"Will you tell me how it happens that Mlle. Moreau's name and address are written in pencil on the back of this card?"
"What!" exclaimed the commandant, amazed at the question, especially at such a moment. "You wish to know—"
"How it happens that Mlle. Moreau's address is on this card. When I ask a question, I expect to have it answered."
"The devil! My young friend, you are trying to carry things with a high hand, it strikes me."
"You are at perfect liberty to take offence at my manner, if you choose."
"Really, monsieur!" exclaimed the usurer, straightening himself up and twirling his black moustache quite ferociously. Then, with a sudden change of manner, he added: "Oh, nonsense! I have proved my valour beyond all question. An old soldier, with any number of wounds, I can afford to let many things pass; so I will merely say, my dear client, that that young girl's name and address happen to be on the card because I wrote them there so I would not forget them."
"You know Mlle. Mariette, then?"
"I do."
"You are paying court to her, perhaps?"
"Rather."
"With hopes of success?"
"Decidedly."
"Very well, I forbid you ever to set foot in her house again."
"Ah, ha! so I have a rival," the usurer said to himself. "How funny! I understand the girl's refusal now. I must get ahead of my client, though. He is young and unsophisticated,—that means he is jealous. He will be sure to fall into the trap, then I can oust him, for I've set my heart on the girl, and if I can't get her this young fellow sha'n't. I'm resolved upon that!"
After which, he added aloud:
"My dear friend, when I am forbidden to do anything, I consider it my bounden duty to do precisely what I am forbidden to do."
"We will see about that, monsieur."
"Listen, young man. I have fought fifty-seven duels, so I can easily dispense with fighting the fifty-eighth with you. I prefer, consequently, to try to induce you to listen to the voice of reason, if possible. Permit me, therefore, to ask you one question: You have just returned from a journey, I believe?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"You were absent several days, I think. May I ask if you have seen Mariette since your return?"
"No, monsieur, but—"
"Ah, well, my young friend, the same thing has happened to you that has happened to many other lovers. Mariette was not aware that you were the son of a millionaire; I presented myself in your absence, and offered her what has never yet failed to turn the head of a half-starved grisette. Her godmother, who was also dying of hunger, craved the fleshpots of Egypt, naturally,—and, well, 'les absents ont toujours tort,' you know. Ha, ha, you understand!"
"My God!" groaned Louis, his anger giving place to profound despair. "My God! it is true, then."
"If I had known that I was interfering with a prospective client, I would have abstained, I assure you. Now it is too late. Besides, there are as good fish in the sea—You know the proverb. Come, my young friend, don't take it so much to heart. The girl was entirely too young for you. She needs training. You will find plenty of charming women already trained and thoroughly trained. I can particularly recommend a certain Madame——"
"Wretch!" exclaimed Louis, seizing the man of affairs by the collar, "wretch!—"
"Monsieur, you shall answer for this!" exclaimed the commandant, trying to wrench himself from his rival's iron grasp.
Just then the door opened suddenly, and, at the sound of a loud laugh, both men turned simultaneously.
"Saint-Herem!" exclaimed Louis, recognising his old schoolmate.
"You here!" exclaimed Florestan de Saint-Herem, while the usurer, adjusting the collar of his dressing-gown, muttered savagely under his breath:
"What the devil brought Saint-Herem here just at this most inopportune moment, I should like to know!"
CHAPTER IX.
COMMANDANT DE LA MIRAUDIÈRE'S ANTECEDENTS.
M. de Saint-Herem was a handsome man, not over thirty years of age, with a remarkably distinguished manner and bearing. His refined and rather spirituelle face sometimes wore an expression of extreme superciliousness, as when he addressed any remark to Commandant de la Miraudière, for instance; but at the sight of his old schoolmate he seemed to experience the liveliest joy. He even embraced him affectionately, and Louis returned the embrace heartily, spite of the conflicting emotions that agitated him.
But this manifestation of surprise and pleasure over, the chief actors in the scene relapsed into the same mood they had been in when Saint-Herem so unexpectedly burst in upon them, and Louis, pale with anger, continued to cast such wrathful glances at the usurer that M. de Saint-Herem said to that gentleman, with a mocking air:
"You must admit that I arrived very opportunely. But for my timely appearance upon the scene of action, it seems to me my friend Louis would soon have taken all the starch out of you."
"To dare to lay his hand on me, an old soldier!" exclaimed the commandant, advancing a step toward Louis. "This matter shall not be allowed to end here, M. Richard."
"That is for you to say, M. de la Miraudière."
"M. de la Miraudière? Ha, ha, ha!" roared Florestan. "What! my dear Louis, you really take that fellow seriously? You believe in his title, in his cross, in his campaigns, his wounds, his duels, and his high-sounding name?"
"Enough of this jesting," said the pretended commandant, colouring with vexation. "Even friendly raillery has its limits, my dear fellow."
"M. Jerome Porquin," began Florestan, then, turning to Louis, he added, pointing to the usurer, "his real name is Porquin, and a very appropriate name it is, it seems to me."
Then once more addressing the pretended commandant, Florestan added, in a tone that admitted of no reply:
"This is the second time I have been obliged to forbid your calling me your dear friend, M. Porquin. It is different with me, I have bought and paid for the right to call you my dear, my enormously, entirely too dear M. Porquin, for you have swindled me most outrageously—"
"Really, monsieur, I will not allow—"
"What is that? Since when has M. Porquin become so terribly sensitive?" cried Saint-Herem, with an affectation of intense astonishment. "What has happened? Oh, yes, I understand. It is your presence, my friend Louis, that makes this much too dear M. Porquin squirm so when I expose his falsehoods and his absurd pretensions. To settle this vexed question once for all, I must tell you—and let us see if he will have the effrontery to contradict me—who M. le Commandant de la Miraudière really is. He has never served his country except in the sutler's department. He went to Madrid in that capacity during the late war, and as he proved to be too great an expense to the government, he was asked to take himself off. He did so, and transformed himself into what he calls a man of affairs, or, in other words, into a usurer, and an intermediary in all sorts of shady transactions. The decoration he wears is that of the Golden Spur, a papal order, which one holy man procured from another holy man as a reward for his assistance in a most atrocious swindle. He has never fought a duel in his life, in the first place because he is one of the biggest cowards that ever lived, and in the second place because he bears such a bad reputation that he knows perfectly well that no respectable man would condescend to fight with him, and that if he becomes insolent the only thing to do is to give him a sound thrashing."
