CHAPTER XXVII.
IN THE RUE DE CHAILLOT.
We will precede, by some hours, M. Badinot, who had gone in haste to the Viscount de Saint Remy. This last mentioned person lived in the Rue de Chaillot, occupying a charming little house in this solitary quarter, very near the Champs Elysees, the most fashionable promenade in Paris. It is useless to enumerate the advantages which M. de Saint Remy derived from a position so wisely chosen. We will only say, a person could enter his house very secretly, through a little garden-door, which opened on a small and very lonesome street.
In fine, by a miraculous chance, one of the finest horticultural establishments in Paris had also, in this out-of-the-way passage, an exit not much used. The mysterious visitors of Saint Remy, in case of a surprise or unlooked-for renconter, were armed with a pretext perfectly plausible and rural for having adventured in the lane. They went (they might say) to choose rare flowers at a celebrated florist's renowned for the beauty of his conservatories. These visitors, besides, would only have told half a falsehood; the viscount, with distinguished taste, had a charming green-house, which extended, in part, along the little street we have spoken of; the little door opened into this delicious winter garden, which reached a boudoir situated on the ground-floor of the house.
Madame de Lucenay had demanded a key of this little door. The interior of the mansion of Saint Remy presented a singular appearance; it was divided into two establishments—the ground-floor, where he received ladies; the first story, where he received gentlemen to dinner and play: in fine, those he called his friends.
Thus, on the ground-floor was a room which shone with gold, mirrors, flowers, silks, and lace; a small music-room, where were a harp and pianos (Saint Remy was an excellent musician), a cabinet of pictures and curiosities the boudoir communicating with the green-house, a dining-room, a bathing-room, and a small library. It is useless to say that all these rooms, furnished with exquisite taste, had for ornaments some Watteaus but little known, some Bouchers unheard of, groups of statuary in biscuit; and on their stands of jasper, a few valuable copies, in white marble, of some of the finest groups of the "Musee." Joined to this, in summer, for perspective, the deep shade of a verdant green; quiet, loaded with flowers, peopled with birds, watered by a little brook of living water, which, before it spreads itself over the short grass, falls from a black and rustic rock, shining like a ribbon of silver gauze, and is lost in a pearly wave, in a limpid basin, where two fine swans show their graceful forms.
And when night came, calm and serene, how much shade, how much perfume, what silence in sweet-scented groves, whose thick foliage served as a canopy to the rustic sofas made of reeds and Indian mats.
In the winter, on the contrary, except the glass which opened into the conservatory, all was closed; the transparent silk of the blinds, the heavy mass of lace and muslin curtains, rendered the light still more mysterious; on every disposable place large masses of exotics seemed to spring out of vases glittering with gold and enamel.
Such was the viscount. At Athens he would have been, doubtless, admired, exalted, deified, as the equal of Aleibiades; at the time of which we speak, the viscount was nothing more than an unworthy forger, a miserable cheat.
The first story had an entirely different appearance, altogether masculine. There was nothing coquettish, nothing feminine; the furniture was of a style simple and serene; for ornaments, fire-arms, pictures of race-horses, which had earned for the viscount a good number of gold and silver vases, placed on the tables; the tabogie (smoking-room) and the saloon for play joined a lively-looking dining-room, where eight persons (the number always strictly limited when it was a question of a choice meal) had often appreciated the excellence of the cook, and the not less excellent merit of the cellar, before commencing with him some games of whist for five or six hundred louis, or to rattle the noisy dice box.
The apartments being thus thrown open to the reader, he will now please to follow us to more familiar regions, to enter the carriage court, and mount the little staircase which leads to the very comfortable room of Edward Patterson, chief of the stables.
This illustrious coachman had invited to breakfast M. Boyer, confidential valet de chambre of the viscount. A very pretty English servant-girl having retired, after having brought in a silver teapot, our two gentlemen were left alone.
Edward was about forty years of age; never did a more skillful or fatter coachman cause his seat to groan under a rotundity more imposing, nor to ornament with a powdered wig a face more rubicund, nor to collect more elegantly, in his left hand, the quadruple ribbons of a four-in-hand; as good a judge of horses as Tattersall of London, having been, in his youth, as good a trainer as the celebrated elder Chifney, the viscount had found in Edward a rare thing, an excellent coachman and a man very capable of directing the training of some race-horses which he had had for wagers. Edward, when he did not display his sumptuous brown and silver livery on the emblazoned hammer-cloth of his seat, looked very much like an honest English farmer; it is under this guise we now shall present him to our readers, adding, that in his broad and red face one could easily perceive the diabolical and unmerciful cunning of a horse-jockey.
M. Boyer, his guest, the confidential valet, was a tall, slender man, with gray hair, rather bald, and with a sly, cool, discreet, and reserved expression; he used very choice language, had polite, easy manners, rather literary, political opinions of the Conservative stamp, and could creditably play his part of first violin in a quartet of amateurs; at short intervals he took, with the best grace in the world, a pinch of snuff from a golden box mounted with fine pearls, after which he brushed negligently, with the back of his hand, the folds of his fine linen shirt, quite as fine as that of his master.
"Do you know, my dear Edward," said Boyer, "that your servant, Betty, makes quite a supportable plain cook?"
"She is a good girl," said Edward, who spoke French perfectly, "and I shall take her with me if I should decide on housekeeping; and on this subject, since we are here alone, my dear Boyer, let us talk business; you understand it very well."
"Why, yes, a little," said Boyer, modestly, and taking a pinch of snuff. "That is learned so naturally, when one occupies himself with the affairs of others."
"I have then, very important advice to ask of you; it is on this account that I begged the favor of your company to a cup of tea this morning."
"Quite at your service, my dear Edward."
"You know that besides the race-horses, I had a contract with my lord for the complete maintenance of his stables, cattle, and people; that is to say, eight horses and five or six grooms and jockeys, for the sum of twenty-four thousand francs a year, my wages included."
"It was reasonable."
"During four years, my lord punctually paid me; but about the middle of last year he said to me, 'Patterson, I owe you about twenty-four thousand francs; how much do you estimate, at the lowest price, my horses and vehicles?' 'My lord, the eight horses would not sell for less than three thousand francs each, one with the other, and then they would be given away' (and it is true, Boyer, for the phaeton pair cost five hundred guineas), 'that would make twenty-four thousand francs for the horses. As to the carriages, there are four, say twelve thousand francs, which, in all, would make thirty-six thousand francs.' 'Well,' answered my lord, 'buy them all from me at this price, on condition that, for the twelve thousand francs remaining after your claim is paid, you will keep and leave at my disposition, horses, servants and carriages for six months.'"
"And you wisely agreed to the bargain? It was a golden affair."
