File No. 113, Emile Gaboriau [digital e reader txt] 📗

slipped, and precipitated him from the summit.

Still, if he alone had been ruined! But Valentine was dragged down with him: she was disgraced yet more than himself; her reputation was gone. And it was his want of self-command which had cast to the winds this honor, confided to his keeping, and which he held far dearer than his own.

But he could not remain here bewailing his misfortune. The police must soon be on his track. They would certainly go to the chateau of Clameran to seek him; and before leaving home, perhaps forever, he wished to say good-by to his father, and once more press Valentine to his heart.

He started to walk, but with great pain, for the reaction had come, and his nerves and muscles, so violently strained, had now begun to relax; the intense heat caused by his struggling and fast running was replaced by a cold perspiration, aching limbs, and chattering teeth. His hip and shoulder pained him almost beyond endurance. The cut on his forehead had stopped bleeding, but the coagulated blood around his eyes blinded him.

After a painful walk he reached his door at ten o’clock.

The old valet who admitted him started back terrified.

“Good heavens, monsieur! what is the matter?”

“Silence!” said Gaston in the brief, compressed tone always inspired by imminent danger, “silence! where is my father?”

“M. the marquis is in his room with M. Louis. He has had a sudden attack of the gout, and cannot put his foot to the ground; but you, monsieur–-”

Gaston did not stop to listen further. He hurried to his father’s room.

The old marquis, who was playing backgammon with Louis, dropped his dice-box with a cry of horror, when he looked up and saw his eldest son standing before him covered with blood.

“What is the matter? what have you been doing, Gaston?”

“I have come to embrace you for the last time, father, and to ask for assistance to escape abroad.”

“Do you wish to fly the country?”

“I must fly, father, and instantly; I am pursued, the police may be here at any moment. I have killed two men.”

The marquis was so shocked that he forgot the gout, and attempted to rise; a violent twinge made him drop back in his chair.

“Where? When?” he gasped.

“At Tarascon, in a cafe, an hour ago; fifteen men attacked me, and I seized a knife to defend myself.”

“The old tricks of ‘93,” said the marquis. “Did they insult you, Gaston? What was the cause of the attack?”

“They insulted in my presence the name of a noble young girl.”

“And you punished the rascals? Jarnibleu! You did well. Who ever heard of a gentleman allowing insolent puppies to speak disrespectfully of a lady of quality in his presence? But who was the lady you defended?”

“Mlle. Valentine de la Verberie.”

“What!” cried the marquis, “what! the daughter of that old witch! Those accursed de la Verberies have always brought misfortune upon us.”

He certainly abominated the countess; but his respect for her noble blood was greater than his resentment toward her individually, and he added:

“Nevertheless, Gaston, you did your duty.”

Meanwhile, the curiosity of St. Jean, the marquis’s old valet, made him venture to open the door, and ask:

“Did M. the marquis ring?”

“No, you rascal,” answered M. de Clameran: “you know very well I did not. But, now you are here, be useful. Quickly bring some clothes for M. Gaston, some fresh linen, and some warm water: hasten and dress his wounds.”

These orders were promptly executed, and Gaston found he was not so badly hurt as he had thought. With the exception of a deep stab in his left shoulder, his wounds were not serious.

After receiving all the attentions which his condition required, Gaston felt like a new man, ready to brave any peril. His eyes sparkled with renewed energy and excitement.

The marquis made a sign to the servants to leave the room.

“Do you still think you ought to leave France?” he asked Gaston.

“Yes, father.”

“My brother ought not to hesitate,” interposed Louis: “he will be arrested here, thrown into prison, vilified in court, and—who knows?”

“We all know well enough that he will be convicted,” grumbled the old marquis. “These are the benefits of the immortal revolution, as it is called. Ah, in my day we three would have taken our swords, jumped on our horses, and, dashing into Tarascon, would soon have—. But those good old days are passed. To-day we have to run away.”

“There is no time to lose,” observed Louis.

“True,” said the marquis, “but to fly, to go abroad, one must have money; and I have none by me to give him.”

“Father!”

“No, I have none. Ah, what a prodigal old fool I have been! If I only had a hundred louis!”

Then he told Louis to open the secretary, and hand him the money-box.

The box contained only nine hundred and twenty francs in gold.

“Nine hundred and twenty francs,” cried the marquis: “it will never do for the eldest son of our house to fly the country with this paltry sum.”

He sat lost in reflection. Suddenly his brow cleared, and he told Louis to open a secret drawer in the secretary, and bring him a small casket.

Then the marquis took from his neck a black ribbon, to which was suspended the key of the casket.

His sons observed with what deep emotion he unlocked it, and slowly took out a necklace, a large cross, several rings, and other pieces of jewelry.

His countenance assumed a solemn expression.

“Gaston, my dear son,” he said, “at a time like this your life may depend upon bought assistance; money is power.”

“I am young, father, and have courage.”

