Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

“So be it, father, but I assure you that at the expiration of—”

  “We have agreed not to discuss the matter further at this time,” interrupted the old man, beginning to walk the room in silence, with an occasional furtive glance at Louis, who, with his head supported on his hands, still remained seated at the table on which he had placed the letter a short time before.

  CHAPTER VII.

  THE FORGED LETTER.

  HIS EYES HAVING at last chanced to fall upon this letter addressed to him in a handwriting he did not recognise, Louis broke the seal mechanically.

  A moment afterward, the old man, who was still silently pacing the floor, saw his son suddenly turn pale and pass his hand across his forehead as if to satisfy himself that he was not the victim of an optical delusion, then re-read with increasing agitation a missive which he seemed unable to credit.

  This letter, which Father Richard had written in a disguised hand that morning, ostensibly from Mariette’s dictation, far from expressing that young girl’s real sentiments, read as follows:

  “M. Louis: — I take advantage of your absence to write you what I should not dare to tell you, — what, in fact, I have put off confessing for more than two months for fear of causing you pain. All idea of a marriage between us must be abandoned, M. Louis, as well as all idea of ever seeing each other again.

  “It is impossible for me to tell you the cause of this change in my feelings, but I assure you that my mind is fully made up. The reason I did not inform you yesterday, the sixth of May, M. Louis, the sixth of May, is that I wished to think the matter over once more, and in your absence, before telling you my decision.

  “Farewell, M. Louis. Do not try to see me again. It would be useless and would only cause me great pain. If, on the contrary, you make no attempt to see me, or to induce me to reconsider my determination, my happiness as well as that of my poor godmother is assured.

  “It is consequently for the sake of the happiness and peace of mind of both of us, M. Louis, that I implore you not to insist upon another meeting.

  “You are so kind-hearted that I am sure you would not like to cause me unnecessary pain, for I solemnly swear that all is over between us. You will not insist further, I hope, when I tell you that I no longer love you except as a friend.

  Mariette Moreau.

  “P.S. Instead of addressing this letter to Dreux, as you requested, I send it to your Paris address, in order that you may find it there on your return. Augustine, who has written for me heretofore, having gone home on a visit, I have had recourse to another person.

  “I forgot to say that my godmother’s health remains about the same.”

  The perusal of this letter plunged Louis into a profound stupor. The ingenuous style of composition, the numerous petty details, the allusion, twice repeated, to the sixth of May, all proved that the missive must have been dictated by Mariette, so, after vainly asking himself what could be the cause of this sudden rupture, anger, grief, and wounded pride, all struggled for the mastery in the young man’s heart, and he murmured:

  “She need not insist so strongly upon my making no attempt to see her again! Why should I desire to do so?”

  But grief soon overcame anger in the young man’s heart. He endeavoured to recall all the particulars of his last interview with Mariette, but no indication of the slightest alienation of affection presented itself to his mind. On the contrary, never had she seemed more loving and devoted, — never had she seemed so eager to unite her lot with his. And yet, unless appearances were deceiving him, Mariette, whom he had always believed so pure and honest, was a monster of dissimulation.

  Louis could not believe that; so, impatient to solve the mystery, and unable to endure this suspense any longer, he resolved to go to Mariette’s home at once, even at the risk of offending her godmother, who, like Father Richard, had had no suspicion of the young people’s mutual love up to the present time.

  Not one of the different emotions which had in turn agitated the young man had escaped the scrivener’s watchful eye, as, thinking it quite time to interfere, he said:

  “Louis, we must leave for Dreux early to-morrow morning, for, if we do not, Ramon is sure to be here day after to-morrow, as has been agreed upon.”

  “Father!”

  “Such a proceeding on our part does not compromise us in the least, and if you are determined to oppose the dearest wish of my heart, I only ask that you will spend a few more days with Ramon and his daughter, as a favour to me. After that, you will be perfectly free to act as you see fit.”

