The Count's Millions

VII.

The magistrate who was now approaching the Chalusse mansion in the concierge’s company, exemplified in a remarkable manner all the ideas that are awakened in one’s mind by the grand yet simple title of “Justice of the Peace.” He was the very person you would like to think of as the family magistrate; as the promoter of friendly feeling; as the guardian of the rights of the absent, the young, and the weak; as the just arbiter in unfortunate differences between those who are closely related; a sage of wide experience and boundless benevolence; a judge whose paternal justice dispenses with all pomp and display, and who is allowed by French statutes to hold his court by his own fireside, providing the doors stand open. He was considerably over fifty, tall, and very thin, with bent shoulders. His clothes were rather old-fashioned in cut, but by no means ridiculous. The expression of his face was gentleness itself; but it would not have done to presume upon this gentleness, for his glance was keen and piercing—like the glance of all who are expert in diving into consciences, and discovering the secrets hidden there. Moreover, like all men who are accustomed to deliberate in public, his features were expressionless. He could see and hear everything, suspect and understand everything, without letting a muscle of his face move. And yet the habitues of his audience-chamber, and his clerks, pretended that they could always detect the nature of his impressions. A ring which he wore upon one of his fingers served as a barometer for those who knew him. If a difficult case, or one that embarrassed his conscience, presented itself, his eyes fixed themselves obstinately upon this ring. If he were satisfied that everything was right, he looked up again, and began playing with the ring, slipping it up and down between the first and second joint of his finger; but if he were displeased, he abruptly turned the bezel inside.

In appearance, he was sufficiently imposing to intimidate even M. Casimir. The proud valet bowed low as the magistrate approached, and with his heart in his mouth, and in an obsequious voice he said: “It was I who took the liberty of sending for you, monsieur.”

“Ah!” said the magistrate, who already knew as much about the Hotel de Chalusse, and the events of the past twelve hours, as M. Casimir himself; for on his way to the house, he had turned Bourigeau inside out like a glove, by means of a dozen gentle questions.

“If monsieur wishes I will explain,” resumed M. Casimir.

“Nothing! It is quite unnecessary. Usher us in.”

This “us” astonished the valet; but before they reached the house it was explained to him. He discovered a man of flourishing and even jovial mien who was walking along in the magistrate’s shadow carrying a large black portfolio under his arm. This was evidently the clerk. He seemed to be as pleased with his employment as he was with himself; and as he followed M. Casimir, he examined the adornments of the mansion, the mosaics in the vestibule, the statuary and the frescoed walls with an appraiser’s eye. Perhaps he was calculating how many years’ salary it would require to pay for the decorating of this one staircase.

On the threshold of the death room the magistrate paused. There had been some change during M. Casimir’s absence. The doctor had left. The bed had been rearranged, and several candles were burning on a table covered with a white cloth. Madame Leon had gone to her own room, accompanied by two servants, to fetch a vessel of holy water and a branch of withered palm. She was now engaged in repeating the prayers for the dead, pausing from time to time to dip the palm branch in the holy water, and sprinkle the bed. Both windows had been opened in spite of the cold. On the marble hearth stood a chafing-dish full of embers from which rose spiral rings of smoke, filling the room with a pungent odor as a servant poured some vinegar and sugar on to the coals.

As the magistrate appeared, every one rose up. Then, after bestowing prolonged scrutiny upon the room and its occupants, he respectfully removed his hat, and walked in. “Why are so many people here?” he inquired.

“I suggested that they should remain,” replied M. Casimir, “because—”

“You are—suspicious,” interrupted the magistrate.

His clerk had already drawn a pen and some paper from his portfolio, and was engaged in reading the decision, rendered by the magistrate at the request of one Bourigeau, and in virtue of which, seals were about to be affixed to the deceased nobleman’s personal effects. Since the magistrate had entered the room, his eyes had not once wandered from Mademoiselle Marguerite, who was standing near the fireplace, looking pale but composed. At last he approached her, and in a tone of deep sympathy: “Are you Mademoiselle Marguerite?” he asked.

She raised her clear eyes, rendered more beautiful than ever, by the tears that trembled on her lashes, and in a faltering voice, replied: “Yes, monsieur.”

“Are you a relative? Are you connected in any way with the Count de Chalusse? Have you any right to his property?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Excuse me, mademoiselle, but these questions are indispensable. Who intrusted you to the care of M. de Chalusse, and by what right? Was it your father or your mother?”

“I have neither father nor mother, monsieur. I am alone in the world—utterly alone.”

