File No. 113

XVII

It was not without the most painful suffering and self-condemnation that Mme. Fauvel submitted to the will of the pitiless Marquis of Clameran.

She had used every argument and entreaty to soften him; but he merely looked upon her with a triumphant, sneering smile, when she knelt at his feet, implored him to be merciful and spare her the shame and remorse of committing another crime. Spare her this torture, and she would grant anything else he wished, give Raoul all she possessed while alive, and insure him a handsome competency after her death.

Alas! neither tears nor prayers moved him. Disappointed, and almost desperate, she sought the intercession of her son.

Raoul was in a state of furious indignation at the sight of his mother’s distress, and hastened to demand an apology from Clameran.

But he had reckoned without his host. He soon returned with downcast eyes, and moodily angry at his own powerlessness, declaring that safety demanded a complete surrender to the tyrant.

Now only did the wretched woman fully fathom the abyss into which she was being dragged, and clearly see the labyrinth of crime of which she was becoming the victim.

And all this suffering was the consequence of a fault, an interview granted to Gaston. Ever since that fatal day she had been vainly struggling against the implacable logic of events. Her life had been spent in trying to overcome the past, and now it had risen to crush her.

The hardest thing of all to do, the act that most wrung her heart, was showing to her husband the forged letter from St. Remy, and saying that she expected to see her rich young nephew in a day or two. ‘Tis hard to deceive those who trust and love us.

But words cannot paint the torture she endured on the evening that she introduced Raoul to her family, and saw the honest banker cordially shake hands with this nephew of whom he had never heard before, and affectionately say to him:

“I am not surprised that a rich young fellow like yourself should prefer Paris to St. Remy, and nothing will give me more pleasure than your visit; for I seldom have an opportunity of welcoming a relative of my dear wife, for whose sake I take an interest in everyone coming from St. Remy.”

Raoul exerted his utmost to deserve this warm reception.

If his early education had been neglected, and he lacked those delicate refinements of manner and conversation which home influence imparts, his superior tact concealed these defects.

He possessed the happy faculty of reading characters, and adapting his conversation to the minds of his listeners.

Before a week had gone by, he was a favorite with M. Fauvel, intimate with Abel and Lucien, and inseparable from Prosper Bertomy, the cashier, who spent all his evenings with the banker’s family.

Charmed at the favorable impression made by Raoul, Mme. Fauvel recovered comparative ease of mind, and at times almost congratulated herself upon having obeyed the marquis, as she saw all around her contented and happy. Once more she began to hope that peace had not deserted her, that God had forgiven her.

Alas! she rejoiced too soon.

Raoul’s intimacy with his cousins threw him among a set of rich young men, whose extravagance he not only imitated, but surpassed. He daily grew more dissipated and reckless. Gambling, racing, expensive suppers, made money slip through his fingers like grains of sand.

This proud young man, whose sensitive delicacy not long since made him refuse to accept aught save affection from his mother, now never approached her without demanding large sums of money.

At first she gave with pleasure, not stopping to count the rolls of notes she would eagerly run to bring him. But as he each time increased his demands, until they finally reached a sum far larger than she could bestow, her eyes were opened to the ruinous effects of her lavish generosity.

This rich woman, whose magnificent diamonds, elegant toilets, and superb equipages were the admiration and envy of Paris, now suffered the keenest torture. She had no more money to give her son; and what so pains the female heart as being unable to gratify the wishes of a beloved being?

Her husband never thought of giving her a fixed sum for the year’s expenses, or of asking how she disposed of her money. The day after the wedding he gave her a key to his secretary, and told her, that what was his was hers, to use as she thought best. And, ever since, she had been in the habit of freely taking all the money necessary for keeping up the hospitable, elegant house over which she so gracefully presided; for her own dress, and many charitable purposes that the world never knew of.

But the fact of her having always been so modest in her personal expenses that her husband used to jestingly say that he was afraid she would end by being a miser; and her judicious, well-regulated management of household expenditures, causing her to spend much the same amount each year—prevented her now being able to dispose of large sums, without giving rise to embarrassing questions.

