by Eugène Sue
“That is true enough, and the motive may be difficult to find; but, then, have we not the attorneys and barristers at our elbows? Now I think of it (excellent idea!), desirous of sharing with your client the sum sunk in the annuity on this unfortunate child, you caused her disappearance.”
The unabashed notary shrugged his shoulders.
“If I had been criminal enough for that, instead of causing its disappearance, I should have killed it!”
Sarah started with surprise, remained silent for a moment, and then said, with bitterness:
“For a pious man, this is an idea of crime deeply reflective! Can I by chance, then, have hit the mark when I fired at random? I must think of this, — and think I will. One other word. You see the sort of woman I am: I crush without remorse all obstacles that lie in my onward path. Reflect well, then, for to-morrow this must be decided on. You may do what I ask you with impunity. In his joy, the father of my daughter will not think of doubting the possibility of his child’s restoration, if our falsehoods, which will make him happy, are adroitly combined. Besides, he has no other proofs of the death of our daughter than those I wrote to him of fourteen years ago, and I could easily persuade him that I had deceived him on this subject; for then I had real causes of complaint against him. I will tell him that in my grief I was desirous of breaking every existing tie that bound us to each other. You cannot, therefore, be compromised in any way. Affirm only, irreproachable man. Affirm that all was in former days concerted between us, — you and me and Madame Séraphin, — and you will be credited. As to the fifteen thousand francs sunk in an annuity for my child, that is my affair solely. They will remain acquired by your client, who must be kept profoundly ignorant of this; and, moreover, you shall yourself name your own recompense.”
Jacques Ferrand maintained all his sang-froid in spite of the singularity of his situation, remarkable and dangerous as it was. The countess, really believing in the death of her daughter, had proposed to the notary to pass off the dead child as living, whom, living, he had declared to have died fourteen years before. He was too clever, and too well acquainted with the perils of his position, not to understand the effect of all Sarah’s threats. His reputation, although admirably and laboriously built up, was based on a substructure of sand. The public detaches itself as easily as it becomes infatuated, liking to have the right to trample under foot him whom but just now it elevated to the skies. How could the consequences of the first assault on the reputation of Jacques Ferrand be foreseen? However absurd the attack might be, its very boldness might give rise to suspicions. Wishing to gain time to determine on the mode by which he would seek to parry the dangerous blow, the notary said, frigidly, to Sarah:
“You have given me, madame, until to-morrow at noon; I give you until the next day to renounce a plot whose serious nature you do not seem to have contemplated. If, between this and then, I do not receive from you a letter informing me that you have abandoned this criminal and crazy enterprise, you will learn to your cost that Justice knows how to protect honest people who refuse guilty associations, and what may happen to the concoctors of hateful machinations.”
“You mean to say, sir, that you ask from me one more day to reflect on my proposals? That is a good sign, and I grant the delay. The day after to-morrow, at this hour, I will come here again, and it shall be between us peace or war, — I repeat it, — but a ‘war to the knife,’ without mercy or pity.”
And Sarah left the room.
“All goes well,” she said. “This miserable girl, in whom Rodolph capriciously takes so much interest, and has sent to the farm at Bouqueval, in order, no doubt, to make her his mistress hereafter, is no longer to be feared, — thanks to the one-eyed woman who has freed me from her. Rodolph’s adroitness has saved Madame d’Harville from the snare into which I meant she should fall; but it is impossible that she can escape from the fresh plot I have laid for her, and thus she must be for ever lost to Rodolph. Thus, saddened, discouraged, isolated from all affection, will he not be in a frame of mind such as will best suit my purpose of making him the dupe of a falsehood to which, by the notary’s aid, I can give every impress of truth? And the notary will aid me, for I have frightened him. I shall easily find a young orphan girl, interesting and poor, who, taught her lesson by me, will fill the character of our child so bitterly mourned by Rodolph. I know the expansiveness, the generosity of his heart, — yes, to give a name, a rank to her whom he will believe to be his daughter, till now forsaken and abandoned, he will renew those bonds between us which I believed indissoluble. The predictions of my nurse will be at length realised, and I shall thus and then attain the constant aim of my life, — a crown!”