"When you want to make use of me you do not treat me in this fashion, monsieur," said the usurer, sullenly.
"When I need you, I pay you, M. Porquin, and as I know all your tricks, my too dear M. Porquin, I feel it my duty to warn my friend, M. Richard, against you. You are doubtless eager to devour him; in fact, it is more than likely that you have already begun to weave your toils around him, but—"
"That is the way some persons reward faithful service!" exclaimed M. Porquin, bitterly. "I reveal a secret of the highest importance to him, and—"
"I understand your motive now," responded Louis Richard, dryly, "so I owe you no gratitude for the service you have rendered me,—that is, if it be a service," he added, sadly.
The usurer had no intention of losing his prey, however, and, deeming it advisable to ignore the insults M. de Saint-Herem had heaped upon him, he said to Saint-Herem, with as much assurance as if that gentleman had not so roughly unmasked him:
"Your friend, M. Richard is at perfect liberty to tell you the conditions of the bargain I just proposed to him, and you can then judge whether my demands are exorbitant or not. As my presence might be a constraint, gentlemen, will you kindly step into the adjoining room? I will await M. Richard's decision here; that is, of course, if he desires to ask your advice on the subject."
"An admirable suggestion, truly, my too dear M. Porquin," responded Florestan, promptly. And, taking Louis by the arm, he led him toward the door, remarking to the usurer, as he did so:
"On my return, I will tell you the object of my visit, or rather, I will tell you now. I must have two hundred louis this evening. Here, examine these securities."
And M. de Saint-Herem, drawing some papers from his pocket, threw them to the usurer, then entered the adjoining room, accompanied by his friend.
The revelation of M. Porquin's real character was another terrible blow to Louis Richard. The knowledge that it was for the sake of such a wretch as this that Mariette had been false to him caused him bitter sorrow, and, unable to restrain his feelings, as soon as he found himself alone with his friend, he seized both Saint-Herem's hands, and, in a voice trembling with emotion, exclaimed:
"Oh, Florestan, how miserable I am!"
"I suspected as much, my dear Louis, for it must be worse than death for a sensible, industrious fellow like you to find yourself in the clutches of a scoundrel like Porquin. What is the trouble? Your habits have always been so frugal, how did you manage to get into debt? Tell me about it. What seems an enormous sum to you may be but a trifle to me. I just told that rascal in there that he was to let me have two hundred louis this evening, and I am sure he will. You shall share them with me, or you can have the whole amount if you want it. Two hundred louis will certainly pay all the debts any notary's clerk can have contracted. I do not say this to humiliate you, far from it. If you need more, we will try to get it elsewhere, but for God's sake don't apply to Porquin. If you do you are lost. I know the scoundrel so well."
Saint-Herem's generous offer gave Louis such heart-felt pleasure that he almost forgot his sorrows for the moment.
"My dear, kind friend, if you knew how much this proof of your friendship consoles me," he exclaimed.
"So much the better. You accept my offer, then."
"No."
"What?"
"I do not need your kind services. This usurer, whom I had never heard of before, sent for me yesterday to offer to loan me, each year, more money than I have spent in my whole life."
"What! He makes you such an offer as that, this usurer who never loans so much as a sou without the very best security. Men of his stamp set a very small valuation on honesty, industry, and integrity, and I know that these are your sole patrimony, my dear Louis."
"You are mistaken, Florestan. My father is worth over two millions."
"Your father!" exclaimed Saint-Herem, in profound astonishment. "Your father?"
"Yes. In some mysterious way this usurer has managed to discover a secret, of which even I had not the slightest suspicion, I assure you, so he sent for me—"
"To offer you his services, of course. He and others of his ilk are always on the lookout for hidden fortunes, and when they find them they offer to the prospective heirs such advances as will enable them to squander their wealth before they inherit it. So you are rich, my dear Louis! You need not feel any doubts on the subject. If Porquin has made you such an offer, he knows it for a certainty."
"Yes, I think so, too," said Louis, almost sadly.
"Why do you speak so mournfully, Louis? One would suppose that you had just made some terrible discovery. What is the matter with you? What is the meaning of those tears I saw in your eyes a little while ago? And of that exclamation, 'I am very miserable!' You miserable, and why?"
"Do not ridicule me, my friend. The truth is, I love, and I have been deceived."
"You have a rival, then, I suppose."
"Yes, and, to crown my misfortunes, this rival—"
"Go on."
"Is this rascally usurer."
"Porquin, that old scoundrel! The girl prefers him to you? Impossible! But what leads you to suppose—"
"Several suspicious circumstances; besides, he says so."
"Fine authority that! He lies, I am certain of it."
"But, Florestan, he is rich, and the girl I loved, or rather whom I still love in spite of myself, is terribly poor."
"The devil!"
"Besides, she has an invalid connection to take care of. This scoundrel's offers must have dazzled the poor child, or want may have induced her to listen to the voice of the tempter, as so many others do. What does the discovery of this wealth profit me now? I care nothing for it if I cannot share it with Mariette."
"Listen, Louis, I know you, and I feel confident that you must have placed your affections wisely."
"Yes; and for more than a year Mariette has given every proof of her faithful attachment to me, but yesterday, without the slightest warning, came a letter breaking our engagement."
"A good girl who has loved a man as poor as you were faithfully for a year would not have been so quickly won over by the promises of an old villain like Porquin. He lied to you; I haven't a doubt of it."
Then calling out at the top of his voice, to the great surprise of Louis, he exclaimed:
"Commandant de la Miraudière, come here a minute!"
"What are you going to do, Florestan?" asked Louis, as the usurer appeared in the doorway.
"Keep still and let me manage this affair," replied his friend. Then, turning to the usurer, he continued:
"M. de la Miraudière, I feel sure that you must be labouring under a misapprehension in relation to a very nice young girl who—according to your account—has fallen a victim to your charms. Will you do me the favour to tell me the truth so I may know what action to take in the matter?"
Concluding that it would be politic to sacrifice a caprice that he had little chance of gratifying to the advantage of having Louis Richard for a client, Porquin replied:
"I must confess that I deeply deplore a stupid jest that seems to have annoyed M. Richard so much."
"I told you so," remarked Florestan, turning to his friend. "And now M. le commandant must do me the favour to explain how the idea of this stupid jest, or rather what I should call an atrocious calumny, happened to occur to him."