  Then seeing Louis pick up his hat, as if he intended to go out, Father Richard exclaimed:

  “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

  “I have a slight headache, father, and I am going out for awhile.”

  “Don’t, I beg of you,” exclaimed the old man, with growing alarm. “You have looked and acted very strangely ever since you read that letter. You frighten me.”

  “You are mistaken, father. There is nothing the matter with me. I have a slight headache, that is all. I shall be back soon.”

  And Louis left the room abruptly.

  As he passed the porter’s lodge, that functionary stopped him, and said, with a mysterious air:

  “M. Louis, I want to see you alone for a moment. Step inside, if you please.”

  “What is it?” asked Louis, as he complied with the request.

  “Here is a card that a gentleman left for you. He came in a magnificent carriage, and said that his business was very important.”

  Louis took the card, and, approaching the lamp, read:

  “Commandant de la Miraudière,

  17 Rue du Mont-Blanc.

  “Requests the honour of a visit from M. Louis Richard to-morrow morning between nine and ten, as he has a very important communication, which will brook no delay, to make to him.”

  “Commandant de la Miraudière? I never heard the name before,” Louis said to himself, as he examined the card, then, turning it over mechanically, he saw, written in pencil on the other side:

  “Mariette Moreau, with Madame Lacombe, Rue des Prêtres St. Germain l’Auxerrois.”

  For M. de la Miraudière, having jotted down Mariette’s address on one of his visiting cards, had, without thinking, written upon the same card the request for an interview which he had left for Louis.

  That young man, more and more perplexed, endeavoured in vain to discover what possible connection there could be between Mariette and the stranger who had left the card. After a moment’s silence, he said to the porter:

  “Did the gentleman leave any other message?”

  “He told me to give you the card when your father was not present.”

  “That is strange,” thought the young man.

  “What kind of a looking man was he — young or old?” he asked, aloud.

  “A very handsome man, M. Louis, a decorated gentleman, with a moustache as black as ink, and very elegantly dressed.”

  Louis went out with his brain in a whirl. This new revelation increased his anxiety. The most absurd suspicions and fears immediately assailed him, and he forthwith began to ask himself if this stranger were not a rival.

  In her letter Mariette had implored Louis to make no attempt to see her again. Such a step on his part, would, she said, endanger not only her own happiness, but that of her godmother as well. Louis knew the trying position in which the two women were placed, and a terrible suspicion occurred to him. Perhaps Mariette, impelled as much by poverty as by her godmother’s persistent entreaties, had listened to the proposals of the man whose card he, Louis, had just received. In that case, what could be the man’s object in requesting an interview? Louis racked his brain in the hope of solving this mystery, but in vain.

  These suspicions once aroused, the supposition that he had been betrayed for the sake of a rich rival seemed the only possible explanation of Mariette’s strange conduct. Under these circumstances he abandoned his intention of going to Mariette’s house for the
present, or at least until after his interview with the commandant, from whom he was resolved to extort an explanation.

  He returned home about midnight, and his father, convinced by the gloomy expression of his son’s countenance that he could not have seen the girl and discovered the deception that had been practised upon both of them, again proposed that they should leave for Dreux the next morning, but Louis replied that he desired more time for reflection before taking this important step, and threw himself despairingly on his pallet.

  Sleep was an impossibility, and at daybreak he stole out of the room to escape his father’s questions, and after having waited in mortal anxiety on the boulevard for the hour appointed for his interview with Commandant de la Miraudière, he hastened to that gentleman’s house.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  A STARTLING DISCOVERY.

  WHEN LOUIS PRESENTED himself at the house of Commandant de la Miraudière, that gentleman was sitting at his desk, enveloped in a superb dressing-gown, smoking his cigar, and examining a big pile of notes and bills.

  While he was thus engaged, his servant entered, and announced:

  “M. Richard.”

