Baron Trigault's Vengeance. Emile Gaboriau
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choose his wife from among all the heiresses of France. Why should he address his attentions in particular to the woman you love? Ah! if he were poor—if his fortune were impaired—if he felt the need of regilding his escutcheon, like my son-in-law——”
He paused; there was a rap at the door. The baron called out: “Come in,” and a valet appeared, and informed his master that the Marquis de Valorsay wished to speak with him.
It was the enemy! Pascal’s features were distorted with rage; but he did not stir—he did not utter a word. “Ask the marquis into the next room,” said the baron. “I will join him there at once.” Then as the servant retired, the baron turned to Pascal and said: “Well, M. Ferailleur, do you divine my intentions?”
“I think so, monsieur. You probably intend me to hear the conversation you are going to have with M. de Valorsay.”
“Exactly. I shall leave the door open, and you can listen.”
This word, “listen,” was uttered without bitterness, or even reproach; and yet Pascal could not help blushing and hanging his head. “I wish to prove to you that your suspicions are without foundation,” pursued the baron. “Rest assured that I shall prove this conclusively. I will conduct the conversation in the form of a cross-examination, and after the marquis’s departure, you will be obliged to confess that you were wrong.”
“Or you, that I am right?”
“So be it. Any one is liable to be mistaken, and I am not obstinate.”
He was about to leave the room, when Pascal detained him. “I scarcely know how to testify my gratitude even now, monsieur, and yet—if I dared—if I did not fear to abuse your kindness, I should ask one more favor.”
“Speak, Monsieur Ferailleur.”
“It is this, I do not know the Marquis de Valorsay; and if, instead of leaving the door wide open, you would partially close it, I should hear as distinctly, and I could also see him.”
“Agreed,” replied the baron. And, opening the door, he passed into the dining-room, with his right hand cordially extended, and saying, in his most genial tones: “Excuse me, my dear friend, for keeping you waiting. I received your letter this morning, and I was expecting you, but some unexpected business required my attention just now. Are you quite well?”
As the baron entered the room, the marquis had stepped quickly forward to meet him. Either he was inspired with fresh hope, or else he had wonderful powers of self-control, for never had he looked more calm—never had his face evinced haughtier indifference, more complete satisfaction with himself, and greater contempt for others. He was dressed with even more than usual care, and in perfect taste as well; moreover, his valet had surpassed himself in dressing his hair—for one would have sworn that his locks were still luxuriant. If he experienced any secret anxiety, it only showed itself in a slightly increased stiffness of his right leg—the limb broken in hunting. “I ought rather to inquire concerning your own health,” he remarked. “You seem greatly disturbed; your cravat is untied.” And, pointing to the broken china scattered about the floor, he added: “On seeing this, I asked myself if an accident had not happened.”
“The baroness was taken suddenly ill at the breakfast table. Her fainting fit startled me a little. But it was a mere trifle. She has quite recovered already, and you may rely upon her applauding your victory at Vincennes to-day. She has I don’t know how many hundred louis staked upon your horses.”
The marquis’s countenance assumed an expression of cordial regret. “I am very sorry, upon my word!” he exclaimed. “But I sha’n’t take part in the races at Vincennes. I have withdrawn my horses. And, in future, I shall have nothing to do with racing.”
“Nonsense!”
“It is the truth, however. I have been led to this determination by the infamous slander which has been circulated respecting me.”
This answer was a mere trifle, but it somewhat shook Baron Trigault’s confidence. “You have been slandered!” he muttered.
“Abominably. Last Sunday the best horse in my stables, Domingo, came in third. He was the favorite in the ring. You can understand the rest. I have been accused of manoeuvering to have my own horse beaten. People have declared that it was my interest he should be beaten, and that I had an understanding with my jockey to that effect. This is an every-day occurrence, I know very well; but, as regards myself, it is none the less an infamous lie!”
“Who has dared to circulate such a report?”
“Oh, how can I tell? It is a fact, however, that the story has been circulated everywhere, but in such a cautious manner that there is no way of calling the authors to account. They have even gone so far as to say that this piece of knavery brought me in an enormous sum, and that I used Rochecotte’s, Kervaulieu’s, and Coralth’s names in betting against my own horse.”
The baron’s agitation was so great that M. de Valorsay observed it, though he did not understand the cause. Living in the same society with the Baroness Trigault, and knowing her story, he thought that Coralth’s name might, perhaps, have irritated the baron. “And so,” he quickly continued, “don’t be surprised if, during the coming week, you see the sale of my horses announced.”
“What! you are going to sell——”
“All my horses—yes, baron. I have nineteen; and it will be very strange if I don’t get eight or ten thousand louis for the lot. Domingo alone is worth more than forty thousand francs.”
To talk of selling—of realizing something you possess—rings ominously in people’s ears. The person who talks of selling proclaims his need of money—and often his approaching ruin. “It will save you at least a hundred and fifty or sixty thousand francs a year,” observed the baron.
“Double it and you won’t come up to the mark. Ah! my dear baron, you have yet to learn that there is nothing so ruinous as a racing stable. It’s worse than gambling; and women, in comparison, are a real economy. Ninette costs me less than Domingo, with his jockey, his trainer, and his grooms. My manager declares that the twenty-three thousand francs I won last year, cost me at least fifty thousand.”
Was he boasting, or was he speaking the truth? The baron was engaged in a rapid calculation. “What does Valorsay spend a year?” he was saying to himself. “Let us say two hundred and fifty thousand francs for his stable; forty thousand francs for Ninette Simplon; eighty thousand for his household expenses, and at least thirty thousand for personal matters, travelling, and play. All this amounts to something like four hundred and thirty thousand francs a year. Does his income equal that sum? Certainly not. Then he must have been living on the principal—he is ruined.”
Meanwhile the marquis gayly continued: “You see, I’m going to make a change in my mode of life. Ah! it surprises you! But one must make an end of it, sooner or later. I begin to find a bachelor life not so very pleasant after all; there is rheumatism in prospect, and my digestion is becoming impaired—in short, I feel that it is time for marriage, baron; and—I am about to marry.”
“You!”
“Yes, I. What, haven’t you heard of it, yet? It has been talked of at the club for three days or more.”
“No, this is the first intimation I have received of it. It is true, however, that I have not been to the club for three days. I have made a wager with Kami-Bey, you know—that rich Turk—and as our sittings are eight or ten hours long, we play in his apartments at the Grand Hotel. And so you are to be married,” the baron continued, after a slight pause. “Ah, well! I know one person who won’t be pleased.”
“Who, pray?”
“Ninette Simplon.”
M. de Valorsay laughed heartily. “As if that would make any difference to me!” he exclaimed. And then in a most confidential manner he resumed: “She will soon be consoled. Ninette Simplon is a shrewd girl—a girl whom I have