"Certainly it was; in two weeks the six months will have expired, and
I enter into possession."
"Nothing can be plainer. The papers were drawn up by M. Badinot, the viscount's agent. In what have you need of my advice?"
"What ought I to do? Sell the establishment on account of my lord's departure (and it will sell well), or shall I set up as a horse-dealer, with my stable, which will make a fine beginning? What do you advise?"
"I advise you to do what I shall do myself."
"How?"
"I am in the same position that you are."
"How?"
"My lord detests details. When I came here I had, through economy, and by inheritance, some sixty thousand francs. I paid the expenses of the house, as you did the stables. About the same time that you did, I found myself in advance some twenty thousand francs; and for those who furnished the supplies, some sixty thousand. Then the viscount proposed to me, as he did to you, to reimburse myself by buying of him the furniture of the house, comprising the plate—which is fine—the pictures, and so on, the whole estimated at the very lowest price, one hundred and forty thousand francs. There were eighty thousand francs to pay; with the remainder I engaged, as long as it lasted, to defray the expenses of the table, servants, and so forth, and for nothing else: it was a condition of the bargain."
"Because that on these expenses you would gain something more."
"Necessarily; for I have made arrangements with those who furnish the supplies that I will not pay until after the sale," said Boyer, taking a huge pinch of snuff, "so that at the end of this month—"
"The furniture is yours, as the horses and carriages are mine."
"Evidently. My lord has gained by this, to live as he always liked to live, to the last moment—as a tip-top don—in the very teeth of his creditors, for furniture, silver, horses, vehicles, all had been paid for at his coming of age, and had become my property and yours."
"Then my lord is ruined?"
"In five years."
"And how much did he inherit?"
"Only a poor little million, cash down," said M. Boyer, quite disdainfully, taking another pinch of snuff. "Add to this million about two hundred thousand francs of debts, it is passable. It is then, to tell you, my dear Edward, that I have had an idea of letting this house, admirably furnished as it is, to some English people. Some of your compatriots would have paid well for it."
"Without doubt. Why do you not do it?"
"Yes, but I fancy things are risky, so I have decided to sell. My lord is so well known as a connoisseur, that everything would bring a double price, so that I should realize a round sum. Do as I shall, Edward; realize, realize, and do not adventure your earnings in speculations. You chief coachman of the Viscount de Saint Remy! It will be, who can get you. Only yesterday some one spoke to me of a minor just of age, a cousin of the Duchess de Lucenay, young Duke de Montbrison, arrived from Italy with his tutor, and about seeing life. Two hundred and fifty thousand livres income, in good land; and just entering into life—twenty years old. All the illusions of confidence—all the infatuation of expense—prodigal as a prince. I know the intendant. I can tell you this in confidence: he has already nearly agreed with me as first valet de chambre. He countenances me, the flat!" And M. Boyer shrugged his shoulders again, having recourse to his snuff-box.
"You hope to foist him out?"
"Rather! he is imbecile or impertinent. He puts me there as if he had no fear of me! Before two months are over I shall be in his place."
"Two hundred and fifty thousand livres income!" said Edward, reflecting, "and a young man. It is a good seat."
"I will tell you what there is to do. I will speak for you to my protector," said M. Boyer, ironically. "Enter there—it is a fortune which has roots, to which one can hang on for a long time. Not this miserable million of the viscount's—a real snowball—one ray of Parisian sun, and all is over. I saw here that I should only be a bird of passage: it is a pity, for this house does us honor; and up to the last moment, I will serve my lord with the respect and esteem which are his due."
"My dear Boyer, I thank you, and accept your proposition; but suppose I was to propose to the young duke this stable? It is all ready; it is known and admired by all Paris."
"Exactly so; you might make a mint."
"But why do you not propose this house to him, so admirably furnished?
What can he find better?"
"Edward, you are a man of mind; it does not surprise me, but you give me an excellent idea. We must address ourselves to my lord, he is so good a master that he would not refuse to speak for us to the young duke. He can tell him that, leaving for the Legation of Gerolstein, where he is an attache, he wishes to dispose of his whole establishment. Let us see: one hundred and sixty thousand francs for the house, all furnished, plate and pictures; fifty thousand francs for the stables and carriages; that makes two hundred and thirty thousand to two hundred and forty thousand francs. It is an excellent affair for a young man who wants everything. He would spend three times this amount before he could get anything half so elegant and select together as this establishment; for it must be acknowledged, Edward, there is no one can equal my lord in knowing how to live."
"And horses!"
"And good cheer! Godefroi, his cook, leaves here a hundred times better than when he came. My lord has given him excellent counsels— has enormously refined him."
"Besides, they say my lord is such a good player."
"Admirable! Gaining large sums with even more indifference than he loses; and yet I have never seen any one lose more gallantly."
"What is he going to do now?"
"Set out for Germany, in a good traveling carriage, with seven or eight thousand francs, which he knows how to get. Oh! I feel no embarrassment about my lord: he is one who always falls on his feet, as they say."
"And he has no more money to inherit?"
"None; for his father has only a small competency."
"His father?"
"Certainly."
"My lord's father is not dead?"
"He was not about five or six months since. We wrote to him for some family papers."
"But he never comes here?"
"For a good reason. These fifteen years he has lived in the country, at Angers."
"But my lord never goes to see him?"
"His father?"
"Yes."
"Never, never—not he!"
"Have they quarreled?"
"What I am going to tell you is no secret, for I had it from the confidential agent of the Prince de Noirmont."
"The father of Madame de Lucenay?" said Edward, with a cunning and significant look, of which Boyer, faithful to his habits of reserve and discretion, took no notice, but resumed, coldly:
"The Duchess de Lucenay is the daughter of the Prince de Noirmont; the father of my lord was intimately connected with the prince. The duchess was then very young, and Saint Remy the elder treated her as familiarly as if she had been his own child. Notwithstanding his sixty years, he is a man of iron character, courageous as a lion, and of a probity that I shall permit myself to designate as marvelous. He possessed almost nothing, and had married, from love, the mother of the viscount, a young person rather rich, who brought a million, at the christening of which we have just had the honor to assist," and Boyer made a low bow. Edward did the same.
"The marriage was very happy until the moment when my lord's father found, as was said, by chance, some devilish letters, which proved evidently that, during an absence, some three or four years after his marriage, his wife had had a tender weakness for a certain Polish count."
"That often happens to the Poles. When I lived with the Marquis de
Senneval, Madame the Marchioness—une enragee—"
Boyer interrupted his companion. "You should know, my dear Edward, the alliances of our great families before you speak, otherwise you reserve for yourself cruel mistakes."
"How?"
