File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (classic literature books TXT) 📕

your kind heart. Ah, unfeeling brute that I was, to squander upon creatures whom I despised, a fortune, of which each gold piece must have cost you a tear! Too late, too late! With you I might have been a good and happy man!”

He stopped, as if overcome by the conviction of his evil deeds, and seemed about to burst into tears.

“It is never too late to repent, my son,” murmured Mme. Fauvel in comforting tones.

“Ah, if I only could!” cried Raoul; “but no, it is too late! Besides, can I tell how long my good resolutions will last? This is not the first time that I have condemned myself pitilessly. Stinging remorse for each new fault made me swear to lead a better life, to sin no more. What was the result of these periodical repentances? At the first temptation I forgot my remorse and good resolutions. I am weak and mean-spirited, and you are not firm enough to govern my vacillating nature. While my intentions are good, my actions are villainous. The disproportion between my extravagant desires, and the means of gratifying them, is too great for me to endure any longer. Who knows to what fearful lengths my unfortunate disposition may lead me? However, I will take my fate in my own hands!” he finally said with a reckless laugh.

“Oh, Raoul, my dear son,” cried Mme. Fauvel in an agony of terror, “explain these dreadful words; am I not your mother? Tell me what distresses you; I am ready to hear the worst.”

He appeared to hesitate, as if afraid to crush his mother’s heart by the terrible blow he was about to inflict. Then in a voice of gloomy despair he replied:

“I am ruined.”

“Ruined?”

“Yes, ruined; and I have nothing more to expect or hope for. I am dishonored, and all through my own fault; no one is to be blamed but myself.”

“Raoul!”

“It is the sad truth, my poor mother; but fear nothing: I shall not trail in the dust the name which you bestowed upon me. I will at least have the courage not to survive my dishonor. Come, mother, don’t pity me, or distress yourself; I am one of those miserable beings fated to find no peace save in the arms of death. I came into the world with misfortune stamped upon my brow. Was not my birth a shame and disgrace to you? Did not the memory of my existence haunt you day and night, filling your soul with remorse? And now, when I am restored to you after many years’ separation, do I not prove to be a bitter curse instead of a blessing?”

“Ungrateful boy! Have I ever reproached you?”

“Never! Your poor Raoul will die with your beloved name on his lips; his last words a prayer to Heaven to heap blessings upon your head, and reward your long-suffering devotion.”

“Die? You die, my son!”

“It must be, my dear mother; honor compels it. I am condemned by judges from whose decision no appeal can be taken—my conscience and my will.”

An hour ago, Mme. Fauvel would have sworn that Raoul had made her suffer all the torments that a woman could endure; but now she felt that all her former troubles were nothing compared with her present agony.

“My God! Raoul, what have you been doing?”

“Money was intrusted to me: I gambled and lost it.”

“Was it a large sum?”

“No; but more than I can replace. My poor mother, have I not taken everything from you? Did you not give me your last jewel?”

“But M. de Clameran is rich. He placed his fortune at my disposal. I will order the carriage, and go to him.”

“But M. de Clameran is absent, and will not return to Paris until next week; and if I do not have the money this evening, I am lost. Alas! I have thought deeply, and, although it is hard to die so young, still fate wills it so.”

He pulled a pistol from his pocket, and, with a forced smile, said:

“This will settle everything.”

Mme. Fauvel was too excited and frightened to reflect upon the horror of Raoul’s behavior, and that these wild threats were a last resort for obtaining money. Forgetful of the past, careless of the future, her every thought concentrated upon the present, she comprehended but one fact: that her son was about to commit suicide, and that she was powerless to prevent the fearful deed.

“Oh, wait a little while my son!” she cried. “Andre will soon return home, and I will ask him to give me—How much did you lose?”

“Thirty thousand francs.”

“You shall have them to-morrow.”

“But I must have the money to-night.”

Mme. Fauvel wrung her hands in despair.

“Oh! why did you not come to me sooner, my son? Why did you not have confidence enough in me to come at once for help? This evening! There is no one in the house to open the money-safe; if it were not for that—if you had only come before Andre went out—”

“The safe!” cried Raoul, with sudden joy, as if this magic word had thrown a ray of light upon his dark despair; “do you know where the key is kept?”

“Yes: it is in the next room.”

“Well!” he exclaimed, with a bold look that caused Mme. Fauvel to lower her eyes, and keep silent.

“Give me the key, mother,” he said in a tone of entreaty.

“Oh, Raoul, Raoul!”

“It is my life I am asking of you.”

These words decided her; she snatched up a candle, rushed into her chamber, opened the secretary, and took out M. Fauvel’s key.

But, when about to hand it to Raoul, she seemed to suddenly see the enormity of what she was doing.

“Oh, Raoul! my son,” she murmured, “I cannot! Do not ask me to commit such a dreadful deed!”

He said nothing, but sadly turned to leave the room; then coming back to his mother said:

“Ah, well; it makes but little difference in the end! At least, you will give me one last kiss, before we part forever, my darling mother!”

“What could you do with the key, Raoul?” interrupted Mme. Fauvel. “You do not know the secret word of the buttons.”

“No; but I can try to open it without moving the buttons.”

“You know that money is never kept in the safe over-night.”

“Nevertheless, I can make the attempt. If I open