Sarah had scarcely left the notary before M. Charles Robert entered, after alighting from a very dashing cabriolet. He went like a person on most intimate terms to the private room of Jacques Ferrand.
The commandant, as Madame Pipelet called him, entered without ceremony into the notary’s cabinet, whom he found in a surly, bilious mood, and who thus accosted him:
“I reserve the afternoon for my clients; when you wish to speak to me come in the morning, will you?”
“My dear lawyer” (this was a standing pleasantry of M. Robert), “I have a very important matter to talk about in the first place, and, in the next, I was anxious to assure you in person against any alarms you might have—”
“What alarms?”
“What! Haven’t you heard?”
“What?”
“Of my duel—”
“Your duel?”
“With the Duke de Lucenay. Is it possible you have not heard of it?”
“Quite possible.”
“Pooh! pooh!”
“But what did you fight about?”
“A very serious matter, which called for bloodshed. Only imagine that, at a very large party, M. de Lucenay actually said that I had a phlegmy cough!”
“That you had—”
“A phlegmy cough, my dear lawyer; a complaint which is really most ridiculously absurd!”
“And did you fight about that?”
“What the devil would you have a man fight about? Can you imagine that a man could stand calmly and hear himself charged with having a phlegmy cough? And before a lovely woman, too! Before a little marchioness, who — who — In a word, I could not stand it!”
“Really!”
“The military men, you see, are always sensitive. My seconds went, the day before yesterday, to try and obtain some explanation from those of the duke. I put the matter perfectly straight, — a duel or an ample apology.”
“An ample apology for what?”
“For the phlegmy cough, pardieu! — the phlegmy cough that he fastened on me.”
The notary shrugged his shoulders.
“The duke’s seconds said, ‘We bear testimony to the honourable character of M. Charles Robert, but M. de Lucenay cannot, ought not, and will not retract.’ ‘Then, gentlemen,’ replied my seconds, ‘M. de Lucenay is obstinately determined to assert that M. Charles Robert has a phlegmy cough?’ ‘Yes, gentlemen, but he does not therefore mean in the slightest way to impugn the high respectability of M. Charles Robert.’ ‘Then let him retract—’ ‘No, gentlemen, M. de Lucenay acknowledges M. Robert as a most decidedly worthy gentleman, but still asserts that he has a phlegmy cough.’ You see there was no means of arranging so serious an affair.”
“To be sure not. You were insulted in the point which a man holds dearest.”
“Wasn’t I? Well, time and place were agreed on; and yesterday morning we met at Vincennes, and everything passed off in the most honourable manner possible. I touched M. de Lucenay slightly in the arm, and the seconds declared that honour was satisfied. Then the duke, with a loud voice, said, ‘I never retract before a meeting, but, afterwards, it is a very different thing. It is, therefore, my duty, and my honour impels me to declare, that I falsely accused M. Charles Robert of having a phlegmy cough. Gentlemen, I not only declare that my honourable opp
onent had not a phlegmy cough, but I trust he never will have one.’ Then the duke extended his hand in the most cordial manner, saying,’Are you now satisfied?’ ‘We are friends through life and death,’ I replied; and it was really due to him to say so. The duke has behaved to perfection. Either he might have said nothing, or contented himself with declaring that I had not the phlegmy cough. But to express his wish that I might never have it, was a most delicate attention on his part.”
“This is what I call courage well employed! But what do you want?”
“My dear cashkeeper” (this was another of M. Robert’s habitual pleasantries), “it is a matter of great importance to me. You know that, according to our agreement, I have advanced to you three hundred and fifty thousand francs (14,000l.) to complete a particular payment you had; and it was stipulated that I was to give you three months’ notice of my wish to withdraw that money, the interest of which you pay me regularly.”
“Go on.”
“Well,” said M. Robert, hesitatingly, “I — no — that is—”
“What?”
“Why, it is only a whim of becoming a landed proprietor.”
“Come to the point, pray! You annoy me.”