"The Marchioness of Senneval is the sister of the Duke of Montbrison, where you desire to engage."
"Oh!—the devil!"
"Judge of the effect if you had spoken of her in this manner before the envious or detractors: you would not have remained twenty-four hours in the house."
"It is true, Boyer. I will try to know the alliances."
"I resume. The father of my lord discovered, then, after twelve or fifteen years of a marriage until then happy, that he had reason to complain of a Polish count. Fortunately, or unfortunately, the viscount was born nine months after his father, or rather, Saint Remy had returned from this fatal journey, so that he could not be certain whether it was his child or not. Nevertheless, the count separated at once from his wife, not wishing to touch a sou of the fortune she had brought him, and retired to the country, with about eighty thousand francs which he possessed; but you shall see the rancor of this diabolical character. Although the outrage was dated back fifteen years when he discovered it, yet he set off, accompanied by M. de Fermont, one of his relations, in pursuit of the Pole, and found him at Venice, after having sought for him in almost all the cities of Europe."
"What an obstinate!"
"A devilish rancor, I tell you, my dear Edward! At Venice, a terrible duel was fought, in which the Pole was killed. All was done fairly; but, my lord's father showed, they say, such ferocious joy at seeing the Pole mortally wounded, that his relation, M. de Fermont, was obliged to drag him away; the count wishing to see, as he said, his enemy expire under his eyes."
"What a man! what a man!"
"The count returned to Paris, went to the house of his wife, announced to her that he had just returned from killing the Pole, and left her. Since then, he has never seen her nor his son, but has lived at Angers, like a real 'wehr-wolf' as they say, with what remains of his eighty thousand francs, well curtailed, as you may suppose, by his race after this Pole. At Angers he sees no one, except the wife and daughter of his relation, M. de Fermont, who has been dead for some years. And, besides, it would seem as if this was an unfortunate family, for the brother of Madame de Fermont blew his brains out a few weeks since, it is said."
"And the viscount's mother?"
"He lost her a long time since. It is on that account that my lord, on his coming of age, has enjoyed the fortune of his mother. So you plainly see, my dear Edward, that as regards inheritance, my lord has nothing, or almost nothing, to expect from his father."
"Who besides must detest him?"
"He would never see him after the fatal discovery, persuaded that he is the son of the Pole."
The conversation of the two personages was interrupted by a footman of gigantic size, carefully powdered, although it was hardly eleven o'clock.
"His lordship has rung twice," said the giant.
Boyer appeared distressed at this neglect; he arose precipitately, and followed the servant with as much eagerness and respect as if he had not been the proprietor of the mansion of his master.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE OLD COUNT DE SAINT REMY.
Two hours had passed since Boyer had gone to attend the viscount, when the father of the last mentioned knocked at the gate of the house in the Rue de Chaillot.
The Count de Saint Remy was a man of tall stature, still active and vigorous, notwithstanding his age; the almost copper color of his skin contrasted strangely with the silvery whiteness of his beard and hair; his heavy, still black eyebrows overshadowed piercing but sunken eyes. Although, from a kind of misanthropy, he wore clothes quite rusty, there was in his whole appearance that which commanded respect. The door of his son's house flew open, and he entered. A porter in a grand livery of brown and silver, profusely powdered, and wearing silk stockings, appeared on the threshold of an elegant lodge, which had as much resemblance to the smoky den of the Pipelets as a cobbler's stall could have to the sumptuous shop of a fashionable "emporium."
"M. de Saint Remy?" demanded the viscount, in a low tone.
The porter, instead of replying, examined with much contempt the white beard, the threadbare coat, and the old hat of the stranger, who held in his hand a large cane.
"M. de Saint Remy?" repeated the count, impatiently, shocked at the impertinent examination of the porter.
"Not at home." So saying, Pipelet's rival drew the cord, and with a significant gesture, invited the unknown to retire.
"I will wait," said the count, and he passed on.
"Stay, friend! one does not enter that way into houses!" cried the porter, running after and taking him by the arm.
"How, scoundrel!" answered the old man, raising his cane; "you dare to touch me!"
"I will dare something else, if you do not walk out at once. I have told you that my lord was out, so walk off."
At this moment, Boyer, attracted by the sound of voices, made his appearance. "What is the matter?" demanded he.
"M. Boyer, this man will absolutely enter, although I have told him that my lord is out."
"Let us put a stop to this," replied the count, addressing Boyer; "I wish to see my son—-if he has gone out, I will wait."
We have said that Boyer was ignorant neither of the existence nor of the misanthropy of the father, and sufficiently a physiognomist, he did not for a moment doubt the identity of the count, but bowed low to him, and answered, "If your lordship will be so good as to follow me, I am at his orders."
"Go on," said Saint Remy, who accompanied Boyer, to the profound dismay of the porter.
Preceded by the valet, the count arrived on the first story, and still following his guide, was ushered into a little saloon, situated immediately over the boudoir of the ground floor.
"My lord has been obliged to go out this morning," said Boyer, "and if your lordship will have the kindness to wait, it will not be long before he returns." And the valet disappeared.
Remaining alone, the count looked around him with indifference, until suddenly he discovered the picture of his wife, the mother of Florestan de Saint Remy. He folded his arms on his heart, held down his head, as if to avoid the sight of this victim, and walked about with rapid steps.
"And yet I am not certain—-he may be my son—-sometimes this doubt is frightful to me. If he is my son, then my abandoning him, my refusal ever to see him, are unpardonable. And then to think my name—of which I have ever been so proud—belongs to the son of a man whose heart I could have torn out! Oh! I do not know why I am not bereft of my senses when I think of it." Saint Remy, continuing to walk with agitation, raised mechanically the curtain which separated the saloon from Florestan's study and entered the apartment.
He had hardly disappeared for a moment, than a small door, concealed by the tapestry, opened softly, and Madame de Lucenay, wrapped in a shawl of green Cashmere, and wearing a very plain black velvet bonnet, entered the saloon which the count had just left. The duchess, as we have said before, had a key to the little private garden-door; not finding Florestan in the apartments below, she had supposed that, perhaps, he was in his study, and without any fear had come up by a small staircase which led from the boudoir to the first story. Unfortunately, a very threatening visit from M. Badinot had obliged him to go out precipitately.
Madame de Lucenay, seeing no one, was about to enter the cabinet, when the curtains were thrown back, and she found herself face to face with the father of Florestan. She could not restrain a cry of alarm.
"Clotilde!" cried the count, stupefied.
The duchess remained immovable, contemplating with surprise the old white-bearded man, so badly clothed, whose features did not appear altogether strange.
"You, Clotilde!" repeated the count, in a tone of sorrowful reproach, "you here—in my son's house?"
