had struck the right place this time, and with such precision that M. de Coralth turned livid, and made a furious gesture, as if he were about to fell her to the ground. “Ah, take care!” he exclaimed; “take care!”
But his rage speedily subsided, and with his usual indifferent manner, and in a bantering tone, he said: “Well, what of that? Do you fancy that the world doesn’t already suspect what you could reveal? People have suspected me of being even worse than I am. When you proclaim on the housetops that I am an adventurer, folks will only laugh at you, and I shall be none the worse for it. A matter that would crush a dozen men like Pascal Ferailleur would not injure me in the least. I am accustomed to it. I must have luxury and enjoyment, everything that is pleasant and beautiful—and to procure all this, I do my very best. It is true that I don’t derive my income from my estate in Brie; but I have plenty of money, and that is the essential thing. Besides, it is so difficult to earn a livelihood nowadays, and the love of luxury is so intense that no one knows at night what he may do—or, rather, what he won’t do—the next day. And last, but not least, the people who ought to be despised are so numerous that contempt is an impossibility. A Parisian who happened to be so absurdly pretentious as to refuse to shake hands with such of his acquaintances as were not irreproachable characters, might walk for hours on the Boulevards without finding an occasion to take his hands out of his pockets.”
M. de Coralth talked well enough, and yet, in point of fact, all this was sheer bravado on his part. He knew better than any one else, on what a frail and uncertain basis his brilliant existence was established. Certainly, society does show great indulgence to people of doubtful reputation. It shuts its eyes and refuses to look or listen. But this is all the more reason why it should be pitiless when a person’s guilt is positively established. Thus, although he assumed an air of insolent security, the “viscount” anxiously watched the effect of his words upon Madame d’Argeles. Fortunately for himself, he saw that she was abashed by his cynicism; and so he resumed: “Besides, as our friend, the baron, would say, we are wasting precious time in discussing improbable, and even impossible, suppositions. I was sufficiently well acquainted with your heart and your intelligence, my dear madame, to be sure that you would not speak a word to my disparagement.”
“Indeed! What prevented me from doing so?”
“I did; or perhaps I ought rather to say, your own good sense, which closed your mouth when Monsieur Pascal entreated you to speak in his defence. I am entitled to considerable indulgence, madame, and a great deal ought to be forgiven me. My mother, unfortunately, was an honest woman, who did not furnish me with the means of gratifying every whim.”
Madame d’Argeles recoiled as if a serpent had suddenly crossed her path.
“What do you mean?” she faltered.
“You know as well as I do.”
“I don’t understand you—explain yourself.”
With the impatient gesture of a man who finds himself compelled to answer an idle question, and assuming an air of hypocritical commiseration, he replied: “Well, since you insist upon it, I know, in Paris—in the Rue de Helder, to be more exact—a nice young fellow, whose lot I have often envied. He has wanted for nothing since the day he came into the world. At school, he had three times as much money as his richest playfellow. When his studies were finished, a tutor was provided—with his pockets full of gold—to conduct this favored youth to Italy, Egypt, and Greece. He is now studying law; and four times a year, with unvarying punctuality, he receives a letter from London containing five thousand francs. This is all the more remarkable, as this young man has neither a father nor a mother. He is alone in the world with his income of twenty thousand francs. I have heard him say, jestingly, that some good fairy must be watching over him; but I know that he believes himself to be the illegitimate son of some great English nobleman. Sometimes, when he has drunk a little too much, he talks of going in search of my lord, his father.”
The effect M. de Coralth had created by these words must have been extremely gratifying to him, for Madame d’Argeles had fallen back in her chair, almost fainting. “So, my dear madame,” he continued, “if I ever had any reason to fancy that you intended causing me any trouble, I should go to this charming youth and say: ‘My good fellow, you are strangely deceived. Your money doesn’t come from the treasure-box of an English peer, but from a small gambling den with which I am very well acquainted, having often had occasion to swell its revenues with my franc-pieces.’ And if he mourned his vanished dreams, I should tell him: ‘You are wrong; for, if the great nobleman is lost, the good fairy remains. She is none other than your mother, a very worthy person, whose only object in life is your comfort and advancement.’ And if he doubted my word, I should bring him to his mother’s house some baccarat night; and there would be a scene of recognition worthy of Fargueil’s genius.”
Any man but M. de Coralth would have had some compassion, for Madame d’Argeles was evidently suffering agony. “It is as I feared!” she moaned, in a scarcely audible voice.
However, he heard her. “What!” he exclaimed in a tone of intense astonishment; “did you really doubt it? No; I can’t believe it; it would be doing injustice to your intelligence and experience. Are people like ourselves obliged to talk in order to understand each other? Should I ever have ventured to do what I have done, in your house, if I had not known the secret of your maternal tenderness, delicacy of feeling, and devotion?”
She was weeping; big tears were rolling down her face, tracing a broad furrow through the powder on her cheeks. “He knows everything!” she murmured; “he knows everything!”
“By the merest chance, I assure you. As I don’t like folks to meddle with my affairs, I never meddle with theirs. As I have just said, it was entirely the work of chance. One April afternoon I came to invite you to a drive in the Bois. I was ushered into this very room where we are sitting now, and found you writing. I said I would wait until you finished your letter; but some one called you, and you hastily left the room. How it was that I happened to approach your writing-table I cannot explain; but I did approach it, and read your unfinished letter. Upon my word it touched me deeply. I can give no better proof of the truth of my assertion than the fact that I can repeat it, almost word for word, even now. ‘DEAR SIR,’—you wrote to your London correspondent—‘I send you three thousand francs, in addition to the five thousand for the regular quarterly payment. Forward the money without delay. I fear the poor boy is greatly annoyed by his creditors. Yesterday I had the happiness of seeing him in the Rue de Helder, and I found him looking pale and careworn. When you send him this money, forward at the same time a letter of fatherly advice. It is true, he ought to work and win an honorable position for himself; but think of the dangers and temptation that beset him, alone and friendless, in this corrupt city.’ There, my dear lady, your letter ended; but the name and address were given, and it was easy enough to understand it. You remember, perhaps, a little incident that occurred after your return. On perceiving that you had forgotten your letter, you turned pale and glanced at me. ‘Have you read it, and do you understand it?’ your eyes asked; while mine replied: ‘Yes, but I shall be silent.’”
“And I shall be silent too,” said Madame d’Argeles.
M. de Coralth took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I knew we should understand each other,” he remarked, gravely. “I am not bad at heart, believe me; and if I had possessed money of my own, or a mother like you——”
She averted her face, fearing perhaps that M. de Coralth might read her opinion of him in her eyes; but after a short pause she exclaimed beseechingly: “Now that I am your accomplice, let me entreat you to do all you possibly can to prevent last night’s affair from being noised abroad.”
“Impossible.”
“If not for M. Ferailleur’s