M. Fauvel, the most generous of millionaires, delighted to see his wife indulge in any extravagance, no matter how foolish; but he would naturally expect to see traces of the money spent, something to show for it.

The banker might suddenly discover that double the usual amount of money was used in the house; and, if he should ask the cause of this astonishing outlay, what answer could she give?

In three months, Raoul had squandered a little fortune. In the first place, he was obliged to have bachelor’s apartments, prettily furnished, and a handsome outfit from a fashionable tailor, besides the thousand little things indispensable to a society man; he must have a blooded horse and a coupe. His doting mother felt it her duty to give him these luxuries, when her other sons were enjoying everything of the sort, besides many other advantages of which her poor Raoul was deprived. But each day the extravagance of his fancies increased, and Mme. Fauvel began to be alarmed when his demands far exceeded her ability to gratify them.

When she would gently remonstrate, Raoul’s beautiful eyes would fill with tears, and in a sad, humble tone he would say:

“Alas! you are right to refuse me this gratification. What claim have I? I must not forget that I am only the poor son of Valentine, not the rich banker’s child!”

This touching repentance wrung her heart, so that she always ended by granting him more than he had asked for. The poor boy had suffered so much that it was her duty to console him, and atone for her past neglect.

She soon discovered that he was jealous and envious of his two brothers—for, after all, they were his brothers—Abel and Lucien.

“You never refuse them anything,” he would resentfully say: “they were fortunate enough to enter life by the golden gate. Their every wish is gratified; they enjoy wealth, position, home affection, and have a splendid future awaiting them.”

“But what is lacking to your happiness, my son? Have you not everything that money can give? and are you not first in my affections?” asked his distressed mother.

“What do I want? Apparently nothing, in reality everything. Do I possess anything legitimately? What right have I to your affection, to the comforts and luxuries you heap upon me, to the name I bear? Is not my life an extortion, my very birth a fraud?”

When Raoul talked in this strain, she would weep, and overwhelm him with caresses and gifts, until she imagined that every jealous thought was vanished from his mind.

As spring approached, she told Raoul she designed him to spend the summer in the country, near her villa at St. Germain. She wanted to have him with her all the time, and this was the only way of gratifying her wish. She was surprised to find her proposal readily acquiesced in. In a few days he told her he had rented a little house at Vesinet, and intended having his furniture moved into it.

“Then, just think, dear mother, what a happy summer we will spend together!” he said, with beaming eyes.

She was delighted for many reasons, one of which was that the expenses of the prodigal son would necessarily be lessened. Anxiety as to the exhausted state of her finances made her bold enough to chide him at the dinner-table one day for having lost two thousand francs at the races that morning.

“You are severe, my dear,” said M. Fauvel with the carelessness of a rich man, who considered this sum a mere trifle. “Mamma Lagors won’t object to footing his bills; mammas are created for the special purpose of paying bills.”

And, not observing that his wife had turned pale at these jocular words, he turned to Raoul, and added:

“Don’t disturb yourself about a small sum like this, my boy; when you want money, come to me.”

What could Mme. Fauvel say? Had she not followed Clameran’s orders, and told her husband that Raoul was wealthy? She could not go now and tell him that he would never recover any money which he lent to a penniless spendthrift.

Why had she been made to tell this unnecessary lie?

She suspected the snare laid for her; but now it was too late to escape it: struggles would only more deeply entangle her in its meshes.

The banker’s offer was soon accepted. That same week Raoul went to his uncle’s bank, and boldly borrowed ten thousand francs.

When Mme. Fauvel heard of this piece of audacity, she wrung her hands in despair.

“What can he want with so much money?” she moaned to herself: “what wicked extravagance is it for?” For some time Clameran had kept away from Mme. Fauvel’s house. She decided to write and ask him to come and advise her as to what steps should be taken to check Raoul.

She hoped that this energetic, determined man, who was so fully awake to his duties as a guardian and an uncle, would make Raoul listen to reason, and instantly refund the borrowed money.

When Clameran heard what his graceless nephew had done, his surprise and anger were unbounded. He expressed so much indignation against Raoul, that Mme. Fauvel was frightened at the storm she had raised, and began to make excuses for her son.

