by Eugène Sue
“That I do not know; all I can say is, that, without knowing whither this poor mother and child had gone for refuge, she was, I believe, on the trace of them.”
“Then I rely on you, Clotilde, to introduce me to Madame d’Harville. I must see her this very day.”
“Impossible! Her husband has just been the victim of a most afflicting accident: a pistol which he did not know to be loaded went off in his hands, and he was killed on the spot.”
“How horrible!”
“The marquise went instantly to pass the first months of her mourning with her father in Normandy.”
“Clotilde, I beseech you, write to her to-day; ask her for all the information in her power, and, as she takes an interest in these poor women, say she cannot find a warmer auxiliary than myself; that my only desire is to find the widow of my friend, and share with her and her daughter the little I possess. They are now all my family.”
“Ever the same, always generous and devoted! Rely on me. I will write to-day to Madame d’Harville. Where shall I address my answer?”
“To Asnières Poste-Restante.”
“How odd! Why do you live there, and not in Paris?”
“I detest Paris, because of the recollections it excites in me!” said M. de Saint-Remy, with a gloomy air. “My old physician, Doctor Griffon, with whom I have kept up a correspondence, has a small house on the banks of the Seine, near Asnières, which he does not occupy in the winter; he offered it to me; it is almost close to Paris, and there I could be undisturbed, and find the solitude I desire. So I accepted it.”
“I will then write to you at Asnières, and I can give you some information which may be useful to you, and which I had from Madame d’Harville. Madame de Fermont’s ruin has been occasioned by the roguery of the notary in whose hands all your deceased relative’s fortune was deposited. The notary denied that the money was ever placed in his hands.”
“The scoundrel! And his name?”
“M. Jacques Ferrand,” replied the duchess, without being able to conceal her inclination to laugh.
“How strange you are, Clotilde!” said the comte, surprised and annoyed; “nothing can be more serious, more sad than this, and yet you laugh.”
In fact, Madame de Lucenay, at the recollection of the amorous declaration of the notary, had been unable to repress her hilarity.
“Pardon me, my dear sir,” she replied, “but this notary is such a singular being, and they tell such odd stories about him; but, in truth, if his reputation as an honest man is not more deserved than his reputation as a religious man (and I declare that is hypocrisy) he is a great wretch.”
“And he lives—”
“Rue du Sentier.”
“I will call upon him. What you tell me confirms certain other suspicions.”
“What suspicions?”
“From certain information as to the death of the brother of my poor friend, I should be almost tempted to believe that that unhappy man, instead of committing suicide, had been the victim of assassination.”
“And what can make you suppose that?”
“Several reasons, which would be too long to detail to you now. I will leave you. Do not forget the promises of service which you have made me in your own and your husband’s name.”
“What, will you go without seeing Florestan?”
“You may suppose how painful this interview would be to me. I would brave it only in the hope of finding some information as to Madame de Fermont, being unwilling to neglect anything to discover her. Now, then, adieu!”
“Ah, you are pitiless!”
“Do you not know?”
“I know that your son was never in greater need of your advice.”
“What, is he not rich — happy?”
“Yes, but he is ignorant of mankind. Blindly extravagant, because he is generous and confiding in everything, and everywhere and always free and noble, I fear people take advantage of his liberality. If you but knew the nobleness of his heart! I have never dared to preach to him on the subject of his expenditure and want of care: in the first place, because I am as inconsiderate as himself, and next, in the second place, for other reasons; whilst you, on the contrary—”
Madame de Lucenay could not finish. The voice of Florestan de Saint-Remy was heard. He entered hastily into the cabinet next to the room in which they were, and, after having shut the door suddenly, he said, in a broken voice, to some one who accompanied him:
“But it is impossible.”
“I tell you again,” replied the clear and sharp voice of M. Badinot, “I tell you again that, if not, why, in four hours you will be apprehended; for, if he has not the cash forthwith, our man will lodge his complaint with the king’s attorney-general; and you know the result of a forgery like this, — the galleys, the galleys, my poor dear vicomte!”
CHAPTER XI.
THE INTERVIEW.
IT IS IMPOSSIBLE to paint the look which Madame de Lucenay and the father of Florestan exchanged at these terrible words,— “The galleys, the galleys, my poor dear vicomte!” The comte became deadly pale, and leant on the back of an armchair, whilst his knees seemed to sink beneath him. His venerable and respected name, — his name dishonoured by the man whom he accused of being the fruit of adultery!
The first feeling over, the contracted features of the old man, a threatening gesture which he made as he advanced towards the adjoining apartment, betrayed a resolution so alarming that Madame de Lucenay seized his hand, and said, in an accent of the most perfect conviction:
“He is innocent; I will swear it. Listen in silence.”
