“Be very cautious when you enter the room; your appearance must tell everything, so you can avoid preliminary explanations.”
The recommendation was useless.
The instant that Raoul went into the little salon, the sight of his pale, haggard face and wild eyes caused Mme. Fauvel to spring up with clasped hands, and cry out:
“Raoul! What has happened? Speak, my son!”
The sound of her tender, affectionate voice acted like an electric shock upon the young bandit. He shook like a leaf. But at the same time his mind seemed to change. Louis was not mistaken in his estimate of his companion’s character. Raoul was on the stage, his part was to be played; his assurance returned to him; his cheating, lying nature assumed the ascendant, and stifled any better feeling in his heart.
“This misfortune is the last I shall ever suffer, mother!”
Mme. Fauvel rushed toward him, and, seizing his hand, gazed searchingly into his eyes, as if to read his very soul.
“What is the matter? Raoul, my dear son, do tell me what troubles you.”
He gently pushed her from him.
“The matter is, my mother,” he said in a voice of heart-broken despair, “that I am an unworthy, degenerate son! Unworthy of you, unworthy of my noble father!”
She tried to comfort him by saying that his errors were all her fault, and that he was, in spite of all, the pride of her heart.
“Alas!” he said, “I know and judge myself. No one can reproach me for my infamous conduct more bitterly than does my own conscience. I am not naturally wicked, but only a miserable fool. At times I am like an insane man, and am not responsible for my actions. Ah, my dear mother, I would not be what I am, if you had watched over my childhood. But brought up among strangers, with no guide but my own evil passions, nothing to restrain me, no one to advise me, no one to love me, owning nothing, not even my stolen name, I am cursed with vanity and unbounded ambition. Poor, with no one to assist me but you, I have the tastes and vices of a millionnaire’s son.
“Alas for me! When I found you, the evil was done. Your affection, your maternal love, the only true happiness of my life, could not save me. I, who had suffered so much, endured so many privations, even the pangs of hunger, became spoiled by this new life of luxury and pleasure which you opened before me. I rushed headlong into extravagance, as a drunkard long deprived of liquor seizes and drains to the dregs the first bottle in his reach.”
Mme. Fauvel listened, silent and terrified, to these words of despair and remorse, which Raoul uttered with vehemence.
She dared not interrupt him, but felt certain some dreadful piece of news was coming.
Raoul continued in a sad, hopeless tone:
“Yes, I have been a weak fool. Happiness was within my reach, and I had not the sense to stretch forth my hand and grab it. I rejected a heavenly reality to eagerly pursue a vain phantom. I, who ought to have spent my life at your feet, and daily striven to express my gratitude for your lavish kindness, have made you unhappy, destroyed your peace of mind, and, instead of being a blessing, I have been a curse ever since the first fatal day you welcomed me to your kind heart. Ah, unfeeling brute that I was, to squander upon creatures whom I despised, a fortune, of which each gold piece must have cost you a tear! Too late, too late! With you I might have been a good and happy man!”
He stopped, as if overcome by the conviction of his evil deeds, and seemed about to burst into tears.
“It is never too late to repent, my son,” murmured Mme. Fauvel in comforting tones.
“Ah, if I only could!” cried Raoul; “but no, it is too late! Besides, can I tell how long my good resolutions will last? This is not the first time that I have condemned myself pitilessly. Stinging remorse for each new fault made me swear to lead a better life, to sin no more. What was the result of these periodical repentances? At the first temptation I forgot my remorse and good resolutions. I am weak and mean-spirited, and you are not firm enough to govern my vacillating nature. While my intentions are good, my actions are villainous. The disproportion between my extravagant desires, and the means of gratifying them, is too great for me to endure any longer. Who knows to what fearful lengths my unfortunate disposition may lead me? However, I will take my fate in my own hands!” he finally said with a reckless laugh.
“Oh, Raoul, my dear son,” cried Mme. Fauvel in an agony of terror, “explain these dreadful words; am I not your mother? Tell me what distresses you; I am ready to hear the worst.”
He appeared to hesitate, as if afraid to crush his mother’s heart by the terrible blow he was about to inflict. Then in a voice of gloomy despair he replied:
“I am ruined.”
“Ruined?”
“Yes, ruined; and I have nothing more to expect or hope for. I am dishonored, and all through my own fault; no one is to be blamed but myself.”
“Raoul!”
“It is the sad truth, my poor mother; but fear nothing: I shall not trail in the dust the name which you bestowed upon me. I will at least have the courage not to survive my dishonor. Come, mother, don’t pity me, or distress yourself; I am one of those miserable beings fated to find no peace save in the arms of death. I came into the world with misfortune stamped upon my brow. Was not my birth a shame and disgrace to you? Did not the memory of my existence haunt you day and night, filling your soul with remorse? And now, when I am restored to you after many years’ separation, do I not prove to be a bitter curse instead of a blessing?”
