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

Mademoiselle Marguerite’s embarrassment was extreme. Her cheeks were crimson, and she trembled like a leaf. Still her attitude was proud, generous enthusiasm glowed in her dark eyes, and her tone of voice revealed the serenity of a lofty soul ready to dare anything for a just and noble cause. This striking contrast—this struggle between girlish timidity and a lover’s virgil energy, endowed her with a strange and powerful charm, which the photographer made no attempt to resist. Unusual as was the request, he did not hesitate. “I am ready to do what you desire, madame,” he replied, bowing again.

“Oh! monsieur, how can I ever thank you?”

He did not stop to listen to her thanks. Not wishing to return to the reception-room, where five or six clients were impatiently awaiting their turn, he called one of his subordinates, and ordered him to bring the necessary apparatus at once. While he was speaking, Mademoiselle Marguerite paused; but, as soon as his instructions were concluded, she remarked: “Perhaps you are too hasty, sir. You have not allowed me to explain; and perhaps what I desire is impossible. I came on the impulse of the moment, without any knowledge on the subject. Before you set to work, I must know if what you can do will answer my purpose.”

“Speak, madame.”

“Will the copy you obtain be precisely like the original in every particular?”

“In every particular.”

“The writing will be the same—exactly the same?”

“Absolutely the same.”

“So like, that if one of your photographs should be presented to the person who wrote this letter——”

“He could no more deny his handwriting than he could if some one handed him the letter itself.”

“And the operation will leave no trace on the original?”

“None.”

A smile of triumph played upon Mademoiselle Marguerite’s lips. It was as she had thought; the defensive plan which she had suddenly conceived was a good one. “One more question, sir,” she resumed. “I am only a poor, ignorant girl: excuse me, and give me the benefit of your knowledge. This letter will be returned to its author to-morrow, and he will burn it. But afterward, in case of any difficulty—in case of a law-suit—or in case it should be necessary for me to prove certain things which one might establish by means of this letter, would one of your photographs be admitted as evidence?”

The photographer did not answer for a moment. Now he understood Mademoiselle Marguerite’s motive, and the importance she attached to a facsimile. But this imparted an unexpected gravity to the service he was called upon to perform. He therefore wished some time for reflection, and he scrutinized Mademoiselle Marguerite as if he were trying to read her very soul. Was it possible that this young girl, with such a pure and noble brow, and with such frank, honest eyes, could be meditating any cowardly, dishonorable act? No, he could not believe it. In whom, or in what, could he trust if such a countenance deceived him? “My facsimile would certainly be admitted as evidence,” he replied at last; “and this would not be the first time that the decision of a court has depended on proofs which have been photographed by me.”

Meanwhile, his assistant had returned, bringing the necessary apparatus with him. When all was ready, the photographer asked her, “Will you give me the letter, madame?”

She hesitated for a second—only for a second. The man’s honest, kindly face told her that he would not betray her, that he would rather give her assistance. So she handed him the Marquis de Valorsay’s letter, saying, with melancholy dignity, “It is my happiness and my future that I place in your hands—and I have no fears.”

He read her thoughts, and understood that she either dared not ask for a pledge of secrecy, or else that she thought it unnecessary. He took pity on her, and his last doubt fled. “I shall read this letter, madame,” said he, “but I am the only person who will read it. I give you my word on that! No one but myself will see the proofs.”

Greatly moved, she offered him her hand, and simply said, “Thanks; I am more than repaid.”

To obtain an absolutely perfect facsimile of a letter is a delicate and sometimes lengthy operation. However, at the end of about twenty minutes, the photographer possessed two negatives that promised him perfect proofs. He looked at them with a satisfied air; and then returning the letter to Mademoiselle Marguerite, he said, “In less than three days the facsimiles will be ready, madame; and if you will tell me to what address I ought to send them——”

She trembled on hearing these words, and quickly answered, “Don’t send them, sir—keep them carefully. Great heavens! all would be lost if it came to the knowledge of any one. I will send for them, or come myself.” And, feeling the extent of her obligation, she added, “But I will not go without introducing myself—I am Mademoiselle Marguerite de Chalusse.” And, thereupon, she went off, leaving the photographer surprised at the adventure and dazzled by his strange visitor’s beauty.

Rather more than an hour had elapsed since Marguerite left M. de Fondege’s house. “How time flies!” she murmured, quickening her pace as much as she could without exciting remark—“how time flies!” But, hurried as she was, she stopped and spent five minutes at a shop in the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette where she purchased some black ribbon and a few other trifles. How else could she explain and justify her absence, if the servants, who had probably discovered she had gone out, chanced to speak of it?

But her heart throbbed as if it would burst as she ascended the General’s staircase, and anxiety checked her breathing as she rang the bell. “What if Madame de Fondege and Madame Leon had returned, and the abstraction of the letter been discovered!” Fortunately, Madame de Fondege required more than an hour to purchase the materials for the elaborate toilette she had dreamt of. The ladies were still out, and Mademoiselle Marguerite found everything in the same condition as she had left it. She carefully placed the letter in the drawer again, locked it, and put the key in the pocket of Madame Leon’s dress. Then she breathed freely once more; and, for the first time in six days, she felt something very like joy in her heart. Now she had no fear of the Marquis de Valorsay. She had him in her power. He would destroy his letter the next day, and think that he was annihilating all proofs of his infamy. Not so. At the decisive moment, at the very moment of his triumph, she would produce the photograph of this letter, and crush him. And she—only a young girl—had outwitted this consummate scoundrel! “I have not been unworthy of Pascal,” she said to herself, with a flash of pride.

However, her nature was not one of those weak ones which are become intoxicated by the first symptom of success, and then relax in their efforts. When her excitement had abated a little, she was inclined to disparage rather than to exaggerate the advantage she had gained. What she desired was a complete, startling, incontestable victory. It was not enough to prove Valorsay’s GUILT—she was