Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “Have you not always been my adviser ever since the worthy Doctor Polidori introduced me to you? By the way, have you heard from him recently?” inquired Madame d’Orbigny, with an air of complete carelessness.

  “Since he left Paris he has not written me a single line,” replied the notary, with an air of similar indifference.

  Let the reader understand that these two persons lied most unequivocally to each other. The notary had seen Polidori (one of his two accomplices) recently, and had proposed to him to go to Asnières, to the Martials, the fresh-water pirates, of whom we shall presently speak, — had proposed to him, we say, to poison Louise Morel, under the name of Doctor Vincent. Madame d’Harville’s stepmother, on her side, had come to Paris in order to have a secret meeting with this scoundrel, who had been for a long time concealed, as we have said, under the name of César Bradamanti.

  “But it is not the good doctor of whom we have to discourse,” continued Madame d’Harville’s stepmother. “You see me very uneasy. My husband is indisposed; his health becomes weaker and weaker every day. Without experiencing serious alarm, his condition gives me much concern, — or rather, gives him much concern,” said Madame d’Orbigny, drying her eyes, which were slightly moistened.

  “What is the business, madame?”

  “He is constantly talking of making his last arrangements, — of his will.” Here Madame d’Orbigny concealed her face in her pocket-handkerchief for some minutes.

  “It is very afflicting, no doubt,” said the notary; “but the precaution has nothing terrible in itself. And what may be M. d’Orbigny’s intentions, madame?”

  “Dear sir! How do I know? You may suppose that when he commences the subject I do not allow him to dwell on it long.”

  “Well, then, he has not up to this time told you anything positive?”

  “I think,” replied Madame d’Orbigny, with a deep sigh,— “I think that he wishes to leave me not only all that the law will allow him to bequeath to me, but — But, really, I pray of you, do not let us talk of that.”

  “Of what, then, shall we talk?”

  “Alas, you are right, pitiless man! I must, in spite of myself, return to the sad subject that brings me here to see you. Well, then, M. d’Orbigny’s inclination extends so far that he desires to sell a part of his estate and present me with a large sum.”

  “But his daughter — his daughter?” exclaimed M. Ferrand, harshly. “I must tell you that, during the last year, M. d’Harville has placed his affairs in my hands, and I have lately purchased a splendid estate for him. You know my blunt way of doing business? Whether M. d’Harville is my client or not is no matter. I stand up only for justice. If your husband makes up his mind to behave to his daughter in a way that I do not approve, I tell you plainly he must not reckon on my assistance. Upright and downright, such has always been my line of conduct.”

  “And mine, also! Therefore it is that I am always saying to my husband what you now say to me, ‘Your daughter has behaved very ill to you, that is but too true; but that is no reason why you should disinherit her.’”

  “Very good, — quite right! And what answer does he make to that?”

  “He replies, ‘I shall leave my daughter twenty-five thousand livres of annual income (1,000l.); she had more than a million (40,000l.) from her mother. Her husband has an enormous fortune of his own; and, therefore, why should I not leave you the residue of my fortune, — you, my tender love, the sole support, the only comfort of my declining years, my guardian angel?’ I repeat these very flattering words to you,” said Madame d’Orbigny, with an air of modesty, “to prove to you how kind M. d’Orbigny is to me. But, in spite of that, I have always refused his offers; and, as he perceives that, he has compelled me to come and seek you.”

  “But I do not know M. d’Orbigny.”

  “But he, like all the world, knows your high character.”

  “But why should he send you to me?”

  “To put an end to all my scruples and refusals, he said to me, ‘I will not ask you to consult my notary, because you will think him too much devoted to my service; but I will trust myself entirely to the decision of a man of whose extreme probity of character I have heard you so frequently speak in praise, — M. Jacques Ferrand. If he considers your delicacy compromised by your consent to my wishes, we will not say another word on the subject; otherwise, you must comply without a word.’ ‘I consent!’ I replied to M. d’Orbigny. And so now you are the arbitrator between us. ‘If M. Ferrand approves,’ added my husband, ‘I will send him ample power to realise in my name my rents and investments, and he shall keep the proceeds in his hands as a deposit; and thus, after my decease, my tender love, you will at least have an existence worthy of you.’”