The magistrate glanced keenly round the room. “Ah! I understand,” said he, at last; “advantage has been taken of your isolation to treat you with disrespect, to insult you, perhaps.”

Every head drooped, and M. Casimir bitterly regretted that he had not remained below in the courtyard. Mademoiselle Marguerite looked at the magistrate in astonishment, for she was amazed by his penetration. She was ignorant of his conversation with Bourigeau on the road, and did not know that through the concierge’s ridiculous statements and accusations, the magistrate had succeeded in discovering at least a portion of the truth.

“I shall have the honor of asking for a few moments’ conversation with you presently, mademoiselle,” he said. “But first, one question. I am told that the Count de Chalusse entertained a very lively affection for you. Are you sure that he has not taken care to provide for your future? Are you sure that he has not left a will?”

The girl shook her head. “He made one in my favor some time ago,” she replied. “I saw it; he gave it to me to read; but it was destroyed a fortnight after my arrival here, and in compliance with my request.”

Madame Leon had hitherto been dumb with fear, but, conquering her weakness, she now decided to draw near and take part in the conversation. “How can you say that, my dear young lady?” she exclaimed. “You know that the count—God rest his soul!—was an extremely cautious man. I am certain that there is a will somewhere.”

The magistrate’s eyes were fixed on his ring. “It would be well to look, perhaps, before affixing the seals. You have a right to require this; so, if you wish——”

But she made no reply.

“Oh, yes!” insisted Madame Leon; “pray look, monsieur.”

“But where should we be likely to find a will?”

“Certainly in this room—in this escritoire, or in one of the deceased count’s cabinets.”

The magistrate had learnt the story of the key from Bourigeau, but all the same he asked: “Where is the key to this escritoire?”

“Alas! monsieur,” replied Mademoiselle Marguerite, “I broke it last night when M. de Chalusse was brought home unconscious. I hoped to avert what has, nevertheless, happened. Besides, I knew that his escritoire contained something over two millions in gold and bank-notes.”

Two millions—there! The occupants of the room stood aghast. Even the clerk was so startled that he let a blot fall upon his paper. Two millions! The magistrate was evidently reflecting. “Hum!” he murmured, meditatively. Then, as if deciding on his course, he exclaimed:

“Let a locksmith be sent for.”

A servant went in search of one; and while they were waiting for his return, the magistrate sat down beside his clerk and talked to him in a low voice. At last the locksmith appeared, with his bag of tools hanging over his shoulder, and set to work at once. He found his task a difficult one. His pick-locks would not catch, and he was talking of filing the bolt, when, by chance, he found the joint, and the door flew open. But the escritoire was empty. There were only a few papers, and a bottle about three-quarters full of a crimson liquid on the shelf. Had M. de Chalusse rose and shook off his winding sheet, the consternation would not have been greater. The same instinctive fear thrilled the hearts of everybody present. An enormous fortune had disappeared. The same suspicions would rest upon them all. And each servant already saw himself arrested, imprisoned, and dragged before a law court.

However, anger speedily followed bewilderment, and a furious clamor arose. “A robbery has been committed!” cried the servants, in concert. “Mademoiselle had the key. It is wrong to suspect the innocent!”

Revolting as this exhibition was, it did not modify the magistrate’s calmness. He had witnessed too many such scenes in the course of his career, and, at least, a score of times he had been compelled to interpose between children who had come to blows over their inheritance before their father’s body was even cold. “Silence!” he commanded sternly. And as the tumult did not cease, as the servants continued to cry, “The thief must be found. We shall have no difficulty in discovering the culprit,” the magistrate exclaimed, still more imperiously: “Another word, and you all leave the room.”

They were silenced; but there was a mute eloquence about their looks and gestures which it was impossible to misunderstand. Every eye was fixed upon Mademoiselle Marguerite with an almost ferocious expression. She knew it only too well; but, sublime in her energy, she stood, with her head proudly erect, facing the storm, and disdaining to answer these vile imputations. However she had a protector near by—the magistrate in person. “If this treasure has been diverted from the inheritance,” said he, “the thief will be discovered and punished. But I wish to have one point explained—who said that Mademoiselle Marguerite had the key of the escritoire?”

“I did,” replied a footman. “I was in the dining-room yesterday morning when the count gave it to her.”

“For what purpose did he give it to her?”

“That she might obtain this vial—I recognized it at once. She brought it down to him.”

“Did she return the key?”

“Yes; she gave it to him when she handed him the vial, and I saw him put it in his pocket.”

