discover some mode of escape from her present difficulties. “If I were in your place,” he said, “I should try to interest his relatives and family in my case——”
“The count has no relatives.”
“Impossible!”
“He hasn’t, indeed. During the ten years I was in his service, I heard him say more than a dozen times that he alone was left of all his family—that all the others were dead. People pretend that this is the reason why he is so immensely rich.”
M. Fortunat’s interest was no longer assumed; he was rapidly approaching the real object of his visit. “No relatives!” he muttered. “Who, then, will inherit his millions when he dies?”
Madame Vantrasson jerked her head. “Who can say?” she replied. “Everything will go to the government, probably, unless—— But no, that’s impossible.”
“What’s impossible?”
“Nothing. I was thinking of the count’s sister, Mademoiselle Hermine.”
“His sister! Why, you said just now that he had no relatives.”
“It’s the same as if he hadn’t; no one knows what has become of her, poor creature! Some say that she married; others declare that she died. It’s quite a romance.”
M. Isidore Fortunat was literally upon the rack; and to make his sufferings still more horrible, he dared not ask any direct question, nor allow his curiosity to become manifest, for fear of alarming the woman. “Let me see,” said he; “I think—I am sure that I have heard—or that I have read—I cannot say which—some story about a Mademoiselle de Chalusse. It was something terrible, wasn’t it?”
“Terrible, indeed. But what I was speaking of happened a long time ago—twenty-five or twenty-six years ago, at the very least. I was still in my own part of the country—at Besancon. No one knows the exact truth about the affair.”
“What! not even you?”
“Oh! I—that’s an entirely different thing. When I entered the count’s service, six years later, there was still an old gardener who knew the whole story, and who told it to me, making me swear that I would never betray his confidence.”
Lavish of details as she had been in telling her own story, it was evident that she was determined to exercise a prudent reserve in everything connected with the De Chalusse family; and M. Fortunat inwardly cursed this, to him, most unseasonable discretion. But he was experienced in these examinations, and he had at his command little tricks for loosening tongues, which even an investigating magistrate might have envied. Without seeming to attach the slightest importance to Madame Vantrasson’s narrative, he rose with a startled air, like a man who suddenly realizes that he has forgotten himself. “Zounds!” he exclaimed, “we sit here gossiping, and it’s growing late. I really can’t wait for your husband. If I remain here any longer, I shall miss the last omnibus; and I live on the other side of the river, near the Luxembourg.”
“But our agreement, monsieur?”
“We will draw that up at some future time. I shall be passing again, or I will send one of my colleagues to see you.”
It was Madame Vantrasson’s turn to tremble now. She feared, if she allowed this supposed clerk to go without signing the agreement, that the person who came in his stead might not prove so accommodating; and even if he called again himself, he might not be so kindly disposed. “Wait just a moment longer, monsieur,” she pleaded; “my husband will soon be back, and the last omnibus doesn’t leave the Rue de Levis until midnight.”
“I wouldn’t refuse, but this part of the suburbs is so lonely.”
“Vantrasson will see you on your way.” And, resolved to detain him at any cost, she poured out a fresh glass of liquor for him, and said: “Where were we? Oh, yes! I was about to tell you Mademoiselle Hermine’s story.”
Concealing his delight with an assumed air of resignation, M. Fortunat reseated himself, to the intense disgust of Chupin, who was thoroughly tired of waiting outside in the cold.
“I must tell you,” began Madame Vantrasson, “that when this happened—at least twenty-five years ago—the De Chalusse family lived in the Rue Saint-Dominique. They occupied a superb mansion, with extensive grounds, full of splendid trees like those in the Tuileries gardens. Mademoiselle Hermine, who was then about eighteen or nineteen years old, was, according to all accounts, the prettiest young creature ever seen. Her skin was as white as milk, she had a profusion of golden hair, and her eyes were as blue as forget-me-nots. She was very kind and generous, they say, only, like all the rest of the family, she was very haughty and obstinate—oh, obstinate enough to allow herself to be roasted alive over a slow fire rather than yield an inch. That’s the count’s nature exactly. Having served him, I know something about it, to be sure, and——”
“Excuse me,” interrupted M. Fortunat, who was determined to prevent these digressions, “and Mademoiselle Hermine?”
“I was coming to her. Although she was very beautiful and immensely rich, she had no suitors—for it was generally understood that she was to marry a marquis, whose father was a particular friend of the family. The parents had arranged the matter between them years before, and nothing was wanting but the young lady’s consent; but Mademoiselle Hermine absolutely refused to hear the marquis’s name mentioned.
“They did everything to persuade her to consent to this marriage; they employed prayers and threats alike, but they might as well have talked to a stone. When they asked her why she refused to marry the marquis, she replied, ‘Because’—and that was all. In fact, at last she declared she would leave home and take refuge in a convent, if they didn’t cease to torment her. Her relatives were certain there must be some reason for her refusal. It isn’t natural for a girl to reject a suitor who is young, handsome, rich, and a marquis besides. Her friends suspected there was something she wouldn’t confess; and M. Raymond swore that he would watch his sister, and discover her secret.”
“M. Raymond is the present Count de Chalusse, I suppose?” inquired M. Fortunat.
“Yes, monsieur. Such was the state of matters when, one night, the gardener thought he heard a noise in the pavilion, at the end of the garden. This pavilion was very large. I have seen it. It contained a sitting-room, a billiard-room, and a large fencing-hall. Naturally enough, the gardener got up to go and see what was the matter. As he left the house, he fancied he saw two persons moving about among the trees. He ran after them, but could find nothing. They had made their escape through a small gate leading from the garden into the street. When the gardener was telling me this story, he declared again and again that he had fancied the noise he had heard was made by some of the servants trying to leave the house secretly, and for this reason he didn’t give the alarm. However, he hurried to the pavilion, but on seeing no light there, he went back to bed with an easy mind.”
“And it was Mademoiselle Hermine eloping with a lover?” asked M. Fortunat.
Madame Vantrasson seemed as disappointed as an actor who has been deprived of an opportunity of producing a grand effect. “Wait a moment,” she replied, “and you’ll see. The night passed, morning came, and then the breakfast hour. But Mademoiselle Hermine did not make her appearance. Some one was sent to rap at her door—there was no answer. The door was opened—the young lady was not in her room, and the bed had not even been disturbed. In a few moments the whole household was in the wildest commotion; the mother weeping, and the father half