  “Ask M. Richard to wait in the drawing-room a moment. When I ring, show him in.”

  As soon as the servant left the room, M. de la Miraudière opened a secret drawer in his desk, and took out twenty-five one thousand franc notes, and placed them beside a sheet of the stamped paper used for legal documents of divers kinds, then rang the bell.

  Louis entered, with a gloomy and perturbed air. His heart throbbed violently at the thought that he was, perhaps, in the presence of a favoured rival, for this poor fellow, like sincere lovers in general, greatly exaggerated the advantages which his competitor possessed, so M. de la Miraudière, wrapped in a handsome dressing-gown, and occupying an elegant suite of apartments, seemed a very formidable rival indeed.

  “Is it to M. Louis Richard that I have the honour of speaking?” inquired M. de la Miraudière, with his most ingratiating smile.

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “The only son of M. Richard, the scrivener?”

  These last words were uttered with a rather sarcastic air. Louis noted the fact, and responded, dryly:

  “Yes, monsieur, my father is a scrivener.”

  “Excuse me, my dear sir, for having given you so much trouble, but it was absolutely necessary that I should talk with you alone, and as that seemed well-nigh impossible at your own home, I was obliged to ask you to take the trouble to call here.”

  “May I ask why you wished to see me, monsieur?”

  “Merely to offer you my services, my dear M. Richard,” replied M. de la Miraudière in an insinuating tone. “For it would give me great pleasure to be able to call you my client.”

  “Your client? Why, who are you, monsieur?”

  “An old soldier, now on the retired list, — twenty campaigns, ten wounds, — now a man of affairs, merely to pass away the time. I have a number of large capitalists as backers, and I often act as an intermediary between them and young men of prospective wealth.”

  “Then I do not know of any service you can render me.”

  “You say that, when you are leading a life of drudgery as a notary’s clerk, when you are vegetating — positively vegetating — living in a miserable attic with your father, and dressed, Heaven knows how!”

  “Monsieur!” exclaimed Louis, fairly purple with indignation.

  “Excuse me, my young friend, but these are, I regret to say, the real facts of the case, shameful as they appear. Why, a young man like you ought to be spending twenty-five or thirty thousand francs a year, ought to have his horses and mistresses and enjoy life generally.”

  “Monsieur, if this is intended as a joke, I warn you that I am in no mood for it,” said Louis, angrily.

  “As I have already told you, I am an old soldier who has proved his valour on many a well-fought field, my young friend, so I can afford not to take offence at your manner, for which there is plenty of excuse, I must admit, as what I am saying must seem rather extraordinary to you.”

  “Very extraordinary, monsieur.”

  “Here is something that may serve to convince you that I am speaking seriously,” added the man of affairs, spreading out the thousand franc notes on his desk. “Here are twenty-five thousand francs that I should be delighted to place at your disposal, together with twenty-five hundred francs a month for the next five years.”

  Louis, unable to believe his own ears, gazed at M. de la Miraudière in speechless astonishment, but at last, partially recovering from his stupor, he said:

  “You make this offer to me, monsieur?”

  “Yes, and with very great pleasure.”

  “To me, Louis Richard?”

  “To you, Louis Richard.”

  “Richard is a very common name, monsieur. You probably mistake me for some other person.”

  “No, no, my young friend, I know what I am talking about, and I also know who I am talking to. It is to Louis Désiré Richard, only son of M. Alexandre Timoléon Bénédict Pamphile Richard, aged sixty-seven, born in Brie Comte Robert, but now residing at No. 17, Rue de Grenelle St. Honoré, a scrivener by profession. There is no mistake, you see, my young friend.”

  “Then as you know my family so well, you must also know that my poverty prevents me from contracting any such a loan.”

  “Your poverty!”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “It is shameful, it is outrageous, to rear a young man under such a misapprehension of the real state of affairs,” exclaimed the commandant, indignantly, “to compel him to spend the best years of his life in the stock, as it were, and to compel him to wear shabby clothes and woollen stockings and brogans. Fortunately, there is such a thing as Providence, and you now behold a humble instrument of Providence in the shape of Commandant de la Miraudière.”