The magistrate pointed to the bottle which was standing on the shelf. “Then the count himself must have put the vial back in its place,” said he. “Further comment is unnecessary; for, if the money had then been missing, he could not have failed to discover the fact.” No one had any reply to make to this quiet defence, which was, at the same time, a complete vindication. “And, besides,” continued the magistrate, “who told you that this immense sum would be found here? Did you know it? Which one of you knew it?” And as nobody still ventured any remark, he added in an even more severe tone, and without seeming to notice Mademoiselle Marguerite’s look of gratitude, “It is by no means a proof of honesty to be so extremely suspicious. Would it not have been easier to suppose that the deceased had placed the money somewhere else, and that it will yet be found?”

The clerk had been even less disturbed than the magistrate. He also was blase, having witnessed too many of those frightful and shameless dramas which are enacted at a dead man’s bedside, to be surprised at anything. If he had deigned to glance at the escritoire, it was only because he was curious to see how small a space would suffice to contain two millions; and then he had begun to calculate how many years he would be obliged to remain a clerk before he could succeed in amassing such a fabulous sum. However, hearing his superior express the intention of continuing the search for the will, and the missing treasure, he abruptly abandoned his calculation, and exclaimed, “Then, I suppose, I can commence my report, monsieur?”

“Yes,” replied the magistrate, “write as follows:” And in a monotonous voice he began to dictate the prescribed formula, an unnecessary proceeding, for the clerk was quite as familiar with it as the magistrate himself:—“On the 16th of October, 186-, at nine o’clock in the morning, in compliance with the request of the servants of the deceased Louis-Henri-Raymond de Durtal, Count de Chalusse, and in the interest of his presumptive heirs, and all others connected with him, and in accordance with the requirements of clauses 819 (Code Napoleon) and 909 (Code of Procedure), we, justice of the peace, accompanied by our clerk, visited the residence of the deceased aforesaid, in the Rue de Courcelles, where, having entered a bedroom opening on to the courtyard, and lighted by two windows looking toward the south, we found the body of the deceased aforesaid, lying on his bed, and covered with a sheet. In this room were——” He paused in his dictation, and addressing the clerk, “Take down the names of all present,” said he. “That will require some little time, and, meanwhile, I will continue my search.”

They had, in fact, only examined the shelf of the escritoire, and the drawers were still to be inspected. In the first which he opened, the magistrate found ample proofs of the accuracy of the information which had been furnished him by Mademoiselle Marguerite. The drawer contained a memorandum which established the fact that the Credit Foncier had lent M. de Chalusse the sum of eight hundred and fifty thousand francs, which had been remitted to him on the Saturday preceding his death. Beside this document lay a second memorandum, signed by a stockbroker named Pell, setting forth that the latter had sold for the count securities of various descriptions to the amount of fourteen hundred and twenty-three thousand francs, which sum had been paid to the count on the preceding Tuesday, partly in bank-notes and partly in gold. It was thus evident that M. de Chalusse had received a grand total of two million two hundred and seventy-three thousand francs within the past six days.

In the drawer which was next opened, the magistrate only found a number of deeds, bonds, leases, and mortgages; but they proved that public rumor, far from exaggerating the figures of the count’s fortune, had diminished it, and this made it difficult to explain why he had contracted a loan. The third and last drawer contained twenty-eight thousand francs, in packages of twenty-franc pieces. Finally, in a small casket, the magistrate found a packet of letters, yellow with age and bound together with a broad piece of blue velvet; as well as three or four withered bouquets, and a woman’s glove, which had been worn by a hand of marvellous smallness. These were evidently the relics of some great passion of many years before; and the magistrate looked at them for a moment with a sigh.

His own interest prevented him from noticing Mademoiselle Marguerite’s agitation. She had almost fainted on perceiving these souvenirs of the count’s past life so suddenly exhumed. However, the examination of the escritoire being over, and the clerk having completed his task of recording the names of all the servants, the magistrate said, in a loud voice, “I shall now proceed to affix the seals; but, before doing so, I shall take a portion of the money found in this desk, and set it apart for the expenses of the household, in accordance with the law. Who will take charge of this money?”

“Oh, not I!” exclaimed Madame Leon.

“I will take charge of it,” said M. Casimir.

“Then here are eight thousand francs, for which you will be held accountable.”

M. Casimir being a prudent man, counted the money himself, and after doing so, “Who will attend to the count’s obsequies?” he inquired.

“You, and without loss of time.”

Proud of his new importance, the valet hastily left the room, his self-complacency increased by the thought that he was to breakfast with M. Isidore Fortunat, and would afterward share a fat commission with Victor Chupin.