“In a word, then, I am anxious to become a landed proprietor. And, if not inconvenient to you, I should like — that is I should wish — to have my funds now in your hands; and I came to say so.”
“Ah, ah!”
“That does not offend you, I hope?”
“Why should I be offended?”
“Because you might think—”
“I might think — ?”
“That I am the echo of certain reports—”
“What reports?”
“Oh, nothing. Mere folly.”
“But, tell me—”
“Oh, there can be no certainty in the gossip about you!”
“What gossip?”
“Oh, it is false from beginning to end. But there are chatterers who say that you are mixed up in some unpleasant transactions. Idle gossip, I am quite certain. It is just the same as the report that you and I speculated on the Exchange together. These reports soon died away. For I will always say that—”
“So you suppose that your money is not safe with me?”
“Oh, no — no! But, at this moment, I should like to have it in my own hands.”
“Wait a moment.” M. Ferrand shut the drawer of his bureau, and rose.
“Where are you going, my dear cashkeeper?”
“To fetch what will convince you of the truth of the reports as to the embarrassment of my affairs,” said the notary, ironically; and, opening the door of a small private staircase, which enabled him to go into the pavilion at the back without passing through the office, he disappeared. He had scarce left the room, when the head clerk rapped again.
“Come in,” said Charles Robert.
“Is not M. Ferrand here?”
“No, my worthy pounce and parchment” (another joke of M. Robert).
“There is a lady with a veil on, who wishes to see my employer this moment on a very urgent affair.”
“Worthy quill-driver, the excellent employer will be here in a moment, and I will inform him. Is the lady handsome?”
“One must be very keen-sighted to discover; for she has on a black veil, so thick that it is impossible to see her face.”
“Really, really, I will make her show her face as I go out. I’ll tell the governor as soon as he returns.”
The clerk left the room.
“Where the devil has the attorney at law vanished?” said M. Charles Robert. “To examine the state of his finances, no doubt. If these reports are groundless, so much the better. And, when all is said and done, they can but be false reports. Men of Jacques Ferrand’s honesty always have so many people jealous of them! Still, at the same time, I should just as well like to have my own cash. I will certainly buy the château in question. There are towers and Gothic turrets quite à la Louis Quatorze, the real renaissance, and, in a word, all that is most rococo. It would give me a kind of landed proprietor’s sort of air which would be capital. It would not be like my amour with that flirt of a Madame d’Harville. Has she really cut me? Can she really have given me the ‘go-by?’ No, no! I am not trifled with as that stupid porteress in the Rue du Temple, with her bob-wig, says. Yet this agreeable little flirtation has cost me at least one thousand crowns. True, the furniture is left, and I have quite enough in my power to compromise the marchioness. But here comes the lawyer!”
M. Ferrand returned, holding in his hands some papers, which he handed to M. Charles Robert.
“Here,” said he, “are three hundred and fifty thousand francs in bank-bills. In a few days we will balance the account of interest. Give me a receipt.”
“What!” exclaimed M. Robert, astonished; “do not go to think that—”
“I don’t think anything.”
“But—”
“The receipt!”
“Dear cashkeeper!”
“Write it; and tell the persons who talk to you of my embarrassments, how I reply to such suspicions.”
“The fact is that, as soon as they hear this, your credit will be more solid than ever. But, really, take the money back again; I do not want it at this moment. I told you it was three months hence.”
“Monsieur Charles Robert, no man suspects me twice.”
“You are angry?”
“The receipt, — the receipt!”
“Man of iron, that you are!” said M. Charles Robert. “There!” he added, writing the receipt. “There is a lady, closely veiled, who desires to speak to you directly on a very urgent affair. Won’t I have a good look at her as I go out! There’s your receipt; is it all right?”
“Quite. Now I’ll thank you to go out this way.”
“And so not see the lady?”
“Precisely so.”
And the notary rang; and when the chief clerk made his appearance, he said:
“Ask the lady to walk in. Good day, M. Robert.”
