The Count's Millions

  XVI.

  It is a terrible task to break suddenly with one's past, without evenhaving had time for preparation; to renounce the life one has so farlived, to return to the starting point, and begin existence anew; toabandon everything--the position one has gained, the work one has becomefamiliar with, every fondly cherished hope, and friend, and habit; toforsake the known to plunge into the unknown, to leave the certain forthe uncertain, and desert light for darkness; to cast one's identityaside, assume a strange individuality, become a living lie, change name,position, face, and clothes--in one phrase, to cease to be one's self,in order to become some one else.

  This is indeed, a terrible ordeal, and requires an amount of resolutionand energy which few human beings possess. The boldest hesitate beforesuch a sacrifice, and many a man has surrendered himself to justicerather than resort to this last extremity. And yet this was whatPascal Ferailleur had the courage to do, on the morrow of the shamefulconspiracy that had deprived him of his good name. When his mother'sexhortations and Baron Trigault's encouraging words had restored hiswonted clearness of perception, the only course he felt disposed topursue was to disappear and fly from the storm of slander andcontempt; and then, in a secure hiding-place, to watch for the time andopportunity of rehabilitation and revenge.

  Madame Ferailleur and her son made all needful arrangements. "I shallstart out at once," said Pascal, "and before two hours have elapsed Ishall have found a modest lodging, where we must conceal ourselves forthe present. I know a locality that will suit us, and where no one willcertainly ever think of looking for us."

  "And I," asked Madame Ferailleur, "what shall I do in the meantime?"

  "You, mother; you must, at once, sell all that we possesshere--everything--even my books. You will only keep such of our linenand clothes as you can pack in three or four trunks. We are undoubtedlywatched; and so it is of the utmost importance that every one shouldimagine I have left Paris, and that you are going to join me."

  "And when everything is sold, and my trunks are ready?"

  "Then, mother, you must send some one for a cab, and order the driver totake you to the Western Railway Station, where you will have the trunksremoved from the cab and placed in the baggage-room, as if you did notintend to leave Paris till the next day."

  "Very good, I will do so; even if any one is watching us, he won't belikely to suspect this ruse. But afterward?"

  "Afterward, mother, you must go to the waiting-room upstairs, and youwill find me there. I will then take you to the rooms I shall haverented, and to-morrow we'll send a messenger with the receipt therailway people will give you, to fetch our luggage for us."

  Madame Ferailleur approved of this plan, deeming herself fortunate inthis great calamity that despair had not destroyed her son's energy andresources of mind. "Shall we retain our name, Pascal?"

  "Oh, no. That would be an unpardonable imprudence."

  "What name shall we take, then? I must know, for they may ask me at thestation."

  He reflected for a moment and then said: "We'll take your maiden name,mother. It will bring us good luck. Our new lodgings shall be hired inthe name of the Widow Maumejan."

  They talked for some time longer, anxious to take every precautionthat prudence could suggest. And when they were convinced that they hadforgotten nothing, Madame Ferailleur suggested that Pascal should startoff. But before doing so he had a sacred duty to perform. "I must warnMarguerite," he muttered. And seating himself at his desk, he wrote hisbeloved a concise and exact account of the events which had taken place.He told her of the course he intended to pursue; and promised herthat she should know his new abode as soon as he knew it himself. Inconclusion, he entreated her to grant him an interview, in which hecould give her the full particulars of the affair and acquaint herwith his hopes. As for exculpating himself, even by so much as a singleword--as for explaining the snare he had been the victim of, the ideanever once occurred to him. He was worthy of Mademoiselle Marguerite;he knew that not a doubt would disturb the perfect faith she had in hishonor.

  Leaning over her son's shoulder, Madame Ferailleur read what he hadwritten. "Do you intend to trust this letter to the post?" sheinquired. "Are you sure, perfectly sure, that it will reach MademoiselleMarguerite, and not some one else who might use it against you?"

  Pascal shook his head. "I know how to insure its safe receipt," hereplied. "Some time ago, Marguerite told me that if ever any great perilthreatened us, I might call for the housekeeper at the Chalusse mansionand intrust my message to her. The danger is sufficiently great tojustify such a course in the present instance. So I shall pass down theRue de Courcelles, ask to see Madame Leon, and give her this letter.Have no fear, my dear mother."