These last words decided Madame de Lucenay; she at length recognized the father of Florestan, and cried, "M. de Saint Remy!" Her position was so plain and significant, that the duchess disdained to have recourse to a falsehood to explain the motive of her presence in this house; counting on the paternal affection which the count had formerly shown her, she extended her hand, and said, with an air—gracious, cordial, and fearless—which belonged only to her, "Come, do not scold! you are my oldest friend! Do you remember, more than twenty years ago, you called me your dear Clotilde?"
"Yes, I called you thus, but—"
"I know in advance all that you will say to me; you know my motto; What is, is; what shall be, shall be."
"Ah, Clotilde!"
"Spare me your reproaches; let me rather speak to you of my joy at seeing you! your presence recalls so many things; my poor father, in the first place; and then my fifteenth year. Ah! fifteen—sweet fifteen!"
"It was because your father was my friend, that—"
"Oh, yes!" answered the duchess, interrupting him, "he loved you so much! Do you remember he called you, laughingly 'Green Ribbon.' You always said to him, 'You will spoil Clotilde; take care!' and he would answer, embracing me, 'I believe I spoil her; and I must hurry and spoil her more, for soon fashion will carry her off, and spoil her in its turn.' Excellent father that I lost!"
A tear glistened in the fine eyes of Madame de Lucenay, and giving her hand to Saint Remy, she said to him, in an agitated voice, "True, I am happy, very happy to see you again; you awaken souvenirs so precious, so dear to my heart! If you have been in Paris for any time," continued Madame de Lucenay, "it was very unkind in you not to come to see me; we should have talked so much of the past; for you know I begin to arrive at the age when there is a great charm in talking to old friends."
Perhaps the duchess could not have spoken with more nonchalance if she had been receiving a visit at Lucenay House.
Saint Remy could not refrain from saying, earnestly, "Instead of talking of the past, let us talk of the present. My son may come in at any moment, and—"
"No!" said Clotilde, interrupting him, "I have the key of the private door, and his arrival is always announced by a bell when he comes in by the gate; at this noise I shall disappear as mysteriously as I came, and leave you alone. What a sweet surprise you are going to cause him! you, who have for so long a time abandoned him!"
"Hold! I have reproaches to make you."
"To me, to me?"
"Certainly! What guide, what assistance had I on entering into society? and, for a thousand things, the counsels of a father are indispensable. Thus, frankly, it has been very wrong in you to—"
Here Madame de Lucenay, giving way to the peculiarity of her character, could not prevent herself from laughing heartily, and saying to the count: "You must avow that the position is at least singular, and that it is very piquant that I should preach to you!"
"It is rather strange; but I deserve neither your sermons nor your praises. I come to my son; but it is not on account of my son. At his age he can no longer need my counsels."
"What do you mean?"
"You must know for what reasons I detest society and hold Paris in horror!" said the count. "Nothing but circumstances of the last importance could have induced me to leave Angers, and, above all, to come here—in this house! But I have conquered my repugnance, and have recourse to every one who can aid me in researches of great interest to me."
"Oh! then," said Madame de Lucenay, with most affectionate eagerness, "I beg you dispose of me, if I can be of any use to you. Is there need of any applications? M. de Lucenay ought to have a certain influence: for, on the days when I go to dine with my great Aunt de Montbrison, he gives a dinner at home to some deputies; this is not done without some motive; this inconvenience must be paid for by some probable advantage. Once more, if we can serve you, command us. There is my young cousin, Duke de Montbrison, connected with all the nobility, perhaps he could do something? In this case, I offer him to you. In a word, dispose of me and mine: you know if I can call myself a devoted friend!"
"I know it; and I do not refuse your assistance; although, however—"
"Come, my dear Alceste, we are people of the world, let us act like such, whether we are here or elsewhere, it is of no import, I suppose, to the affair which interests you, and which now interests me extremely, since it is yours. Let us speak of this, and sincerely; I require it."
Thus saying, the duchess approached the fireplace, and, leaning against it, she put out the prettiest little foot in the world to warm it.
With perfect tact, Madame de Lucenay seized the occasion to speak no more of the viscount, and to converse with M. de Saint Remy on a subject to which he attached much importance.
"You are ignorant, perhaps, Clotilde," said the count, "that for a long time past I have lived at Angers?"
"No—I knew it."
"Notwithstanding the isolated state I sought, I had chosen this city, because one of my relations dwelt there, M. de Fermont, who, during my troubles, acted as a brother toward me, having acted as a second in a duel."
"Yes, a terrible duel; my father told me of it," said Madame de Lucenay, sadly; "but happily, Florestan is ignorant of this duel, and also of the cause that led to it."
"I was willing to let him respect his mother," answered the count,
and, suppressing a sigh, he continued, and related to Madame de
Lucenay the history of Madame de Fermont up to the time of her leaving
Angers for Paris.
That history, if the old count had known and related it all, would have run thus. Baron de Ferment's brother, ruined by concealed speculations, had left three hundred thousand francs with Jacques Ferrand. But when the baroness, upon her brother's suicide in desperation, and her husband's death, had claimed it from that honorable man, the notary had challenged her to produce proofs, of which she had not one, and had, moreover, met her with a demand for two thousand francs, a debt of the baron's to the notary. So she began to suffer every hardship from this abuse of trust. Presuming this, we let the count proceed:
"At the end of some time," said he, "I learned that the furniture of the house which she occupied at Angers was sold by her orders, and that this sum had been employed to pay some debts left by Madame de Fermont. Uneasy at this circumstance, I inquired, and learned vaguely that this unfortunate woman and her daughter were in distress—the victims, doubtless, of a bankruptcy. If Madame de Fermont could, in such an extremity, count on any one, it was on me. Yet I received no news from her. You cannot imagine my sufferings—my inquietude. It was absolutely necessary that I should find them, to know why they did not apply to me, poor as I was. I set out for Paris, leaving a person at Angers, who, if by chance any information was obtained, was to advise me."
"Well?"
"Yesterday I had a letter from Angers; nothing was known. On arriving here I commenced my researches. I went first to the former residence of the brother of Madame de Fermont. Here they told me she lived by the Canal Saint Martin."
"And this—"
"Had been her lodgings; but she had left, and they were ignorant of her new abode. Since then all my inquiries have been useless; and I have come here, in hopes that she may have applied to the son of her old friend. I am afraid that even this will be in vain."
For some minutes Madame de Lucenay had listened to the count with redoubled attention; suddenly she said, "Truly, it would be singular if these should be the same as those Madame d'Harville is so much interested for."
"Who?" asked the count.
"The widow of whom you speak is still young, and of a noble presence?"
"She is so. But how do you know?"
