “it was this matter that kept me out so much later than usual this evening. I hoped to have obtained the money from a banker, who has always accommodated me before—M. Prosper Bertomy, you know him: he married M. Andre Fauvel’s niece——”

“Yes, I know; proceed, if you please.”

“Ah, well! it was impossible for me to procure the money.”

The marquis had hitherto been pale, but now his face flushed crimson. “This is a jest, I suppose,” said he.

“Alas!—unfortunately—no.”

There was a moment’s silence, which the marquis probably spent in reflecting upon the probable consequences of this disappointment, for it was in an almost threatening tone that he eventually exclaimed: “You know that I must have this money at once—that I must have it.”

M. Fortunat would certainly have preferred to lose a good pound of flesh rather than the sum of money mentioned; but, on the other hand, he felt that it would not do for him to sever his connection with his client until the death of the Count de Chalusse was certain; and being anxious to save his money and to keep his client, his embarrassment was extreme. “It was the most unfortunate thing in the world,” he stammered; “I apprehended no difficulty whatever—” Then, suddenly clapping his hand to his forehead, he exclaimed: “But, Monsieur le Marquis, couldn’t you borrow this amount from one of your friends, the Duke de Champdoce or the Count de Commarin?—that would be a good idea.”

M. de Valorsay was anything but unsophisticated, and his natural shrewdness had been rendered much more acute by the difficulties with which he had recently been obliged to contend. M. Fortunat’s confusion had not escaped his keen glance; and this last suggestion aroused his suspicions at once. “What!” he said, slowly, and with an air of evident distrust. “YOU give me this advice, Master Twenty-per-cent. This is wonderful! How long is it since your opinions have undergone such a change?”

“My opinions?”

“Yes. Didn’t you say to me during our first interview; ‘The thing that will save you, is that you have never in your whole life borrowed a louis from a friend. An ordinary creditor only thinks of a large interest; and if that is paid him he holds his peace. A friend is never satisfied until everybody knows that he has generously obliged you. It is far better to apply to a usurer.’ I thought all that very sensible, and I quite agreed with you when you added: ‘So, Monsieur le Marquis, no borrowing of this kind until after your marriage—not on any pretext whatever. Go without eating rather than do it. Your credit is still good; but it is being slowly undermined—and the indiscretion of a friend who chanced to say: “I think Valorsay is hard up,” might fire the train, and then you’d explode.’”

M. Fortunat’s embarrassment was really painful to witness. He was not usually wanting in courage, but the events of the evening had shaken his confidence and his composure. The hope of gain and the fear of loss had deprived him of his wonted clearness of mind. Feeling that he had just committed a terrible blunder, he racked his brain to find some way of repairing it, and finding none, his confusion increased.

“Did you, or didn’t you, use that language?” insisted M. de Valorsay. “What have you to say in reply?”

“Circumstances——”

“What circumstances?”

“Urgent need—necessity. There is no rule without its exceptions. I did not imagine you would be so rash. I have advanced you forty thousand francs in less than five months—it is outrageous. If I were in your place, I would be more reasonable—I would economize——”

He paused! in fact, he was compelled to pause by the piercing glance which M. de Valorsay turned upon him. He was furious with himself. “I am losing my wits,” he thought.

“Still more wise counsel,” remarked the ruined nobleman ironically. “While you are about it, why don’t you advise me to sell my horses and carriages, and establish myself in a garret in the Rue Amelot? Such a course would seem very natural, wouldn’t it? and, of course, it would inspire M. de Chalusse with boundless confidence!”

“But without going to such extremes——”

“Hold your tongue!” interrupted the marquis, violently. “Better than any one else you know that I cannot retrench, although the reality no longer exists. I am condemned, cost what it may, to keep up appearances. That is my only hope of salvation. I have gambled, given expensive suppers, indulged in dissipation of every kind, and I must continue to do so. I have come to hate Ninette Simplon, for whom I have committed so many acts of folly, and yet I still keep her—to show that I am rolling in wealth. I have thrown thousand-franc notes out of the window, and I mustn’t stop throwing them. Indeed, what would people say if I stopped! Why, ‘Valorsay is a ruined man!’ Then, farewell to my hopes of marrying an heiress. And so I am always gay and smiling; that is part of my role. What would my servants—the twenty spies that I pay—what would they think if they saw me thoughtful or disturbed? You would scarcely believe it, M. Fortunat, but I have positively been reduced to dining on credit at my club, because I had paid, that morning, for a month’s provender for my horses! It is true I have many valuable articles in my house, but I cannot dispose of them. People would recognize them at once; besides, they form a part of my stock-in-trade. An actor doesn’t sell his costumes because he’s hungry—he goes without food—and when it’s time for the curtain to rise, he dons his satin and velvet garments, and, despite his empty stomach, he chants the praises of a bountiful table and rare old wine. That is what I am doing—I, Robert Dalbou, Marquis de Valorsay! At the races at Vincennes, about a fortnight ago, I was bowling along the boulevard behind my four-in-hand, when I heard a laborer say, ‘How happy those rich people must be!’ Happy, indeed! Why, I envied him his lot. He was sure that the morrow would be like the day that preceded it. On that occasion my entire fortune consisted of a single louis, which I had won at baccarat the evening before. As I entered the enclosure, Isabelle, the flower-girl, handed me a rose for my button-hole. I gave her my louis—but I longed to strangle her!”

He paused for a moment, and then, in a frenzy of passion, he advanced toward M. Fortunat, who instinctively retreated into the protecting embrasure of a window. “And for eight months I have lived this horrible life!” he resumed. “For eight months each moment has been so much torture. Ah! better poverty, prison, and shame! And now, when the prize is almost won, actuated either by treason or caprice, you try to make all my toil and all my suffering unavailing. You try to thwart me on the very threshold of success! No! I swear, by God’s sacred name, it shall not be! I will rather crush you, you miserable scoundrel—crush you like a venomous reptile!”

There was such a ring of fury in his voice that the crystals of the candelabra vibrated; and Madame Dodelin, in her kitchen, heard it, and shuddered. “Some one will certainly do M. Fortunat