While they were discussing the matter, Raoul came in, and a violent altercation ensued between him and Clameran.

But the suspicions of Mme. Fauvel were aroused; she watched them, and it seemed to her—could it be possible—that their anger was feigned; that, although they abused and even threatened each other in the bitterest language, their eyes twinkled with amusement.

She dared not breathe her doubts; but, like a subtle poison which disorganizes everything with which it comes in contact, this new suspicion filled her thoughts, and added to her already intolerable sufferings.

Yet she never once thought of blaming Raoul; nor for a moment did she feel displeased with her idolized son. She accused the marquis of taking advantage of the youthful weakness and inexperience of his nephew.

She knew that she would have to suffer insolence and extortion from this man who had her completely in his power; but she could not imagine what object he now had in view, for she plainly saw that he was aiming at something more than his nephew’s success in life. He constantly concealed some plan to benefit himself at her expense; but assuredly her darling Raoul could not be an accomplice in any plot to harass her.

Clameran himself soon cleared her mind of all doubts.

One day, after complaining more bitterly than usual of Raoul, and proving to Mme. Fauvel that it was impossible for this state of affairs to continue much longer, and a catastrophe was inevitable, he would up by saying there was one means of salvation left.

This was that he, Clameran, must marry Madeleine!

Mme. Fauvel was prepared for almost any base proposal save this one. She knew that his cupidity and insolence stopped at nothing, but never did she imagine he would have the wild presumption to aspire to Madeleine’s hand.

If she had renounced all hope of happiness for herself, if she consented to the sacrifice of her own peace of mind, it was because she thus hoped to insure the undisturbed felicity of her household, of her husband, whom she had sinned against.

This unexpected declaration shocked her, and for a moment she was speechless.

“Do you suppose for an instant, monsieur,” she indignantly exclaimed, “that I will consent to any such disgraceful project? Sacrifice Madeleine, and to you!”

“I certainly do suppose so, madame; in fact, I am certain of it,” he answered with cool insolence.

“What sort of a woman do you think I am, monsieur? Alas, I am to eternally suffer for a fault committed twenty years ago; have I not already been more than adequately punished? And does it become you to be constantly reproaching me with my long-past imprudence? You have no right to be thus harassing me, till I dare not say my life is my own! Your power is at an end, and God only knows how deeply I regret having been insane enough to yield to its base sway! So long as I alone was to be the tool, you found me weak and timid; but, now that you seek the ruin of those I love, I rebel against your usurped authority. I have still a little conscience left, and nothing under heaven will force me to sacrifice my gentle, pure-hearted Madeleine!”

“May I inquire, madame, why you regard Mlle. Madeleine’s becoming the Marchioness of Clameran as a disgrace and a sacrifice?”

“My niece chose, of her own free will, a husband whom she will shortly marry. She loves M. Prosper Bertomy.”

The marquis disdainfully shrugged his shoulders.

“A school-girl love-affair,” said he; “she will forget all about it, if you wish her to do so.”

“I do not wish it. I wish her to marry him.”

“Listen to me,” he replied, in the low, suppressed tone of a man trying to control himself: “let us not waste time in these idle discussions. Hitherto you have always commenced by protesting against my proposed plans, and in the end acknowledge the good sense and justness of my arguments; now, for once why not yield without going through with the customary preliminaries? I ask it as a favor.”

“Never,” said Mme. Fauvel, “never will I yield.”

Clameran paid no attention to this interruption, but went on:

“I insist upon this marriage, mainly on your account, although it will enable me to re-establish my own affairs, as well as yours and Raoul’s. Of course you see that the allowance you give your son is insufficient for his extravagant style of living. The time approaches when, having nothing more to give him, you will have to encroach upon your husband’s money-drawer to such an extent that longer concealment will be impossible. When that day comes what is to be done? Perhaps you have some feasible plan of escape?”

Mme. Fauvel shuddered. The dreadful day of discovery could not be far off, and no earthly way was there to escape it.

