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

All these thoughts were well calculated to drive away sleep; but the poor girl was only twenty, and it was the second night she had watched by the count’s bedside. Thus at last fatigue overcame her, and she fell asleep.

In the morning, about seven o’clock, Madame Leon was obliged to shake her to rouse her from the kind of lethargy into which she had fallen. “Mademoiselle,” said the housekeeper, in her honeyed voice; “dear mademoiselle, wake up at once!”

“What is the matter? What is it?”

“Ah! how can I explain? My dear young lady, the undertaker’s men have come to make arrangements for the ceremony.”

Those in charge of the last rites had indeed arrived, and their heavy tread could be heard in the hall and in the courtyard. M. Casimir, who was bursting with self-sufficiency, hurried here, there? and everywhere, indicating, with an imperious gesture, where he wished the black hangings, embroidered with silver and emblazoned with the De Chalusse arms, to be suspended. As the magistrate had given him carte-blanche, he deemed it proper, as he remarked to Concierge Bourigeau, to have everything done in grand style. But he took good care not to reveal the fact that he had exacted a very handsome commission from all the people he employed. The hundred francs derived from Chupin had only whetted his appetite for more. At all events, he had certainly spared no pains in view of having everything as magnificent as possible; and it was not until he considered the display thoroughly satisfactory that he went to warn Mademoiselle Marguerite. “I come to beg mademoiselle to retire to her own room,” he said.

“Retire—why?”

He did not reply by words, but pointed to the bed on which the body was lying, and the poor girl realized that the moment of eternal separation had come. She rose, and dragged herself to the bedside. Death had now effaced all traces of the count’s last agony. His face wore its accustomed expression again, and it might have been fancied that he was asleep. For a long time Mademoiselle Marguerite stood looking at him, as if to engrave the features she would never behold again upon her memory. “Mademoiselle,” insisted M. Casimir; “mademoiselle, do not remain here.”

She heard him, and summoning all her strength, she leaned over the bed, kissed M. de Chalusse, and went away. But she was too late, for in passing through the hall she encountered the undertakers, who carried on their shoulders a long metallic case enclosed in two oaken ones. And she had scarcely reached her own room before a smell of resin told her that the men were closing the coffin which contained all that was mortal of M. de Chalusse, her father.

So, none of those terrible details, which so increase one’s grief, were spared her. But she had already suffered so much that she had reached a state of gloomy apathy, almost insensibility; and the exercise of her faculties was virtually suspended. Whiter than marble, she fell, rather than seated herself, on a chair, scarcely perceiving Madame Leon, who had followed her.

The worthy housekeeper was greatly excited, and not without cause. As there were no relations, it had been decided that M. de Fondege, the count’s oldest friend, should do the honors of the mansion to the persons invited to attend the funeral; and he had sworn that he would be under arms at daybreak, and that they might positively depend upon him. But the hour fixed for the ceremony was approaching, several persons had already arrived, and yet M. de Fondege had not put in an appearance. “It is incomprehensible,” exclaimed Madame Leon. “The General is usually punctuality personified. He must have met with some accident.” And in her anxiety she stationed herself at the window, whence she could command a view of the courtyard, carefully scrutinizing every fresh arrival.

At last, about half-past nine o’clock, she suddenly exclaimed: “Here he is! Do you hear, mademoiselle, here’s the General!”

A moment later, indeed, there was a gentle rap at the door, and M. de Fondege entered. “Ah, I’m late!” he exclaimed; “but, dash it all! it’s not my fault!” And, struck by Mademoiselle Marguerite’s immobility, he advanced and took her hand. “And you, my dear little one, what is the matter with you?” he asked. “Have you been ill? You are frightfully pale.”

She succeeded in shaking off the torpor which was stealing over her, and replied in a faint voice; “I am not ill, monsieur.”

“So much the better, my dear child, so much the better. It is our little heart that is suffering, is it not? Yes—yes—I understand. But your old friends will console you. You received my wife’s letter, did you not? Ah, well! what she told you, she will do—she will do it. And to prove it, in spite of her illness, she followed me—in fact, she is here!”