"The explanation is very simple, monsieur. I saw Mlle. Mariette several times in the establishment where she is employed. Her beauty struck me. I asked for her address, secured it, and, finding her godmother at home when I called, I proposed to her that—"
"Enough, monsieur, enough!" cried Louis, indignantly.
"Permit me to add, however, that the aforesaid godmother declined my offer, and that the young lady, herself, chancing to come about that time, coolly ordered me out of the house. I am making a frank confession, you see, M. de Saint-Herem. I do it, I admit, in the hope that it will gain me M. Richard's confidence, and that he will decide to accept my services. As for you, M. de Saint-Herem," continued the usurer, in his most ingratiating manner, "I have examined the securities you submitted to me, and I will bring you the money you want this evening. And, by the way, when you hear the offer I have made to M. Richard, I feel confident that you will consider my terms very reasonable."
"I do not want your money, monsieur," said Louis, "and I consider it an insult for you to think me capable of trading upon my father's death, as it were—"
"But, my dear client, permit me to say—"
"Come, Florestan, let us go," Louis said to his friend, without paying the slightest attention to the usurer's protest.
"You see, my too dear M. Porquin," said Saint-Herem, as he turned to depart, "you see there are still a few honest men and women left in the world. It is useless to hope that this discovery will serve either as an example or a lesson for you, however. You are too set in your ways ever to reform; but it is some comfort to know of your double defeat."
"Ah, my dear Florestan," remarked Louis, as they left the house, "thanks to you, I am much less miserable. The fact that Mariette treated this villain with the scorn he deserved is some comfort, even though she has decided to break her engagement with me."
"Did she tell you so?"
"No, she wrote me to that effect, or rather she got some other person to do it for her."
"What, she got some other person to write such a thing as that for her!"
"You will sneer, perhaps, but the poor girl I love can neither read nor write."
"How fortunate you are! You will at least escape such epistles as I have been receiving from a pretty little perfumer I took away from a rich but miserly old banker. I have been amusing myself by showing her a little of the world,—it is so pleasant to see people happy,—but I have not been able to improve her grammar, and such spelling! It is of the antediluvian type. Mother Eve must have written in much the same fashion. But if your Mariette can neither read nor write, how do you know but her secretary may have distorted the facts?"
"With what object?"
"I don't know, I am sure. But why don't you have an explanation with her? You will know exactly how you stand, then."
"But she implored me, both for the sake of her peace of mind and her future, to make no attempt to see her again."
"On the contrary, see her again, and at once, for the sake of her future, now you are a prospective millionaire."
"You are right, Florestan, I will see her, and at once; and if this cruel mystery can be satisfactorily explained, if I find her as loving and devoted as in the past, I shall be the happiest man in the world. Poor child, her life up to this time has been one of toil and privation. She shall know rest and comfort now, for I cannot doubt that my father will consent. My God!"
"What is the matter?"
"All this has made me entirely forget something that will surprise you very much. My father insists that I shall marry your cousin."
"What cousin?"
"Mlle. Ramon. A short time ago I went to Dreux; in fact, I have just returned from there. I had not the slightest suspicion of my father's plans, when I first saw the young lady, but, even if I had not been in love with Mariette, your uncle's daughter impressed me so unfavourably that nothing in the world—"
"So my uncle is not ruined, as he pretended he was several years ago," said Florestan, interrupting his friend. "No, evidently not, for if your father wishes you to marry my cousin, it is because he thinks such an alliance would be to your advantage. Doubtless my uncle's pretended failure was only a subterfuge."
"My father resorted to the same expedient, I think, though he has always given me to understand that extreme poverty was the cause of the parsimonious manner in which we lived."
"Ah, Uncle Ramon, I knew that you were sulky, ill-tempered, and detestable generally, but I did not believe you capable of such cleverness of conception. From this day on I shall admire and revere you. I am not your heir, it is true, but it is always delightful to know that one has a millionaire uncle. It is such a comforting thought in one's financial difficulties; one can indulge in all sorts of delightful hypotheses, in which apoplexy and even cholera present themselves to the mind in the guise of guardian angels."
"Without going quite as far as that, and without wishing for any one's death," said Louis, smiling, "I must admit that I would much rather see your uncle's fortune pass into your hands than into those of his odious daughter. You would at least enjoy the possession of it, and, with all that wealth, I feel sure that you would—"
"Contract debts without number," Saint-Herem interrupted, majestically.
"What, Florestan, with a fortune like that—"
"I should contract debts without number, I tell you. Yes, of course I should."
"What, with a fortune of two or three million francs?"
"With ten, even twenty millions, I should still contract debts. My theory is that of the government,—the larger a country's debt, the better that country's credit is. But I will expound my financial theories some other time. Don't lose a moment now in hastening to Mariette, and be sure and tell me what success you meet with. Here it is nearly noon, and I promised the little perfumer—who amuses me immensely—that she should try a new saddle-horse to-day, the handsomest hack in Paris,—it cost me a nice price, by the way,—and she wrote me this morning to remind me that I had promised to take her to the Bois. So hasten to your Mariette. I feel confident that your love affair will end happily after all. But write to me, or else come and see me as soon as possible, for I shall be so anxious to hear the result of your interview."
"You shall hear from me, my dear Florestan, whatever happens."
"Farewell then, my dear Louis, it is agreed that I shall see or hear from you before to-morrow."
As he spoke, M. de Saint-Herem stepped into the handsomely appointed brougham which was waiting for him at the usurer's door, and Louis Richard wended his way on foot to Mariette's home.
CHAPTER X.
THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED.
When Louis Richard entered the room occupied by Mariette and her godmother, he paused a moment on the threshold, overwhelmed with grief and despair at the affecting scene that presented itself to his gaze.
Mariette was lying to all appearance lifeless on a mattress on the floor. Her features, which were overspread with a death-like pallor, contracted convulsively from time to time. Her eyes were closed, and there were still traces of tears on her marble cheeks, while in one of the clenched hands crossed upon her breast was the envelope containing the fragments of the letter she had received from Louis.
Madame Lacombe's usually grim and sardonic face showed that she was a prey to the most poignant grief and distress. Kneeling beside the mattress on which her goddaughter was lying, she was supporting Mariette's head upon her mutilated arm, and holding a glass of water to the girl's inanimate lips with the other.
Hearing a sound, Madame Lacombe turned hastily, and her features resumed their usually hard and irascible expression, as she saw Louis standing motionless in the doorway.