However, the magistrate had already resumed his dictation: “And at this moment we have affixed bands of white tape, sealed at either end with red wax, bearing the impress of our seal as justice of the peace, to wit: In the aforesaid chamber of the deceased: First, A band of tape, covering the keyhole of the lock of the escritoire, which had been previously opened by a locksmith summoned by us, and closed again by the said locksmith——” And so the magistrate and his clerk went from one piece of furniture to another, duly specifying in the report each instance in which the seals were affixed.

From the count’s bedroom they passed into his study, followed by Mademoiselle Marguerite, Madame Leon, and the servants. By noon every article of furniture in which M. de Chalusse would have been likely to deposit his valuables or a will, had been searched, and nothing, absolutely nothing, had been found. The magistrate had pursued his investigation with the feverish energy which the most self-possessed of men are apt to display under such circumstances, especially when influenced by the conviction that the object they are seeking is somewhere within their reach, perhaps under their very hand. Indeed, he was persuaded—he was sure—he would, in fact, have sworn that the Count de Chalusse had taken all the precautions natural in childless men, who have no near relatives to inherit their fortune, or who have placed their interest and affections beyond their family circle. And when he was obliged to abandon his search, his gesture indicated anger rather than discouragement; for apparent evidence had not shaken his conviction in the least. So he stood motionless, with his eyes riveted on his ring, as if waiting some miraculous inspiration from it. “For the count’s only fault, I am sure, was in being too cautious,” he muttered. “This is frequently the case, and it would be quite in keeping with the character of this man, judging from what I know of him.”

Madame Leon lifted her hands to heaven. “Ah, yes! such was, indeed, his nature,” she remarked, approvingly. “Never, no never, have I seen such a suspicious and distrustful person as he was. Not in reference to money—no, indeed—for he left that lying about everywhere; but about his papers. He locked them up with the greatest care, as if he feared that some terrible secret might evaporate from them. It was a mania with him. If he had a letter to write, he barricaded his door, as if he were about to commit some horrible crime. More than once have I seen him——” The words died away on her lips, and she remained motionless and abashed, like a person who has just escaped some great peril. One word more, and involuntarily, without even knowing it, she would have confessed her besetting sin, which was listening at, and peering through, the keyholes of the doors that were closed against her. Still, she deluded herself with the belief that this slight indiscretion of her overready tongue had escaped the magistrate’s notice.

He certainly did not seem to be conscious of it, for he was giving his attention entirely to Mademoiselle Marguerite, who seemed to have regained the cold reserve and melancholy resignation habitual to her. “You see, mademoiselle,” he remarked, “that I have done all that is in my power to do. We must now leave the search to chance, and to the person who takes the inventory. Who knows what surprise may be in store for us in this immense house, of which we have only explored three rooms?”

She shook her head gently and replied: “I can never be sufficiently grateful for your kindness, monsieur, and for the great service you rendered me in crushing that infamous accusation. As regards the rest, I have never expected anything—I do not expect anything now.”

She believed what she said, and her tone of voice proved this so unmistakably that the magistrate was surprised and somewhat disturbed. “Come, come, my young lady,” he said, with almost paternal kindness of manner, “you ought not to despond. Still, you must have certain reasons for speaking as you do; and as I am free for an hour, we are going to have a plain talk, as if we were father and daughter.”

On hearing these words, the clerk rose with a cloud on his jovial face. He impatiently jingled his bunch of keys; for as the seals are successively affixed, each key is confided to the clerk, to remain in his hands until the seals are removed.

“I understand,” said the magistrate. “Your stomach, which is more exacting in its demands than mine, is not satisfied with a cup of chocolate till dinner-time. So, go and get your lunch; on your return, you will find me here. You may now conclude the report, and request these parties to sign it.”

Urged on by hunger, the clerk hastily mumbled over the remainder of the formula, called all the names that he had inserted in the report, and each of the servants advanced in turn, signed his or her name, or made a cross, and then retired. Madame Leon read in the judge’s face that she also was expected to withdraw; and she was reluctantly leaving the room, when Mademoiselle Marguerite detained her to ask: “Are you quite sure that nothing has come for me to-day?”

“Nothing, mademoiselle; I went in person to inquire of the concierge.”

“Did you post my letter last night?”

“Oh! my dear young lady, can you doubt it?”

The young girl stifled a sigh, and then, with a gesture of dismissal, she remarked, “M. de Fondege must be sent for.”

“The General?”

“Yes.”

“I will send for him at once,” replied the housekeeper; and thereupon she left the room, closing the door behind her with a vicious slam.