"Her daughter handsome as an angel, and about sixteen?"
"Yes, yes!"
"And is named Claire?"
"Oh, in mercy, speak! where are they?"
"Alas, I know not!"
"You do not know?"
"A lady of my acquaintance, Madame d'Harville, came to me to ask if I know a widow who had a daughter named Claire, and whose brother committed suicide. Madame d'Harville came to me because she had seen these words, 'Write to Madame de Lucenay,' traced on the fragment of a letter which this unhappy woman had written to a person unknown, whose aid she entreated."
"She intended to write to you! Why?"
"I am ignorant; I do not know her."
"But she knew you!" cried Saint Remy, struck with a sudden idea.
"What do you say?"
"A hundred times she has heard me speak of your father, of you, of your generous and excellent heart. In her trouble, she must have thought of you."
"This can be thus explained."
"And how did Madame d'Harville get possession of this letter?"
"I am ignorant; all I know is, that, without knowing where this poor mother and child had taken refuge, she was, I believe, on their track."
"Then I count upon you, Clotilde, to introduce me to Madame d'Harville; I must see her to-day."
"Impossible. Her husband has just fallen a victim to a frightful accident. A gun, which he did not know was loaded, went off while in his hands, and killed him on the spot."
"Oh, this is horrible!"
"She departed immediately, to pass her first mourning at her father's in Normandy."
"Clotilde, I conjure you to write to her to-day; ask for whatever information she may possess. Since she interests herself for these poor women, tell her she cannot have a warmer auxiliary than me; my sole desire is to find the widow of my friend, and to partake with her and her daughter the little I possess. It is now my sole family."
"Always the same—-always generous and devoted! Count on me; I will write to-day to Madame d'Harville. Where shall I send her answer?"
"To Asnieres, poste restante."
"What eccentricity! Why do you lodge there and not at Paris?"
"I hate Paris, on account of the souvenirs it awakens," answered Saint Remy, with a gloomy air. "My old physician, Dr. Griffin, has a small country-house on the banks of the Seine, near Asnieres; he does not live there in winter, and offered it to me; it is almost a suburb of Paris; I could, after my researches, find there the solitude which pleases me; I have accepted."
"I will write you, then, at Asnieres; I can, besides, give you now some information which may perhaps serve you, which I received from Madame d'Harville. The ruin of Madame de Fermont has been caused by the roguery of the notary who had the charge of her fortune. He denies the deposit."
"The scoundrel! What is the fellow's name?"
"Jacques Ferrand," said the duchess, without being able to conceal her desire to laugh.
"What a strange being you are, Clotilde! There is nothing in all this but what is serious and sad, yet you laugh!" said the count, surprised and vexed.
"Pardon me, my friend," answered the duchess; "the notary is such a singular man, and they tell such strange things of him. But, seriously, if his reputation as an honest man is no more merited than his reputation as a pious man (and I declare this usurped), he is a wretch!"
"And he lives—-"
"Rue du Gentier."
"He shall have a visit from me. What you have told me coincides with certain suspicions."
"What suspicions?"
"From what I can learn respecting the death of the brother of my poor friend, I am almost led to believe that this unfortunate man, instead of committing suicide, has been the victim of an assassination."
"Goodness! what makes you suppose this?"
"Several reasons, too long to tell you. I leave you now."
"You leave without seeing Florestan?"
"This interview would be too painful for me—you must comprehend. I only braved it in the hopes of obtaining some information about Madame de Fermont, wishing to neglect no means to find her. Now adieu!"
"Oh, you are without pity!"
"Do you not know?"
"I know that your son has never had more need of your counsels."
"Is he not rich—happy?"
"Yes; but he does not know mankind. Blindly prodigal, because he is confiding and generous—in everything, everywhere, and always truly noble. I fear he is abused. If you knew what a noble heart he has! I have never dared to lecture him on the subject of his expense and extravagance; in the first place, because I am at least as foolish as he is; and then for other reasons; but you on the contrary could—"
Madame de Lucenay did not finish; suddenly she heard the voice of Florestan de Saint Remy. He entered precipitately into the cabinet adjoining the saloon. After having quickly shut the door, he said, in an agitated voice, to some one who accompanied him, "But it is impossible!"
"But I repeat to you," answered the clear and piercing voice of M. Badinot, "I repeat to you, that, without this, in four hours you will be arrested. For if he has not this money, our man will go and make a complaint to the attorney-general, and you know the penalty of a forgery like this—the galleys, my poor lord!"
It is impossible to describe the look which Madame de Lucenay and the father of Florestan exchanged on hearing these terrible words.
CHAPTER XXIX.
FATHER AND SON.
On hearing these fearful words addressed to his son by Badinot, the count changed color, and clung to a chair for support. His venerable and respected name dishonored by a man whom he had reason to doubt was his son? His first feeling overcome, the angry looks of the old man, and a threatening gesture which he made as he advanced toward the study revealed a resolution so alarming that Madame de Lucenay caught him by the hand, stopped him, and said, in a low tone, with the most profound conviction, "He is innocent; I swear to you! Listen in silence."
The count stood still; he wished to believe what the duchess had said was true.
She, on her part, was persuaded of his honesty. To obtain new sacrifices from this woman, so blindly generous—sacrifices which alone had saved him from the threats of Jacques Ferrand—the viscount had sworn to Madame de Lucenay, that, dupe of a scoundrel from whom he had received in payment the forged bill, he ran the risk of being regarded as an accomplice of the forger, having himself put it in circulation.
Madame de Lucenay knew that the viscount was imprudent, prodigal, and careless; but never for a moment had she supposed him capable of an infamous action, not even the slightest indiscretion.
By twice lending him considerable sums under very peculiar circumstances, she had wished to render him a friendly service, the viscount only accepting this money on the express condition of returning it; for there was due to him, he said, more than twice this amount.
His apparent luxurious manner of living allowed her to believe it. Besides, Madame de Lucenay, yielding to her natural kind impulses, had only thought of being useful to Florestan, without any care whether he could repay or not. He affirmed it, and she did not doubt. In answering for the viscount's honor, in supplicating the old count to listen to the conversation of his son, the duchess thought that he was going to speak of the abuse of confidence of which he had been a victim, and that he would be thus entirely exculpated in the eyes of his father.
"Once more," continued Florestan, in an agitated voice, "I say this Petit Jean is a scoundrel; he assured me that he had no other bills than those I withdrew yesterday, and three days ago. I thought this one was in circulation: it was payable three months after date, at Adams & Co., London?"
"Yes, yes," said the clear and sharp voice of Badinot. "I know, my dear viscount, that you have adroitly managed your affairs; your forgeries were not to be discovered until you were far away. But you have been caught by those more cunning than yourself."