  Perhaps M. Ferrand never had greater need of his spectacles than at this moment; for, had he not worn them, Madame d’Orbigny would doubtless have been struck with the sparkle of the notary’s eyes, which seemed to dart fire when the word deposit was pronounced. However, he replied, in his usual coarse way:

  “It is very tiresome. This is the tenth or twelfth time that I have been made the arbitrator in a similar matter, always under the pretence of my honesty, — that is the only word in people’s mouths. My honesty! — my honesty! What a fine quality, forsooth! — which only brings me in a great deal of tiresome trouble.”

  “My good M. Ferrand! Come, do not repulse me. You will write at once to M. d’Orbigny, who only awaits your letter to send you full powers to act for him, and to realise the sum required.”

  “Which amounts to how much?”

  “Why, I think he said four or five hundred thousand francs” (16,000l. or 20,000l.).

  “The sum, after all, is not so much as I thought. You are devoted to M. d’Orbigny. His daughter is very rich; you have nothing. That is not just; and I really think you should accept it.”

  “Really, do you think so, indeed?” said Madame d’Orbigny, who was the dupe, like the rest of the world, of the proverbial probity of the notary, and who had not been enlightened by Polidori in this particular.

  “You may accept,” he repeated.

  “I will accept, then,” said Madame d’Orbigny, with a sigh.

  The chief clerk knocked at the door.

  “Who is there?” inquired M. Ferrand.

  “Madame the Countess Macgregor.”

  “Request her to wait a moment.”

  “I will go, then, my dear M. Ferrand,” said Madame d’Orbigny. “You will write to my husband, since he wishes it, and he will send you the requisite authority by return of post?”

  “I will write.”

  “Adieu, my worthy and excellent counsellor!”

  “Ah, you do not know, you people of the world, how disagreeable it is to take charge of such deposits, — the responsibility which we then assume. I tell you that there is nothing more detestable in the world than this fine character for probity, which brings down upon one all these turmoils and troubles.”

  “And the admiration of all good people.”

  “Thank Heaven, I place otherwise than here below the hopes of the reward at which I aim!” said M. Ferrand, in a hypocritical tone.

  To Madame d’Orbigny succeeded Sarah Macgregor.

  Sarah entered the cabinet of the notary with her usual coolness and assurance. Jacques Ferrand did not know her, nor the motives of her visit, and he therefore scrutinised her carefully in the hope of catching another dupe. He looked most attentively at the countess; and, despite the imperturbability of this marble-fronted woman, he observed a slight working of the eyebrows, which betrayed a repressed embarrassment. The notary rose from his seat, handed a chair, and, motioning to Sarah to sit down, thus accosted her:

  “You have requested of me, madame, an interview for to-day. I was very much engaged yesterday, and could not reply until this morning. I beg you will accept my apology for the delay.”

  “I was desirous of seeing you, sir, on a matter of the greatest importance. Your reputation for ho
nesty, kindness, and complaisance has made me hope that the step I have taken with you will be successful.”

  The notary bent forward slightly in his chair.

  “I know, sir, that your discretion is perfect.”

  “It is my duty, madame.”

  “You are, sir, a man of rigid, moral, and incorruptible character.”

  “Yes, madame.”

  “Yet, sir, if you were told that it depended on you to restore life — more than life, reason — to an unhappy mother, should you have the courage to refuse her?”

  “If you will state the circumstances, madame, I shall be better able to reply.”

  “It is fourteen years since, at the end of the month of December, 1824, a man in the prime of life, and dressed in deep mourning, came to ask you to take, by way of life-annuity, the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs (6,000l.), which it was desired should be sunk in favour of a child of three years of age, whose parents were desirous of remaining unknown.”

