noble words found an echo in his own heart, and he now looked upon suicide as an act of madness and cowardice. Madame Ferailleur felt that the victory was assured, but this did not suffice; she wished to enlist Pascal in her plans. “It is evident,” she resumed, “that M. de Coralth is the author of this abominable plot. But what could have been his object? Has he any reason to fear you, Pascal? Has he confided to you, or have you discovered, any secret that might ruin him if it were divulged?”
“No, mother.”
“Then he must be the vile instrument of some even more despicable being. Reflect, my son. Have you wounded any of your friends? Are you sure that you are in nobody’s way? Consider carefully. Your profession has its dangers; and those who adopt it must expect to make bitter enemies.”
Pascal trembled. It seemed to him as if a ray of light at last illumined the darkness—a dim and uncertain ray, it is true, but still a gleam of light.
“Who knows!” he muttered; “who knows!”
Madame Ferailleur reflected a few moments, and the nature of her reflections brought a flush to her brow. “This is one of those cases in which a mother should overstep reserve,” said she. “If you had a mistress, my son——”
“I have none,” he answered, promptly. Then his own face flushed, and after an instant’s hesitation, he added: “But I entertain the most profound and reverent love for a young girl, the most beautiful and chaste being on earth—a girl who, in intelligence and heart, is worthy of you, my own mother.”
Madame Ferailleur nodded her head gravely, as much as to say that she had expected to find a woman at the bottom of the mystery. “And who is this young girl?” she inquired. “What is her name?”
“Marguerite.”
“Marguerite who?”
Pascal’s embarrassment increased. “She has no other name,” he replied, hurriedly, “and she does not know her parents. She formerly lived in our street with her companion, Madame Leon, and an old female servant. It was there that I saw her for the first time. She now lives in the house of the Count de Chalusse, in the Rue de Courcelles.”
“In what capacity?”
“The count has always taken care of her—she owes her education to him. He acts as her guardian; and although she has never spoken to me on the subject, I fancy that the Count de Chalusse is her father.”
“And does this girl love you, Pascal?”
“I believe so, mother. She has promised me that she will have no other husband than myself.”
“And the count?”
“He doesn’t know—he doesn’t even suspect anything about it. Day after day I have been trying to gather courage to tell you everything, and to ask you to go to the Count de Chalusse. But my position is so modest as yet. The count is immensely rich, and he intends to give Marguerite an enormous fortune—two millions, I believe——”
Madame Ferailleur interrupted him with a gesture. “Look no further,” she said; “you have found the explanation.”
Pascal sprang to his feet with crimson cheeks, flaming eyes, and quivering lips. “It may be so,” he exclaimed; “it may be so! The count’s immense fortune may have tempted some miserable scoundrel. Who knows but some one may have been watching Marguerite, and have discovered that I am an obstacle?”
“Something told me that my suspicions were correct,” said Madame Ferailleur. “I had no proofs, and yet I felt sure of it.”
Pascal was absorbed in thought. “And what a strange coincidence,” he eventually remarked. “Do you know, the last time I saw Marguerite, a week ago, she seemed so sad and anxious that I felt alarmed. I questioned her, but at first she would not answer. After a little while, however, as I insisted, she said: ‘Ah, well, I fear the count is planning a marriage for me. M. de Chalusse has not said a word to me on the subject, but he has recently had several long conferences in private with a young man whose father rendered him a great service in former years. And this young man, whenever I meet him, looks at me in such a peculiar manner.’”
“What is his name?” asked Madame Ferailleur.
“I don’t know—she didn’t mention it; and her words so disturbed me that I did not think of asking. But she will tell me. This evening, if I don’t succeed in obtaining an interview, I will write to her. If your suspicions are correct, mother, our secret is in the hands of three persons, and so it is a secret no longer——”
He paused suddenly to listen. The noise of a spirited altercation between the servant and some visitor, came from the ante-room. “I tell you that he IS at home,” said some one in a panting voice, “and I must see him and speak with him at once. It is such an urgent matter that I left a card-party just at the most critical moment to come here.”
“I assure you, monsieur, that M. Ferailleur has gone out.”
“Very well; I will wait for him, then. Take me to a room where I can sit down.”
Pascal turned pale, for he recognized the voice of the individual who had suggested searching him at Madame d’Argeles’s house. Nevertheless, he opened the door; and a man, with a face like a full moon, and who was puffing and panting like a locomotive, came forward with the assurance of a person who thinks he may do anything he chooses by reason of his wealth. “Zounds!” he exclaimed. “I knew perfectly well that you were here. You don’t recognize me, perhaps, my dear sir. I am Baron Trigault—I came to——”
The words died away on his lips, and he became as embarrassed as if he had not possessed an income of eight hundred thousand francs a year. The fact is he had just perceived Madame Ferailleur. He bowed to her, and then, with a significant glance at Pascal he said: “I should like to speak to you in private, monsieur, in reference to a matter—”
Great as was Pascal’s astonishment, he showed none of it on his face. “You can speak in my mother’s presence,” he replied, coldly; “she knows everything.”
The baron’s surprise found vent in a positive distortion of his features. “Ah!” said he, in three different tones; “ah! ah!” And as no one had offered him a seat, he approached an arm-chair and took possession of it, exclaiming, “You will allow me, I trust? Those stairs have put me in such a state!”
In spite of his unwieldy appearance, this wealthy man was endowed with great natural shrewdness and an unusually active mind. And while he pretended to be engaged in recovering his breath he studied the room and its occupants. A revolver was lying on the floor beside a torn and crumpled letter, and tears were still glittering in the eyes of Madame Ferailleur and her son. A keen observer needed no further explanation of the scene.
“I will not conceal from you, monsieur,” began the baron, “that I have been led here by certain compunctions of conscience.” And, misinterpreting a gesture which Pascal made, “I mean what I say,” he continued; “compunctions of conscience. I have them occasionally. Your departure this morning, after that deplorable scene, caused certain doubts and suspicions to arise in my mind; and I said to myself, ‘We have been too hasty; perhaps this young man may not be guilty.’”
“Monsieur!” interrupted Pascal, in a threatening tone.
“Excuse me, allow me to finish, if you