"What do you want?" she demanded, brusquely. "Why do you come in without knocking? I don't know you. Who are you?"
"My God! in what a terrible condition I find her!" exclaimed Louis.
And without paying any attention to Madame Lacombe's question, he sprang forward, and, throwing himself on his knees beside the pallet, exclaimed, imploringly:
"What is the matter, Mariette? Answer me, I beseech you."
Madame Lacombe, who had been as much surprised as annoyed at the young man's intrusion, now scrutinised his features closely, and, after a moment's reflection, said, sullenly:
"You are Louis Richard, I suppose?"
"Yes, madame, but in Heaven's name what has happened to Mariette?"
"You have killed her, that is all!"
"I? Great God! But, madame, something must be done. Let me run for a doctor. Her hands are like ice. Mariette, Mariette! Oh, my God! my God! she does not hear me."
"She has been in this state ever since last night, and it was your letter that caused it."
"My letter! What letter?"
"Oh, you intend to deny it now, I suppose. You needn't, for last night the poor child couldn't bear it any longer, and told me all."
"Great Heavens! What did she tell you?"
"That you never wanted to lay eyes on her again, and that you had deserted her for another. That is always the way with you men!"
"On the contrary, I wrote to Mariette that—"
"You lie!" exclaimed the old woman, more and more incensed. "She told me what was in the letter. She has it here in her hand. I haven't been able to get it away from her. Hadn't she enough to bear without your treating her in this way? Get out of this house, you scoundrel! Mariette was a fool, and so was I, to refuse the offer made us, and I told her so at the time. 'See how we shall be rewarded for our honesty,' I said to her. And my words have come true. She is dying, and I shall be turned out into the street, for we are behind in our rent, and the little furniture we have will be taken from us. Fortunately, I have a quarter of a bushel of charcoal left," she added, with a grim smile, "and charcoal is the friend and deliverer of the poor."
"This is horrible!" cried Louis, unable to restrain his tears; "but I swear to you that we are all the victims of a most deplorable mistake. Mariette, Mariette, arouse yourself! It is I—I, Louis!"
"You are determined to kill her, I see!" exclaimed Madame Lacombe, making a desperate effort to push the young man away. "If she recovers consciousness, the sight of you will finish her!"
"Thank God!" exclaimed Louis, resisting Madame Lacombe's efforts, and again bending over Mariette; "she is moving a little. See! her hands are relaxing; her eyelids are quivering. Mariette, darling, can't you hear me? It is Louis who speaks to you."
The girl was, in fact, gradually recovering consciousness, and her tear-stained eyes, after having slowly opened and wandered aimlessly around for a moment, fixed themselves upon Louis. Soon, an expression of joyful surprise irradiated her features, and she murmured, faintly:
"Louis, is it really you? Ah, I never expected—"
Then, the sad reality gradually forcing itself upon her mind, she averted her face, and, letting her head again fall upon Madame Lacombe's bosom, she said, with a deep sigh:
"Ah, godmother, it is for the last time! All is over between us!"
"Didn't I tell you how it would be?" exclaimed Madame Lacombe. "Go, I tell you, go! Oh, the misery of being so weak and infirm that one cannot turn a scoundrel out of one's house!"
"Mariette," cried Louis, imploringly, "Mariette, in pity, listen to me. I do not come to bid you farewell; on the contrary, I come to tell you that I love you better than ever!"
"Good God!" exclaimed the young girl, starting up as if she had received an electric shock; "what does he say?"
"I say that we are both the victims of a terrible mistake, Mariette. I have never for one moment ceased to love you, no, never! and all the time I have been away I have had but one thought and desire,—to see you again and make all the necessary arrangements for our speedy marriage, as I told you in my letter."
"Your letter!" exclaimed Mariette, in heart-broken tones, "he has forgotten. Here, Louis, here is your letter."
And, as she spoke, she handed the young man the crumpled, tear-blurred fragments of the letter.
"He will deny his own writing, see if he don't," muttered Madame Lacombe, as Louis hastily put the torn pieces together. "And you will be fool enough to believe him."
"This is what I wrote, Mariette," said Louis, after he had put the letter together:
"'My Dearest Mariette:—I shall be with you again the day after you receive this letter. The short absence, from which I have suffered so much, has convinced me that it is impossible for me to live separated from you. Thank God! the day of our union is near at hand. To-morrow will be the sixth of May, and as soon as I return I shall tell my father of our intentions, and I do not doubt his consent.
"'Farewell, then, until day after to-morrow, my beloved Mariette. I love you madly, or rather wisely, for what greater wisdom could a man show than in having sought and found happiness in a love like yours.
"'Yours devotedly, Louis.
"'I write only these few lines because I shall reach Paris almost as soon as my letter, and because it is always painful to me to think that another must read what I write to you. But for that, how many things I would say to you.
Yours for ever.
"'L.'"
Mariette had listened to the letter with such profound astonishment that she had been unable to utter a word.
"That, Mariette, is what I wrote," remarked Louis. "What was there in my letter to make you so wretched?"
"Is that really what was in the letter, M. Louis?" asked Madame Lacombe.
"See for yourself, madame," said Louis, handing her the scraps of paper.
"Do you suppose I know how to read?" was the surly response. "How was it that the letter was read so differently to Mariette, then?"
"Who read my letter to you, Mariette?" asked Louis.
"A scrivener."
"A scrivener!" repeated Louis, assailed by a sudden suspicion. "Explain, Mariette, I beg of you."
"The explanation is very simple, M. Louis. I asked a scrivener on the Charnier des Innocents to write a letter to you. He wrote it, and just as he was about to put your address on it he overturned his inkstand on the letter, and was obliged to write it all over again. On my return home, I found your letter waiting for me; but having no one to read it to me in Augustine's absence, I went back to the scrivener, a very kind and respectable old man, and asked him to read what you had written to me. He read it, or at least pretended to read it, for, according to him, you said that we must never meet again, that your future and that of your father demanded it, and for that reason you entreated me—"
But the poor girl's emotion overcame her, and she burst into tears.
Louis understood now that chance had led Mariette to his father for assistance, that the pretended accident had been merely a stratagem that enabled the scrivener to write a second letter of an entirely different import from the first, and to address it, not to Dreux, but to Paris, so Louis would find it on his arrival in that city. He understood, too, his father's object in thus deceiving Mariette in regard to the real contents of the second letter, when she again applied to him. The discovery of this breach of confidence on the part of his father—the reason of which was only too apparent—overwhelmed Louis with sorrow and shame. He dared not confess to his sweetheart the relation that existed between him and the scrivener, but, wishing to give the two women some plausible explanation of the deception that had been practised upon them, he said:
"In spite of this scrivener's apparent kindness of heart, he must have taken a malicious pleasure in playing a joke upon you, my poor Mariette, for he read you the exact opposite of what I had written."
"How shameful!" cried the girl. "How could he have had the heart to deceive me so? He had such a benevolent air, and spoke so feelingly of the sympathy he always felt for those unfortunate persons who, like myself, could neither read nor write."
"But you can see for yourself that he did deceive you shamefully? Still, what does it matter, now?" added Louis, anxious to put an end to such a painful topic. "We understand each other's feelings now, Mariette, and—"
"One moment," interposed Madame Lacombe; "you may feel satisfied and reassured, Mariette, but I do not."
"What do you mean, godmother?"
"I mean that I strongly disapprove of this marriage."
"But listen, madame," pleaded Louis.
"As you are the son of a public scrivener, you haven't a sou to your name. Mariette hasn't, either, and two people in such circumstances as that have no right to marry. My goddaughter has me to take care of. She would be sure, too, to have a lot of children, and a nice fix we should all be in!"
"But, godmother—"
"Don't talk to me. I know what you intend to do. The first thing you'll try for is to get rid of the old woman. There won't be bread enough for us all, and I shall be turned out into the street to be arrested as a public vagabond. I shall be sent to the workhouse, so you won't be troubled with me any more. Oh, yes, I understand your scheme."
"Oh, godmother, how can you imagine such a thing as that?"
"Dismiss all such fears from your mind, I beg of you, madame," Louis made haste to say, "This very day I made a most unexpected discovery. My father, for reasons which I must respect, has concealed from me the fact that we are rich, very rich."
Mariette manifested much more astonishment than delight on hearing this startling announcement, but turning to Madame Lacombe after a moment, she said:
"You see you need be troubled by no more of these terrible misgivings in regard to my future, godmother."
"Ha, ha!" laughed Madame Lacombe, sardonically; "so she really believes it—"
"But, godmother—"
"Nonsense, child, can't you see that he has invented this story so I will consent to your marriage?"
"But I swear, madame—"
"I tell you it is all a lie," exclaimed Madame Lacombe; "for if you were as rich as you say, you wouldn't want Mariette any longer. Would the son of a rich man be fool enough to marry a poor working girl who can neither read nor write?"
Though she did not exactly share her godmother's doubts, Mariette gazed at Louis a little sadly and uneasily, as she thought of the great change in his fortunes.
The young man must have understood the meaning of the look, for he said:
"You are very much mistaken, Madame Lacombe; the son of a rich man keeps the promise he made as a poor man when the happiness of his life depends upon that promise."
"Bah! that is all talk!" interrupted the invalid, in surly tones; "but rich or poor, you won't get Mariette without I am sure of a living. I don't ask much,—six hundred francs a year will do,—but the money must be deposited in the hands of a reliable notary before the marriage contract is signed."
"Oh, godmother, have you no more confidence in Louis than that?"
"A nice fix you'll find yourself in if you place confidence in any man," exclaimed the poor creature. "Oh, I know all about it. Before marriage they'll promise anything you ask; afterward, they'll take the old woman by the arm, and drag her off to the poorhouse without saying so much as by your leave. I'm not afraid that Mariette would turn me into the street. I've been a sad burden to her, and she has had quite enough of me, I know, but she is a kind-hearted little thing; besides, she's afraid of me; but once married, she will side with her husband, and out I shall have to go. No, there sha'n't be any marriage unless I'm sure of six hundred francs a year."
While Madame Lacombe was indulging in these recriminations, Mariette and Louis exchanged sadly significant glances.
"You hear her, Louis," the girl seemed to say. "Was I not right when I told you that she had been hopelessly embittered by her many misfortunes?"
"Poor Mariette," the young man seemed to say in reply, "how much you must have suffered! And how hard it is to see such tender and saint-like devotion as yours rewarded in such a way!"
"Madame," replied Louis, when the sick woman had ended her tirade, "you may rest assured that you shall be well provided for. Mariette and I will never forget that you took her in when she had no other home, and whether you prefer to live with us, or to live alone, you shall be made comfortable for life."
"Oh, thank you, Louis, thank you for sharing my feeling for my poor godmother, my second mother," exclaimed Mariette, gratefully.
And the girl bent over Madame Lacombe to embrace her, but the invalid, pushing her away, said, angrily:
"Can't you see that he is only amusing himself at our expense? Marry you? Pension me for life? Was such a thing ever heard of? He wants to get around me, that is all, and if he is rich, as he says he is, he will only fool you, and some fine day you'll hear of his marriage with another girl, so I forbid him ever to set foot in this house again."
"But you will at least allow me to present myself here in company with my father to make a formal request for Mariette's hand in marriage?"
"Oh, yes, when you come for that purpose it will be when two Sundays come together," answered the old woman, sneeringly.
"It will be to-morrow, Madame Lacombe."
Then, turning to the young girl, he added:
"Farewell, Mariette. I shall come to-morrow, accompanied by my father."
On hastening to his father's office a few moments afterward, Louis found it closed, and ascertained upon inquiry that M. Richard had not been there at all that day. Amazed at this strange change in the old man's regular habits, Louis hastened to the lodgings they shared in the Rue de Grenelle.
CHAPTER XI.
HIDDEN TREASURE.
As Louis was passing the porter's lodge, that functionary remarked to him:
"Your father went out a couple of hours ago, M. Louis. He left this note for you, which I was to take to the office where you are employed, if you did not return before two o'clock in the afternoon."
The young man took the note. It read as follows:
"My Dear Son:—I am in receipt of a few lines from my friend, Ramon, who apprises me of his intention of leaving Dreux in company with his daughter almost simultaneously with his letter. He will, consequently, reach Paris to-day. As he has never been on a railway in his life, and is anxious to try that mode of travel, he will stop at Versailles, and he wishes us to meet him there. We can visit the palace, and afterward come on to Paris together by one of the late trains.