  As he spoke, he began to pack all the legal documents which had beenconfided to him into a large box, which was to be carried to one of hisformer friends, who would distribute the papers among the people theybelonged to. He next made a small bundle of the few important privatepapers and valuables he possessed; and then, ready for the sacrifice,he took a last survey of the pleasant home where success had smiled sofavorably upon his efforts, where he had been so happy, and where hehad cherished such bright dreams of the future. Overcome by a flood ofrecollections, the tears sprang to his eyes. He embraced his mother, andfled precipitately from the house.

  "Poor child!" murmured Madame Ferailleur; "poor Pascal!"

  Was she not also to be pitied? This was the second time within twentyyears that a thunderbolt had fallen on her in the full sunlight ofhappiness. And yet now, as on the day following her husband's death, shefound in her heart the robust energy and heroic maternal constancy whichenable one to rise above every misfortune. It was in a firm voice thatshe ordered her servant to go in search of the nearest furniture dealer,no matter which, provided he would pay cash. And when the man arrivedshe showed him through the rooms with stoical calmness. God alone knewhow intensely she was suffering. And yet while she was waiting for thedealer, each piece of furniture had acquired an extraordinary value inher eyes. It seemed to her as if each object were a part of herself, andwhen the man turned and twisted a chair or a table she almost consideredit a personal affront.

  The rich, who are accustomed from birth to the luxury that surroundsthem, are ignorant of the terrible sufferings which attend such casesas these. The persons who do suffer are those of the middle classes, notthe parvenus, but those who bid fair to become parvenus when misfortuneovertook them. Their hearts bleed when inexorable necessity deprivesthem of all the little comforts with which they had gradually surroundedthemselves, for there is not an object that does not recall a longungratified desire, and the almost infantile joy of possession. Whathappiness they felt on the day when they purchased that large arm-chair!How many times they had gone to admire those velvet curtains in theshop windows before buying them! Those carpets represented months ofself-denial. And that pretty clock--ah! they had fancied it would onlyherald the flight of prosperous and pleasant hours. And all these thingsthe dealer handles, and shakes, and jeers at, and depreciates. He willscarcely condescend to purchase. Who would care to buy such trash?He knows that the owner is in need of money, and he profits by thisknowledge. It is his business. "How much did this cost you?" he asks, ashe inspects one piece of furniture after another.

  "So much."

  "Well, you must have been terribly cheated."

  You know very well that if there is a cheat in the world, it is thissame man; but what can you say? Any other dealer you might send forwould act in the same way. Now, Madame Ferailleur's furniture had costsome ten thousand francs; and, although it was no longer new, it wasworth at least a third of that sum. But she obtained only seven hundredand sixty francs for it. It is true, however, that she was in haste, andthat she was paid cash.

  Nine o'clock was striking when her trunks were at last piled on a cab,and she called out to the driver: "Take me to the Place du Havre--to therailway station." Once before, when defrauded by a scoundrel, she hadbeen obliged to part with all h
er household treasures. Once before shehad left her home, taking merely the wreck of her fortune with her. Butwhat a difference between then and now!

  Then, the esteem and sympathy of all who knew her was hers, and theadmiring praise she received divested the sacrifice of much of itsbitterness, and increased her courage two-fold. Now, she was flyingsecretly, and alone, under an assumed name, trembling at the thoughtof pursuit or recognition--flying as a criminal flies at thought of hiscrime, and fear of punishment. She had far less suffered on the day,when, with her son upon her knees, she journeyed to the cemetery,following all that was mortal of the man who had been her only thought,her love, her pride, her happiness, and hope. Though crushed by thesense of her irreparable loss, she had not rebelled against the handthat struck her; but now it was human wickedness that assailed herthrough her son, and her suffering was like that of the innocent man whoperishes for want of power to prove his innocence. Her husband's deathhad not caused her such bitter tears as her son's dishonor. She who wasso proud, and who had such good reason to be proud, she could note theglances of scorn she was favored with as she left her home. She heardthe insulting remarks made by some of her neighbors, who, like so manyfolks, found their chief delight in other people's misfortunes.

