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

She wore a long brown cashmere wrapper, fitting quite close over the hips setting off the vigorous elegance of her figure, the maidenly perfections of her waist, and the exquisite contour of her neck.  Gathered up in haste, her thick blonde hair escaped from beneath the pins, and spread over her shoulders in luminous cascades.  Never had she appeared to M. Costeclar as lovely as at this moment, when her whole frame was vibrating with suppressed indignation, her cheeks flushed, her eyes flashing.

“Please come in, sir,” she uttered.

He stepped forward, no longer bowing humbly as formerly, but with legs outstretched, chest thrown out, with an ill-concealed look of gratified vanity.  “I did not expect the honor of your visit, sir,” said the young girl.

Passing rapidly his hat and his cane from the right hand into the left, and then the right hand upon his heart, his eyes raised to the ceiling, and with all the depth of expression of which he was capable,

“It is in times of adversity that we know our real friends, mademoiselle,” he uttered.  “Those upon whom we thought we could rely the most, often, at the first reverse, take flight forever!”

She felt a shiver pass over her.  Was this an allusion to Marius?

The other, changing his tone, went on,

“It’s only last night that I heard of poor Favoral’s discomfiture, at the bourse where I had gone for news.  It was the general topic of conversation.  Twelve millions!  That’s pretty hard.  The Mutual Credit Society might not be able to stand it.  From 580, at which it was selling before the news, it dropped at once to 300.  At nine o’clock, there were no takers at 180.  And yet, if there is nothing beyond what they say, at 180, I am in.”

Was he forgetting himself, or pretending to?

“But please excuse me, mademoiselle,” he resumed:  “that’s not what I came to tell you.  I came to ask if you had any news of our poor Favoral.”

“We have none, sir.”

“Then it is true:  he succeeded in getting away through this window?”

“Yes.”

“And he did not tell you where he meant to take refuge?”

Observing M. Costeclar with all her power of penetration, Mlle. Gilberte fancied she discovered in him something like a certain surprise mingled with joy.

“Then Favoral must have left without a sou!”

“They accuse him of having carried away millions, sir; but I would swear that it is not so.”

M. Costeclar approved with a nod.

“I am of the same opinion,” he declared, “unless—but no, he was not the man to try such a game.  And yet—but again no, he was too closely watched.  Besides, he was carrying a very heavy load, a load that exhausted all his resources.”

Mlle. Gilberte, hoping that she was going to learn something, made an effort to preserve her indifference.

“What do you mean?” she inquired.

He looked at her, smiled, and, in a light tone,

“Nothing,” he answered, “only some conjectures of my own.”

And throwing himself upon a chair, his head leaning upon its back,

“That is not the object of my visit either,” he uttered.  “Favoral is overboard:  don’t let us say any thing more about him.  Whether he has got ‘the bag’ or not, you’ll never see him again:  he is as good as dead.  Let us, therefore, talk of the living, of yourself.  What’s going to become of you?”

“I do not understand your question, sir.”

“It is perfectly limpid, nevertheless.  I am asking myself how you are going to live, your mother and yourself?”

“Providence will not abandon us, sir.”

M. Costeclar had crossed his legs, and with the end of his cane he was negligently tapping his immaculate boot.

“Providence!” he giggled; “that’s very good on the stage, in a play, with low music in the orchestra.  I can just see it.  In real life, unfortunately, the life which we both live, you and I, it is not with words, were they a yard long, that the baker, the grocer, and those rascally landlords, can be paid, or that dresses and shoes can be bought.”

She made no answer.

“Now, then,” he went on, “here you are without a penny.  Is it Maxence who will supply you with money?  Poor fellow!  Where would he get it?  He has hardly enough for himself.  Therefore, what are you going to do?”

“I shall work, sir.”

He got up, bowed low, and, resuming his seat,

“My sincere compliments,” he said.  “There is but one obstacle to that fine resolution:  it is impossible for a woman to live by her labor alone.  Servants are about the only ones who ever get their full to eat.”

“I’ll be a servant, if necessary.”

For two or three seconds he remained taken aback, but, recovering himself,

“How different things would be,” he resumed in an insinuating tone, “if you had not rejected me when I wanted to become your husband!  But you couldn’t bear the sight of me.  And yet, ‘pon my word, I was in love with you, oh, but for good and earnest!  You see, I am a judge of women; and I saw very well how you would look, handsomely dressed and got up, leaning back in a fine carriage in the Bois—”

Stronger than her will, disgust rose to her lips.

“Ah, sir!” she said.

He mistook her meaning.

“You are regretting all that,” he continued.  “I see it.  Formerly, eh, you would never have consented to receive me thus, alone with you, which proves that girls should not be headstrong, my dear child.”

He, Costeclar, he dared to call her, “My dear child.”  Indignant and insulted, “Oh!” she exclaimed.  But he had started, and kept on,

“Well, such as I was, I am still.  To be sure, there probably would be nothing further said about marriage between us; but, frankly, what would you care if the conditions were the same,—a fine house, carriages, horses, servants—”

Up to this moment, she had not fully understood him.  Drawing herself up to her fullest height, and pointing to the door,

“Leave this moment,” she ordered.

But he seemed in no wise disposed to do so:  on the contrary, paler than usual, his eyes bloodshot, his lips trembling, and smiling a strange