"I am to meet Ramon at the Hôtel du Reservoir. If we should leave there to visit the palace before you arrive, you can easily find us. It is understood that this meeting with Mlle. Ramon is not to compromise you in the least. I merely desire that you should take advantage of this opportunity to see the injustice of your prejudice against that young lady. Besides, whatever your plans may be, you must realise that it would be very discourteous to Ramon, one of my most particular friends, to fail to keep the appointment he has made with us. So come, my dear Louis, if only for appearance's sake.
"From your father who loves you, and who has but one desire in the world,—your happiness.
"A. Richard."
But Louis, in spite of the deference he usually showed to his father's wishes, did not go to Versailles, feeling the utter uselessness of another meeting with Mlle. Ramon, as he was now even more than ever determined to marry Mariette.
The discovery of his father's wealth made no change in the industrious habits of Louis, who hastened to the office to perform his usual duties, and apologise for his absence during the morning. A desire to atone for that, as well as the preparation of several important documents, kept him at the office much later than usual. As he was preparing to leave, one of his fellow clerks rushed in excitedly, exclaiming:
"Ah, my friend, such a terrible calamity has occurred!"
"What has happened?"
"There has been a frightful accident on the Versailles railroad."
"Good God!" exclaimed Louis, turning pale.
"The Paris train was derailed, several cars were telescoped, they took fire, nearly all the passengers were either crushed or burned to death, and—"
Louis could wait to hear no more. Forgetting his hat entirely, he rushed out of the office, and, running to a neighbouring cab-stand, he sprang into one of the vehicles, saying to the coachman:
"Twenty francs pourboire if you take me to the Versailles railway station at the top of your speed,—and from there, but I don't know yet,—only start, in Heaven's name start at once!"
"On the right or left bank of the river, monsieur?" asked the coachman, gathering up the lines.
"What?"
"There are two roads, monsieur, one on the right, the other on the left bank of the river."
"I want to go to the road where that terrible accident just occurred."
"This is the first I have heard of it, monsieur."
Louis drove back to the office to inquire of the fellow clerk who had brought the news, but, finding no one there, he ran out and was about to enter the cab again when the driver said:
"I have just learned that the accident was on the left line, monsieur."
Louis accordingly ordered him to drive to that station. Here the sad news was confirmed. He also learned at what point on the line the accident had occurred. The main road and then a cross road enabled him to reach Bas Mendon about nightfall, and, guided by the blaze of the burning cars, he soon found the scene of the catastrophe.
The press of the time gave such graphic accounts of this frightful calamity that is not necessary to enter into further particulars; we will merely say that all night Louis searched in vain for his father among the charred, disfigured, and terribly mutilated bodies. About four o'clock in the morning the young man, overcome with grief and fatigue, returned to Paris, with a faint hope that his father might have been one of the few who had escaped injury, and that he might have returned home during the night.
The carriage had scarcely reached the house before Louis sprang out and ran to the porter's lodge.
"Has my father returned?" he exclaimed.
"No, M. Louis."
"Ah! there can be no further doubt, then," murmured Louis. "Dead! dead!"
His knees gave way under him, and he was obliged to sit down. After resting a few moments in the room of the porter, who offered him the usual condolences, Louis went slowly up to his room.
On seeing the bare, poorly furnished room so long shared with a father who had loved him so devotedly, and who had just met with such a frightful death, Louis's grief became uncontrollable, and he threw himself down on the bed, and, burying his face in his hands, wept long and bitterly.
About half an hour afterward he heard some one knock at the door, and the porter entered.
"What do you want?" asked Louis.
"I am sorry to disturb you at such a time, monsieur, but the coachman—"
"What coachman?" asked Louis, who in his grief had forgotten all about the carriage.
"Why, the coachman you kept all night. He says you promised him twenty francs drink money, which, with his charge for yesterday afternoon and last night, makes forty-nine francs in all that you owe him, and he wants his money."
"Pay him and let him go!" responded the young man, with sorrowful impatience.
"But forty-nine francs is a large sum of money, and I haven't that much, M. Louis."
"Good Heavens! what is to be done?" exclaimed Louis, suddenly aroused by this demand of the material interests of life. "I have no money, either."
And he spoke the truth, for he had never had at his disposal one-fourth of the amount that he owed the coachman.
"Then why did you keep the carriage so long, and above all, why did you promise the driver such a large pourboire? You must be mad! What are you going to do? Hadn't you better see if there is any money in your father's desk?"
These last words reminded Louis of a fact which, in his grief, he had entirely forgotten. His father was rich, and thinking that there might be some money concealed somewhere in the room, but not wishing to institute a search for it in the porter's presence, he said:
"I may need the cab again this morning, so tell the man to wait. If I am not down in half an hour, you can come back again, and I will give you the money."
The porter went out, and the young man, thus left alone, experienced a feeling almost akin to remorse, as he thought of the search he was about to make,—a search which at such a moment seemed almost sacrilege, but necessity left him no choice.
The furniture of the room consisted of a writing-desk, a bureau, and a big chest similar to those seen in the houses of well-to-do peasants, and which was divided into two compartments, one above the other.
Louis examined the desk and bureau, but found no money in either of them. The keys of the chest were in their respective locks. He opened both compartments, but saw only a few articles of clothing. A long drawer separated the two compartments. In this drawer there was nothing except a few unimportant papers; but the idea that there might be some secret compartment occurred to Louis, so he took the drawer out of the chest, and proceeded to examine it. A careful search resulted in the discovery of a small brass knob in the left side of the drawer. He pressed this knob, and immediately saw the board which apparently formed the bottom of the drawer move slowly out, disclosing to view another opening below, about four inches deep, and extending the entire length of the drawer. This space was partitioned off into a number of small compartments, and each of these compartments was filled with piles of gold pieces of different denominations and nationalities. It was evident that each coin must have been carefully polished, for they all sparkled as brilliantly as if they had just come out of the mint.
Louis, in spite of his profound grief, stood a moment as if dazzled at the sight of this treasure, the value of which he knew must be very considerable. On recovering from his surprise a little, he noticed a paper in the first compartment, and, recognising his father's handwriting, he read these words:
"This collection of gold pieces was begun on the 7th of September, 1803. Its market value is 287,634 francs, 10 centimes. See Clause IV. of my will, entrusted to the keeping of Master Marainville, No. 28 Rue St. Anne, with whom is likewise deposited all my title-deeds, mortgages, stocks, and bonds. See also the sealed envelope under the piles of Spanish double pistoles, in fifth compartment."
