Baron Trigault's Vengeance, Emile Gaboriau [rom com books to read .txt] 📗

Again and again had Pascal spoken of his mother’s prejudices and the inflexibility of her principles. But he had also spoken of her dauntless energy, the nobility of her nature, and of her love and devotion to him. With Marguerite, moreover, one consideration—one which she would scarcely have admitted, perhaps—outweighed all others: Madame Ferailleur was Pascal’s mother. For that reason alone, if for no other, she was prepared to worship her. How fervently she blessed this noble woman, who, a widow, and ruined in fortune by an unprincipled scoundrel, had bravely toiled to educate her son, making him the man whom Marguerite had freely chosen from among all others. She would have knelt before this grand but simple-hearted mother had she dared; she would have kissed her hands. And a poignant regret came to her heart when she remembered her own mother, Baroness Trigault, and compared her with this matchless woman.

Meanwhile the cab had passed the outer boulevards, and was now whirling along the Route d’Asnieres, as fast as the horse could drag it. “We are almost there,” remarked Madame Ferailleur, speaking for the first time.

Marguerite’s response was inaudible, she was so overcome with emotion. The driver had just turned the corner of the Route de la Revolte; and it was not long before he checked his panting horse. “Look, mademoiselle,” said Madame Ferailleur again, “this is our home.”

Upon the threshold, bareheaded, and breathless with impatience and hope, stood a man who was counting the seconds with the violent throbbings of his heart. He did not wait for the cab to stop, but springing to the door, he opened it; and then, catching Marguerite in his arms, he carried her into the house with a cry of joy. She had not even time to look around her, ere he had placed her in an arm-chair, and fallen on his knees before her. “At last I see you again, my beloved Marguerite,” he exclaimed. “You are mine—nothing shall part us again!”

They sobbed in each other’s arms. They could bear adversity unmoved; but their composure deserted them in this excess of happiness; and standing in the door-way, Madame Ferailleur felt the tears come to her eyes as she stood watching them.

“How can I tell you all that I have suffered!” said Pascal, whose voice was hoarse with feeling. “The papers have told you all the details, I suppose. How I was accused of cheating at cards; how the vile epithet ‘thief’ was cast in my face; how they tried to search me; how my most intimate friends deserted me; how I was virtually expelled from the Palais de Justice. All this is terrible, is it not? Ah, well! it is nothing in comparison with the intense, unendurable anguish I experienced in thinking that you believed the infamous calumny which disgraced me.”

Marguerite rose to her feet. “You thought that!” she exclaimed. “You believed that I doubted you? I! Like you, I have been accused of robbery myself. Do you believe me guilty?”

“Good God! I suspect you!”

“Then why——”

“I was mad, Marguerite, my only love, I was mad! But who would not have lost his senses under such circumstances? It was the very day after this atrocious conspiracy. I had seen Madame Leon, and had trusted her with a letter for you in which I entreated you to grant me five minutes’ Conversation.”

“Alas! I never received it.”

“I know that now; but then I was deceived. I went to the little garden gate to await your coming, but it was Madame Leon who appeared. She brought me a note written in pencil and signed with your name, bidding me an eternal farewell. And, fool that I was, I did not see that the note was a forgery!”

Mademoiselle Marguerite was amazed. The veil was now torn aside, and the truth revealed to her. Now she remembered Madame Leon’s embarrassment when she met her returning from the garden on the night following the count’s death. “Ah, well! Pascal,” she said, “do you know what I was doing at almost the same moment? Alarmed at having received no news from you, I hastened to the Rue d’Ulm, where I learned that you had sold your furniture and started for America. Any other woman might have believed herself deserted under such circumstances, but not I. I felt sure that you had not fled in ignominious fashion. I was convinced that you had only concealed yourself for a time in order to strike your enemies more surely.”

“Do not shame me, Marguerite. It is true that of us two I showed myself the weaker.”

Lost in the rapture of the present moment, they had forgotten the past and the future, the agony they had endured, the dangers that still threatened them, and even the existence of their enemies.

But Madame Ferailleur was watching. She pointed to the clock, and earnestly exclaimed: “Time is passing, my son. Each moment that is wasted endangers our success. Should any suspicion bring Madame Vantrasson here, all would be lost.”

“She cannot come upon us unawares, my dear mother. Chupin has promised not to lose sight of her. If she stirs from her shop, he will hasten here and throw a stone against the shutters to warn us.”

But even this did not satisfy Madame Ferailleur.

“You forget, Pascal.” she insisted, “that Mademoiselle Marguerite must be at home again by ten o’clock, if she consents to the ordeal you feel obliged to impose upon her.”

This was the voice of duty recalling Pascal to the stern realities of life. He slowly rose, conquered his emotion, and, after reflecting for a moment, said: “First of all, Marguerite, I owe you the truth and an exact statement of our situation. Circumstances have compelled me to act without consulting you. Have I done right or wrong? You shall judge.” And without stopping to listen to the girl’s protestations, he rapidly explained how he had managed to win M. de Valorsay’s confidence, discover his plans, and become his trusted accomplice. “This scoundrel’s plan is very simple,” he continued. “He is determined to marry you. Why? Because, though you are not aware of it, you are rich, and the sole heiress to the fortune of the Count de Chalusse, your father. This surprises you, does it not? Very well! listen to me. Deceived by the Marquis de Valorsay, the Count de Chalusse had promised him your hand. These arrangements were nearly completed, though you had not been informed of them. In fact, everything had been decided. At the outset, however, a grave difficulty had presented itself. The marquis wished your father to acknowledge you before your marriage, but this he refused to do. ‘It would expose me to the most frightful dangers,’ he declared. ‘However, I will recognize Marguerite as my daughter in my will, and, at the same time, leave all my property to her.’ But the marquis would not listen to this proposal. ‘I don’t doubt your good intentions, my dear count,’ said he,’ but suppose this will should be contested, your property might pass into other hands.’ This difficulty put a stop to the proceedings for some time. The marquis asked for guarantees; the other refused to give them—until, at last, M. de Chalusse discovered an expedient which would satisfy both parties. He confided to M. de Valorsay’s keeping a will in which he recognized you as his daughter, and bequeathed you his entire fortune. This document, the validity of which is unquestionable, has been carefully preserved by the marquis. He has not spoken of its existence; and he