The marquis went on:

“Assist me now, and, instead of having to make a shameful confession, you will thank me for having saved you. Mlle. Madeleine is rich: her dowry will enable me to supply the deficiency, and spare you all further anxiety about Raoul.”

“I would rather be ruined than be saved by such means.”

“But I will not permit you to ruin us all. Remember, madame, that we are associated in a common cause, the future welfare of Raoul; and, although you have a right to rush upon destruction yourself, you certainly shall not drag us with you.”

“Cease your importunities,” she said, looking him steadily in the eye. “I have made up my mind irrevocably.”

“To what?”

“To do everything and anything to escape your shameful persecution. Oh! you need not smile. I shall throw myself at M. Fauvel’s feet, and confess everything. He is noble-hearted and generous, and, knowing how I have suffered, will forgive me.”

“Do you think so?” said Clameran derisively.

“You mean to say that he will be pitiless, and banish me from his roof. So be it; it will only be what I deserve. There is no torture that I cannot bear, after what I have suffered through you.”

This inconceivable resistance so upset all the marquis’s plans that he lost all constraint, and, dropping the mask of politeness, appeared in his true character.

“Indeed!” he said in a fierce, brutal tone, “so you have decided to confess to your loving, magnanimous husband! A famous idea! What a pity you did not think of it before; it is rather late to try it now. Confessing everything the first day I called on you, you might have been forgiven. Your husband might have pardoned a youthful fault atoned for by twenty years of irreproachable conduct; for none can deny that you have been a faithful wife and a good mother. But picture the indignation of your trusting husband when you tell him that this pretended nephew, whom you imposed upon his family circle, who sat at his table, who borrowed his money, is your illegitimate son! M. Fauvel is, no doubt, an excellent, kind-hearted man; but I scarcely think he will pardon a deception of this nature, which betrays such depravity, duplicity, and audacity.”

All that the angry marquis said was horribly true; yet Mme. Fauvel listened unflinchingly, as if the coarse cruelty of his words strengthened her resolution to have nothing more to do with him, but to throw herself on her husband’s mercy.

“Upon my soul,” he went on, “you must be very much infatuated with this M. Bertomy! Between the honor of your husband’s name, and pleasing this love-sick cashier, you refuse to hesitate. Well, I suppose he will console you. When M. Fauvel divorces you, and Abel and Lucien avert their faces at your approach, and blush at being your sons, you will be able to say, ‘I have made Prosper happy!’”

“Happen what may, I shall do what is right,” said Mme. Fauvel.

“You shall do what I say!” cried Clameran, threateningly. “Do you suppose that I will allow your sentimentality to blast all my hopes? I shall tolerate no such folly, madame, I can assure you. Your niece’s fortune is indispensable to us, and, more than that—I love the fair Madeleine, and am determined to marry her.”

The blow once struck, the marquis judged it prudent to await the result. With cool politeness, he continued:

“I will leave you now, madame, to think the matter over, and you cannot fail to view it in the same light as I do. You had better take my advice, and consent to this sacrifice of prejudice, as it will be the last required of you. Think of the honor of your family, and not of your niece’s love-affair. I will return in three days for your answer.”

“Your return is unnecessary, monsieur: I shall tell my husband everything to-night.”

If Mme. Fauvel had not been so agitated herself, she would have detected an expression of alarm upon Clameran’s face.

But this uneasiness was only momentary. With a shrug, which meant, “Just as you please,” he said:

“I think you have sense enough to keep your secret.”

He bowed ceremoniously, and left the room, but slammed the front door after him so violently as to prove that his restrained anger burst forth before leaving the house.

Clameran had cause for fear. Mme. Fauvel’s determination was not feigned. She was firm in her resolve to confess.

“Yes,” she cried, with the enthusiasm of a noble resolution, “yes, I will tell Andre everything!”

She believed herself to be alone, but turned around suddenly at the sound of footsteps, and found herself face to face with Madeleine, who was pale and swollen-eyed with weeping.

“You must obey this man, aunt,” she quietly said.

Adjoining the parlor was a little card-room separated only by a heavy silk curtain, instead of a door.

Madeleine was sitting in this little room when the marquis arrived, and, as there was no egress save through the parlor, had remained, and thus overheard the conversation.

