CLASSIC MYSTERIES - The Émile Gaboriau Edition (Detective Novels & Murder Cases). Emile Gaboriau
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which penetrated my mind in spite of my endeavors to dispel it. Have courage: we two can fight the world and silence our enemies. You shall be saved, aunt: only trust in me.”
The Marquis of Clameran was agreeably surprised that evening by receiving a letter from Mme. Fauvel, saying that she consented to everything, but must have a little time to carry out the plan.
Madeleine, she said, could not break off her engagement with M. Bertomy in a day. M. Fauvel would make objections, for he had an affection for Prosper, and had tacitly approved of the match. It would be wiser to leave to time the smoothing away of certain obstacles which a sudden attack might render insurmountable.
A line from Madeleine, at the bottom of the letter, assured him that she fully concurred with her aunt.
Poor girl! she did not spare herself. The next day she took Prosper aside, and forced from him the fatal promise to shun her in the future, and to take upon himself the responsibility of breaking their engagement.
He implored Madeleine to at least explain the reason of this banishment, which destroyed all of his hopes for happiness.
She quietly replied that her peace of mind and honor depended upon his blind obedience to her will.
He left her with death in his soul.
As he went out of the house, the marquis entered.
Yes, he had the audacity to come in person, to tell Mme. Fauvel that, now he had the promise of herself and Madeleine, he would consent to wait awhile.
He himself saw the necessity of patience, knowing that he was not liked by the banker.
Having the aunt and niece on his side, or rather in his power, he was certain of success. He said to himself that the moment would come when a deficit impossible to be paid would force them to hasten the wedding.
Raoul did all he could to bring matters to a crisis.
Mme. Fauvel went sooner than usual to her country seat, and Raoul at once moved into his house at Vesinet. But living in the country did not lessen his expenses.
Gradually he laid aside all hypocrisy, and now only came to see his mother when he wanted money; and his demands were frequent and more exorbitant each time.
As for the marquis, he prudently absented himself, awaiting the propitious moment.
At the end of three weeks he met the banker at a friend’s, and was invited to dinner the next day.
Twenty people were seated at the table; and, as the dessert was being served, the banker suddenly turned to Clameran and said:
“I have a piece of news for you, monsieur. Have you any relatives of your name?”
“None that I know of, monsieur.”
“I am surprised. About a week ago, I became acquainted with another Marquis of Clameran.”
Although so hardened by crime, impudent enough to deny anything, Clameran was so taken aback that he sat with pale face and a blank look, silently staring at M. Fauvel.
But he soon recovered enough self-control to say hurriedly:
“Oh, indeed! That is strange. A Clameran may exist; but I cannot understand the title of marquis.”
M. Fauvel was not sorry to have the opportunity of annoying a guest whose aristocratic pretensions had often piqued him.
“Marquis or not,” he replied, “the Clameran in question seems to be able to do honor to the title.”
“Is he rich?”
“I have reason to suppose that he is very wealthy. I have been notified to collect for him four hundred thousand francs.”
Clameran had a wonderful faculty of self-control; he had so schooled himself that his face never betrayed what was passing in his mind. But this news was so startling, so strange, so pregnant of danger, that his usual assurance deserted him.
He detected a peculiar look of irony in the banker’s eye.
The only persons who noticed this sudden change in the marquis’s matter were Madeleine and her aunt. They saw him turn pale, and exchange a meaning look with Raoul.
“Then I suppose this new marquis is a merchant,” said Clameran after a moment’s pause.
“That I don’t know. All that I know is, that four hundred thousand francs are to be deposited to his account by some ship-owners at Havre, after the sale of the cargo of a Brazilian ship.”
“Then he comes from Brazil?”
“I do not know, but I can give you his Christian name.”
“I would be obliged.”
M. Fauvel arose from the table, and brought from the next room a memorandum-book, and began to read over the names written in it.
“Wait a moment,” he said, “let me see—the 22nd, no, it was later than that. Ah, here it is: Clameran, Gaston. His name is Gaston, monsieur.”
But this time Louis betrayed no emotion or alarm; he had had sufficient time to recover his self-possession, and nothing could not throw him off his guard.
“Gaston?” he queried, carelessly. “I know who he is now. He must be the son of my father’s sister, whose husband lived at Havana. I suppose, upon his return to France, he must have taken his mother’s name, which is more sonorous than his father’s, that being, if I recollect aright, Moirot or Boirot.”
The banker laid down his memorandum-book, and, resuming his seat, went on:
“Boirot or Clameran,” said he, “I hope to have the pleasure of inviting you to dine with him before long. Of the four hundred thousand francs which I was ordered to collect for him, he only wishes to draw one hundred, and tells me to keep the rest on running account. I judge from this that he intends coming to Paris.”
“I shall be delighted to make his acquaintance.”
Clameran broached another topic, and seemed to have entirely forgotten the news told him by the banker.
Although apparently engrossed in the conversation of his neighbor at the table, he closely watched Mme. Fauvel and her niece.
He saw that they were unable to conceal their agitation, and stealthily exchanged significant looks.
Evidently the same terrible idea had crossed their minds.
Madeleine seemed more nervous and startled than her aunt. When M. Fauvel uttered Gaston’s name, she saw Raoul begin to draw back in his chair and glance in a frightened manner toward the window, like a detected thief looking for means of escape.
Raoul, less experienced than his uncle, was thoroughly discountenanced. He, the original talker, the lion of a dinner-party, never at a loss for some witty speech, was now perfectly dumb; he sat anxiously watching Louis.
At last the dinner ended, and as the guests passed into the drawing-room, Clameran and Raoul managed to remain last in the dining-room.
When they were alone, they no longer attempted to conceal their anxiety.
“It is he!” said Raoul.
“I have no doubt of it.”
“Then all is lost; we had better make our escape.”
But a bold adventurer like Clameran had no idea of giving up the ship till forced to do so.
“Who knows what may happen?” he asked, thoughtfully. “There is hope yet. Why did not that muddle-headed banker tell us where this Clameran is to be found?”
Here he uttered a joyful exclamation. He saw M. Fauvel’s memorandum-book lying on the table.
“Watch!” he said to Raoul.
Seizing the note-book, he hurriedly turned over the leaves, and, in an undertone, read:
“Gaston,