File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (classic literature books TXT) 📕

to make him once more feel a little self-respect, as if the future were not utterly hopeless.

Ah, had he possessed only a quarter of his squandered inheritance, how happy he would be to peacefully end his days in this his native village!

But this rest after so many vain excitements, this haven after so many storms and shipwrecks, was denied him. He was penniless; how could he live here when he had nothing to live upon?

This thought of his pressing want gave him courage to ask Joseph for the key of the chateau, that he might go and examine its condition.

“You won’t need the key, except the one to the front door, M. the marquis,” replied Joseph.

It was but too true. Time had done its work, and the lordly manor of Clameran was nothing but a ruin. The rain and sun had rotted the shutters so that they were crumbling and dilapidated.

Here and there were traces of the friendly hand of St. Jean, who had tried to retard the total ruin of the old chateau; but of what use were his efforts?

Within, the desolation was still greater. All of the furniture which Louis had not dared to sell stood in the position he left it, but in what a state! All of the tapestry hangings and coverings were moth-eaten and in tatters; nothing seemed left but the dust-covered woodwork of the chairs and sofas.

Louis was almost afraid to enter these grand, gloomy rooms, where every footfall echoed until the air seemed to be filled with sounds strange and ominous.

He almost expected to see the angry old marquis start from some dark corner, and heap curses on his head for having dishonored the name.

He turned pale with terror, when he suddenly recalled the scene of his fatal stumble and poor Gaston’s death. The room was surely inhabited by the spirits of these two murdered men. His nerves could not bear it, and he hurried out into the open air and sunshine.

After a while, he recovered sufficiently to remember the object of his visit.

“Poor St. Jean was foolish to let the furniture in the chateau drop to pieces. Why did he not use it?”

“My father would not have dared to touch anything without receiving an order, M. the marquis.”

“He was very unwise to wait for an order, when anything was going to destruction without benefiting anyone. As the chateau is fast approaching the condition of the furniture, and my fortune does not permit me to repair it, I will sell it before the walls crumble away.”

Joseph could scarcely believe his ears. He regarded the selling of the chateau of Clameran as a sacrilege; but he was not bold of speech, like his father, so he dared not express an opinion.

“Would there be difficulty in selling this ruin?” continued Louis.

“That depends upon the price you ask, M. the marquis; I know a man who would purchase the property if he could get it cheap.”

“Who is he?”

“M. Fougeroux, who lives on the other side of the river. He came from Beaucaire, and twelve years ago married a servant-maid of the late Countess de la Verberie. Perhaps M. the marquis remembers her—a plump, bright-eyed brunette, named Mihonne.”

Louis did not remember Mihonne.

“When can we see this Fougeroux?” he inquired.

“To-day; I will engage a boat to take us over.”

“Well, let us go now. I have no time to lose.”

An entire generation has passed away since Louis had last crossed the Rhone in old Pilorel’s boat.

The faithful ferryman had been buried many years, and his duties were now performed by his son, who, possessing great respect for traditional opinions, was delighted at the honor of rowing the Marquis of Clameran in his boat, and soon had it ready for Louis and Joseph to take their seats.

As soon as they were fairly started, Joseph began to warn the marquis against the wily Fougeroux.

“He is a cunning fox,” said the farmer; “I have had a bad opinion of him ever since his marriage, which was a shameful affair altogether. Mihonne was over fifty years of age, and he was only twenty-four, when he married her; so you may know it was money, and not a wife, that he wanted. She, poor fool, believed that the young scamp really loved her, and gave herself and her money up to him. Women will be trusting fools to the end of time! And Fougeroux is not the man to let money lie idle. He speculated with Mihonne’s gold, and is now very rich. But she, poor thing, does not profit by his wealth; one can easily understand his not feeling any love for her, when she looks like his grandmother; but he deprives her of the necessaries of life, and beats her cruelly.”

“He would like to plant her six feet under ground,” said the ferryman.

“Well, it won’t be long before he has the satisfaction of burying her,” said Joseph; “the poor old woman has been in almost a dying condition ever since Fougeroux brought a worthless jade to take charge of the house, and makes his wife wait upon her like a servant.”

When they reached the opposite shore, Joseph asked young Pilorel to await their return.

Joseph knocked at the gate of the well-cultivated farm, and inquired for the master; the farm-boy said that “M. Fougeroux” was out in the field, but he would go and tell him.

He soon appeared. He was an ill-looking little man, with a red beard and small, restless eyes.

Although M. Fougeroux professed to despise the nobility and the clergy, the hope of driving a good bargain made him obsequious to Louis. He insisted upon ushering his visitor into “the parlor,” with may bows and repetitions of “M. the marquis.”

Upon entering the room, he roughly ordered an old woman, who was crouching over some dying embers, to make haste and bring some wine for M. the marquis of Clameran.

At this name, the old woman started as if she had received an electric shock. She opened her mouth to say something, but a look from her tyrant froze the words upon her lips. With a frightened air she hobbled out to obey his orders, and in a few minutes returned with a bottle of wine and three glasses.

Then she resumed her seat by the fire, and kept her eyes fastened upon the marquis.

Could this really be the merry, pretty Mihonne, who had been the confidant of the little fairy of Verberie?

Valentine herself would never have recognized this poor, shrivelled, emaciated old woman.

Only those who are familiar with country life know what hard work and worry can do to make a woman old.