“Good Heaven!” cried Mme. Fauvel with terror, “do you know——”

“I know everything, aunt.”

“And you wish me to sacrifice you to this fiend?”

“I implore you to let me save you from misery.”

“You certainly despise and hate M. de Clameran; how can you think I would let you marry him?”

“I do despise him, aunt, and shall always regard him as the basest of men; nevertheless I will marry him.”

Mme. Fauvel was overcome by the magnitude of this devotion.

“And what is to become of Prosper, my poor child—Prosper, whom you love?”

Madeleine stifled a sob, and said in a firm voice:

“To-morrow I will break off my engagement with M. Bertomy.”

“I will never permit such a wrong,” cried Mme. Fauvel. “I will not add to my sins by suffering an innocent girl to bear their penalty.”

The noble girl sadly shook her head, and replied:

“Neither will I suffer dishonor to fall upon this house, which is my home, while I have power to prevent it. Am I not indebted to you for more than life? What would I now be had you not taken pity on me? A factory girl in my native village. You warmly welcomed the poor orphan, and became a mother to her. Is it not to your husband that I owe the fortune which excites the cupidity of this wicked Clameran? Are not Abel and Lucien brothers to me? And now, when the happiness of all who have been loving and generous to me is at stake, do you suppose I would hesitate? No. I will become the wife of Clameran.”

Then began a struggle of self-sacrifice between Mme. Fauvel and her niece, as to which should be the victim; only the more sublime, because each offered her life to the other, not from any sudden impulse, but deliberately and willingly.

But Madeleine carried the day, fired as she was by that holy enthusiasm of sacrifice which is the sustaining element of martyrs.

“I am responsible to none but myself,” said she, well knowing this to be the most vulnerable point she could attack; “whilst you, dear aunt, are accountable to your husband and children. Think of the pain and sorrow of M. Fauvel if he should learn the truth; it would kill him.”

The generous girl was right. She knew her uncle’s heart.

After having sacrificed her husband to her mother, Mme. Fauvel was about to immolate her husband and children for Raoul.

As a general thing, a first fault draws many others in its train. As an impalpable flake is the beginning of an avalanche, so an imprudence is often the prelude to a great crime.

To false situations there is but one safe issue: truth.

Mme. Fauvel’s resistance grew weaker and more faint, as her niece pointed out the line for her to pursue: the path of wifely duty.

“But,” she faintly argued, “I cannot accept your sacrifice. What sort of a life will you lead with this man?”

“We can hope for the best,” replied Madeleine with a cheerfulness she was far from feeling; “he loves me, he says; perhaps he will be kind to me.”

“Ah, if I only knew where to obtain money! It is money that the grasping man wants; money alone will satisfy him.”

“Does he not want it for Raoul? Has not Raoul, by his extravagant follies, dug an abyss which must be bridged over by money? If I could only believe M. de Clameran!”

Mme. Fauvel looked at her niece with bewildered curiosity.

What! this inexperienced girl had weighed the matter in its different lights before deciding upon a surrender; whereas, she, a wife and a mother, had blindly yielded to the inspirations of her heart!

“What do you mean? Madeleine, what do you suspect?”

“I mean this, aunt: that I do not believe that Clameran has any thought of his nephew’s welfare. Once in possession of my fortune, he may leave you and Raoul to your fates. And there is another dreadful suspicion that tortures my mind.”

“A suspicion?”

“Yes, and I would reveal it to you, if I dared; if I did not fear that you—”

“Speak!” insisted Mme. Fauvel. “Alas! misfortune has given me strength to bear all things. There is nothing worse than has already happened. I am ready to hear anything.”

Madeleine hesitated; she wished to enlighten her credulous aunt, and yet hesitated to distress her.

“I would like to be certain,” she said, “that some secret understanding between M. de Clameran and Raoul does not exist. Do you not think they are acting a part agreed upon for the purpose of extorting money?”

Love is blind and deaf. Mme. Fauvel would not remember the laughing eyes of the two men, upon the occasion of the pretended quarrel in her presence. Infatuation had drowned suspicion. She could not, she would not, believe in such hypocrisy. Raoul plot against the mother? Never!

