Other People's Money. Emile Gaboriau
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Gilberte stepped forward.
“I’ll stand warrant,” she said, “for Maxence’s resolutions.”
Her father did not permit her to proceed.
“Enough,” he interrupted somewhat harshly. “Mind your own business, Gilberte! I have to speak to you too.”
“To me, father?”
“Yes.”
He walked up and down three or four times through the parlor, as if to calm his irritation. Then planting himself straight before his daughter, his arms folded across his breast:
“You are eighteen years of age,” he said; “that is to say, it is time to think of your marriage. An excellent match offers itself.”
She shuddered, stepped back, and, redder than a peony:
“A match!” she repeated in a tone of immense surprise.
“Yes, and which suits me.”
“But I do not wish to marry, father.”
“All young girls say the same thing; and, as soon as a pretender offers himself, they are delighted. Mine is a fellow of twenty-six, quite good looking, amiable, witty, and who has had the greatest success in society.”
“Father, I assure you that I do not wish to leave mother.”
“Of course not. He is an intelligent, hard-working man, destined, everybody says, to make an immense fortune. Although he is rich already, for he holds a controlling interest in a stock-broker’s firm, he works as hard as any poor devil. I would not be surprised to hear that he makes half a million of francs a year. His wife will have her carriage, her box at the opera, diamonds, and dresses as handsome as Mlle. de Thaller’s.”
“Eh! What do I care for such things?”
“It’s understood. I’ll present him to you on Saturday.”
But Mlle. Gilberte was not one of those young girls who allow themselves, through weakness or timidity, to become engaged, and so far engaged, that later, they can no longer withdraw. A discussion being unavoidable, she preferred to have it out at once.
“A presentation is absolutely useless, father,” she declared resolutely.
“Because?”
“I have told you that I did not wish to marry.”
“But if it is my will?”
“I am ready to obey you in every thing except that.”
“In that as in every thing else,” interrupted the cashier of the Mutual Credit in a thundering voice.
And, casting upon his wife and children a glance full of defiance and threats:
“In that, as in every thing else,” he repeated, “because I am the master; and I shall prove it. Yes, I will prove it; for I am tired to see my family leagued against my authority.”
And out he went, slamming the door so violently, that the partitions shook.
“You are wrong to resist your father thus,” murmured the weak Mme. Favoral.
The fact is, that the poor woman could not understand why her daughter refused the only means at her command to break off with her miserable existence.
“Let him present you this young man,” she said. “You might like him.”
“I am sure I shall not like him.”
She said this in such a tone, that the light suddenly flashed upon Mme. Favoral’s mind.
“Heavens!” she murmured. “Gilberte, my darling child, have you then a secret which your mother does not know?”
XIV
Yes, Mlle. Gilberte had her secret—a very simple one, though, chaste, like herself, and one of those which, as the old women say, must cause the angels to rejoice.
The spring of that year having been unusually mild, Mme. Favoral and her daughter had taken the habit of going daily to breathe the fresh air in the Place Royale. They took their work with them, crotchet or knitting; so that this salutary exercise did not in any way diminish the earnings of the week. It was during these walks that Mlle. Gilberte had at last noticed a young man, unknown to her, whom she met every day at the same place.
Tall and robust, he had a grand look, notwithstanding his modest clothes, the exquisite neatness of which betrayed a sort of respectable poverty. He wore his full beard; and his proud and intelligent features were lighted up by a pair of large black eyes, of those eyes whose straight and clear look disconcerts hypocrites and knaves.
He never failed, as he passed by Mlle. Gilberte, to look down, or turn his head slightly away; and in spite of this, in spite of the expression of respect which she had detected upon his face, she could not help blushing.
“Which is absurd,” she thought; “for after all, what on earth do I care for that young man?”
The infallible instinct, which is the experience of inexperienced young girls, told her that it was not chance alone that brought this stranger in her way. But she wished to make sure of it. She managed so well, that each day of the following week, the hour of their walk was changed. Sometimes they went out at noon, sometimes after four o’clock.
But, whatever the hour, Mlle. Gilberte, as she turned the corner of the Rue des Minimes, noticed her unknown admirer under the arcades, looking in some shop-window, and watching out of the corner of his eye. As soon as she appeared, he left his post, and hurried fast enough to meet her at the gate of the Place.
“It is a persecution,” thought Mlle. Gilberte.
How, then, had she not spoken of it to her mother? Why had she not said any thing to her the day, when, happening, to look out of the window, she saw her “persecutor” passing before the house, or, evidently looking in her direction?
“Am I losing my mind?” she thought, seriously irritated against herself. “I will not think of him any more.”
And yet she was thinking of him, when one afternoon, as her mother and herself were working, sitting upon a bench, she saw the stranger come and sit down not far from them. He was accompanied by an elderly man with long white mustaches, and wearing the rosette of the Legion of Honor.
“This is an insolence,” thought the young girl, whilst seeking a pretext to ask her mother to change their seats.
But already had the young man and his elderly friend seated themselves, and so arranged their chairs, that Mlle. Gilberte could not miss a word of what they were about to say. It was the young man who spoke first.
“You know me as well as I know myself, my dear count,” he commenced—“you who were my poor father’s best friend, you who dandled me upon your knees when I was a child, and who has never lost sight of me.”
“Which is to say, my boy, that I answer for you as for myself,” put in the old man. “But go on.”
“I am twenty-six years old. My name is Yves-Marius-Genost de Tregars. My family, which is one of the oldest of Brittany, is allied to all the great families.”
“Perfectly exact,” remarked the old gentleman.
“Unfortunately, my fortune is not on a par with my nobility. When my mother died, in 1856, my father, who worshiped her, could no longer bear, in the intensity of his grief, to remain at the Chateau de Tregars where he had spent his whole life. He came to Paris, which he could well afford, since we were rich then, but unfortunately, made acquaintances who soon inoculated him with the fever of the age. They proved to him that he was mad