  “Well, madame?” said the notary, careful not to reply in the affirmative.

  “You assented, and took charge of this sum, agreeing to insure the child a yearly pension of eight thousand francs (320l.). Half this income was to accumulate for the child’s benefit until of age; the other half was to be paid by you to the person who took care of this little girl.”

  “Well, madame?”

  “At the end of two years,” said Sarah, unable to repress a slight emotion, “on the 28th of November, 1827, the child died.”

  “Before we proceed any farther, madame, with this conversation, I must know what interest you take in this matter?”

  “The mother of this little girl, sir, was — my sister. I have here proofs of what I advance: the declaration of the poor child’s death, the letters of the person who took charge of her, and the acknowledgment of one of your clients with whom you have placed the hundred and fifty thousand francs.”

  It is, perhaps, unnecessary to remind the reader that the child in question is Fleur-de-Marie, daughter of Rodolph and Sarah, and that the latter, in speaking of a pretended sister, tells a falsehood necessary for her plans, as will be seen. Sarah was convinced, as was Rodolph, also, of the death of the little girl.

  “Allow me to see those papers, madame.”

  Somewhat astonished at not being believed on her word, Sarah drew from a pocket-book several papers, which the notary examined with great attention.

  “Well, madame, what do you desire? The declaration of decease is perfectly in order. The hundred and fifty thousand francs came to my client, M. Petit-Jean, on the death of the child. It is one of the chances of life-annuities, as I remarked to the person who placed the affair in my hands. As to the pension, it was duly paid by me up to the time of the child’s decease.”

  “I am ready to declare, sir, that nothing could be more satisfactory than your conduct throughout the whole of the affair. The female who had charge of the child is also entitled to our gratitude, for she took the greatest care of my poor little niece.”

  “True, madame. And I was so much satisfied with her conduct, that, seeing her out of place after the death of the child, I took her into my employment; and, since that time, she has remained with me.”

  “Is Madame Séraphin in your service, sir?”

  “She has been my housekeeper these fourteen years, and I must ever speak in her praise.”

  “Since that is the case, sir, she may be of the greatest use to us, if you will kindly grant me a request, which may appear strange, perhaps even culpable, at first sight, but when you know the motive—”

  “A culpable request, madame, is what I cannot believe you capable of addressing to me.”

  “Sir, I am acquainted with the rectitude of your principles; but all my hope — my only hope — is in your pity. Under any event, I may rely on your discretion?”

  “Madame, you may.”

  “Well, then, I will proceed. The death of this poor child was so great a shock to her mother, that her grief is as great now as it was fourteen years since, and, having then feared for her life, we are now in dread for her reason.”

  “Poor mother!” said M. Ferrand, in a tone of sympathy.

  “Oh, yes, poor unhappy mother, indeed, sir! for she could only blush at the birth of her child at the time when she lost it; whilst now circumstances are such, that, if the child were still alive, my sister could render her legitimate, be proud of her, and never again allow her to quit her. Thus this incessant regret, coming to add to her other sorrows, we are afraid every hour lest she should be bereft of her senses.”

  “It is unfortunate that nothing can be done in the matter.”

  “Yes, sir—”

  “What, madame?”

  “Suppose some one told the poor mother, ‘Your child was reported to be dead, but she did not die: the woman who had charge of her when she was little could vouch for this.’”

  “Such a falsehood, madame, would be cruel. Why give so vain a hope to the poor mother?”

  “But, supposing it were not a falsehood, sir? or, rather, if the supposition could be realised?”

  “By a miracle? If it only required my prayers to be united with your own to obtain this result, I would give them to you from the bottom of my heart, — believe me, madame. Unfortunately, the register of decease is strictly regular.”

  “Oh, yes, sir, I know well enough that the child is dead; and yet, if you will agree, that misfortune need not be irreparable.”