Louis removed several piles of the large, heavy coins designated, and found an envelope sealed with black.
Upon this envelope was written in bold characters:
"To My Dearly-beloved Son."
Just as Louis picked up the envelope some one knocked at the door, and remembering that he had told the porter to return, he had barely time to take out one of the coins and close the chest before that functionary entered.
The porter examined the coin which the young man handed to him with quite as much surprise as curiosity, exclaiming, with a wondering air:
"What a handsome gold piece! One would suppose it had just been coined. I never saw one like it before."
"Go and pay the cabman with it!"
"But how much is a big gold piece like this worth, monsieur?"
"More than I owe. Go and get it changed, and pay the coachman."
"Did your father leave many of these big gold pieces, M. Richard?" asked the porter, in a mysterious tone. "Who would have supposed that old man—"
"Go!" thundered Louis, exasperated at the heartlessness of the question, "go and pay the coachman, and don't come back."
The porter beat a hasty retreat, and Louis, to guard against further intrusion, locked the door and returned to the chest.
Before opening his father's letter the young man, almost in spite of himself, gazed for a moment at the glittering treasure, but this time, though he reproached himself for the thought at such a moment, he remembered Mariette, and said to himself that one-fourth of the wealth that was lying there before him would assure his wife's comfort and independence for life.
Then he tried to forget the cruel stratagem his father had resorted to, and even comforted himself with the thought that he should have secured the old man's consent to his marriage with Mariette eventually, and that, though he might not have confessed to the wealth he possessed, he would at least have provided comfortably for the young couple.
The discovery of this treasure excited in Louis's breast none of that avaricious or revengeful joy that the heirs of misers often feel when they think of the cruel privations a parent's avarice has imposed upon them.
On the contrary, it was with devout respect that the young man broke the seal of the letter which doubtless contained his aged father's last wishes.
CHAPTER XII.
A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE.
This communication, dated about two months before, read as follows:
"My Beloved Son:—When you read these lines I shall have ceased to live.
"You have always believed me to be poor; on the contrary, I leave you a large fortune accumulated by avarice.
"I have been a miser. I do not deny it. On the contrary, I glory in the fact.
"And these are my reasons:
"Up to the time of your birth,—which deprived me of your mother,—I had, without being extravagant, been indifferent about increasing either my own patrimony or the dowry my wife had brought me; but as soon as I had a son, that desire to make ample provision for him which is the sacred duty of every parent gradually aroused a spirit of economy, then of parsimony, and finally of avarice, in my breast.
"Besides, the privations I imposed upon myself did not affect you in your infancy. Born sturdy and robust, the wholesome simplicity of your bringing up was rather beneficial than otherwise, tending as it did to the development of an excellent constitution.
"When you were old enough to begin your education, I sent you to one of the best schools open to the poor, at first, I must admit, purely from motives of economy, but afterward, because I considered such a training the best preparation for an honest, industrious life. The success of this plan even exceeded my expectations. Reared with the children of the poor, you acquired none of those luxurious, extravagant tastes, and felt none of the bitter envy and jealousy, that so often exert a fatal influence upon a young man's future. You were thus spared much of the chagrin which is no less bitter because the victim of it is a child.
"It is generally supposed that because children of entirely different conditions in life wear the same uniform, eat at the same table, and pursue the same studies, a feeling of equality exists between them.
"This is a great mistake.
"Social inequality is as keenly felt among children as in the social world.
"The son of a wealthy tradesman or a great nobleman generally displays the same pride and arrogance at ten years of age as at twenty-five.
"As for you, reared with children of the people, you heard them all talk of the hard toil of their parents, and the necessity of labour was thus impressed upon your mind almost from infancy.
"Other schoolmates told of the privations and poverty which the members of their households were obliged to endure, and in this way you became accustomed to our poverty.
"At the age of fifteen, I made you compete for a scholarship in the admirable institution in which you completed your studies, and your early education already began to bear excellent fruits, for, though many of your schoolmates were wealthy or of noble lineage, contact with them never impaired your sterling qualities, or made you envious or discontented.
"At the age of seventeen you entered the office of a notary, an intimate friend of mine, who alone knows the secret of my great wealth, and who has charge of my investments. Up to this time, this friend's discretion has equalled his devotion, and, thanks to him, you have acquired a fair knowledge of law, and also of business methods, which will be of immense service to you in the management of the very handsome property I have amassed.
"My conscience does not reproach me in the least, consequently, though sometimes I admit I fear you may address this reproach to my memory:
"'While you were amassing all this wealth, father, how could you bear to see me subjected to such cruel privations?'
"But the recollection of the many times you have remarked to me that, though we were poor, you were perfectly contented, and that you craved wealth only for my sake, always drove this fear from my heart.
"In fact, your invariable good humour, the evenness of your disposition, your natural gaiety, and your devoted affection for me have always convinced me that you were contented with your lot; besides, I shared it. What I earned as a scrivener, together with your earnings, have enabled us to live without touching any of the income from my property, which has consequently been accumulating in prudent hands for the last twenty years, so at this present writing the fortune I leave to you amounts to over two millions and a half.
"I do not know how many more years I have to live, but if I live ten years longer I shall have reached the allotted age of man. You will be thirty-five, and I shall have amassed a fortune of four or five millions, as property doubles itself in ten years.
"So, in all probability, you will have reached middle age when you come into possession of this large property, and the sober, frugal, and laborious habits acquired in infancy will have become second nature with you; so will you not be in the best possible condition to inherit the wealth I have amassed for you, and to use it wisely and well?
"If I had acted differently, what benefit would have accrued to either of us?
"If I had been lavish in my expenditures, I should have reduced you to poverty.
"If I had contented myself with spending my income only, then, instead of devoting ourselves to some useful employment, we should probably have led idle, aimless lives; instead of living frugally, we should have indulged in luxuries and more or less vain display; in short, we should have led such a life as nearly all wealthy people of the middle class lead.
"And what should we have gained by it?
"Should we have been better or more useful citizens? I doubt it, and, at my death, I should have left you a small property, not sufficient for the realisation of any extensive or generous enterprise.
"One word more, my dear child, to answer in advance any reproach that you may in future address to my memory.
"Rest assured if I kept my wealth a secret from you, it was not from any desire to deceive you, nor from any distrust on my part.
"These were my reasons:
"Ignorant of my wealth, you were resigned to poverty; aware of our wealth, you might have accepted the humble existence I imposed upon you without murmuring, but in your secret heart you might have accused me of cruelty and selfishness.