  "Crocodile tears," some had exclaimed. "She is going to meet her son;and with what he has stolen they will live like princes in America."Rumor, which enlarges and misrepresents everything, had, indeed,absurdly exaggerated the affair at Madame d'Argeles's house. It wasreported in the Rue d'Ulm that Pascal had spent every night at thegaming table for more than five years; and that, being an incomparabletrickster, he had stolen millions.

  Meanwhile, Madame Ferailleur was approaching the station. The cab horsesoon slackened its pace to climb the acclivity of the Rue d'Amsterdam;and shortly afterward the vehicle drew up in the courtyard of therailway station. Faithfully observing the directions which had beengiven her, the worthy woman had her trunks taken to the baggage-room,declaring that she should not leave Paris until the next day, whereuponshe received a receipt from the man in charge of the room. She wasoppressed by vague apprehensions, and looked closely at every one whopassed her; fearing the presence of spies, and knowing full well thatthe most profound secrecy could alone insure the success of Pascal'splans. However, she did not see a single suspicious looking person.Some Englishmen--those strange travellers, who are at the same time sofoolishly prodigal and so ridiculously miserly--were making a great hueand cry over the four sous gratuity claimed by a poor commissionaire;but these were the only persons in sight.

  Partially reassured, Madame Ferailleur hastily ascended the staircase,and entered the large waiting-room. It was here that Pascal had promisedto meet her; but, though she looked round on all sides, she did notperceive him. Still, this delay did not alarm her much; nor was it atall strange, since Pascal had scarcely known what he would have to dowhen he left the house. She seated herself on a bench, as far back inthe shade as possible and gazed sadly at the ever-changing throng, whenall of a sudden she was startled by a man, who abruptly paused in frontof her. This man proved to be Pascal. But his hair had been closely cut,and he had shaved off his beard. And thus shorn, with his smooth face,and with a brown silk neckerchief in lieu of the white muslin tie heusually wore, he was so greatly changed that for an instant his ownmother did not recognize him. "Well?" asked Madame Ferailleur, as sherealized his identity.

  "I have succeeded. We have secured such rooms as I wished for."

  "Where?"

  "Ah!--a long way off, my poor mother--many a league from those we haveknown and loved--in a thinly populated part of the suburbs, on the Routede la Revolte, just outside the fortifications, and almost at the pointwhere it intersects the Asnieres road. You will not be very comfortablethere, but you will have the pleasure of a little garden."

  She rose, summoning all her energy. "What does it matter where or whatour abode is?" she interrupted, with forced gayety. "I am confident thatwe shall not remain there long."

  But it seemed as if her son did not share her hopes, for he remainedsilent and dejected; and as his mother observed him closely, she fanciedby the expression of his eyes, that some new anxiety had been added toall his other troubles.

  "What is the matter?" she inquired, unable to master her alarm--"whathas happened?"

  "Ah! a great misfortune!"

  "My God! still another?"

  "I have been to the Rue de Courcelles; and I have spoken to MadameLeon."

  "What did she say?"

  "The Count de Chalusse died this morning."

  Madame Ferailleur drew a long breath, as if greatly relieved. She wascertainly expecting to hear something very different, and she didnot understand why this death should be a great misfortune to thempersonally. One point, however, she did realize, that it was imprudent,and even dangerous, to carry on this conversation in a hall where ahundred persons were passing and repassing every minute. So she took herson's arm, and led him away, saying: "Come, let us go."

  Pascal had kept the cab which he had been using during the afternoon;and having installed his mother inside, he got in himself, and gave hisnew address to the driver. "Now tell me all," said Madame Ferailleur.

