Caught in the Net by Emile Gaboriau (the ebook reader .txt) 📕

Ever since Mascarin’s visit, the Count de Mussidan had been in a deplorable state of mind. Forgetting the injury to his foot, he passed the night pacing up and down the library, cudgelling his brains for some means of breaking the meshes of the net in which he was entangled. He knew the necessity for immediate action, for he felt sure that this demand would only be the forerunner of numerous others of a similar character. He thought over and dismissed many schemes. Sometimes he had almost decided to go to the police authorities and make a clean breast; then the idea of placing the affair in the hands of a private detective occurred to him; but the more he deliberated, the more he realized the strength of the cord that bound him, and the scandal which exposure would cause. This long course of thought had in some measure softened the bitterness of his wrath, and he was able to receive his old friend M. de Clinchain with some degree of calmness. He was not at all surprised at the receipt of the anonymous letter,—indeed, he had expected that a blow would be struck in that direction. Still immersed in thought, M. de Mussidan hardly took heed of his wife’s presence, and he still paced the room, uttering a string of broken phrases. This excited the attention of the Countess, for her own threatened position caused her to be on the alert.

“What is annoying you, Octave?” asked she. “Surely, not M. de Clinchain’s attack of indigestion?”

For many years the Count had been accustomed to that taunting and sarcastic voice, but this feeble joke at such a moment was more than he could endure.

“Don’t address me in that manner,” said he angrily.

“What is the matter—are you not well?”

“Madame!”

“Will you have the kindness to tell me what has taken place?”

The color suffused the Count’s face, and his rage burst forth the more furiously from his having had to suppress it so long; and coming to a halt before the chair in which the Countess was lounging, his eyes blazing with hate and anger, he exclaimed,—

“All I wish to tell you is, that De Breulh-Faverlay shall not marry our daughter.”

Madame de Mussidan was secretly delighted at this reply, for it showed her that half the task required of her by Dr. Hortebise had been accomplished without her interference; but in order to act cautiously, she began at once to object, for a woman’s way is always at first to oppose what she most desires.

“You are laughing at me, Count!” said she. “Where can we hope to find so good a match again?”

“You need not be afraid,” returned the Count, with a sneer; “you shall have another son-in-law.”

These words sent a pang through the heart of the Countess. Was it an allusion to the past? or had the phrase dropped from her husband’s lips accidentally? or had he any suspicion of the influence that had been brought to bear upon her? She, however, had plenty of courage, and would rather meet misfortune face to face than await its coming in dread.

“Of what other son-in-law are you speaking?” asked she negligently. “Has any other suitor presented himself? May I ask his name? Do you intend to settle my child’s future without consulting me?”

“I do, madame.”

A contemptuous smile crossed the face of the Countess, which goaded the Count to fury.

“Am I not the master here?” exclaimed he in accents of intense rage. “Am I not driven to the exercise of my power by the menaces of a pack of villains who have wormed out the hidden secrets which have overshadowed my life from my youth upward? They can, if they desire, drag my name through the mire of infamy.”

Madame de Mussidan bounded to her feet, asking herself whether her husband’s intellect had not given way.

“You commit a crime!” gasped she.

“I, madame, I myself! Does that surprise you? Have you never had any suspicion? Perhaps you have not forgotten a fatal accident which took place out shooting, and darkened the earlier years of our married life? Well, the thing was not an accident, but a deliberate murder committed by me. Yes, I murdered him, and this fact is known, and can be proved.”

The Countess grew deadly pale, and extended her hand, as though to guard herself from some coming danger.

“You are horrified, are you?” continued the Count, with a sneer. “Perhaps I inspire you with horror; but do not fear; the blood is no longer on my hands, but it is here, and is choking me.” And as he spoke he pressed his fingers upon his heart. “For twenty-three years I have endured this hideous recollection and even now when I wake in the night I am bathed in cold sweat, for I fancy I can hear the last gasps of the unhappy man.”

“This is horrible, too horrible!” murmured Madame de Mussidan faintly.

“Ah, but you do not know why I killed him,—it was because the dead man had dared to tell me that the wife I adored with all the passion of my soul was unfaithful to me.”

Words of eager denial rose to the lips of the Countess; but her husband went on coldly, “And it was all true, for I heard all later on.

“Poor Montlouis! he was really loved. There was a little shop-girl, who toiled hard for daily bread, but she was a thousand times more honorable than the haughty woman of noble race that I had just married.”

“Have mercy, Octave.”

“Yes, and she fell a victim to her love for Montlouis. Had he lived, he would have made her his wife. After his death, she could no longer conceal her fault. In small towns the people are without mercy; and when she left the hospital with her baby at her breast, the women pelted her with mud. But for me,” continued the Count, “she would have died of hunger. Poor girl! I did not allow her much, but with it she managed to give her son a decent education. He has now grown up, and whatever happens, his future is safe.”

Had M. de Mussidan and his wife been less deeply engaged in this hideous recital, they would have heard the stifled sobs that came from the adjoining room.

The Count felt a certain kind of savage pleasure in venting the rage, that had for years been suppressed, upon the shrinking woman before him. “Would it not be a cruel injustice, madame, to draw a comparison between you and this unhappy girl? Have you always been deaf to the whisperings of conscience? and have you never thought of the future punishment which most