“It is impossible,” she said, “the marquis is really indignant and distressed at his nephew’s mode of life, and he certainly would not countenance any disgraceful conduct. As to Raoul, he is vain, trifling, and extravagant; but he has a good heart. Prosperity has turned his head, but he loves me still. Ah, if you could see and hear him, when I reproach him for his faults, your suspicions would fly to the winds. When he tearfully promises to be more prudent, and never again give me trouble, he means to keep his word; but perfidious friends entice him away, and he commits some piece of folly without thinking of the consequences.”

Mothers always blame themselves and everyone else for the sins of their sons. The innocent friends come in for the principal share of censure, each mother’s son leading the other astray.

Madeleine had not the heart to undeceive her aunt.

“God grant that what you say may be true,” she said; “if so, this marriage will not be useless. We will write to M. de Clameran to-night.”

“Why to-night, Madeleine? We need not hurry so. Let us wait a little; something else might happen to save us.”

These words, this confidence in chance, in a mere nothing, revealed Mme. Fauvel’s true character, and accounted for her troubles. Timid, hesitating, easily swayed, she never could come to a firm decision, form a resolution, and abide by it, in spite of all arguments brought to bear against it. In the hour of peril she would always shut her eyes and trust to chance for a relief which never came. Never once did she think to ward off trouble by her own exertions.

Quite different was Madeleine’s character. Beneath her gentle timidity lay a strong, self-reliant will. Once decided upon what was right and just, nothing could change her. If it was her duty to make a sacrifice, it was to be carried out to the letter; no hesitation and sighs for what might have been; she shut out all deceitful illusions, and walked straight forward without one look back.

“We had better end the matter at once, dear aunt,” she said, in a gentle, but firm tone. “Believe me, the reality of misfortune is not as painful as its apprehension. You cannot bear the shocks of sorrow, and delusive hopes of happiness, much longer. Do you know what anxiety of mind has done to you? Have you looked in the mirror during the last four months?”

She led her aunt up to the glass, and said:

“Look at yourself.”

Mme. Fauvel was indeed a mere shadow of her former self.

She had reached the perfidious age when a woman’s beauty, like a full-blown rose, fades in a day.

Four months of trouble had made her an old woman. Sorrow had stamped its fatal seal upon her brow. Her fair, soft skin was wrinkled, her golden hair was streaked with silver, and her large, soft eyes had a painfully frightened look.

“Do you not agree with me,” continued Madeleine, pityingly, “that peace of mind is necessary to you? Do you not see that you are a wreck of your former self? It is a miracle that M. Fauvel has not noticed this sad change in you!”

Mme. Fauvel, who flattered herself that she had displayed wonderful dissimulation, shook her head.

“Alas, my poor aunt! you think you concealed your secret from all: you may have blinded my uncle, but I suspected all along that something dreadful was breaking your heart.”

“You suspected what, Madeleine? Not the truth?”

“No, I was afraid—Oh, pardon an unjust suspicion, my dear aunt, but I was wicked enough to suppose——”

She stopped, too distressed to finish her sentence; then, making a painful effort, she added, as her aunt signed to her to go on:

“I was afraid that perhaps you loved another man than my uncle; it was the only construction that I could put upon your strange conduct.”

Mme. Fauvel buried her face, and groaned. Madeleine’s suspicion was, no doubt, entertained by others.

“My reputation is gone,” she moaned.

“No, dear aunt, no; do not be alarmed about that. No one has had occasion to observe you as I have; it was only a dreadful thought which penetrated my mind in spite of my endeavors to dispel it. Have courage: we two can fight the world and silence our enemies. You shall be saved, aunt: only trust in me.”

The Marquis of Clameran was agreeably surprised that evening by receiving a letter from Mme. Fauvel, saying that she consented to everything, but must have a little time to carry out the plan.

Madeleine, she said, could not break off her engagement with M. Bertomy in a day. M. Fauvel would make objections, for he had an affection for Prosper, and had tacitly approved of the match. It would be wiser to leave to time the smoothing away of certain obstacles which a sudden attack might render insurmountable.