The comte paused. He wished to believe what the duchess said to him, and she was entirely persuaded of Florestan’s untarnished honour. To obtain fresh sacrifices from this woman, so blindly generous, — sacrifices which alone could save him from arrest, — and the prosecution of Jacques Ferrand, the vicomte had affirmed to Madame de Lucenay that, duped by a scoundrel from whom he had taken a forged bill in exchange, he ran the risk of being considered as the forger’s accomplice, as having himself put this bill into circulation. Madame de Lucenay knew that the vicomte was imprudent, extravagant, reckless; but she never for an instant supposed him capable, not only of a base or an infamous action, but even of the slightest indiscretion. Twice lending him considerable sums under very trying circumstances, she had wished to render him a friendly service, the vicomte expressly accepting these loans under the condition that he should return them; for there were persons, he said, who owed him double that amount; and his style of living made it seem probable.
Besides, Madame de Lucenay, yielding to the impulse of her natural kindness, had only thought of how she could be useful to Florestan, without ever reflecting as to whether or not he would ever return the sums thus advanced. He said so, and she did not doubt him; for, otherwise, would he have accepted such large amounts? When, then, she thus answered for Florestan’s honour, entreating the old comte to listen to his son’s conversation, the duchess thought that it was a question of the breach of honour of which the vicomte had declared himself the victim, and that he must stand forth completely exonerated in the eyes of his father.
“Again I declare,” continued Florestan, in a troubled voice, “this Petit-Jean is a scamp; he assured me that he had no other bills in his hands but those which I received from him yesterday and three days previously. I believed this one was still in circulation, and only due three months hence, in London, at the house of Adams and Company.”
“Yes, yes,” said the sarcastic voice of Badinot, “I know, my dear vicomte, that you had managed the affair very cleverly, so that your forgeries would not be detected until you were a long way off; but you tried to ‘do’ those who were more cunning than yourself.”
“And you dare to say that to me, now, rogue as you are,” exclaimed Florestan, furious with anger, “when was it not you yourself who brought me into contact with the person who negotiated these bills?”
“Now, my dear aristocrat,” repl
ied Badinot, coolly, “be cool! You very skilfully counterfeit commercial signatures; but, although they are so adroitly done, that is no reason why you should treat your friends with disagreeable familiarity; and, if you give way to unseemly fits of temper, I shall leave you, and then you may arrange this matter by yourself.”
“And do you think it possible for a man to be calm in such a position as that in which I find myself? If what you say be true, if this charge be to-day preferred at the office of the attorney-general, I am lost!”
“It is really as I tell you, unless you have again recourse to your charming, blue-eyed Providence.”
“Impossible!”
“Then make up your mind to the worst. It is a pity; it was the last bill; and for five and twenty thousand miserable francs (1,000l.) to go and take the air at Toulon is awkward, absurd, foolish! How could a clever fellow like you allow yourself to be thus taken aback?”
“What can I do? What can I do? Nothing here is my own, and I have not twenty louis in the world left.”
“Your friends?”
“Why, I am in debt to every one who could lend me. Do you think else that I am such a fool as to have waited until to-day before I applied to them?”
“True; but, come, let us discuss the matter quietly; that is the best way of arriving at a reasonable conclusion. Just now, I wish to explain to you how you had been met by a party more clever than yourself, but you did not attend to me.”
“Well, tell me now, if that will do any good.”
“Let us recapitulate. You said to me two months since, ‘I have bills on different banking-houses, at long dates, for a hundred and thirteen thousand francs (4,520l.), and, my dear Badinot, I wish you to find me the means of cashing them.’”
“Well, and then—”
“Listen: I asked you to let me see these bills; a certain something made me suspect that they were forged, although so admirably done. I did not suspect, it is true, that you were so expert in calligraphy; but, employing myself in looking after your fortune when you had no longer any fortune to look after, I found you were completely done up! I had arranged the deed by which your horses, your carriages, and the furniture of this house became the property of Boyer and Edwards. Thus, then, there was no wonder at my astonishment when I found you in possession of commercial securities to such a considerable amount, eh?”
“Never mind your astonishment, but come to the point.”
“I am close upon it. I have enough experience or timidity not to be very anxious to mix myself up with affairs of this nature; I therefore advised you to consult a third party, who, no less clear-sighted than myself, suspected the trick you desired to play him.”
“Impossible! He would not have discounted the bills if he had believed them forged.”
“How much money down did you get for these hundred and thirteen thousand francs?”
“Twenty-five thousand francs in ready money, and the rest in small debts to collect.”
“And how much of these small debts did you collect?”
“Nothing, as you very well know; they were fictitious; but still he risked twenty-five thousand francs.”
“How green you are, my dear vicomte! Having my commission of a hundred louis to receive of you if the affair came off, I took very good care not to say a word to No. 3 as to the real state of your affairs. Thus he believed you entirely at your ease, and he, moreover, knew how you were adored by a certain great lady, immensely rich, who would not allow you to be left in any difficulties, and thus he was quite sure of recovering at least as much as he advanced. He ran a risk, certainly, of losing something, but he also ran a chance of gaining very considerably; and his calculation was correct, for, the other day, you counted out to him a hundred thousand francs, good and sound, in order to retire the bill for fifty-eight thousand francs; and, yesterday, thirty thousand francs for the second; for that he contented himself, it is true, with the actual amount. How you raised these thirty thousand francs yesterday, devil fetch me, if I can guess! But you are a wonderful fellow! You see, now, that, to wind up the account, if Petit-Jean forces you to pay the last bill of twenty-five thousand francs, he will have received from you a hundred and fifty-five thousand francs for the twenty-five thousand which he originally handed to you. So I was quite right when I said that you had met with a person even more clever than yourself.”