  “I assure you that all this is extremely tiresome, monsieur. If you cannot explain more clearly, we had better bring this interview to an immediate conclusion.”

  “Very well, then. You believe your father to be a very poor man, do you not?”

  “I am not ashamed of the fact.”

  “Oh, credulous youth that you are! Listen and bless me ever afterward.”

  As he spoke, M. de la Miraudière drew a large leather-bound book resembling a ledger toward him, and, after a moment’s search, read aloud as follows:

  “‘Inventory of Personal Property of M. Alexandre Timoléon Bénédict Pamphile Richard, from information secured by the Committee on Loans of the Bank of France, May 1, 18 —— .

  “‘1st.

  Three thousand nine hundred and twenty shares of the Bank of France, market value,

  924,300

  fr.

  “‘2d.

  Notes of the Mont de Piété,

  875,250

  “‘3d.

  On Deposit in the Bank of France,

  259,130

  “‘Total,

  2,058,680

  fr.’

  “You see from these figures, my ingenuous young friend, that the known personal property of your honoured parent amounted, on the first of this month, to considerably over two million francs; but it is more than likely that, after the fashion of most misers who take a vast amount of pleasure in seeing and handling a part of their wealth, he has a large amount of money hoarded away in some convenient hiding-place. Even if this should not be the case, you see that the author of your being possesses more than two million francs, and as he spends barely twelve hundred francs out of an income of nearly one hundred thousand, you can form some idea of the amount of wealth you will enjoy some day, and you can no longer wonder at the offer I have just made you.”

  Louis was petrified with astonishment by this revelation. He could not utter a word, but merely gazed at the speaker with inexpressible amazement.

  “You seem to be knocked all in a heap, my young friend. You act as if you were dazed.”

  “I really do not
know what to think of all this,” stammered Louis.

  “Do as St. Thomas did, then. Touch these bank-notes and perhaps that will convince you. The capitalists who are backing me are not inclined to run any risk with their lucre, and they are willing to advance you this money at seven per cent., with a like commission for my services in addition. Interest and loan together will scarcely amount to one-half of your father’s yearly income, so you will still be piling up money, even if you should live as a gentleman ought to live, and spend fifty thousand francs a year. It will be impossible for you to get along on less than that, but you can at least wait with patience for the hour of your honoured parent’s demise, you understand. And, by the way, I have provided for every contingency, as you will see when I tell you about the little scheme I have invented, for of course your good father will be astonished at the change in your mode of living, so you are to invest in a lottery ticket — the prize, a magnificent five hundred louis diamond; price of tickets, ten francs each. The drawing takes place day after to-morrow; you will win the prize and sell it again for eight or nine thousand francs. This money you must allow a friend to invest for you in a wonderfully successful enterprise, which will yield three hundred per cent a year. Thanks to this stratagem, you can spend twenty-five or thirty thousand francs a year under your father’s very nose. Tell me, now, young man, haven’t you good cause to regard me in the light of a guardian angel, or a beneficent Providence? But what on earth is the matter with you? What is the meaning of this clouded brow, this solemn air, this gloomy silence, when I expected to see you half-delirious with joy, and fairly turning somersaults in your delight at being transformed from a clerk into a millionaire, in less than a quarter of an hour. Speak, young man, speak! Can it be that joy and astonishment have bereft him of reason?”

  It is a fact that a revelation which would undoubtedly have filled any one else with the wildest joy had only aroused a feeling of painful resentment in Louis Richard’s breast. The deception his father had practised upon him wounded him deeply, but bitterer still was the thought that, but for Mariette’s cruel desertion, he might have shared this wealth with her some day, and changed the laborious, squalid life the young girl had always led into one of ease and luxury.