"Oh! it is very well to tell me this now, wretch that you are!" cried Florestan, furiously; "did you not yourself introduce this person to me, who has negotiated the paper?"
"Come, my dear aristocrat," answered Badinot, coldly, "be calm! You are very skillful in counterfeiting commercial signatures; it is really wonderful; but that is no reason why you should treat your friends with disagreeable familiarity. If you go on in this way—I leave you to arrange as you please."
"Do you think one can preserve calmness in such a position? If what you tell me is true—if this complaint is lodged against me to-day, I am lost."
"It is exactly as I tell you, unless you should have recourse again to your charming providence with the blue eyes."
"That is impossible."
"Then be resigned. It is a pity it was the last note! for twenty-five thousand paltry francs, to go and take the air of the south at Toulon—it is ridiculous, absurd, stupid! How could a cunning man like you suffer yourself to be thus cornered?"
"What is to be done? what is to be done? nothing here belongs to me; I have not twenty louis of my own."
"Your friends?"
"Oh! I owe to all who could lend me; do you think me such a fool as to have waited until to-day to ask them?"
"That is true; pardon me—come, let us talk tranquilly, it is the best way to arrive at a reasonable solution. Just now I wanted to tell you how you were attacked by those who were more cunning than yourself. You did not listen to me."
"Well, speak, if it can be of any use."
"Let us recapitulate: you said to me about two months since, 'I have about one hundred and thirteen thousand francs in bills on different banking-houses, which have some time to run; can you find means to negotiate them for me, my dear Badinot—'"
"Well! what next?"
"Stop! I asked to see them. Something told me that the bills were forgeries, although perfectly well done. I did not suspect that you, it is true, possessed a caligraphic talent so far advanced; but having the charge of your fortunes, ever since you had no more fortune, I knew you were completely ruined. I had drawn up the deed by which your horses, your carriages, the furniture of this hotel, belonged to Boyer and Patterson. It was not wonderful for me to be astonished at seeing you possess commercial securities of so much value, was it?"
"Do me the favor to spare me your astonishment and let us arrive at the facts."
"Here they are. I had not enough experience or timidity to care to meddle directly in affairs of that description; I recommended a third person to you, who, not less sharp-sighted than I am, suspected the game you wished to play."
"That is impossible-he would not have discounted these bills if he had thought them false."
"How much money did he give you for the one hundred and thirteen thousand francs?"
"Twenty-five thousand francs cash, and the remainder in debts to be recovered."
"And how much did you ever recover from these?"
"Nothing, you know well enough; they were imaginary; but he certainly risked twenty-five thousand francs."
"How unfledged you are, my dear lord! Having my commission of a hundred louis to receive, I took good care not to tell this third person the real state of your affairs. He thought you still quite rich, and he knew, besides, that you were adored by a great lady, who was very rich, and who would never have you in embarrassment; he was then pretty sure to get back what he advanced; he ran some risk, to be sure; but he also had a chance of making a great deal of money, and his calculation was a good one; for, the other day you paid him one hundred thousand francs to withdraw the forgery of fifty-eight thousand francs, and yesterday thirty thousand francs for the second; for this last, he had been contented with receiving its real value. How you procured these thirty thousand francs yesterday may the devil run away with me if I know! for you are a man unique. So you see that at the end of the account, if Petit Jean forces you to pay the last draft for twenty-five thousand francs, he will have received from you one hundred and fifty-five thousand francs for twenty-five thousand francs which he paid you; now, I had reason to say that you were in the hands of those more cunning than yourself."
"But why did he tell me that this last bill, which he presented to-day, was negotiated?"
"Not to alarm you; he also had told you that, with the exception of the fifty-eight thousand francs, the others were in circulation; the first, once paid, yesterday came the second, and to-day the third."
"The scoundrel!"
"Listen to me, then: every one for himself, as a celebrated lawyer said, and I like the maxim. But let us talk coolly: this proves to you that Petit Jean (and, between us, I should not be surprised if, notwithstanding his holy reputation, Jacques Ferrand was half concerned in these speculations), this proves to you, I say, that Petit Jean, allured by your first payments, speculates on this last bill, quite sure that your friends will not allow you to be dragged before the judges. It is for you to see if these friends are so well used, so drained, that not another golden drop can be squeezed from them, for, if in three hours you have not the twenty-five thousand francs, my noble lord, you are caged."
"If you were to repeat this to me forever—"
"Perhaps you would consent to pluck a last feather from the wing of that generous duchess."
"I repeat to you, it must not be thought of. To find in three hours twenty-five thousand francs more, after all the sacrifices she has already made—it would be madness to think of it."
"To please you, fortunate mortal, one would try an impossibility."
"Oh! she has already tried it: this was to borrow one hundred thousand francs from her husband, and she succeeded; but these are experiments that cannot be tried twice. Let us see, my dear Badinot, until now you have never had any reason to complain of me. I have always been generous; try to obtain some delay from this miserable Petit Jean. You know I always can find means to recompense those who serve me; this last affair once hushed, I will take a new flight—you shall be content with me."
"Petit Jean is as inflexible as you are unreasonable."
"I!"
"Try only to interest once more your generous friend in your sad fate. The devil! Tell her right out the truth; not as you have already said, that you are the dupe, but that you are the forger himself."
"No, never will I make such an acknowledgment; it would be shame without any advantage."
"Do you prefer that she should learn it to-morrow by the 'Police
Gazette'?"
"I have three hours left—I can fly."
"Where will you go without money? Judge now! on the contrary, this last forgery taken up, you will find yourself in a superb position; you would have no more debts. Come, come, promise me to speak once more to the duchess. You are such a rake, you know how to make yourself so interesting in spite of your faults; at the very worst, perhaps, you will be esteemed the less, or even no more, but you will be lifted out of this scrape. Come, promise me to see your friend, and I will run to Petit Jean, and do my best to obtain an hour or two more."
"Hell! must I drink of shame to the very dregs?"
"Come now! good luck—be tender, charming, fond; I run to Petit Jean: you will find me here until three o'clock; later it will no longer be in time: the public prosecutor's office is closed after four o'clock."
Badinot took his departure.
When the door was closed, Florestan was heard to cry, in profound despair, "Lost!"
During this conversation, which unmasked to the count the infamy of his son, and to Madame de Lucenay the infamy of the man whom she had so blindly loved, both remained immovable, scarcely breathing, under the weight of this frightful revelation.
It would be impossible to describe the mute eloquence of the sorrowful scene which passed between this young woman and the count, when there was no longer any doubt of the crime of Florestan. Extending his arm toward the room where his son remained, the old man smiled with bitter irony, cast a withering look on Madame de Lucenay, and seemed to say to her:
"Behold him for whom you have braved all shame, made every sacrifice!