  Poor Pascal was in that state of mind in which it costs one actualsuffering to talk; but he wished to mitigate his mother's anxiety asmuch as possible; and moreover, he did not like her to suppose himwanting in endurance. So, with a powerful effort, he shook off thelethargy that was creeping over him, and in a voice loud enough to beheard above the noise of the carriage wheels, he began: "This is whatI have done, mother, since I left you. I remembered that some time ago,while I was appraising some property, I had seen three or four houseson the Route de la Revolte, admirably suited to our present wants.Naturally I went there first. A suite of rooms was vacant in one ofthese houses. I have taken it; and in order that nothing may interferewith the liberty of my movements, I have paid six months' rent inadvance. Here is the receipt, drawn up in the name we shall henceforthbear." So saying, he showed his mother a document in which the landlorddeclared that he had received from M. Maumejan the sum of three hundredand fifty francs for two quarters' rent, etc. "My bargain concluded," heresumed, "I returned into Paris, and entered the first furniture shopI saw. I meant to hire the necessary things to furnish our littlehome, but the dealer made all sorts of objections. He trembled for hisfurniture, he wanted a sum of money to be deposited as security, or theguarantee of three responsible business men. Seeing this, and knowingthat I had no time to lose, I preferred to purchase such articles aswere absolutely necessary. One of the conditions of the purchase wasthat everything should be in the house and in its place by eleveno'clock to-night. As I stipulated in writing that the dealer shouldforfeit three hundred francs in case he failed to fulfil his agreement,I can rely upon his punctuality; I confided the key of our lodgings tohim, and he must now be there waiting for us."

  So, before thinking of his love, and Mademoiselle Marguerite, Pascal hadtaken the necessary measures for the execution of his plan to regain hislost honor. Madame Ferailleur had scarcely supposed him capable of somuch courage and firmness, and she rewarded him with a warm pressure ofthe hand. Then, as he was silent: "When did you see Madame Leon, then?"she asked.

  "When all the household arrangements were completed, mother. On leavingthe furniture-shop, I found that I had still an hour and a quarterbefore me. I could defer no longer, and at the risk of obliging you towait for me, I hastened to the Rue de Courcelles."

  It was evident that Pascal felt extreme embarrassment in speaking ofMademoiselle Marguerite. There is an instinctive delicacy and dislike ofpublicity in all deep passion, and true and chaste love is everaverse to laying aside the veil with which it conceals itself from theinquisitive. Madame Ferailleur understood this feeling; but she was amother, and as such, jealous of her son's tenderness, and anxious forparticulars concerning this rival who had suddenly usurped her place inthe heart where she had long reigned supreme. She was also a woman--thatis to
say, distrustful and suspicious in reference to all other women.So, without taking pity on Pascal's embarrassment, she urged him tocontinue.

  "I gave the driver five francs on condition that he would hurry hishorses," he resumed, "and we were rattling along at a rapid rate, when,suddenly, near the Hotel de Chalusse, I noticed a change in the motionof the vehicle. I looked out and saw that we were driving over a thicklayer of straw which had been spread across the street. I can scarcelydescribe my feelings on seeing this. A cold perspiration came over me--Ifancied I saw Marguerite in agony, dying--far from me, and calling me invain. Without waiting for the vehicle to stop, I sprang to the ground,and was obliged to exercise all my self-control to prevent myself fromrushing into the concierge's lodge, and wildly asking: 'Who is dyinghere?' But an unforeseen difficulty presented itself. It was evidentthat I ought not to go in person to inquire for Madame Leon. Whom couldI send? There were no commissionaires at the street corners, and nothingwould have induced me to confide the message to any of the lads in theneighboring wine-shops. Fortunately, my driver--the same who is drivingus now--is an obliging fellow, and I intrusted him with the commission,while I stood guard over his horses. Ten minutes later, Madame Leon leftthe house and came to meet me. I knew her at once, for I had seen her ahundred times with Marguerite when they lived near the Luxembourg; andhaving seen me pass and repass so often, she recognized me in spiteof my changed appearance. Her first words, 'M. de Chalusse is dead,'relieved my heart of a terrible weight. I could breathe again. But shewas in such haste that she could not stop to tell me any particulars.Still I gave her my letter, and she promised me a prompt reply fromMarguerite. Everybody will be up and moving about the house to-night,and she said she could easily make her escape for a few moments. So, athalf-past twelve to-night she will be at the little garden gate, and ifI am promptly at hand, I shall have a reply from Marguerite."

