THE COUNT'S MILLIONS. Emile Gaboriau
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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 please. Reflection, I must confess, only confirmed this impression, and increased my doubts. ‘The devil!’ I said to myself again; ‘if this young man is innocent, the culprit must be one of the habitues of Madame d’Argeles’s house—that is to say, a man with whom I play twice a week, and whom I shall play with again next Monday.’ And then I became uneasy, and here I am!” Was the absurd reason which the baron gave for his visit the true one? It was difficult to decide. “I came,” he continued, “thinking that a look at your home would teach me something; and now I have seen it, I am ready to take my oath that you are the victim of a vile conspiracy.”
So saying he noisily blew his nose, but this did not prevent him from observing the quiet joy of Pascal and his mother. They were amazed. But although these words were calculated to make them feel intensely happy, they still looked at their visitor with distrust. It is not natural for a person to interest himself in other people’s misfortunes, unless he has some special motive for doing so; and what could this singular man’s object be?
However, he did not seem in the slightest degree disconcerted by the glacial reserve with which his advances were received. “It is clear that you are in some one’s way,” he resumed, “and that this some one has invented this method of ruining you. There can be no question about it. The intention became manifest to my mind the moment I read the paragraph concerning you in the Figaro. Have you seen it? Yes? Well, what do you think of it? I would be willing to swear that it was written from notes furnished by your enemy. Moreover, the particulars are incorrect, and I am going to write a line of correction which I shall take to the office myself.” So saying he transported his unwieldy person to Pascal’s desk, and hastily wrote as follows:
“MR. EDITOR,
“As a witness of the scene that took place at Madame d’A——s’s house last night, allow me to make an important correction. It is only too true that extra cards were introduced into the pack, but that they were introduced by M. F—— is not proven, since he was NOT SEEN to do it. I know that appearances are against him, but he nevertheless possesses my entire confidence and esteem.
“BARON TRIGAULT.”
Meanwhile Madame Ferailleur and her son had exchanged significant glances. Their impressions were the same. This man could not be an enemy. When the baron had finished his letter, and had read it aloud, Pascal, who was deeply moved, exclaimed: “I do not know how to express my gratitude to you, monsieur; but if you really wish to serve me, pray don’t send that note. It would cause you a great deal of trouble and annoyance, and I should none the less be obliged to relinquish the practice of my profession—besides, I am especially anxious to be forgotten for a time.”
“So be it—I understand you; you hope to discover the traitor, and you do not wish to put him on his guard. I approve of your prudence. But remember my words: if you ever need a helping hand, rap at my door; and when you hold the necessary proofs, I will furnish you with the means of rendering your justification even more startling than the affront.” He prepared to go, but before crossing the threshold, he turned and said: “In future I shall watch the fingers of the player who sits on my left hand. And if I were in your place, I would obtain the notes from which that newspaper article was written. One never knows the benefit that may be derived, at a certain moment, from a page of writing.”
As he started off, Madame Ferailleur sprang from her chair. “Pascal,” she exclaimed, “that man knows something, and your enemies are his; I read it in his eyes. He, too, distrusts M. de Coralth.”
“I understood him, mother, and my mind is made up. I must disappear. From this moment Pascal Ferailleur no longer exists.”
That same evening two large vans were standing outside Madame Ferailleur’s house. She had sold her furniture without reserve, and was starting to join her son, who had already left for Le Havre, she said, in view of sailing to America.
VI.
“There are a number of patients waiting for me. I will drop in again about midnight. I still have several urgent visits to make.” Thus had Dr. Jodon spoken to Mademoiselle Marguerite; and yet, when he left the Hotel de Chalusse, after assuring himself that Casimir would have some straw spread over the street, the doctor quietly walked home. The visits he had spoken of merely existed in his imagination; but it was a part of his role to appear to be overrun with patients. To tell the truth, the only patient he had had to attend to that week was a superannuated porter, living in the Rue de la Pepiniere, and whom he visited twice a day, for want of something better to do. The remainder of his time was spent in waiting for patients who never came, and in cursing the profession of medicine, which was ruined, he declared, by excessive competition, combined with certain rules of decorum which hampered young practitioners beyond endurance.
However, if Dr. Jodon had devoted one-half of the time he spent in cursing and building castles in the air to study, he might have, perhaps, raised his little skill to the height of his immense ambition. But neither work nor patience formed any part of his system. He was a man of the present age, and wished to rise speedily with as little trouble as possible. A certain amount of display and assurance, a little luck, and a good deal of advertising would, in his opinion, suffice to bring about this result. It was with this conviction, indeed, that he had taken up his abode in the Rue de Courcelles, situated in one of the most aristocratic quarters of Paris. But so far, events had shown his theory to be incorrect. In spite of the greatest economy, very cleverly concealed, he had seen the little capital which constituted his entire fortune dwindle away. He had originally possessed but twenty thousand francs, a sum which in no wise corresponded with his lofty pretensions. He had paid his rent that very morning; and he could not close his eyes to the