  “Is this some riddle, madame?”

  “I will speak more clearly. If my sister were to-morrow to recover her daughter, she would be certain not only to be restored to health, but to be wedded to the father of her child, who is now as free as herself. My niece died at six years old. Separated from her parents from a very tender age, they have not the slightest recollection of her. Suppose a young girl of seventeen was produced (my niece would be about that age), — a young girl (such as there are many) forsaken by her parents, — and it was said to my sister, ‘Here’s your daughter, for you have been imposed upon. Important interests have required that she should have been said to be dead. The female who brought her up and a respectable notary will confirm these facts, and prove to you that it is really she—’”

  Jacques Ferrand, after having allowed the countess to speak on without interruption, rose abruptly, and exclaimed, with an indignant air:

  “Madame, this is infamous!”

  “Sir!”

  “To dare to propose such a thing to me — to me! A supposititious child, the destruction of a registry of decease; a criminal act, indeed! It is the first time in my life that I was ever subjected to so outrageous a proposal, — a proposal I have not merited, and you know it!”

  “But, sir, what wrong does this do to any one? My sister and the individual she desires to marry are widow and widower, and childless, both bitterly lamenting the child they have lost. To deceive them is to restore them to happiness, to life, is to ensure a happy destiny to some poor, forsaken girl; and it becomes, therefore, a noble, a generous action, and not a crime!”

  “Really, madame, I marvel to see how the most execrable projects may be coloured, so as to pass for beautiful pictures!”

  “But, sir, reflect—”

  “I repeat to you, madame, that it is infamous! And it is shameful to see a lady of your rank lend herself to such abominable machinations, — to which, I trust, your sister is a stranger.”

  “Sir—”

  “Enough, madame, enough! I am not a polished gentleman, I am not, and I shall speak my mind bluntly.”

  Sarah gave the notary a piercing look with her jet-black eyes, and said, coldly:

  “You refuse?”

  “I pray, madame, that you will not again insult me.”

  “Beware!”

  “What! Threats?”

  “Threats! And that you may learn they are not vain ones, learn, first, that I have no sister—”

  “What, madame?”

  “I am th
e mother of this child!”

  “You?”

  “I — I made a circuitous route to reach my end — coined a tale to excite your interest; but you are pitiless. I raise the mask, you are for war. Well, war be it then!”

  “War! Because I refuse to associate myself with you in a criminal machination! What audacity!”

  “Listen to me, sir! Your reputation as an honest man is established, acknowledged, undisputed—”

  “Because deserved; and, therefore, you must have lost your reason to make me such a proposal as you have done, and then threaten me because I will not accede to it.”

  “I know, sir, better than any one how much reputations for immaculate virtue are to be distrusted; they often mask wantonness in women and roguery in men.”

  “Madame?”

  “Ever since our conversation began, — I do not know why, but I have mistrusted your claim to the esteem and consideration which you enjoy.”

  “Really, madame, your mistrust does honour to your penetration!”

  “Does it not? For this mistrust is based on mere nothings — on instinct — on inexplicable presentiments; but these intimations have rarely beguiled me.”

  “Madame, let us terminate this conversation.”

  “First learn my determination. I begin by telling you that I am convinced of the death of my poor daughter. But, no matter, I shall pretend that she is not dead: the most unlikely things do happen. You are at this moment in a position of which very many must be envious, and would be delighted at any weapon with which to assail you. I will supply one.”

  “You?”

  “I, by attacking you under some absurd pretext, some irregularity in the declaration of death; say — no matter what — I will insist that my child is not dead. As I have the greatest interest in making it believed that she is still alive, though lost, this action will be useful to me in giving a wide circulation to the affair. A mother who claims her child is always interesting; and I should have with me those who envy you, — your enemies, and every sensitive and romantic mind.”

  “This is as mad as it is malevolent! What motive could I have in making your daughter pass for dead, if she were not really defunct?”