Behold him you have reproached me for abandoning!"
The duchess understood the look; for a moment she hung her head under the weight of her shame. The lesson was terrible.
Then by degrees, to the cruel anxiety which had contracted the features of Madame de Lucenay succeeded a kind of noble indignation. The inexcusable faults of this woman were at least palliated by the fidelity of her love, by the boldness of her devotion, by the grandeur of her generosity, by the frankness of her character, and by her inexorable aversion for everything that was cowardly and dishonest.
Still too young, too handsome, too much sought after, to experience the humility of having been made use of, this proud and decided woman, once the illusion of love having vanished, felt neither hatred nor anger; instantaneously, without any transition, a mortal disgust, an icy disdain, killed her affection, until then so lively; it was no longer a woman deceived by her lover, but it was the lady of fashion discovering that a man of her society was a cheat and a forger.
In supposing even that some circumstances might have extenuated the ignominy of Florestan, Madame de Lucenay would not have admitted them; according to her views, the man who overstepped certain limits of honor, either through vice or weakness, no longer existed in her eyes, honor being for her a question of existence or non-existence. The only sorrowful feeling experienced by the duchess, was excited by the terrible effect which this unexpected revelation produced on the count, her old friend. For some moments he appeared not to see nor hear; his eyes were fixed, his head hung down, his arms suspended, his paleness livid, and from time to time a convulsive sigh escaped from his bosom. With a man as resolute as he was energetic, such a state of dejection was more alarming than the most furious bursts of rage.
Madame de Lucenay looked at him with much anxiety. "Courage, my friend," said she to him, in a low tone, "for you, for me, for this man—I know what remains for me to do."
The old man looked at her fixedly; then, as if he had been aroused from his stupor by some violent shock, he raised his head, his features assumed a threatening appearance, and, forgetting that his son might hear him, he cried: "And I, also, for you, for me, for this man—I know what I have to do."
"Who is there?" cried Florestan, surprised.
Madame de Lucenay, fearing to meet the viscount, disappeared through the small door, and descended the private staircase.
Florestan, having again demanded who was there, and receiving no answer, entered the saloon.
The long beard of the old man changed him so much, he was so poorly dressed, that his son, who had not seen him for many years, did not at first recognize him; he advanced rapidly toward him with a menacing air, and said, "Who are you? What do you want here?"
"I am the husband of that woman!" answered the count, showing the portrait of Madame de Saint Remy.
"My father!" cried Florestan, retreating in alarm; and he endeavored to recall to mind the features so long forgotten. Erect, formidable, his looks irritated, his face purple with rage, his white hair thrown back, his arms crossed on his breast, the count, over-awed, confounded his son, who, with his head down, dared not to raise his eyes upon him. Yet Saint Remy, from some secret motive, made a violent effort to remain calm and to conceal his feelings of resentment.
"Father!" said Florestan, in a faltering voice, "you were there!" "I was there."
"You have heard—"
"All."
"Oh!" cried the viscount, mournfully, concealing his face in his hands.
There was a moment's pause. Florestan, at first as much astonished as vexed at the unexpected apparition of his father, soon began to think what he could make out of this incident. "All is not lost," said he to himself; "the presence of my father is a stroke of fate. He knows all; he will not have his name dishonored; he is not rich, but be must have more than twenty-five thousand francs. Let us play close—address, emotion, and a little tenderness. I will let the duchess alone, and I am saved!"
Then, giving to his charming features an expression of mournful dejection, moistening his eyes with the tears of repentance, assuming his most thrilling tones, his most pathetic manner, he cried, joining his hands with a gesture of despair: "Oh, my father: I am very unhappy! after so many years—to see you again, and at such a moment! I must appear so culpable to you! But deign to listen to me, I entreat you—I supplicate you; permit me, not to justify myself, but to explain to you my conduct; will you, my father?"
Old Saint Remy answered not a word: his features remained immovable: he seated himself, and with his chin resting on the palm of his hand, looked at his son in silence.
If Florestan had known the thoughts which filled the mind of his father with hatred, fury, and vengeance, alarmed at the apparent calmness of the count, he would not have tried to dupe him.
But, ignorant of the suspicions attached to his birth, ignorant of the fault of his mother, Florestan doubted not the success of his trick, believing he had only to soften a father who, at once a misanthrope and very proud of his name, would be capable, rather than see his name dishonored, to decide on any sacrifice.
"My father," he resumed timidly, "permit me to try, not to exculpate myself, but to tell you how, from involuntary misleadings, I have reached, almost in spite of myself, actions—infamous—I acknowledge." The viscount took the silence of his father for a tacit consent, and continued:
"When I had the misfortune to lose my mother—my poor mother, who loved me so well—I was not twenty. I found myself alone, without counsel, without protection. Master of a considerable fortune, accustomed to luxury from my childhood, I had made it a habit, a want. Ignorant of the difficulty of earning money, I lavished it without measure. Unfortunately—and I say unfortunately, because this ruined me—my expenses, foolish as they were, by their elegance were remarkable. By good taste I eclipsed people who were ten times richer than I was. This first success intoxicated me. I became a man of luxury as one becomes a warrior or a statesman; yes, I loved luxury, not from vulgar ostentation, but I loved it as the painter loves a picture, as the poet loves poetry; like every other artist, I was jealous of my work; and my work was my luxury. I sacrificed everything to its perfection. I wished it fine, grand, complete, splendidly harmonious in everything, from my stables to my table, from my dress to my house. I wished in everything to be a model of taste and elegance. As an artist, in fine, I was greedy of the applause of the crowd, and of the admiration of people of fashion; this success, so rare, I obtained."
In speaking thus, the features of Florestan lost by degrees their hypocritical expression; his eyes shone with a kind of enthusiasm; he told the truth; he had been at first reduced by this rather uncommon manner of understanding luxury. He looked inquiringly at his father; he thought he appeared rather softened.
He resumed, with growing warmth: "Oracle and regulator of the fashions, my praise or censure made the law; I was quoted, copied, extolled, admired, and that by the best company in Paris, that is to say, Europe, the world. The women partook of the general infatuation; the most charming disputed for the pleasure of coming to some very select fetes which I gave; and everywhere, and always, nothing was heard but of the incomparable elegance and exquisite taste of these fetes, which the millionaires could neither equal nor eclipse; in fine, I was the Glass of Fashion. This word will tell you all, my father, if you understand it."
"I understand it, and I am sure that at the galleys you will invent some refined elegance in the manner of carrying your chain, that will become the fashion in the yard, and will be called a la Saint Remy," said the old man, with bitter irony; then he added, "and Saint Remy is my name!"