  Madame Ferailleur seemed to be expecting something more, and as Pascalremained silent, she remarked: "You spoke of a great misfortune. In whatdoes it consist? I do not perceive it."

  With an almost threatening gesture, and in a gloomy voice, he answered:"The misfortune is this: if it had not been for this abominableconspiracy, which has dishonored me, Marguerite would have been my wifebefore a month had elapsed, for now she is free, absolutely free to obeythe dictates of her own will and heart."

  "Then why do you complain?"

  "Oh, mother! don't you understand? How can I marry her? Would it beright for me to think of offering her a dishonored name? It seems to methat I should be guilty of a most contemptible act--of something evenworse than a crime--if I dared speak to her of my love and our futurebefore I have crushed the villains who have ruined me."

  Regret, anger, and the consciousness of his present powerlessness drewfrom him tears which fell upon Madame Ferailleur's heart like moltenlead; but she succeeded in concealing her agony. "All the more reason,"she answered, almost coldly, "why you should not lose a second, butdevote all your energy and intelligence to the work of justification."

  "Oh, I shall have my revenge, never fear. But in the meantime, what isto become of HER? Think, mother, she is alone in the world, without asingle friend. It is enough to drive one mad!"

  "She loves you, you tell me. What have you to fear? Now she will befreed from the persecutions of the suitor they intended to force uponher, whom she has spoken to you about--the Marquis de Valorsay, is itnot?"

  This name sent Pascal's blood to his brain. "Ah, the scoundrel!" heexclaimed. "If there was a God in heaven----"

  "Wretched boy!" interrupted Madame Ferailleur; "you blaspheme whenProvidence has already interposed on your behalf. And who suffers mostat this moment, do you think?--you, strong in your innocence, or themarquis, who realizes that he has committed an infamous crime in vain?"

  The sudden stopping of the cab put an end to their conversation.Leaving the Route d'Asnieres, the driver had turned into the Route de laRevolte, and had drawn up in front of an unpretentious two-storied housewhich stood entirely alone. "We have arrived, mother," said Pascal.

  A man, who was standing on the threshold, stepped forward to openthe cab door. It was the furniture-dealer. "Here you are at last,M. Maumejan," said he. "Come in, and you'll see that I've strictlyfulfilled the conditions of our contract." His words proved true. He waspaid the sum stipulated, and went away satisfied.

  "Now, my dear mother," said Pascal, "allow me to do the honors of thepoor abode I have selected."

  He had taken only the ground floor of this humble dwelling. The storyabove, which had an independent entrance and staircase, was occupiedby the quiet family of the owner. Although the space was small, thearchitect had made the most of it. He had divided it into four smallrooms, separated by a corridor; and the kitchen looked out upon a littlegarden about four times as large as an ordinary sheet. The furniturewhich Pascal had purchased was more than plain; but it was well suitedto this humble abode. It had just been brought in, but any one wouldhave supposed it had been in its place for a couple of years.

  "We shall be very comfortable here," declared Madame Ferailleur. "Yes,very comfortable. By to-morrow evening you won't recognize the place.I have saved a few trifles from the wreck--some curtains, a couple oflamps, a clock--you'll see. It's wonderful how much four trunks can bemade to hold."

  When his mother set him such a noble example Pascal would have blushedto allow himself to be outdone. He very quietly explained the reasonswhich had influenced him in choosing these rooms, the principal onebeing that there was no concierge, and he was therefore assured absoluteliberty in his movements, as well as entire immunity from indiscreetgossip. "Certainly, my dear mother," he added, "it is a lonely andunattractive neighborhood; but you will find all the necessaries of lifenear at hand. The owner of the house lives on the floor above. I havetalked with the wife--they seem to be honest, quiet people--and she willpilot you about. I inquired for some one to do the heavy work, and shementioned a poor woman named Vantrasson, who lives in the neighborhood,and who is anxious to obtain employment. They were to inform her thisevening, and you will see her to-morrow. And above all, don't forgetthat you are henceforth Madame Maumejan."

  Occupied with these arrangements for the future, he was still talking,when Madame Ferailleur, drawing out her watch, gently remarked: "Andyour appointment? You forget that the cab is waiting at the door."

