THE COUNT'S MILLIONS. Emile Gaboriau
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seizes hold of one on the occasion of a great crisis, and which has so frequently been observed among persons condemned to death, on the night preceding their execution. Four or five times his mother came to listen at the door. Once she entered, and seeing her son sleeping soundly, she could not repress a smile of satisfaction. “Poor Pascal!” she thought; “he can bear no excess but excess of work. Heavens! how surprised and mortified he will be when he awakes!”
Alas! it was not a trifling mortification, but despair, which awaited the sleeper on his wakening; for the past, the present, and the future were presented simultaneously and visionlike to his imagination. Although he had scarcely regained the full use of his faculties, he was, to some extent, at least capable of reflection and deliberation, and he tried to look the situation bravely in the face. First, as to the past, he had not the shadow of a doubt. He realized that he had fallen into a vile trap, and the person who had laid it for him was undoubtedly M. de Coralth, who, seated at his right, had prepared the “hands” with which he had won. This was evident. It seemed equally proven that Madame d’Argeles knew the real culprit—possibly she had detected him in the act, possibly he had taken her into his confidence. But what he could not fathom was M. de Coralth’s motive. What could have prompted the viscount to commit such an atrocious act? The incentive must have been very powerful, since he had naturally incurred the danger of detection and of being considered an accomplice at the least. And then what influence had closed Madame d’Argeles’s lips? But after all, what was the use of these conjectures? It was an actual, unanswerable, and terrible fact that this infamous plot had been successful, and that Pascal was dishonored. He was honesty itself, and yet he was accused—more than that, CONVICTED—of cheating at cards! He was innocent, and yet he could furnish no proofs of his innocence. He knew the real culprit, and yet he could see no way of unmasking him or even of accusing him. Do what he would, this atrocious, incomprehensive calumny would crush him. The bar was closed against him; his career was ended. And the terrible conviction that there was no escape from the abyss into which he had fallen made his reason totter—he felt that he was incapable of deciding on the best course, and that he must have a friend’s advice.
Full of this idea, he hastily changed his clothes, and hurried from his room. His mother was watching for him—inclined to laugh at him a little; but a single glance warned her that her son was in terrible trouble, and that some dire misfortune had certainly befallen him. “Pascal, in heaven’s name, what has happened?” she cried.
“A slight difficulty—a mere trifle,” he replied.
“Where are you going?”
“To the Palais de Justice.” And such was really the case, for he hoped to meet his most intimate friend there.
Contrary to his usual custom, he took the little staircase on the right, leading to the grand vestibule, where several lawyers were assembled, earnestly engaged in conversation. They were evidently astonished to see Pascal, and their conversation abruptly ceased on his approach. They assumed a grave look and turned away their heads in disgust. The unfortunate man at once realized the truth, and pressed his hand to his forehead, with a despairing gesture, as he murmured: “Already!—already!”
However, he passed on, and not seeing his friend, he hurried to the little conference hall, where he found five of his fellow-advocates. On Pascal’s entrance, two of them at once left the hall, while two of the others pretended to be very busily engaged in examining a brief which lay open on the table. The fifth, who did not move, was not the friend Pascal sought, but an old college comrade named Dartelle. Pascal walked straight toward him. “Well?” he asked.
Dartelle handed him a Figaro, still damp from the printing-press, but crumpled and worn, as if it had already passed through more than a hundred hands. “Read!” said he.
Pascal read as follows: “There was great sensation and a terrible scandal last night at the residence of Madame d’A——, a well-known star of the first magnitude. A score of gentlemen of high rank and immense wealth were enjoying a quiet game of baccarat, when it was observed that M. F—— was winning in a most extraordinary manner. He was watched and detected in the very act of dexterously slipping some cards into the pack he held. Crushed by the overpowering evidence against him, he allowed himself to be searched, and without much demur consented to refund the fruit of his knavery, to the amount of two thousand louis. The strangest thing connected with this scandal is, that M. F——, who is an advocate by profession, has always enjoyed an enviable reputation for integrity; and, unfortunately, this prank cannot be attributed to a momentary fit of madness, for the fact that he had provided himself with these cards in advance proves the act to have been premeditated. One of the persons present was especially displeased. This was the Viscount de C——, who had introduced M. F—— to Madame d’A——. Extremely annoyed by this contretemps, he took umbrage at an offensive remark made by M. de R——, and it was rumored that these gentlemen would cross swords at daybreak this morning.
“LATER INTELLIGENCE.—We learn at the moment of going to press that an encounter has just taken place between M. de R—— and M. de C——. M. de R—— received a slight wound in the side, but his condition is sufficiently satisfactory not to alarm his friends.”
The paper slipped from Pascal’s hand. His features were almost unrecognizable in his passion and despair. “It is an infamous lie!” he said, hoarsely. “I am innocent; I swear it upon my honor!” Dartelle averted his face, but not quickly enough to prevent Pascal from noticing the look of withering scorn in his eyes. Then, feeling that he was condemned, that his sentence was irrevocable, and that there was no longer any hope: “I know the only thing that remains for me to do!” he murmured.
Dartelle turned, his eyes glistening with tears. He seized Pascal’s hands and pressed them with sorrowful tenderness, as if taking leave of a friend who is about to die. “Courage!” he whispered.
Pascal fled like a madman. “Yes,” he repeated, as he rushed along the Boulevard Saint-Michel, “that is the only thing left me to do.”
When he reached home he entered his office, double-locked the door, and wrote two letters—one to his mother, the other to the president of the order of Advocates. After a moment’s thought he began a third, but tore it into pieces before he had completed it. Then, without an instant’s hesitation, and like a man who had fully decided upon his course, he took a revolver and a box of cartridges from a drawer in his desk. “Poor mother!” he murmured; “it will kill her—but my disgrace would kill her too. Better shorten the agony.”
He little fancied at that supreme moment that each of his gestures, each contraction of his features, were viewed by the mother whose name he faltered. Since her son had left her to go to the Palais de Justice, the poor woman had remained almost crazy with anxiety; and when she heard him return and lock himself in his office—a thing he had never done before—a fearful presentiment was aroused in her mind. Gliding into her son’s bedroom, she at once approached the door communicating with his office. The upper part of this portal was of glass; it was possible to see what was occurring in the adjoining room. When Madame Ferailleur perceived Pascal seat himself at his desk and begin to write, she felt a trifle reassured, and almost thought of going away. But a vague dread, stronger than reason or will, riveted her to the spot. A few moments later, when she saw the revolver in her son’s hand, she understood everything. Her blood froze in her veins; and yet she had sufficient self-control to repress the cry of terror which sprang to her lips. She realized that the danger was terrible, imminent, extreme. Her heart, rather than her bewildered reason, told her that her son’s life hung on a single thread. The slightest sound, a word, a rap on the door might hasten the unfortunate man’s deed.
An inspiration from heaven came to the poor mother. Pascal had contented himself with locking the door leading to the ante-room. He had forgotten this one, or neglected it, not thinking that anybody would approach his office through his bedroom. But his mother perceived that this door opened toward her. So, turning the knob with the utmost caution, she flung it suddenly open, and reaching her son’s side with a single bound, she clasped him closely in her arms. “Pascal, wretched boy! what would you do?”
He was so surprised that his weapon fell from his hand, and he sank back almost