“Ungrateful boy! Have I ever reproached you?”
“Never! Your poor Raoul will die with your beloved name on his lips; his last words a prayer to Heaven to heap blessings upon your head, and reward your long-suffering devotion.”
“Die? You die, my son!”
“It must be, my dear mother; honor compels it. I am condemned by judges from whose decision no appeal can be taken—my conscience and my will.”
An hour ago, Mme. Fauvel would have sworn that Raoul had made her suffer all the torments that a woman could endure; but now she felt that all her former troubles were nothing compared with her present agony.
“My God! Raoul, what have you been doing?”
“Money was intrusted to me: I gambled and lost it.”
“Was it a large sum?”
“No; but more than I can replace. My poor mother, have I not taken everything from you? Did you not give me your last jewel?”
“But M. de Clameran is rich. He placed his fortune at my disposal. I will order the carriage, and go to him.”
“But M. de Clameran is absent, and will not return to Paris until next week; and if I do not have the money this evening, I am lost. Alas! I have thought deeply, and, although it is hard to die so young, still fate wills it so.”
He pulled a pistol from his pocket, and, with a forced smile, said:
“This will settle everything.”
Mme. Fauvel was too excited and frightened to reflect upon the horror of Raoul’s behavior, and that these wild threats were a last resort for obtaining money. Forgetful of the past, careless of the future, her every thought concentrated upon the present, she comprehended but one fact: that her son was about to commit suicide, and that she was powerless to prevent the fearful deed.
“Oh, wait a little while my son!” she cried. “Andre will soon return home, and I will ask him to give me—How much did you lose?”
“Thirty thousand francs.”
“You shall have them to-morrow.”
“But I must have the money to-night.”
Mme. Fauvel wrung her hands in despair.
“Oh! why did you not come to me sooner, my son? Why did you not have confidence enough in me to come at once for help? This evening! There is no one in the house to open the money-safe; if it were not for that—if you had only come before Andre went out—”
“The safe!” cried Raoul, with sudden joy, as if this magic word had thrown a ray of light upon his dark despair; “do you know where the key is kept?”
“Yes: it is in the next room.”
“Well!” he exclaimed, with a bold look that caused Mme. Fauvel to lower her eyes, and keep silent.
“Give me the key, mother,” he said in a tone of entreaty.
“Oh, Raoul, Raoul!”
“It is my life I am asking of you.”
These words decided her; she snatched up a candle, rushed into her chamber, opened the secretary, and took out M. Fauvel’s key.
But, when about to hand it to Raoul, she seemed to suddenly see the enormity of what she was doing.
“Oh, Raoul! my son,” she murmured, “I cannot! Do not ask me to commit such a dreadful deed!”
He said nothing, but sadly turned to leave the room; then coming back to his mother said:
“Ah, well; it makes but little difference in the end! At least, you will give me one last kiss, before we part forever, my darling mother!”
“What could you do with the key, Raoul?” interrupted Mme. Fauvel. “You do not know the secret word of the buttons.”
“No; but I can try to open it without moving the buttons.”
“You know that money is never kept in the safe over-night.”
“Nevertheless, I can make the attempt. If I open the safe, and find money in it, it will be a miracle, showing that Heaven has pitied my misfortune, and provided relief.”
“And if you are not successful, will you promise me to wait until to-morrow, to do nothing rash to-night?”
“I swear it, by my father’s memory.”
“Then take the key and follow me.”
Pale and trembling, Raoul and Mme. Fauvel passed through the banker’s study, and down the narrow staircase leading to the offices and cash-room below.
Raoul walked in front, holding the light, and the key of the safe.
Mme. Fauvel was convinced that it would be utterly impossible to open the safe, as the key was useless without the secret word, and of course Raoul had no way of discovering what that was.
Even granting that some chance had revealed the secret to him, he would find but little in the safe, since everything was deposited in the Bank of France. Everyone knew that no large sum was ever kept in the safe after banking hours.
The only anxiety she felt was, how Raoul would bear the disappointment, and how she could calm his despair.
She thought that she would gain time by letting Raoul try the key; and then, when he could not open the safe, he would keep his promise, and wait until the next day. There was surely no harm in letting him try the lock, when he could not touch the money.
“When he sees there is no chance of success,” she thought, “he will listen to my entreaties; and to-morrow—to-morrow——”
What she could do to-morrow she knew not, she did not even ask herself. But in extreme situations the least delay inspires hope, as if a short respite meant sure salvation.
The condemned man, at the last moment, begs for a reprieve of a day, an hour, a few seconds. Raoul was about to kill himself: his mother prayed to God to grant her one day, not even a day, one night; as if in this space of time some unexpected relief would come to end her misery.
They reached Prosper’s office, and Raoul placed the light on a high stool so that it lighted the whole room.
He then summoned up all his coolness, or rather that mechanical precision of movement, almost independent of will, of which men accustomed to peril avail themselves in time of need.
Rapidly, with the dexterity of experience, he slipped the buttons on the five letters composing the name of G, y, p, s, y.
His features, during this short operation, expressed the most intense anxiety. He was fearful that his nervous energy might give out; of not being able to open the safe; of not finding the money there when he opened it; of Prosper having changed the word; or perhaps having neglected to leave the money in the safe.
Mme. Fauvel saw these visible apprehensions with alarm. She read in his eyes that wild hope of a man who, passionately desiring an object, ends by persuading himself that his own will suffices to overcome all obstacles.
Having often been present when Prosper was preparing to leave his office, Raoul had fifty times seen him move the buttons, and lock the safe, just before leaving the bank. Indeed, having a practical turn of mind, and an eye to the future, he had even tried to lock the safe himself on several occasions, while waiting for Prosper.
He inserted the key softly, turned it around, pushed it farther in, and turned it a second time; then thrust it in suddenly, and turned it again. His heart beat so loudly that Mme. Fauvel could hear its throbs.
The word had not been changed; the safe opened.
Raoul and his mother simultaneously uttered a cry; she of terror, he of triumph.
“Shut it again!” cried Mme. Fauvel, frightened at the incomprehensible result of Raoul’s attempt: “Come away! Don’t touch anything, for Heaven’s sake! Raoul!”
And, half frenzied, she clung to Raoul’s arm, and pulled him away so abruptly, that the key was dragged from the lock, and, slipping along the glossy varnish of the safe-door, made a deep scratch some inches long.
But at a glance Raoul discovered, on the upper shelf of the safe, three bundles of bank-notes. He snatched them up with his left hand, and slipped them inside his vest.
Exhausted by the effort she had just made, Mme. Fauvel dropped Raoul’s arm, and, almost fainting with emotion, clung to the back of a chair.
“Have mercy, Raoul!” she moaned. “I implore you to put back that money and I solemnly swear that I will give you twice as much to-morrow. Oh, my son, have pity upon your unhappy mother!”
He paid no attention to these words of entreaty, but carefully examined the scratch on the safe. He was alarmed at this trace of the robbery, which it was impossible for him to cover up.
“At least you will not take all,” said Mme. Fauvel; “just keep enough to save yourself, and put back the rest.”
“What good would that do? The discovery will be made that the safe has been opened; so I might as well take all as a part.”
“Oh, no! not at all. I can account to Andre; I will tell him I had a pressing need for a certain sum, and opened the safe to get it.”
In the meantime Raoul had carefully closed the safe.
“Come, mother, let us go back to the sitting-room. A servant might go there to look for you, and be astonished at our absence.”
Raoul’s cruel indifference and cold calculations at such a moment filled Mme. Fauvel with indignation. She saw that she had no influence over her son, that her prayers and tears had no effect upon his hard heart.
“Let them be astonished,” she cried: “let them come here and find us! I will be relieved to put an end to this tissue of crime. Then Andre will know all, and drive me from his house. Let come what will, I shall not sacrifice another victim. Prosper will be accused of this theft to-morrow. Clameran defrauded him of the woman he loved, and now you would deprive him of his honor! I will have nothing to do with so base a crime.”
She spoke so loud and angrily that Raoul was alarmed. He knew that the errand-boy slept in a room close by, and might be in bed listening to her, although it was early in the evening.
“Come upstairs!” he said, seizing Mme. Fauvel’s arm.
But she clung to a table and refused to move a step.
“I have been cowardly enough to sacrifice Madeleine,” she said, “but I will not ruin Prosper.”
Raoul had an argument in reserve which he knew would make Mme. Fauvel submit to his will.
“Now, really,” he said with a cynical laugh, “do you pretend that you do not know Prosper and I arranged this little affair together, and that he is to have half the booty?”
“Impossible! I never will believe such a thing of Prosper!”
“Why, how do you suppose I discovered the secret word? Who do you suppose disobeyed orders, and left the money in the safe?”
“Prosper is honest.”
“Of course he is, and so am I too. The only thing is, that we both need money.”
“You are telling a falsehood, Raoul!”
“Upon my soul, I am not. Madeleine rejected Prosper, and the poor fellow has to console himself for her cruelty; and these sorts of consolations are expensive, my good mother.”
He took up the candle, and gently but firmly led Mme. Fauvel toward the staircase.
