Other People's Money. Emile Gaboriau
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actually persuaded herself that she knew him better and better every day.
Already nearly a month had elapsed, when one afternoon, as she arrived on the Place Royal; she recognized him, standing near that same bench where they had so strangely exchanged their pledges.
He saw her coming too: she knew it by his looks. But, when she had arrived within a few steps of him, he walked off rapidly, leaving on the bench a folded newspaper.
Mme. Favoral wished to call him back and return it; but Mlle. Gilberte persuaded her not to.
“Never mind, mother,” said she, “it isn’t worth while; and, besides, the gentleman is too far now.”
But while getting out her embroidery, with that dexterity which never fails even the most naive girls, she slipped the newspaper in her work-basket.
Was she not certain that it had been left there for her?
As soon as she had returned home, she locked herself up in her own room, and, after searching for some time through the columns, she read at last:
“One of the richest and most intelligent manufacturers in Paris, M. Marcolet, has just purchased in Grenelle the vast grounds belonging to the Lacoche estate. He proposes to build upon them a manufacture of chemical products, the management of which is to be placed in the hands of M. de T—.
“Although still quite young, M. de T—— is already well known in connection with his remarkable studies on electricity. He was, perhaps, on the eve of solving the much controverted problem of electricity as a motive-power, when his father’s ruin compelled him to suspend his labors. He now seeks to earn by his personal industry the means of prosecuting his costly experiments.
“He is not the first to tread this path. Is it not to the invention of the machine bearing his name, that the engineer Giffard owes the fortune which enables him to continue to seek the means of steering balloons? Why should not M. de T—, who has as much skill and energy, have as much luck?”
“Ah! he does not forget me,” thought Mlle. Gilberte, moved to tears by this article, which, after all, was but a mere puff, written by Marcolet himself, without the knowledge of M. de Tregars.
She was still under that impression, thinking that Marius was already at work, when her father announced to her that he had discovered a husband, and enjoined her to find him to her liking, as he, the master, thought it proper that she should.
Hence the energy of her refusal.
But hence also, the imprudent vivacity which had enlightened Mme. Favoral, and which made her say:
“You hide something from me, Gilberte?”
Never had the young girl been so cruelly embarrassed as she was at this moment by this sudden and unforeseen perspicacity.
Would she confide to her mother?
She felt, indeed, no repugnance to do so, certain as she was, in advance, of the inexhaustible indulgence of the poor woman; and, besides, she would have been delighted to have some one at last with whom she could speak of Marius.
But she knew that her father was not the man to give up a project conceived by himself. She knew that he would return to the charge obstinately, without peace, and without truce. Now, as she was determined to resist with a no less implacable obstinacy, she foresaw terrible struggles, all sorts of violence and persecutions.
Informed of the truth, would Mme. Favoral have strength enough to resist these daily storms? Would not a time come, when, called upon by her husband to explain the refusals of her daughter, threatened, terrified, she would confess all?
At one glance Mlle. Gilberte estimated the danger; and, drawing from necessity an audacity which was very foreign to her nature:
“You are mistaken, dear mother,” said she, “I have concealed nothing from you.”
Not quite convinced, Mme. Favoral shook her head.
“Then,” said she, “you will yield.”
“Never!”
“Then there must be some reason you do not tell me.”
“None, except that I do not wish to leave you. Have you ever thought what would be your existence if I were no longer here? Have you ever asked yourself what would become of you, between my father, whose despotism will grow heavier with age, and my brother?”
Always prompt to defend her son:
“Maxence is not bad,” she interrupted: “he will know how to compensate me for the sorrows he has inflicted upon me.”
The young girl made a gesture of doubt:
“I wish it, dear mother,” said she, “with all my heart; but I dare not hope for it. His repentance to-night was great and sincere; but will he remember it to-morrow? Besides, don’t you know that father has fully resolved to separate himself from Maxence? Think of yourself alone here with father.”
Mme. Favoral shuddered at the mere idea.
“I would not suffer very long,” she murmured. Mlle. Gilberte kissed her.
“It is because I wish you to live to be happy that I refuse to marry,” she exclaimed. “Must you not have your share of happiness in this world? Let me manage. Who knows what compensations the future may have in store for you? Besides, this person whom father has selected for me does not suit me. A stock-jobber, who would think of nothing but money—who would examine my house-accounts as papa does yours, or else who would load me with cashmeres and diamonds, like Mme. de Thaller, to make of me a sign for his shop? No, no! I want no such man. So, mother dear, be brave, take sides boldly with your daughter, and we shall soon be rid of this would-be husband.”
“Your father will bring him to you: he said he would.”
“Well, he is a man of courage, if he returns three times.”
At this moment the parlor-door opened suddenly.
“What are you plotting here again?” cried the irritated voice of the master. “And you, Mme. Favoral, why don’t you go to bed?”
The poor slave obeyed, without saying a word. And, whilst making her way to her room:
“There is trouble ahead,” thought Mlle. Gilberte. “But bash! If I do have to suffer some, it won’t be great harm, after all. Surely Marius does not complain, though he gives up for me his dearest hopes, becomes the salaried employe of M. Marcolet, and thinks of nothing but making money—he so proud and so disinterested!”
Mlle. Gilberte’s anticipations were but too soon realized. When M. Favoral made his appearance the next morning, he had the sombre brow and contracted lips of a man who has spent the night ruminating a plan from which he does not mean to swerve.
Instead of going to his office, as usual, without saying a word to any one, he called his wife and children to the parlor; and, after having carefully bolted all the doors, he turned to Maxence.
“I want you,” he commenced, “to give me a list of your creditors. See that you forget none; and let it be ready as soon as possible.”
But Maxence was no longer the same man. After the terrible and well-deserved reproaches of his sister, a salutary revolution had taken place in him. During the preceding night, he had reflected over his conduct for the past four years; and he had been dismayed and terrified. His impression was like that of the drunkard, who, having become sober, remembers the ridiculous or degrading acts which he has committed under the influence of alcohol, and, confused and humiliated, swears never more to drink.
Thus Maxence had sworn to himself to change his mode of life, promising that it would be no drunkard’s oath, either. And his attitude and his looks showed the pride of great resolutions.
Instead of lowering his eyes before the irritated glance of M. Favoral, and stammering excuses and vague promises: