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

Marguerite’s arm and led her toward the end of the hall. Then opening a door, he exclaimed in a mocking voice: “Madame Trigault, allow me to present to you the daughter of the Count de Chalusse.” And adding in a whisper: “This is your mother, young girl,” he pushed the astonished Marguerite into the room, closed the door, and returned to Madame de Fondege.

Paler than her white muslin wrapper, the Baroness Trigault sprang from her chair. This was the woman who, while her husband was braving death to win fortune for her, had been dazzled by the Count de Chalusse’s wealth, and who, later in life, when she was the richest of the rich, had sunk into the very depths of degradation—had stooped, indeed, to a Coralth! The baroness had once been marvellously beautiful, and even now, many murmurs of admiration greeted her when she dashed through the Champs Elysees in her magnificent equipage, attired in one of those eccentric costumes which she alone dared to wear. She was a type of the wife created by the customs of fashionable society; the woman who feels elated when her name appears in the newspapers and in the chronicles of Parisian “high life”; who has no thought of her deserted fireside, but is ever tormented by a terrible thirst for bustle and excitement; whose head is empty, and whose heart is dry—the woman who only exists for the world; and who is devoured by unappeasable covetousness, and who, at times, envies an actress’s liberty, and the notoriety of the leaders of the demi-monde; the woman who is always in quest of fresh excitement, and fails to find it; the woman who is blase, and prematurely old in mind and body, and who yet still clings despairingly to her fleeting youth.

Inaccessible to any emotion but vanity, the baroness had never shed a tear over her husband’s sufferings. She was sure of her absolute power over him. What did the rest matter? She even gloried in her knowledge that she could make this man—who loved her in spite of everything—at one moment furious with rage or wild with grief, and then an instant afterward plunge him into the rapture of a senseless ecstasy by a word, a smile, or a caress. For such was her power, and she often exercised it mercilessly. Even after the frightful scene that Pascal had witnessed, she had made another appeal to the baron, and he had been weak enough to give her the thirty thousand francs which M. de Coralth needed to purchase his wife’s silence.

However, this time the baroness trembled. Her usual shrewdness had not deserted her, and she perfectly understood all that Marguerite’s presence in that house portended. Since her husband brought this young girl—her daughter—to her he must know everything, and have taken some fatal resolution. Had she, indeed, exhausted the patience which she had fancied inexhaustible? She was not ignorant of the fact that her husband had disposed of his immense fortune in a way that would enable him to say and prove that he was insolvent whenever occasion required; and if he found courage to apply for a legal separation, what could she hope to obtain from the courts? A bare living, almost nothing. In such a case, how could she exist? She would be compelled to spend her last years in the same poverty that had made her youth so wretched. She saw herself—ah! what a frightful misfortune—turfed out of her princely home, and reduced to furnished apartments rented for five hundred francs a year!

Mademoiselle Marguerite was no less startled and horror-stricken than Madame Trigault, and she stood rooted to the spot, exactly where the baron had left her. Silent and motionless, they confronted each other for a moment which seemed a century to both of them. The resemblance—which had astonished Pascal could not fail to strike them, for it was still more noticeable now that they stood face to face. But anything was preferable to this torturing suspense, and so, summoning all her courage, the baroness broke the silence by saying: “You are the daughter of the Count de Chalusse?”

“I think so, but I have no proofs of it.”

“And—your mother?”

“I don’t know her; madame, and I have no desire to know her.”

Disconcerted by this brief but implacable reply, Madame Trigault hung her head.

“What could I have to say to my mother?” continued Marguerite. “That I hate her? My courage would fail me to do so. And yet, how can I think without bitterness of the woman who, after abandoning me herself, endeavored to deprive me of my father’s love and protection? I could have forgiven anything but that. Ah! I have not always been so patient and resigned! The laws of our country do not forbid illigitimate children to search for their parents, and more than once I have said to myself that I would discover my mother, and have my revenge.”

“But you have no means of discovering her?”

“In this you are greatly mistaken, madame. After the Count de Chalusse’s death, a package of letters, a glove and some withered flowers were found in one of the drawers of his escritoire.”

The baroness started back as if a yawning chasm had suddenly opened at her feet. “My letters!” she exclaimed. “Ah! wretched woman that I am, he kept them. It is all over! I am lost, for of course, they have been read?”

“The ribbon securing them together has never been untied.”

“Is that true? Don’t deceive me! Where are they, then—where are they?”

“Under the protection of the seals affixed by the justice of the peace.”

Madame Trigault tottered, as if she were about to fall. “Then it is only a reprieve,” she moaned, “and I am none the less ruined. Those cursed letters will necessarily be read, and all will be discovered. They will see——” The thought of what they would see endowed her with the energy of despair, and clutching hold of Marguerite’s wrists: “Listen!” said she, approaching so near that her hot breath scorched the girl’s cheeks, “no one must be allowed to see those letters!—it must not be! I will tell you what they contain. I hated my husband; I loved the Count de Chalusse madly, and he had sworn that he would marry me if ever I became a widow. Do you understand now? The name of the poison I obtained—how I proposed to administer it, and what its effects would be—all this is plainly written in my own handwriting and signed—yes, signed—with my own name. The plot failed, but it was none the less real, positive, palpable—and those letters are a proof of it. But they shall never be read—no—not if I am obliged to set fire to the Hotel de Chalusse with my own hand.”

Now the count’s constant terror, the fear with which this woman had inspired him, were explained. He was an accomplice—he also had written no doubt, and she had preserved his letters as he had preserved hers. Crime had bound them indissolubly together.

Horrified beyond expression, Marguerite freed herself from Madame Trigault’s grasp. “I swear to you, madame, that everything any human being can do to save your letters shall be done by me,” she exclaimed.

“And have you any hope of success?”

“Yes,” replied the girl, remembering her friend, the magistrate.

Moved by a far more powerful emotion than any she had ever known before, the baroness uttered an exclamation of joy. “Ah! how good you are!” she exclaimed—“how generous!