It caused Florestan to exercise much control over himself to conceal the wound caused by this sarcasm.
He continued, in a more humble tone: "Alas! my father, it is not from pride that I recall the fact of this success; for, I repeat to you, this success ruined me. Sought after, envied, flattered, praised, not by interested parasites, but by people whose position much surpassed mine, and over whom I only had the advantage derived from elegance— which is to luxury what taste is to the arts—my head was turned; I did not calculate that my fortune must be spent in a few years; little did I heed it. Could I renounce this feverish, dazzling life, in which pleasure succeeded to pleasure, enjoyments to enjoyments, fetes to fetes, intoxications of all sorts to enchantments of all sorts? Oh, if you knew, my father, what it is to be everywhere noticed as the hero of the day; to hear the whisperings which announce your entrance into a saloon; to hear the women say, 'It is he!—there he is!' Oh! if you knew——"
"I know," said the old man, interrupting his son, and without changing his position; "I know. Yes, the other day, in a public square, there was a crowd, suddenly I heard a noise, like that with which you are received when you go anywhere; then the looks of all, the women especially, were fixed on a very handsome young man, just as they are fixed on you, and they pointed him out, just as they do you, saying, 'It is he! there he is!' just exactly as they say of you."
"But this man, my father?"
"Was a forger they were placing in the pillory."
"Ah!" exclaimed Florestan, with suppressed rage; then, feigning profound affliction, he added: "My father, have you no pity—what can I say to you now? I do not seek to deny my faults—I only wish to explain to you the fatal cause of them. Ah, well! yes, should you again overwhelm me with cruel sarcasms, I will try to go to the end of this confession—I will try to make you understand this feverish vanity which has ruined me, because then, perhaps, you will pity me. Yes, for one pities a fool—and I was a fool. Shutting my eyes, I abandoned myself to the dazzling vortex, into which I dragged along with me the most charming women, the most amiable men. Stop myself— could I do it? As well say to the poet who exhausts himself, and whose genius is consuming his health, 'Pause in the midst of the inspiration which carries you away!' No! I could not; I—I! abdicate this royalty which I exercised, and return, ruined, ashamed, mocked, to the state of a plebeian—unknown; give this triumph to my rivals, whom I had until then defied, ruled, crushed! No, no, I could not! not voluntarily, at least. The fatal day came, when, for the first time, my money was wanting. I was as surprised as if this moment never could happen. Yet I had still my horses, my carriages, and the furniture of this house. My debts paid, I should still have sixty thousand francs— perhaps—what should I do with this trifle? Then, my father, I took the first step in infamy. I was still honest. I had only spent what belonged to me; but then I began to contract debts which I could not pay. I sold all I possessed to two of my people, in order to settle with them, and to be able, for six months longer, to enjoy this luxury which intoxicated me, in spite of my creditors. To provide for my wants at play and foolish expenses, I borrowed, in the first place, from the Jews; then, to pay the Jews, from my friends. These resources exhausted, commenced a new era of my life. From an honest man I had become a chevalier d'industrie, but I was not yet criminal. However, I hesitated. I wished to take a violent resolution. I had proved in several duels that I was not afraid of death. I thought I would kill myself."
"Indeed?" said the count, ironically.
"You do not believe me, my father?"
"It was too soon, or too late!" added the old man, quite immovable, and in the same attitude.
Florestan, thinking he had alarmed his father in speaking to him of his project of suicide, thought it necessary to get up the scene again for a little stage effect. He opened a closet and took from it a little green crystal vial, and said to the count, placing it on the mantelpiece: "An Italian quack sold me this poison."
"And—it was for yourself?" said the old man, still leaning on his elbow.
Florestan understood the bearing of his father's words. His face now expressed real indignation, for he spoke the truth. One day, he had had the idea of killing himself—an ephemeral fantasy; people of his stamp are too cowardly to resolve coldly and without witnesses upon death, which they will boldly meet in a duel through a point of honor. He cried, then, in a tone of truth, "I have fallen very low, but at least not so low as that, my father! It was for myself I reserved the poison!"
"And you were afraid?" said the count, without change of position.
"I confess it, I recoiled before this dreadful extremity; nothing was yet desperate, the persons whom I owed were rich, and could wait. At my age, with my relations, I hoped for a moment, if not to repair my fortune, at least to assure myself an honorable independent position in its place. Several of my friends, perhaps, less capable than myself had made rapid strides in diplomacy. I had a velleity of ambition. I had only to request, and I was attached to the legation of Gerolstein. Unfortunately, some days after this nomination, a gambling debt contracted with a man I hated placed me in the most cruel embarrassment. I had exhausted every resource. A fatal idea occurred to me. Believing myself certain of impunity, I committed an infamous action. You see, my father, I conceal nothing from you. I confess the ignominy of my conduct. I seek to extenuate nothing. One of two resolutions remains for me to take, and I have now to decide which. The first is to kill myself, and to leave your name dishonored, for if I do not pay to-day even the twenty-five thousand francs, the complaint is made, the affair known, and, dead or living, I am ruined. The second means is to throw myself in the hands of my father, to say to you, save your son, save your name from infamy, and I swear to leave to-morrow for Africa, to enlist as a soldier, and either to be killed or to return some day honorably reinstated. What I now tell you, my father, is true. In face of the extremity which overwhelms me, I have no other way. Decide; either I die covered with shame, or thanks to you, I will live to repair my faults. These are not the threats and words of a young man, my father. I am now twenty-five; I bear your name; I have courage enough either to kill myself, or to become a soldier, for I will not go to the galleys."
The count arose.
"I will not have my name dishonored," said he coldly to Florestan.
"Oh, my father! my savior!" cried the viscount, warmly; and he was about to throw himself into the arms of his father, when he, with an icy gesture, checked the impulse.
"They wait for you until three o'clock, at the house of this man who has the forgery?"
"Yes, my father; and it is now two o'clock."
"Let us pass into your cabinet—give me something to write with."
"Here, my father." The count seated himself before the desk of his son, and wrote with a firm hand:
"I engage to pay this night, at ten o'clock, the 25,000 francs which are owed by my son.
"COUNT DE SAINT REMY."
"Your creditor insists upon having the money; notwithstanding his threats, this engagement of mine will make him consent to a new delay; he can go to Mr. Dupont, banker, in the Rue de Richelieu, No. 7, who will inform him of the value of this note."
"Oh, father! however can—"
"You may expect me to-night; at ten o'clock. I will bring you the money. Let your creditor be here."
"Yes, father, and after to-morrow, I start for Africa. You shall see if I am ungrateful. Then, perhaps, when I have reinstated myself, you will accept my thanks."