A line from Madeleine, at the bottom of the letter, assured him that she fully concurred with her aunt.

Poor girl! she did not spare herself. The next day she took Prosper aside, and forced from him the fatal promise to shun her in the future, and to take upon himself the responsibility of breaking their engagement.

He implored Madeleine to at least explain the reason of this banishment, which destroyed all of his hopes for happiness.

She quietly replied that her peace of mind and honor depended upon his blind obedience to her will.

He left her with death in his soul.

As he went out of the house, the marquis entered.

Yes, he had the audacity to come in person, to tell Mme. Fauvel that, now he had the promise of herself and Madeleine, he would consent to wait awhile.

He himself saw the necessity of patience, knowing that he was not liked by the banker.

Having the aunt and niece on his side, or rather in his power, he was certain of success. He said to himself that the moment would come when a deficit impossible to be paid would force them to hasten the wedding.

Raoul did all he could to bring matters to a crisis.

Mme. Fauvel went sooner than usual to her country seat, and Raoul at once moved into his house at Vesinet. But living in the country did not lessen his expenses.

Gradually he laid aside all hypocrisy, and now only came to see his mother when he wanted money; and his demands were frequent and more exorbitant each time.

As for the marquis, he prudently absented himself, awaiting the propitious moment.

At the end of three weeks he met the banker at a friend’s, and was invited to dinner the next day.

Twenty people were seated at the table; and, as the dessert was being served, the banker suddenly turned to Clameran and said:

“I have a piece of news for you, monsieur. Have you any relatives of your name?”

“None that I know of, monsieur.”

“I am surprised. About a week ago, I became acquainted with another Marquis of Clameran.”

Although so hardened by crime, impudent enough to deny anything, Clameran was so taken aback that he sat with pale face and a blank look, silently staring at M. Fauvel.

But he soon recovered enough self-control to say hurriedly:

“Oh, indeed! That is strange. A Clameran may exist; but I cannot understand the title of marquis.”

M. Fauvel was not sorry to have the opportunity of annoying a guest whose aristocratic pretensions had often piqued him.

“Marquis or not,” he replied, “the Clameran in question seems to be able to do honor to the title.”

“Is he rich?”

“I have reason to suppose that he is very wealthy. I have been notified to collect for him four hundred thousand francs.”

Clameran had a wonderful faculty of self-control; he had so schooled himself that his face never betrayed what was passing in his mind. But this news was so startling, so strange, so pregnant of danger, that his usual assurance deserted him.

He detected a peculiar look of irony in the banker’s eye.

The only persons who noticed this sudden change in the marquis’s matter were Madeleine and her aunt. They saw him turn pale, and exchange a meaning look with Raoul.

“Then I suppose this new marquis is a merchant,” said Clameran after a moment’s pause.

“That I don’t know. All that I know is, that four hundred thousand francs are to be deposited to his account by some ship-owners at Havre, after the sale of the cargo of a Brazilian ship.”

“Then he comes from Brazil?”

“I do not know, but I can give you his Christian name.”

“I would be obliged.”

M. Fauvel arose from the table, and brought from the next room a memorandum-book, and began to read over the names written in it.

“Wait a moment,” he said, “let me see—the 22nd, no, it was later than that. Ah, here it is: Clameran, Gaston. His name is Gaston, monsieur.”

But this time Louis betrayed no emotion or alarm; he had had sufficient time to recover his self-possession, and nothing could not throw him off his guard.

“Gaston?” he queried, carelessly. “I know who he is now. He must be the son of my father’s sister, whose husband lived at Havana. I suppose, upon his return to France, he must have taken his mother’s name, which is more sonorous than his father’s, that being, if I recollect aright, Moirot or Boirot.”

The banker laid down his memorandum-book, and, resuming his seat, went on:

“Boirot or Clameran,” said he, “I hope to have the pleasure of inviting you to dine with him before long. Of the four hundred thousand francs which I was ordered to collect for him, he only wishes to draw one hundred, and tells me to keep the rest on running account. I judge from this that he intends coming to Paris.”

