Other People's Money by Emile Gaboriau (ebook smartphone txt) 📕

“You are very anxious to marry my sister, sir,” he commenced.

During their short walk M. Costeclar had recovered himself.  He had resumed all his impertinent assurance.  Looking at Maxence from head to foot with any thing but a friendly look,

“It is my dearest and my most ardent wish, sir,” he replied.

“Very well.  But you must have noticed the very slight success, to use no harsher word, of your assiduities.”

“Alas!”

“And, perhaps, you will judge, like myself, that it would be the act of a gentleman to withdraw in presence of such positive repugnance?”

An ugly smile was wandering upon M. Costeclar’s pale lips.

“Is it at the request of your sister, sir, that you make me this communication?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you aware whether your sister has some inclination that may be an obstacle to the realization of my hopes?”

“Sir!”

“Excuse me!  What I say has nothing to offend.  It might very well be that your sister, before I had the honor of being introduced to her, had already fixed her choice.”

He spoke so loud, that Maxence looked sharply around to see whether there was not some one within hearing.  He saw no one but a young man, who seemed quite absorbed reading a newspaper.

“But, sir,” he resumed, “what would you answer, if I, the brother of the young lady whom you wish to marry against her wishes,—I called upon you to cease your assiduities?”

M. Costeclar bowed ceremoniously,

“I would answer you, sir,” he uttered, “that your father’s assent is sufficient for me.  My suit has nothing but is honorable.  Your sister may not like me:  that is a misfortune; but it is not irreparable.  When she knows me better, I venture to hope that she will overcome her unjust prejudices.  Therefore I shall persist.”

Maxence insisted no more.  He was irritated at M. Costeclar’s coolness; but it was not his intention to push things further.

“There will always be time,” he thought, “to resort to violent measures.”

But when he reported this conversation to his sister,

“It is clear,” he said, “that, between our father and that man, there is a community of interests which I am unable to discover.  What business have they together?  In what respect can your marriage either help or injure them?  I must see, try and find out exactly who is this Costeclar:  the deuse take him!”

He started out the same day, and had not far to go.

M. Costeclar was one of those personalities which only bloom in Paris, and are only met in Paris,—the same as cab-horses, and young ladies with yellow chignons.

He knew everybody, and everybody knew him.

He was well known at the bourse, in all the principal restaurants, where he called the waiters by their first names, at the box-office of the theatres, at all the pool-rooms, and at the European Club, otherwise called the Nomadic Club, of which he was a member.

He operated at the bourse:  that was sure.  He was said to own a third interest in a stock-broker’s office.  He had a good deal of business with M. Jottras, of the house of Jottras and Brother, and M. Saint Pavin, the manager of a very popular journal, “The Financial Pilot.”

It was further known that he had on Rue Vivienne, a magnificent apartment, and that he had successively honored with his liberal protection Mlle. Sidney of the Varieties, and Mme. Jenny Fancy, a lady of a certain age already, but so situated as to return to her lovers in notoriety what they gave her in good money.  So much did Maxence learn without difficulty.  As to any more precise details, it was impossible to obtain them.  To his pressing questions upon M. Costeclar’s antecedents,

“He is a perfectly honest man,” answered some.

“He is simply a speculator,” affirmed others.

But all agreed that he was a sharp one; who would surely make his fortune, and without passing through the police-courts, either.

“How can our father and such a man be so intimately connected?” wondered Maxence and his sister.

And they were lost in conjectures, when suddenly, at an hour when he never set his foot in the house, M. Favoral appeared.

Throwing a letter upon his daughter’s lap,

“See what I have just received from Costeclar,” he said in a hoarse voice.  “Read.”

She read, “Allow me, dear friend, to release you from your engagement.  Owing to circumstances absolutely beyond my control, I find myself compelled to give up the honor of becoming a member of your family.”

What could have happened?

Standing in the middle of the parlor, the cashier of the Mutual Credit held, bowed down beneath his glance, his wife and children, Mme. Favoral trembling, Maxence starting in mute surprise, and Mlle. Gilberte, who needed all the strength of her will to control the explosion of her immense joy.

Every thing in M. Favoral betrayed, nevertheless, much more the excitement of a disaster than the rage of a deception.

Never had his family seen him thus,—livid, his cravat undone, his hair wet with perspiration, and clinging to his temples.

“Will you please explain this letter?” he asked at last.

And, as no one answered him, he took up that letter again from the table where Mlle. Gilberte had laid it, and commenced reading it again, scanning each syllable, as if in hopes of discovering in each word some hidden meaning.

“What did you say to Costeclar?” he resumed, “what did you do to him to make him take such a determination?”

“Nothing,” answered Maxence and Mlle. Gilberte.

The hope of being at last rid of that man inspired Mme. Favoral with something like courage.

“He has doubtless understood,” she meekly suggested, “that he could not triumph over our daughter’s repugnance.”

But her husband interrupted her,

“No,” he uttered, “Costeclar is not the man to trouble himself about the ridiculous caprices of a little girl.  There is something else.  But what is it?  Come, if you know it, any of you, if you suspect it even, speak, say it.  You must see that I am in a state of fearful anxiety.”

It was the first time that he thus allowed something to appear of what was passing within him, the first time that he ever complained.

“M.  Costeclar