“Listen to me. The jewels belonged to the marquise, your sainted mother, a noble, holy woman, who is now in heaven watching over us. These jewels have never left me. During my days of misery and want, when I was compelled to earn a livelihood by teaching music in London, I piously treasured them. I never thought of selling them; and to mortgage them, in the hour of direst need, would have seemed to be a sacrilege. But now you must take them, my son, and sell them for twenty thousand livres.”

“No, father no; I cannot take them!”

“You must, Gaston. If your mother were on earth, she would tell you to take them, as I do now. I command you to take and use them. The salvation, the honor, of the heir of the house of Clameran, must not be imperilled for want of a little gold.”

With tearful eyes, Gaston sank on his knees, and, carrying his father’s hand to his lips, said:

“Thanks, father, thanks! In my heedless, ungrateful presumption I have hitherto misjudged you. I did not know your noble character. Forgive me. I accept; yes, I accept these jewels worn by my dear mother; but I take them as a sacred deposit, confided to my honor, and for which I will some day account to you.”

In their emotion, the marquis and Gaston forgot the threatened danger. But Louis was not touched by the affecting scene.

“Time presses,” he said: “you had better hasten.”

“He is right,” cried the marquis: “go, Gaston, go, my son; and God protect the heir of the Clamerans!”

Gaston slowly got up and said, with an embarrassed air:

“Before leaving you, my father, I must fulfil a sacred duty. I have not told you everything. I love Valentine, the young girl whose honor I defended this evening.”

“Oh!” cried the marquis, thunderstruck, “oh, oh!”

“And I entreat you, father, to ask Mme. de la Verberie for the hand of her daughter. Valentine will gladly join me abroad, and share my exile.”

Gaston stopped, frightened at the effect of his words. The old marquis had become crimson, or rather purple, as if struck by apoplexy.

“Preposterous!” he gasped. “Impossible! Perfect folly!”

“I love her, father, and have promised her never to marry another.”

“Then always remain a bachelor.”

“I shall marry her!” cried Gaston, excitedly. “I shall marry her because I have sworn I would, and I will not be so base as to desert her.”

“Nonsense!”

“I tell you, Mlle. de la Verberie must and shall be my wife. It is too late for me to draw back. Even if I no longer loved her, I would still marry her, because she has given herself to me; because, can’t you understand—what was said at the cafe to-night was true: I have but one way of repairing the wrong I have done Valentine—by marrying her.”

Gaston’s confession, forced from him by circumstances, produced a very different impression from that which he had expected. The enraged marquis instantly became cool, and his mind seemed relieved of an immense weight. A wicked joy sparkled in his eyes, as he replied:

“Ah, ha! she yielded to your entreaties, did she? Jarnibleu! I am delighted. I congratulate you, Gaston: they say she is a pretty little fool.”

“Monsieur,” interrupted Gaston, indignantly; “I have told you that I love her, and have promised to marry her. You seem to forget.”

“Ta, ta ta!” cried the marquis, “your scruples are absurd. You know full well that her great-grandfather led our great-grandmother astray. Now we are quits! I am delighted at the retaliation, for the old witch’s sake.”

“I swear by the memory of my mother, that Valentine shall be my wife!”

“Do you dare assume that tone toward me?” cried the exasperated marquis. “Never, understand me clearly; never will I give my consent. You know how dear to me is the honor of our house. Well, I would rather see you tried for murder, and even chained to the galleys, than married to this worthless jade!”

This last word was too much for Gaston.

“Then your wish shall be gratified, monsieur. I will remain here, and be arrested. I care not what becomes of me! What is life to me without the hope of Valentine? Take back these jewels: they are useless now.”

A terrible scene would have taken place between the father and son, had they not been interrupted by a domestic who rushed into the room, and excitedly cried:

“The gendarmes! here are the gendarmes!”

At this news the old marquis started up, and seemed to forget his gout, which had yielded to more violent emotions.

“Gendarmes!” he cried, “in my house at Clameran! They shall pay dear for their insolence! You will help me, will you not, my men?”

“Yes, yes,” answered the servants. “Down with the gendarmes! down with them!”

Fortunately Louis, during all this excitement, preserved his presence of mind.

“To resist would be folly,” he said. “Even if we repulsed the gendarmes to-night, they would return to-morrow with reinforcements.”

“Louis is right,” said the marquis, bitterly. “Might is right, as they said in ‘93. The gendarmes are all powerful. Do they not even have the impertinence to come up to me while I am hunting, and ask to see my shooting-license?—I, a Clameran, show a license!”

“Where are they?” asked Louis of the servants.

“At the outer gate,” answered La Verdure, one of the grooms. “Does not monsieur hear the noise they are making with their sabres?”

“Then Gaston must escape over the garden wall.”

“It is guarded, monsieur,” said La Verdure, “and the little gate in the park besides. There seems to be a regiment of them. They are even stationed along the park walls.”

This was only too true. The rumor of Lazet’s death had spread like wildfire throughout the town of Tarascon, and everybody was in a state of excitement. Not only mounted gendarmes, but a platoon of hussars from the garrison, had been sent in pursuit of the murderer.

At least twenty young men of Tarascon were