“I shall be delighted to make his acquaintance.”

Clameran broached another topic, and seemed to have entirely forgotten the news told him by the banker.

Although apparently engrossed in the conversation of his neighbor at the table, he closely watched Mme. Fauvel and her niece.

He saw that they were unable to conceal their agitation, and stealthily exchanged significant looks.

Evidently the same terrible idea had crossed their minds.

Madeleine seemed more nervous and startled than her aunt. When M. Fauvel uttered Gaston’s name, she saw Raoul begin to draw back in his chair and glance in a frightened manner toward the window, like a detected thief looking for means of escape.

Raoul, less experienced than his uncle, was thoroughly discountenanced. He, the original talker, the lion of a dinner-party, never at a loss for some witty speech, was now perfectly dumb; he sat anxiously watching Louis.

At last the dinner ended, and as the guests passed into the drawing-room, Clameran and Raoul managed to remain last in the dining-room.

When they were alone, they no longer attempted to conceal their anxiety.

“It is he!” said Raoul.

“I have no doubt of it.”

“Then all is lost; we had better make our escape.”

But a bold adventurer like Clameran had no idea of giving up the ship till forced to do so.

“Who knows what may happen?” he asked, thoughtfully. “There is hope yet. Why did not that muddle-headed banker tell us where this Clameran is to be found?”

Here he uttered a joyful exclamation. He saw M. Fauvel’s memorandum-book lying on the table.

“Watch!” he said to Raoul.

Seizing the note-book, he hurriedly turned over the leaves, and, in an undertone, read:

“Gaston, Marquis of Clameran, Oloron, Lower Pyrenees.”

“Well, does finding out his address assist us?” inquired Raoul, eagerly.

“It may save us: that is all. Let us return to the drawing-room; our absence might be observed. Exert yourself to appear unconcerned and gay. You almost betrayed us once by your agitation.”

“The two women suspect something.”

“Well, suppose they do?”

“The best thing that we can do is escape; the sooner we leave Paris, the better.”

“Do you think we should do any better in London? Don’t be so easily frightened. I am going to plant my batteries, and I warrant they will prove successful.”

They joined the other guests. But, if their conversation had not been overheard their movements had been watched.

Madeleine looked through the half-open door, and saw Clameran consulting her uncle’s note-book, and whispering to Raoul. But what benefit would she derive from this proof of the marquis’s villany? She knew now that he was plotting to obtain her fortune, and she would be forced to yield it to him; that he had squandered his brother’s fortune, and was now frightened at the prospect of having to account for it. Still this did not explain Raoul’s conduct. Why did he show such fear?

Two hours later, Clameran was on the road to Vesinet with Raoul, explaining to him his plans.

“It is my precious brother, and no mistake,” he said. “But that need not alarm you so easily, my lovely nephew.”

“Merciful powers! Doesn’t the banker expect to see him any day? Is he not liable to pounce down on me to-morrow?”

“Don’t be an idiot!” interrupted Clameran. “Does he know that Fauvel is Valentine’s husband? That is what we must find out. If he knows that little fact, we must take to our heels; if he is ignorant of it, our case is not desperate.”

“How will you find out?”

“By simply asking him.”

Raoul exclaimed at his ally’s cunning:

“That is a dangerous thing to do,” he said.

“‘Tis not as dangerous as sitting down with our hands folded. And, as to running away at the first suspicion of alarm, it would be imbecility.”

“Who is going to look for him?”

“I am.”

“Oh, oh, oh!” exclaimed Raoul in three different tones. Clameran’s audacity confounded him.

“But what am I going to do?” he inquired after a moment’s silence.

“You will oblige me by remaining here and keeping quiet. I will send you a despatch if there is danger; and then you can decamp.”

As they parted at Raoul’s door, Clameran said:

“Now, remember. Stay here, and during my absence be very intimate at your devoted mother’s. Be the most dutiful of sons. Abuse me as much as you please to her; and, above all, don’t indulge in any folly; make no demands for money; keep your eyes open. Good-by. To-morrow evening I will be at Oloron talking with this new Clameran.”