  It was true; he had forgotten it. He caught up his hat, hastilyembraced his mother, and sprang into the vehicle. The horses were almostexhausted, but the driver was so willing that he found a means of makingthem trot as far as the Rue de Courcelles. However, on arriving there,he declared that his animals and himself could endure no more, and afterreceiving the amount due to him, he departed.

  The air was chilly, the night dark, and the street deserted. The gloomysilence was only disturbed at long intervals by the opening or shuttingof a door, or by the distant tread of some belated pedestrian. Having atleast twenty minutes to wait, Pascal sat down on the curbstone oppositethe Hotel de Chalusse, and fixed his eyes upon the building as if hewere striving to penetrate the massive walls, and see what was passingwithin. Only one window--that of the room where the dead man waslying--was lighted up, and he could vaguely distinguish the motionlessform of a woman standing with her forehead pressed against the paneof glass. A prey to the indescribable agony which seizes a man whenhe feels that his life is at stake--that his future is about to beirrevocably decided--Pascal counted the seconds as they passed by. Hefound it impossible to reflect, to deliberate, to decide on any planof action. He forgot the tortures he had endured during the lasttwenty-four hours; Coralth, Valorsay, Madame d'Argeles, the baron, nolonger existed for him. He forgot his loss of honor and position, andthe disgrace attached to his name. The past was annihilated, as itwere, and he could think of no future beyond the next few moments. Hisphysical condition undoubtedly contributed to his mental weakness. Hehad taken no food that day, and he was faint from want of nourishment.He had come without an overcoat, moreover
, and the cold night airchilled him to the bone. There was a strange ringing in his ears, anda mist swam before his eyes. At last the bell at the Beaujon Hospitaltolled the appointed hour, and roused him from his lethargy. He seemedto hear a voice crying to him in the darkness, "Up! the hour has come!"

  Trembling, and with tottering limbs, he dragged himself to the littlegate opening into the gardens of the Chalusse mansion. Soon it softlyopened, and Madame Leon appeared. Ah! it was not she that Pascal hadhoped to see. Unfortunate man! He had been listening to that mysteriousecho of our own desires which we so often mistake for a presentiment;and it had whispered in his heart: "Marguerite herself will come!"

  With the candor of wretchedness, he could not refrain from tellingMadame Leon the hope he had entertained. But, on hearing him, thehousekeeper recoiled with a gesture of outraged propriety, andreproachfully exclaimed: "What are you thinking of, monsieur? What!could you suppose that Mademoiselle Marguerite would abandon her placeby her dead father's bedside to come to a rendezvous? Ah! you shouldthink better of her than that, the dear child!"

  He sighed deeply, and in a scarcely audible voice, he asked: "Hasn't sheeven sent me a reply?"

  "Yes, monsieur, she has; and although it is a great indiscretion on mypart, I bring you the letter. Here it is. Now, good-evening. I must goat once. What would become of me if the servants discovered my absence,and found that I had gone out alone----"

  She was hurrying away, but Pascal detained her. "Pray wait until I seewhat she has written," he said, imploringly. "I shall perhaps be obligedto send her some message in reply."

  Madame Leon obeyed, though with rather bad grace, and not withoutseveral times repeating: "Make haste!"--while Pascal ran to a streetlamp near by. It was not a letter that Marguerite had sent him, buta short note, written on a scrap of crumpled paper, folded, and notsealed. It was written in pencil; and the handwriting was irregular andindistinct. Still, by the flickering light of the gas, Pascal decipheredthe word "Monsieur." It made him shudder. "Monsieur!" What did thismean? In writing to him of recent times, Marguerite had always said, "Mydear Pascal," or, "My friend."

  Nevertheless, he continued: "I have not had the courage to resist theentreaties made to me by the Count de Chalusse, my father, in his lastagony. I have solemnly pledged myself to become the wife of the Marquisde Valorsay.

  "One cannot break a promise made to the dying. I shall keep mine, eventhough my heart break. I shall do my duty. God will give me strength andcourage. Forget her whom you loved. She is now the betrothed of another,and honor commands her to forget your very name. Once more, and for thelast time, farewell! If you love me, you will not try to see me again.It would only add to my misery.