"Nor was this all. Forgive, my son, this foolish fear,—this apprehension so insulting to your affectionate heart,—but during my lifetime I was loath that you should know that you would profit by my death.
"Another, and possibly the most potent reason of all, led me to conceal my wealth from you. I love you so much that it would have been impossible for me to see you subjected to the slightest privation had you known it depended only upon me to give you an easier, broader, and more luxurious life.
"In spite of the apparent contradiction between this feeling and my avaricious conduct toward you, I hope that you will understand me.
"And now that in thought I place myself face to face with death, which may strike me down to-morrow, to-day, this very hour, I solemnly declare that I bless you from the inmost depths of my soul, my beloved son. You have never given me one moment's pain or sorrow, but only joy and happiness.
"God for ever bless you, my good and loving son. If you are as happy as you deserve to be, the dearest wish of my heart will be gratified.
"Your father, A. Richard.
"Paris, February 25, 18—."
Deeply touched by this strange letter, Louis fell into a deep, sad reverie, and the day was nearing a close when the young man heard some one knock at the door of his garret, and the well-known voice of Florestan de Saint-Herem greeted his ears.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE MISER EXTOLLED.
Saint-Herem threw himself in his friend's arms, exclaiming:
"Louis, my poor friend, I know all. The porter just told me of your father's death. What a sudden and cruel blow!"
"Read this, Florestan, and you will understand how bitter my regret must be!" said Louis, brokenly, handing Saint-Herem the dead man's letter.
"Now do you think any one can blame my father for his avarice?" Louis asked, when his friend had finished the letter. "His one thought seems to have been to enrich me, and to prepare me to make a good use of the large property he would bequeath to me. It was for my sake that he hoarded his wealth, and imposed the hardest privations upon himself!"
"No sacrifice is too great for a miser," replied Florestan. "Misers are capable of the grandest and most heroic acts. This may seem a paradox to you, but it is true, nevertheless. The prejudice against misers is unjust in the extreme. Misers! Why, we ought to erect altars to them!" added Saint-Herem, with growing enthusiasm. "Is it not wonderful the ingenuity they display in devising all sorts of ways to save? Is it not marvellous to see them accumulating, by persistent efforts, a fortune from the ends of matches and the collecting of lost pins. And people deny the existence of alchemists, and of discoverers of the philosopher's stone! Why, the miser has found the philosopher's stone, for does he not make gold out of what would be worthless to others?"
"You are right in that respect, Florestan."
"In that respect and all other respects, for, Louis, observe my simile closely. It is wonderfully just and worthy of my best rhetorical efforts. There is a dry and sterile tract of land. Some one digs a well there. What is the result? The smallest springs, the almost imperceptible oozings from the earth, the tiniest threads of water, accumulate drop by drop in this well. Gradually the water deepens, the reservoir becomes full, then comes a beneficent hand that diffuses the contents all around, and flowers and verdure spring up as if by enchantment on this once barren soil. Say, Louis, is not my comparison a just one? Is not the wealth amassed by the miser almost always spent in luxuries of every kind? for, as the proverb says: 'An avaricious father, a spendthrift son.' And let us consider the miser from a religious point of view."
"From a religious point of view?"
"Yes; for it is seen from that standpoint that he is especially worthy of praise."
"That is a very difficult assertion to prove, it seems to me."
"On the contrary, it is extremely easy. Self-abnegation is one of the greatest of virtues, is it not?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Well, my dear Louis, I defy you to mention any monastic order whose members renounce all earthly pleasures as absolutely as the majority of misers do. Capuchins renounce champagne, race-horses, dancing girls, hunting, cards, and the opera. I should think so. Most of them have good reasons for it. But how different with the miser! There, in his coffers, under lock and key, are the means of gratifying every wish and indulging in every luxury and pleasure, and yet he possesses the moral courage and strength of will to resist all these temptations. In his disinterestedness, too, the miser is sublime."
"Disinterestedness, Florestan?"
"Yes, I repeat that his disinterestedness is sublime. He knows perfectly well that he is execrated during life, and that his heirs will dance upon his grave when he is dead. He knows all that, and yet, mention a single case where a miser has tried to take his treasure with him, though it would be an easy matter, as it wouldn't take five minutes to burn two millions in bank-notes. But no, these kind-hearted misers, full of compassion, practise forgiveness of injuries, and leave their vast wealth to their heirs in almost every case."
"But, my friend, it sounds very strangely to hear a person who spends money as lavishly as you do lauding avarice to the skies."
"All the more reason that I should."
"And why?"
"Who can appreciate the excellence of the armourer's work as well as the warrior? The excellence of a horse as well as the rider? the excellence of a musical instrument as well as the person who plays upon it? Pope Paganini has canonised Stradivarius, the maker of those wonderful violins the great artist plays so divinely; and I, who could spend millions so admirably, shall certainly feel like canonising my uncle—that heroic martyr to avarice—if Fate so wills that the means of prodigality which he had been accumulating penny by penny ever falls into my hands."
"My God!"
"What is the matter, Louis?"
"Then you do not know—"
"What?"
"I told you of my poor father's desire for a marriage between me and your cousin."
"Your uncle, ignorant of my refusal, and anxious to hasten this union which he desired as ardently as my father, apparently, left Dreux yesterday, in company with his daughter, and this morning—"
"Both arrived in Paris, I suppose. Why this hesitation, my dear Louis?"
"Your uncle and cousin did not come straight through to Paris. They stopped at Versailles, Florestan, at Versailles, where my poor father went to—"
But Louis could not finish the sentence. His emotion overcame him completely.
"Courage, my friend," said Saint-Herem, deeply affected, "I understand your feelings."
"Florestan," said the young man, drying his tears, after a long silence, "my father went to Versailles to meet your uncle and cousin."
"Well?"
"It was agreed that they were to accompany my father back to Paris. There is little doubt that they did so, and as it is almost certain that they were all in the same railway carriage—"
"They, too! Oh, that would be too horrible!" exclaimed Saint-Herem, covering his face with his hands.
The exclamation of horror and the tone of profound pity in Saint-Herem's voice were so sincere and so spontaneous that Louis was deeply touched by this proof of noble-heartedness on the part of his friend, who had manifested only a feeling of generous commiseration, without one particle of the satisfaction or selfish joy that might have been considered almost excusable under the circumstances.