Baron Trigault's Vengeance by Emile Gaboriau (you can read anyone txt) 📕

penetration had served her well. All this talk about anxious relatives had only been an excuse invented by Madame Leon to enable her to absent herself whenever occasion required. “I regret,” continued the letter, “that you did not find me at home, for I have instructions of the greatest importance to give you. We are approaching the decisive moment. I have formed a plan which will completely, and forever, efface all remembrance of that cursed P. F., in case any one condescended to think of him after the disgrace we fastened upon him the other evening at the house of Madame d’Argeles.” P. F.—these initials of course meant Pascal Ferailleur. Then he was innocent, and she held an undeniable, irrefutable proof of his innocence in her hands. How coolly and impudently Valorsay confessed his atrocious crime! “A bold stroke is in contemplation which, if no unfortunate and well-nigh impossible accident occur, will throw the girl into my arms.” Marguerite shuddered. “The girl” referred to her, of course. “Thanks to the assistance of one of my friends,” added the letter “I can place this proud damsel in a perilous, terribly perilous position, from which she cannot possibly extricate herself unaided. But, just as she gives herself up for lost, I shall interpose. I shall save her; and it will be strange if gratitude does not work the necessary miracle in my favor. The plan is certain to succeed. Still, it will be all the better if the physician who attended M. de C—— in his last moments, and whom you spoke to me about (Dr. Jodon, if I remember rightly), will consent to lend us a helping hand. What kind of a man is he? If he is accessible to the seductive influence of a few thousand francs, I shall consider the business as good as concluded. Your conduct up to the present time has been a chef-d’oeuvre, for which you shall be amply compensated. You have cause to know that I am not ungrateful. Let the F’s continue their intrigues, and even pretend to favor them. I am not afraid of these people. I understand their game perfectly, and know why they wish my little one to marry their son. But when they become troublesome, I shall crush them like glass. In spite of these explanations, which I have just given you for your guidance, it is very necessary that I should see you. I shall look for you on Tuesday afternoon, between three and four o’clock. Above all, don’t fail to bring me the desired information respecting Dr. Jodon. I am, my dear madame, devotedly yours—V.” Below ran a postscript which read as follows: “When you come on Tuesday bring this letter with you. We will burn it together. Don’t imagine that I distrust you—but there is nothing so dangerous as letters.”

For some time Marguerite stood, stunned and appalled by the Marquis de Valorsay’s audacity, and by the language of this letter, which was at once so obscure and so clear, every line of it threatening her future. The reality surpassed her worst apprehensions, but realizing the gravity of the situation, she shook off the torpor stealing over her. She felt that every second was precious, and that she must act, and act at once. But what should she do? Simply return the letter to its place, and continue to act the role of a dupe, as if nothing had happened? No; that must not be. It would be madness not to seize this flagrant proof of the Marquis de Valorsay’s infamy. But on the other hand, if she kept the letter, Madame Leon would immediately discover its loss, and an explanation would be unavoidable. M. de Valorsay would be worsted, but not annihilated, and the plans which made the physician’s intervention a necessity would never be revealed. She thought of hastening to her friend the old magistrate; but he lived a long way off, and time was pressing. Besides she might not find him at home. Then she thought of going to a notary, to a judge. She would show them the letter, and they could take a copy of it. But no—this would do no good—the marquis could still deny it. She was becoming desperate, and was accusing herself of stupidity, when a sudden inspiration illumined her mind, turning night into day, as it were. “Oh, Pascal, we are saved!” she exclaimed. And without pausing to deliberate any longer, she threw a mantle over her shoulders, hastily tied on her bonnet, and hurried from the house, without saying a word to any one.

Unfortunately she was not acquainted with this part of Paris, and on reaching the Rue Pigalle she was at a loss for her way. Unwilling to waste any more time, she hastily entered a grocer’s shop at the corner of the Rue Pigalle and the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, and anxiously inquired: “Do you know any photographer in this neighborhood, monsieur?”

Her agitation made this question seem so singular that the grocer looked at her closely for a moment, as if to make sure that she was not jesting. “You have only to go down the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette,” he replied, “and on the left-hand side, at the foot of the hill, you will find the photographer Carjat.”

“Thank you.”

The grocer stepped to the door to watch her. “That girl’s certainly light-headed,” he thought.

Her demeanor was really so extraordinary that it attracted the attention of the passers-by. She saw this, and slackening her pace, tried to become more composed. At the spot the grocer had indicated, she perceived several show frames filled with photographs hanging on either side of a broad, open gateway, above which ran the name, “E. Carjat.” She went in, and seeing a man standing at the door of an elegant pavilion on the right-hand side of a large courtyard, she approached him, and asked for his employer.

“He is here,” replied the man. “Does madame come for a photograph?”

“Yes.”

“Then will madame be so kind as to pass in. She will not be obliged to wait long. There are only four or five persons before her.”

Four or five persons! How long would she be obliged to wait?—half an hour—two hours? She had not the slightest idea. But she DID know that she had not a second to lose, that Madame Leon might return at any moment, and find the letter missing; and, to crown all, she remembered now that she had not even locked the drawer again. “I cannot wait,” she said, imperiously. “I must speak to M. Carjat at once.”

“But——”

“At once, I tell you. Go and tell him that he must come.”

Her tone was so commanding, and there was so much authority in her glance, that the servant hesitated no longer. He ushered her into a little sitting-room, and said, “If madame will take a seat, I will call monsieur.”

She sank on to a chair, for her limbs were failing her. She was beginning to realize the strangeness of the step she had taken—to fear the result it might lead to—and to be astonished at her own boldness. But she had no time to prepare what she wished to say, for a man of five-and-thirty, wearing a mustache and imperial, and clad in a velvet coat, entered the room, and bowing with an air of surprise, exclaimed: “You desire to speak with me, madame?”

“I have a great favor to ask of you, monsieur.”

“Of me?”

She drew M. de Valorsay’s letter from her pocket, and, showing it to the photographer, she said, “I have come to you, monsieur, to ask you to photograph this letter—but at once—before me—and quickly—very quickly. The honor of two persons