  "Think as though she were dead--she who signs herself--MARGUERITE."

  The commonplace wording of this letter, and the mistakes in spellingthat marred it, entirely escaped Pascal's notice. He only understood onething, that Marguerite was lost to him, and that she was on the point ofbecoming the wife of the vile scoundrel who had planned the snare whichhad ruined him at the Hotel d'Argeles. Breathless, despairing, and halfcrazed with rage, he sprang toward Madame Leon. "Marguerite, where isshe?" he demanded, in a hoarse, unnatural voice; "I must see her!"

  "Oh! monsieur, what do you ask? Is it possible? Allow me to explainto you----" But the housekeeper was unable to finish her sentence, forPascal had caught her by the hands, and holding them in a vicelike grip,he repeated: "I must see Marguerite, and speak to her. I must tell herthat she has been deceived; I will unmask the scoundrel who----"

  The frightened housekeeper struggled with all her might, trying her bestto reach the little gate which was standing open. "You hurt me!" shecried. "Are you mad? Let me go or I shall call for help?" And twiceindeed she shouted in a loud voice, "Help! murder!"

  But her cries were lost in the stillness of the night. If any oneheard them, no one came; still they recalled Pascal to a sense of thesituation, and he was ashamed of his violence. He released Madame Leon,and his manner suddenly became as humble as it had been threatening."Excuse me," he said, entreatingly. "I am suffering so much that Idon't know what I'm doing. I beseech you to take me to MademoiselleMarguerite, or else run and beg her to come here. I ask but a moment."

  Madame Leon pretended to be listening attentively; but, in reality, shewas quietly manoeuvring to gain the garden gate. Soon she succeeded indoing so, whereupon, with marvellous strength and agility, she pushedPascal away, and sprang inside the garden, closing the gate after her,and saying as she did so, "Begone, you scoundrel!"

  This was the final blow; and for more than a minute Pascal stoodmotionless in front of the gate, stupefied with mingled rage and sorrow.His condition was not unlike that of a man who, after falling to thebottom of a precipice, is dragging himself up, all mangled and bleeding,swearing that he will yet save himself, when suddenly a heavy stonewhich he had loosened in his descent, falls forward and crushes him. Allthat he had so far endured was nothing in comparison with the thoughtthat Valorsay would wed Marguerite. Was such a thing possible? WouldGod permit such a monstrous iniquity? "No, that shall never be," hemuttered. "I will murder the scoundrel rather; and afterward justice maydo whatever it likes with me."

  He experienced that implacable, merciless thirsting for vengeancewhich does not even recoil before the commission of a crime to securesatisfaction, and this longing inflamed him with such energy that,although he had been so utterly exhausted a few moments before--he wasnot half an hour in making his way back to his new home. His mother, whowas waiting for him with an anxious heart, was surprised by the flushon his cheeks, and the light glittering in his eyes. "Ah, you bring goodnews," she exclaimed.

  His only answer was to hand her the letter which Madame Leon had givenhim, saying as he did so, "Read."

  Madame Ferailleur's eyes fell upon the words: "Once more, and for thelast time, farewell!" She understood everything, turned very pale, andin a trembling voice exclaimed: "Don't grieve, my son; the girl did notlove you."

  "Oh, mother! if you knew----"

  But she checked him with a gesture, and lifting her head proudly, shesaid: "I know what it is to love, Pascal--it is to have perfect faith.If the whole world had accused your father of a crime, would a singledoubt of his innocence have ever entered my mind? This girl has doubtedyou. They have told her that you cheated at cards--and she has believedit. You have failed to see that this oath at the bedside of the dyingcount is only an excuse."

  It was true; the thought had not occurred to Pascal. "My God!" he criedin agony; "are you the only one who believes in my innocence?"

  "Without proofs--yes. It must be your task to obtain these proofs."

  "And I shall obtain them," he rejoined, in a tone of determination. "Iam strong now that I have Marguerite's life to defend--for they havedeceived her, mother, or she would never have given me up. Oh! don'tshake your head. I love her, and so I trust her."