THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ÉMILE ZOLA. Эмиль Золя
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to give him some information respecting M. Authier. He thought the count must surely know this man who belonged to the same little town as himself, according to what Douglas had said. He attempted to assume an indifferent air as he observed:
“But yet there are some rich people at Lambesc. You might cultivate their society and amuse yourself more. Do you know M. Authier, a landlord in your neighbourhood, I believe?”
“M. Authier,” repeated the old nobleman, trying to remember, “M. Authier, I can recall no one of that name at Lambesc. And you say the gentleman owns property there?”
“Yes. He has recently bought a house at Marseille, and he must have a pretty extensive estate close to your own.”
M. de Girousse was still thinking hard.
“You must be mistaken,” he said, at length. “I certainly know no M. Authier. I am certain there’s no landlord in Lambesc of that name, for I amused myself by learning the names of all the persons in the place. One has to do something.”
“Come, let’s understand each other,” resumed Marius, turning pale. “I mean a M. Authier who has just come into a large fortune; he is at the present time at Cherbourg and is about to leave for New York, where the relative, whose sole heir he is, died.”
The count burst out laughing.
“What yarn’s that you’re telling me?” he exclaimed. “If such a thing were to happen at Lambesc, if one of my neighbours were to inherit the fortune of a rich uncle in America, do you think I should know nothing about it, and that I should not amuse myself during a whole week with the gossip such a romance would produce in my little town? I assure you again that there has never been an Authier at Lambesc, and that nobody there has ever inherited the mythical fortune you talk of.”
Marius felt quite crushed. The count’s words carried conviction with them, and Douglas alone could be the liar in all this. The young man did not dare express all he was thinking.
“What interest have you in this M. Authier?” asked M. de Girousse whose curiosity was excited.
“None at all,” replied Marius stammering; “one of my friends told me about him, and I must have mistaken the name of the town he mentioned.”
He still hesitated to accuse Douglas, and there was a buzzing sensation in his head which prevented his judging the matter clearly. It was in an absent-minded way that he clasped the hand M. de Girousse held out to him, with the words:
“Well, goodbye. Come to me at the opening of the shooting season. It’ll amuse me.”
When the count had gone, Marius remained in a painful state of perplexity. He must certainly have misunderstood. Yet, M. de Girousse’s statements were clear and decisive: M. Authier was not known at Lambesc, and, therefore, Douglas had lied for some reason or other.
The young man did not dare fathom the consequences of this falsehood: he divined the existence of several pitfalls beneath his feet, and could account for the uneasiness he had experienced when with the notary. Having at present nothing more than suspicions, he promised himself that he would discover the whole truth, before engaging further in the matter and giving his signature. He understood how serious the least accusation would be, and he decided to act with extreme prudence, without haste and without showing his mistrust.
The morrow was a Sunday, and Marius, having a free day before him, went the first thing in the morning to the Rue de Rome where the property Authier was supposed to have purchased was situated. It was a large, handsome house let out in flats to different persons. Armed with his power of attorney, Marius skilfully questioned each of these tenants, and was soon convinced that not one of them knew M. Authier, nor had even ever seen him, and that all of them had up till then dealt directly with Douglas, the notary.
The young man’s suspicions were being confirmed. He thought he would put them to a final test and went to see the former owner of the building whose address one of the tenants gave him. His name was Landrol and he lived in an adjoining street.
“Sir,” said Marius, “I am instructed by M. Authier to administer the property you sold him and I wish you to give me some information concerning the leases you granted and the rent you charged.”
M. Landrol obligingly placed himself at his disposal and answered all his inquiries. Marius was very circumspect, and when he had spoken of one thing and another, he cleverly broached the real object of his visit.
“Very many thanks,” he said, “and I regret to have taken up so much of your time. My excuse is that I have not been able to see M. Authier, who is at present away. It occurred to me that as you have had dealings with him, you could tell me something about him and give me some idea as to what his intentions were.”
“But I never treated directly with M. Authier,” Landrol replied simply. “I have never even seen the gentleman. The affair was carried through by M. Douglas who furnished me with all the necessary signatures.”
“Ah! I thought M. Authier had inspected the building, which is the usual custom.”
“Not at all. Don’t you know that he has been in America for the last six months? M. Douglas inspected the house himself and bought it for his client, whose instructions he had received.”
Marius bit his lip. He had almost allowed his terrible secret to escape him. The day before, the notary had told him that Authier had come from Lambesc to seek and purchase a house. The falsehood was now an absolute certainty. Authier could not be at the same time away in America — where he had been for the past six months — and also awaiting money at Cherbourg. No doubt the individual was no more known at Cherbourg or New York then he was at Lambesc. He was a pure fiction, an imaginary puppet whom Douglas had conjured up for some criminal design of his own. And Marius suddenly thought that the power of attorney filled up with his name was in reality a forgery which rendered the forger liable to a sentence of penal servitude. He blushed as though he were himself the culprit, and muttered some further thanks to Landrol who was eyeing him curiously, surprised to find him so badly informed as to the affairs of the person he was representing.
When Marius found himself alone in the street, he was obliged to submit to the evidence of his senses: only Douglas could have forged the document he had in his pocket. Yet the young man could not exactly understand the reason of the crime. The purchase-money of the building had been paid, so the only explanation he could hit upon was that the notary had acquired the property for himself under an assumed name in order to disguise the amount of his fortune. But even then, the crime was still there: Douglas, the pious and upright man, was a forger.
Marius feared for a time that Mouttet, the retired Toulon merchant, was also a dummy. He hastened to call on one of his friends, who had resided a long time at Toulon, and breathed more freely when, on questioning him, he learnt that Mouttet really existed and was one of Douglas’ clients. After this, still prompted by his suspicions, he decided to see the property upon which Mouttet held a mortgage. He had spent his morning in uselessly seeking a man, and he employed his afternoon in hunting for a house.
Brought up in the Saint Just district, in his mother’s country-house, Marius knew all the residences of the neighbourhood. The property upon which Douglas professed to hold a mortgage in Mouttet’s name belonged to a M. Giraud, in whose house the young man had often played when a child. He went at once to Giraud’s and paid a friendly call, as though he had been strolling in the neighbourhood, and wished merely to shake hands with his old friend.
It was about mid-September. At the horizon the sea was slumbering, heavy and motionless, looking like an immense carpet of blue velvet. The countryside extended yellow with sunshine, hot and sweltering. A gentle breeze rose at times from the shore and went lightly through the branches of the quivering pine-trees. When Marius passed before the country-house where his mother had nursed him, a poignant emotion brought big tears to his eyes. Amidst the silence of this scorched and mournful desert, he fancied he could hear the beloved voice of the saintly woman whose memory sustained him in his task of deliverance which was weighing him down.
Giraud received him like the prodigal son.