“But why did he say that this last bill which he presents to-day was negotiated?”
“That you might not take the alarm, he told you also that, except that of fifty-eight thousand francs, the others were in circulation; the first being paid, yesterday comes the second, and to-day the third.”
“Scoundrel!”
“Listen: every one for himself; but let us talk coolly. This must prove to you that Petit-Jean (and, between ourselves, I should not be astonished to find out that, in spite of his sanctity, Jacques Ferrand went snacks in the speculation), this must prove, I say, that Petit-Jean, led on by your first payments, speculates on this last bill, as he has speculated on the others, quite certain that your friends will not allow you to be handed over to a court of assizes. It is for you to see whether or not these friendships are yet drained dry, or if there are yet a few more drops to be squeezed out; for if, in three hours, the twenty-five thousand francs are not forthcoming, noble vicomte, you will be in the ‘Stone Jug.’”
“Which you keep saying to me—”
“In order that you may thoroughly comprehend me, and agree, perhaps, to try and draw another feather from the wing of this generous duchess.”
“I repeat, it is useless to think of such a thing. Any hope of finding twenty-five thousand francs in three hours, after the sacrifices she has already made, would be madness to expect.”
“To please you, happy mortal, impossibilities would be attempted!”
“Oh, she has already tried impossibilities; for it was one to borrow a hundred thousand francs from her husband, and to succeed; but such phenomena are not expected twice in a lifetime. Now, my dear Badinot, up to this time you have had no cause to complain of me. I have always been generous. Try and obtain some delay from this wretch, Petit-Jean. You know very well I always find a way of recompensing those who serve me; and when once this last affair is got over I will try again, and you shall be satisfied.”
“Petit-Jean is as inflexible as you are unreasonable.”
“I!”
“Try once more to interest your generous friend in your sad fate. Devil take it! Why not tell her plump all about it; not, as you have already, that you have been the dupe of forgers, but that you are a forger yourself?”
“I will never make to her any such confession; it would be to shame myself for no advantage.”
“Do you prefer, then, that she should learn the fact to-morrow by the Gazette des Tribunaux.”
“I have three hours before me, and can fly.”
“Where can you go without money? But look at the other side of the matter. This last forged bill retired, you will be again in a splendid position; you will only have a few debts. Come, promise me that you will again speak to your duchess. You are such a fellow for the women! You know how to make yourself interesting in spite of your errors; and, let the worst come to the worst, they will like you a little the worse, or not at all; but they will extricate you from your mess. Come, come, see your lovely and loving friend once more. I will run to Petit-Jean, and I feel sure I shall get a respite of an hour or two.”
“Hell! Must I, then, drink the draught of shame to the very dregs?”
“Come, come, good luck; be tender, passionate, charming. I will run to Petit-Jean; you will find me there until three o’clock; later than that will be useless; the attorney-general’s office closes at four o’clock.” And M. Badinot left the apartment.
When the door was closed, they heard Florestan exclaim in accents of the deepest despair: “Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!”
During this conversation, which unveiled to the comte the infamy of his son, and
to Madame de Lucenay the infamy of the man she had so blindly loved, both had remained motionless, scarcely breathing, beneath this fearful disclosure. It would be impossible to depict the mute eloquence of the agonising scene which took place between this young lady and the comte when he had no longer any possible doubt as to Florestan’s crime. Extending his arms to the room in which his son was, the old man smiled with bitterest sarcasm, casting an overwhelming look on Madame de Lucenay, which seemed to say, “And this is the man for whom you have braved all shame, — made every sacrifice! This is he whom you have reproached me for abandoning?”
The duchess understood the reproach, and, bowing her head, she felt all the weight of her shame. The lesson was terrible. By degrees, however, a haughty indignation succeeded to the cruel anxiety which had contracted the features of Madame de Lucenay. The inexcusable faults of this lady were at least palliated by the sincerity and disinterestedness of her love, by the boldness of her devotion and the boundlessness of her generosity, by the frankness of her character, and by her inexorable aversion from all that was contemptible and base.
Still too young, too handsome, too recherché, to feel the humiliation of having been merely made a tool of, when once the feeling of love was suddenly crushed within her, this haughty and decided woman felt no longer hatred or anger, but instantaneously, and without any transition, a deadly disgust, an icy disdain, at once destroyed all that affection hitherto so strong. She was no longer the mistress, unworthily deceived by her lover, but the lady of high blood and rank detecting a man of her circle to be a swindler and a forger, and driving him forth. Supposing that there were even some extenuating circumstances for the ignominy of Florestan, Madame de Lucenay would not have admitted them; for, in her estimation, the man who crossed certain bounds of honour, whether from vice, weakness, or persuasion, no longer had an existence in her eyes, honourable demeanour being with her a question of existence or non-existence. The only painful feeling which the duchess experienced was excited by the terrible effect which this unexpected revelation produced on her old friend, the comte.
