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

thing.  Besides, I don’t want to leave this neighborhood.”

“And I am too much your friend not to tell you, that your reputation in it is absolutely lost.”

“I have no accounts to render to any one.”

“Except to your friend the commissary of police, however.”

A pale smile flitted upon her lips.  “Ah!” she uttered, “he knows the truth.”

“You have seen him again, then?”

“Several times.”

“Since we have known each other?”

“Yes.”

“And you never told me anything about it?”

“I did not think it necessary.”

Maxence insisted no more; but, by the sharp pang that he felt, he realized how dear Mlle. Lucienne had become to him.

“She has secrets from me,” thought he,—“from me who would deem it a crime to have any from her.”

What secrets?  Had she concealed from him that she was pursuing an object which had become, as it were, that of her whole life.  Had she not told him, that with the assistance of her friend the peace-officer, who had now become commissary of police of the district, she hoped to penetrate the mystery of her birth, and to revenge herself on the villains, who, three times, had attempted to do away with her?

She had never mentioned her projects again; but it was evident that she had not abandoned them, for she would at the same time have given up her rides to the bois, which were to her an abominable torment.

But passion can neither reason nor discuss.

“She mistrusts me, who would give my life for hers,” repeated Maxence.

And the idea was so painful to him, that he resolved to clear his doubts at any cost, preferring the worst misery to the anxiety which was gnawing at his heart.

And as soon as he found himself alone with Mlle. Lucienne, arming himself with all his courage, and looking her straight in the eyes,

“You never speak to me any more of your enemies?” he said.

She doubtless understood what was passing within him.

“It’s because I don’t hear any thing of them myself,” she answered gently.

“Then you have given up your purpose?”

“Not at all.”

“What are your hopes, then, and what are your prospects?”

“Extraordinary as it may seem to you, I must confess that I know nothing about it.  My friend the commissary has his plan, I am certain; and he is following it with an indefatigable obstinacy.  I am but an instrument in his hands.  I never do any thing without consulting him; and what he advises me to do I do.”

Maxence started upon his chair.

“Was it he, then,” he said in a tone of bitter irony, “who suggested to you the idea of our fraternal association?”

A frown appeared upon the girl’s countenance.  She evidently felt hurt by the tone of this species of interrogatory.

“At least he did not disapprove of it,” she replied.

But that answer was just evasive enough to excite Maxence’s anxiety.

“Was it from him too,” he went on, “that came the lovely idea of having me enter the Mutual Credit?”

“Yes, it was from him.”

“For what purpose?”

“He did not explain.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“Because he requested me not to do so.”

From being red at the start, Maxence had now become very pale.

“And so,” he resumed, “it is that man, that police-agent, who is the real arbiter of my fate; and if to-morrow he commanded you to break off with me—”

Mlle. Lucienne drew herself up.

“Enough!” she interrupted in a brief tone, “enough!  There is not in my whole existence a single act which would give to my bitterest enemy the right to suspect my loyalty; and now you accuse me of the basest treason.  What have you to reproach me with?  Have I not been faithful to the pact sworn between us.  Have I not always been for you the best of comrades and the most devoted of friends?  I remained silent, because the man in whom I have the fullest confidence requested me to do so; but he knew, that, if you questioned me, I would speak.  Did you question me?  And now what more do you want?  That I should stoop to quiet the suspicions of your morbid mind?  That I do not mean to do.”

She was not, perhaps, entirely right; but Maxence was certainly wrong.  He acknowledged it, wept, implored her pardon, which was granted; and this explanation only served to rivet more closely the fetters that bound him.

It is true, that, availing himself of the permission that had been granted him, he kept himself constantly informed of Mlle. Lucienne’s doings.  He learnt from her that her friend the commissary had held a most minute investigation at Louveciennes, and that the footman who went to the bois with her was now, in reality, a detective.  And at last, one day,

“My friend the commissary,” she said, “thinks he is on the right track now.”

XXIX

Such was the exact situation of Maxence and Mlle. Lucienne on that eventful Saturday evening in the month of April, 1872, when the police came to arrest M. Vincent Favoral, on the charge of embezzlement and forgery.

It will be remembered, how, at his mother’s request, Maxence had spent that night in the Rue St. Gilles, and how, the next morning, unable any longer to resist his eager desire to see Mlle. Lucienne, he had started for the Hotel des Folies, leaving his sister alone at home.

He retired to his room, as she had requested him, and, sinking upon his old arm-chair in a fit of the deepest distress,

“She is singing,” he murmured:  “Mme. Fortin has not told her any thing.”

And at the same moment Mlle. Lucienne had resumed her song, the words of which reached him like a bitter raillery,

“Hope!  O sweet, deceiving word! 
Mad indeed is he,
Who does think he can trust thee,
And take thy coin can afford. 
Over his door every one
Will hang thee to his sorrow,
Then saying of days begone,
‘Cash to-day, credit to-morrow!’ 
‘Tis very nice to run;
But to have is better