“Well, I see I must give up the chance of seeing her. Don’t bear malice, lawyer. Believe me, if—”
“There — there; that’ll do. Good-bye.” And the notary shut the door on M. Charles Robert.
After the lapse of a few moments, the chief clerk introduced the Duchess de Lucenay, very simply attired, wearing a large shawl, and her features entirely concealed by a thick veil of black lace, depending from her watered silk bonnet of the same colour.
Madame de Lucenay, a good deal agitated, walked slowly towards the notary’s bureau, who advanced a few paces to meet her.
“Who are you, madame; and what may be your business with me?” said Jacques Ferrand, abruptly; for Sarah’s menaces and M. Charles Robert’s suspicions had a good deal ruffled him. Moreover, the duchess was clad so simply, that the notary did not see any reason why he should not be rude. As she did not immediately reply, he continued, abruptly:
“Will you be so kind as to inform me, madame?”
“Sir,” she said, in a faltering voice, and endeavouring to conceal her face in the folds of her veil, “Sir, may I entrust you with a secret of extreme importance?”
“You may trust me with anything, madame. But it is requisite that I should know and see to whom I speak.”
“That, sir, perhaps, is not necessary. I know that you are probity and honour itself—”
“To the point, madame, — to the point. I have some one waiting for me. Who are you?”
“My name is of no consequence, sir. One — of — my friends, — a relative, — has just left you.”
“His name?”
“M. Florestan de Saint-Remy.”
“Ah!” said the notary; and he cast a scrutinising and steadfast glance on the duchess. Then he added, “Well, madame?”
“M. de Saint-Remy has told me — all, — sir!”
“What has he told you, madame?”
“All!”
“What all?”
“Sir; you k
now—”
“I know many things about M. de Saint-Remy.”
“Alas, sir, this is a terrible thing!”
“I know many terrible things about M. de Saint-Remy.”
“Oh, sir, he was right when he told me that you were pitiless.”
“For swindlers and forgers like him, — yes, I am pitiless. So this Saint-Remy is a relative of yours? Instead of owning it, you ought to blush at it. Do you mean to try and soften me with your tears? It is useless, — not to add that you have undertaken a very disgraceful task for a respectable female.”
At this coarse insolence the pride and patrician blood of the duchess revolted. She drew herself up, threw back her veil; and then, with a lofty air, imperious glance, and firm voice, said:
“I am the Duchess de Lucenay, sir!”
The lady then assumed the lofty look of her station; and her appearance was so imposing that the notary, controlled, fascinated, receded a pace, quite overcome, took off mechanically the black silk cap that covered his cranium, and made a low bow.
In truth, nothing could be more charming and aristocratic than the face and figure of Madame de Lucenay, although she was turned thirty, and her features were pale and somewhat agitated. But then she had full, brown eyes, sparkling and bold; splendid black hair; a nose thin and arched; a lip red and disdainful; a dazzling complexion; teeth of ivory; and a form tall and slender, graceful, and full of distinction, — the carriage of a goddess in the clouds, as the immortal Saint-Simon says. With her hair powdered, and a costume of the eighteenth century, Madame de Lucenay would have represented, physically and morally, one of those gay and careless duchesses of the Regency who carried on their flirtations (or worse) with so much audacity, giddiness, and real kindness of heart, who confessed their peccadilloes from time to time with so much candour and naïveté, that the most punctilious said, with a smile, “She is, doubtless, light and culpable; but she is so kind — so delightful; loves with so much intensity, passion, and fidelity, — as long as she does love, — that we cannot really be angry with her. After all, she only injures herself, and makes so many others happy!” Except the powder and the large skirts to her dress, such also was Madame de Lucenay, when not depressed by sombre thoughts. She entered the office of M. Jacques Ferrand like a plain tradesman’s wife; in the instant she came forth as a great, proud, and irritated lady. Jacques Ferrand had never in his life seen a woman of such striking beauty, — so haughty and bold, and so noble in her demeanour. The look of the duchess, her glorious eyes, encircled with an imperceptible bow of azure, her rosy nostrils, much dilated, betokened her ardent nature.
