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

Baron Trigault still held Madame de Fondege a prisoner in the hall. What did he say to her in justification of the expedient he had improvised? His own agitation was so great that he scarcely knew, and it mattered but little after all, for the good lady did not even pretend to listen to his apologies. Although by no means overshrewd, she suspected some great mystery, some bit of scandal, perhaps, and her eyes never once wandered from the door leading to the boudoir. At last this door opened and Mademoiselle Marguerite reappeared. “Great heavens!” exclaimed Madame de Fondege; “what has happened to my poor child?”

For the unfortunate girl advanced with an automatic tread, her eyes fixed on vacancy, and her hands outstretched, as if feeling her way. It indeed seemed to her as if the floor swayed to and fro under her feet, as if the walls tottered, as if the ceiling were about to fall and crush her.

Madame de Fondege sprang forward. “What is the matter, my dearest?”

Alas! the poor girl was utterly overcome. “It is but a trifle,” she faltered. But her eyes closed, her hands clutched wildly for some support, and she would have fallen to the ground if the baron had not caught her in his arms and carried her to a sofa. “Help!” cried Madame de Fondege, “help, she is dying!—a physician!”

But there was no need of a physician. One of the maids came with some fresh water and a bottle of smelling salts, and Marguerite soon recovered sufficiently to sit up, and cast a frightened glance around her, while she mechanically passed her hand again and again over her cold forehead. “Do you feel better my darling?” inquired Madame de Fondege at last.

“Yes.”

“Ah! you gave me a terrible fright; see how I tremble.” But the worthy lady’s fright was as nothing in comparison with the curiosity that tortured her. It was so powerful, indeed, that she could not control it. “What has happened?” she asked.

“Nothing, madame, nothing.”

“But——”

“I am subject to such attacks. I was very cold, and the heat of the room made me feel faint.”

Although she could only speak with the greatest difficulty, the baron realized by her tone that she would never reveal what had taken place, and his attitude and relief knew no bounds. “Don’t tire the poor child,” he said to Madame de Fondege. “The best thing you can do would be to take her home and put her to bed.”

“I agree with you; but unfortunately, I have sent away my brougham with orders not to return for me until one o’clock.”

“Is that the only difficulty? If so, you shall have a carriage at once, my dear madame.” So saying, the baron made a sign to one of the servants, and the man started on his mission at once.

Madame de Fondege was silent but furious. “He is actually putting me out of doors,” she thought. “This is a little too much! And why doesn’t the baroness make her appearance—she must certainly have heard my voice? What does it all mean? However, I’m sure Marguerite will tell me when we are alone.”

But Madame de Fondege was wrong, for she vainly plied the girl with questions all the way from the Rue de la Ville l’Eveque to the Rue Pigalle. She could only obtain this unvarying and obstinate reply: “Nothing has happened. What do you suppose could have happened?”

Never in her whole life had Madame de Fondege been so incensed. “The blockhead!” she mentally exclaimed. “Who ever saw such obstinacy! Hateful creature!—I could beat her!”

She did not beat her, but on reaching the house she eagerly asked: “Do you feel strong enough to go up stairs alone?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Then I will leave you. You know Van Klopen expects me again at one o’clock precisely; and I have not breakfasted yet. Remember that my servants are at your disposal, and don’t hesitate to call them. You are at home, recollect.”

It was not without considerable difficulty—not without being compelled to stop and rest several times on her way up stairs—that Mademoiselle Marguerite succeeded in reaching the apartments of the Fondege family. “Where is madame?” inquired the servant who opened the door.

“She is still out.”

“Will she return to dinner?”

“I don’t know.”

“M. Gustave has been here three times already; he was very angry when he found that there was no one at home—he went on terribly. Besides, the workmen have turned everything topsy-turvy.”

However, Marguerite had already reached her own room, and thrown herself on the bed. She was suffering terribly. Her brave spirit still retained its energy; but the flesh had succumbed. Every vein and artery throbbed with violence, and while a chill seemed to come to her heart, her head burned as if it had been on fire. “My Lord,” she thought, “am I going to fall ill at the last moment, just when I have most need of all my strength?”

She tried to sleep, but was unable to do so. How could she free herself from the thought that haunted her? Her mother! To think that such a woman was her mother! Was it not enough to make her die of sorrow and shame? And yet this woman must be saved—the proofs of her crime must be annihilated with her letters. Marguerite asked herself whether the old magistrate would have it in his power to help her in this respect. Perhaps not, and then what could she do? She asked herself if she had not been too cruel, too severe. Guilty or not, the baroness was still her mother. Had she the right to be pitiless, when by stretching out her hand she might, perhaps, have rescued the wretched woman from her terrible