The Greatest Murder Mysteries of Émile Gaboriau. Emile Gaboriau
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my dear Gaston, that thus far we have discussed every topic except the most important one?”
“Why do you look so solemn, Louis? What is the grave subject of which you speak?”
“Our father’s estate. Supposing you to be dead, I inherited, and have disposed of it.”
“Is that what you call a serious matter?” said Gaston with an amused smile.
“It certainly is very serious to me; as you have a right to half of the estate, I must account to you for it. You have—”
“I have,” interrupted Gaston, “a right to ask you never to allude to the subject again. It is yours by limitation.”
“I cannot accept it upon those terms.”
“But you must. My father only wished to have one of us inherit his property; we will be carrying out his wishes by not dividing it.”
Seeing that Louis’s face still remained clouded, he went on:
“Ah, I see what annoys you, my dear Louis; you are rich, and think that I am poor, and too proud to accept anything from you. Is it not so?”
Louis started at this question. How could he reply so as not to commit himself?
“I am not rich,” he finally said.
“I am delighted to hear it,” cried Gaston. “I wish you were as poor as Job, so that I might share what I have with you.”
Dinner over, Gaston rose and said:
“Come, I want to visit with you, my—that is, our property. You must see everything about the place.”
Louis uneasily followed his brother. It seemed to him that Gaston obstinately shunned anything like an explanation.
Could all this brotherly confidence be assumed to blind him as to his real plans? Why did Gaston inquire into his brother’s past and future, without revealing his own? Louis’s suspicions were aroused, and he regretted his over-hasty seeking of Gaston.
But his calm, smiling face betrayed none of the anxious thoughts which filled his mind.
He was called upon to praise everything. First he was taken over the house and servants’ quarters, then to the stable, kennels, and the vast, beautifully laid-out garden. Across a pretty meadow was the iron-foundery in full operation. Gaston, with all the enthusiasm of a new proprietor, explained everything, down to the smallest file and hammer.
He detailed all his projects; how he intended substituting wood for coal, and how, besides having plenty to work the forge, he could make immense profits by felling the forest trees, which had hitherto been considered impracticable. He would cut a hundred cords of wood that year.
Louis approved of everything; but only answered in monosyllables, “Ah, indeed! excellent idea; quite a success.”
His mind was tortured by a new pain; he was paying no attention to Gaston’s remarks, but enviously comparing all this wealth and prosperity with his own poverty.
He found Gaston rich, respected, and happy, enjoying the price of his own labor and industry; whilst he—Never had he so cruelly felt the misery of his own condition; and he had brought it on himself, which only made it more aggravating.
After a lapse of twenty-three years, all the envy and hate he had felt toward Gaston, when they were boys together, revived.
“What do you think of my purchase?” asked Gaston, when the inspection was over.
“I think you possess, my dear brother, a most splendid piece of property, and on the loveliest spot in the world. It is enough to excite the envy of any poor Parisian.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Certainly.”
“Then, my dear Louis,” said Gaston joyfully, “this property is yours, as well as mine. You like this lovely Bearn more than the dusty streets of Paris? I am very glad that you prefer the comforts of living on your own estate, to the glitter and show of a city life. Everything you can possibly want is here, at your command. And, to employ our time, there is the foundery. Does my plan suit you?”
Louis was silent. A year ago this proposal would have been eagerly welcomed. How gladly he would have seized this offer of a comfortable, luxurious home, after having been buffeted about the world so long! How delightful it would have been to turn over a new leaf, and become an honest man!
But he saw with disappointment and rage that he would now be compelled to decline it.
He was no longer free. He could not leave Paris.
He had become entangled in one of those hazardous plots which are fatal if neglected, and whose failure generally leads the projector to the galleys.
Alone, he could easily remain where he was: but he was trammelled with an accomplice.
“You do not answer me,” said Gaston with surprise; “are there any obstacles to my plans?”
“None.”
“What is the matter, then?”
“The matter is, my dear brother, that the salary of an office which I hold in Paris is all that I have to support me.”
“Is that your only objection? Yet you just now wanted to pay me back half of the family inheritance! Louis, that is unkind; you are not acting as a brother should.”
Louis hung his head. Gaston was unconsciously telling the truth.
“I should be a burden to you, Gaston.”
“A burden! Why, Louis, you must be mad! Did I not tell you I am very rich? Do you suppose that you have seen all I possess? This house and the iron-works do not constitute a fourth of my fortune. Do you think that I would have risked my twenty years’ savings in an experiment of this sort? The forge may be a failure; and then what would become of me, if I had nothing else?
“I have invested money which yields me an income of eighty thousand francs. Besides, my grants in Brazil have been sold, and my agent has already deposited four hundred thousand francs to my credit as part payment.”
Louis trembled with pleasure. He was, at last, to know the extent of the danger hanging over him. Gaston had finally broached the subject which had caused him so much anxiety, and he determined that it should now be explained before their conversation ended.
“Who is your agent?” he asked with assumed indifference.
“My old partner at Rio. He deposited the money at my Paris banker’s.”
“Is this banker a friend of yours?”
“No; I never heard of him until my banker at Pau recommended him to me as an honest, reliable man; he is immensely wealthy, and stands at the head of the financiers in Paris. His name is Fauvel, and he lives on the Rue de Provence.”
Although prepared for hearing almost anything, and determined to betray no agitation, Louis turned deadly pale.
“Do you know this banker?” asked Gaston.
“Only by reputation.”
“Then we can make his acquaintance together; for I intend accompanying you to Paris, when you return there to settle up your affairs before establishing yourself here to superintend the forge.”
At this unexpected announcement of a step which would prove his utter ruin, Louis was stupefied. In answer to his brother’s questioning look, he gasped out.
“You are going to Paris?”
“Certainly I am. Why should I not go?”
“There is no reason why.”
“I hate Paris, although I have never been there. But I am called there by interest, by sacred duties,” he hesitatingly said. “The truth is, I understand that Mlle. de la Verberie lives in Paris, and I wish to see her.”