She mechanically suffered herself to be led along, more bewildered by what she had just heard than she was at the opening of the safe-door.
“What!” she gasped, “can Prosper be a thief?”
She began to think herself the victim of a terrible nightmare, and that, when she waked, her mind would be relieved of this intolerable torture. She helplessly clung to Raoul’s arm as he helped her up the narrow little staircase.
“You must put the key back in the secretary,” said Raoul, as soon as they were in the chamber again.
But she did not seem to hear him; so he went and replaced the safe-key in the place from which he had seen her take it.
He then led, or rather carried, Mme. Fauvel into the little sitting-room, and placed her in an easy-chair.
The set, expressionless look of the wretched woman’s eyes, and her dazed manner, frightened Raoul, who thought that she had lost her mind, that her reason had finally given way beneath this last terrible shock.
“Come, cheer up, my dear mother,” he said in coaxing tones as he rubbed her icy hands; “you have saved my life, and rendered an immense service to Prosper. Don’t be alarmed; everything will come out right in the end. Prosper will be accused, perhaps arrested; he expects that, and is prepared for it; he will deny his culpability; and, as there is no proof against him, he will be set at liberty immediately.”
But these falsehoods were wasted on Mme. Fauvel, who was incapable of understanding anything said to her.
“Raoul,” she moaned in a broken-hearted tone, “Raoul, my son, you have killed me.”
Her gentle voice, kind even in its despairing accents, touched the very bottom of Raoul’s perverted heart, and once more his soul was wrung by remorse; so that he felt inclined to put back the stolen money, and comfort the despairing woman whose life and reason he was destroying. The thought of Clameran restrained him.
Finding his efforts to restore Mme. Fauvel fruitless, that, in spite of all his affectionate regrets and promises, she still sat silent, motionless, and death-like; and fearing that M. Fauvel or Madeleine might enter at any moment, and demand an explanation, he hastily pressed a kiss upon his mother’s brow, and hurried from the house.
At the restaurant, in the room where they had dined, Clameran, tortured by anxiety, awaited his accomplice.
He wondered if at the last moment, when he was not near to sustain him, Raoul would prove a coward, and retreat; if any unforeseen trifle had prevented his finding the key; if any visitors were there; and, if so, would they depart before M. Fauvel’s return from the dinner-party?
He had worked himself into such a state of excitement, that, when Raoul returned, he flew to him with ashy face and trembling all over, and could scarcely gasp out:
“Well?”
“The deed is done, uncle, thanks to you; and I am now the most miserable, abject villain on the face of the earth.”
He unbuttoned his vest, and, pulling out the four bundles of bank-notes, angrily dashed them upon the table, saying, in a tone of scorn and disgust:
“Now I hope you are satisfied. This is the price of the happiness, honor, and perhaps the life of three people.”
Clameran paid no attention to these angry words. With feverish eagerness he seized the notes, and rattled them in his hand as if to convince himself of the reality of success.
“Now Madeleine is mine!” he cried excitedly.
Raoul looked at Clameran in silent disgust. This exhibition of joy was a shocking contrast to the scene in which he had just been an actor. He was humiliated at being the tool of such a heartless scoundrel as he now knew Clameran to be.
Louis misinterpreted this silence, and said gayly:
“Did you have much difficulty?”
“I forbid you ever to allude to this evening’s work,” cried Raoul fiercely. “Do you hear me? I wish to forget it.”
Clameran shrugged his shoulders at this outburst of anger, and said in a bantering tone:
“Just as you please, my handsome nephew: I rather think you will want to remember it though, when I offer you these three hundred and fifty thousand francs. You will not, I am sure, refuse to accept them as a slight souvenir. Take them: they are yours.”
This generosity seemed neither to surprise nor satisfy Raoul.
“According to our agreement,” he said sullenly, “I was to have more than this.”
“Of course: this is only part of your share.”
“And when am I to have the rest, if you please?”
“The day I marry Madeleine, and not before, my boy. You are too valuable an assistant to lose at present; and you know that, though I don’t mistrust you, I am not altogether sure of your sincere affection for me.”
Raoul reflected that to commit a crime, and not profit by it, would be the height of absurdity. He had come with the intention of breaking off all connection with Clameran; but he now determined that he would not abandon his accomplice until he had been well paid for his services.
“Very well,” he said, “I accept this on account; but remember, I will never do another piece of work like this to-night. You can do what you please; I shall flatly refuse.”
Clameran burst into a loud laugh, and said:
“That is sensible: now that you are rich, you can afford to be honest. Set your conscience at rest, for I promise you I will require nothing more of you save a few trifling services. You can retire behind the scenes now, while I appear upon the stage; my role begins.”
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