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

“But you must have had grave reasons to take so much trouble about Lucienne.”

“Very grave ones, indeed.”

“You know that she was basely forsaken when quite a child?”

“Perfectly.”

“And that she was brought up through charity?”

“By some poor gardeners at Louveciennes:  yes, I know all that.”

Maxence was trembling with joy.  It seemed to him that his most dazzling hopes were about to be realized.  Seizing the hands of Marius de Tregars,

“Ah, you know Lucienne’s family!” he exclaimed.  But M. de Tregars shook his head.

“I have suspicions,” he answered; “but, up to this time, I have suspicions only, I assure you.”

“But that family does exist; since they have already, at three different times, attempted to get rid of the poor girl.”

“I think as you do; but we must have proofs:  and we shall find some.  You may rest assured of that.”

Here he was interrupted by the noise of the opening door.

The old servant came in, and advancing to the centre of the room with a mysterious look,

“Madame la Baronne de Thaller,” he said in a low voice.

Marius de Tregars started violently.

“Where?” he asked.

“She is down stairs in her carriage,” replied the servant.  “Her footman is here, asking whether monsieur is at home, and whether she can come up.”

“Can she possibly have heard any thing?” murmured M. de Tregars with a deep frown.  And, after a moment of reflection,

“So much the more reason to see her,” he added quickly.  “Let her come.  Request her to do me the honor of coming up stairs.”

This last incident completely upset all Maxence’s ideas.  He no longer knew what to imagine.

“Quick,” said M. de Tregars to him:  “quick, disappear; and, whatever you may hear, not a word!”

And he pushed him into his bedroom, which was divided from the study by a mere tapestry curtain.  It was time; for already in the next room could be heard a great rustling of silk and starched petticoats.  Mme. de Thaller appeared.

She was still the same coarsely beautiful woman, who, sixteen years before, had sat at Mme. Favoral’s table.  Time had passed without scarcely touching her with the tip of his wing.  Her flesh had retained its dazzling whiteness; her hair, of a bluish black, its marvelous opulence; her lips, their carmine hue; her eyes, their lustre.  Her figure only had become heavier, her features less delicate; and her neck and throat had lost their undulations, and the purity of their outlines.

But neither the years, nor the millions, nor the intimacy of the most fashionable women, had been able to give her those qualities which cannot be acquired,—grace, distinction, and taste.

If there was a woman accustomed to dress, it was she:  a splendid dry-goods store could have been set up with the silks and the velvets, the satins and cashmeres, the muslins, the laces, and all the known tissues, that had passed over her shoulders.

Her elegance was quoted and copied.  And yet there was about her always and under all circumstances, an indescribable flavor of the parvenue.  Her gestures had remained trivial; her voice, common and vulgar.

Throwing herself into an arm-chair, and bursting into a loud laugh,

“Confess, my dear marquis,” she said, “that you are terribly astonished to see me thus drop upon you, without warning, at eleven o’clock in the morning.”

“I feel, above all, terribly flattered,” replied M. de Tregars, smiling.

With a rapid glance she was surveying the little study, the modest furniture, the papers piled on the desk, as if she had hoped that the dwelling would reveal to her something of the master’s ideas and projects.

“I was just coming from Van Klopen’s,” she resumed; “and passing before your house, I took a fancy to come in and stir you up; and here I am.”

M. de Tregars was too much a man of the world, and of the best world, to allow his features to betray the secret of his impressions; and yet, to any one who had known him well, a certain contraction of the eyelids would have revealed a serious annoyance and an intense anxiety.

“How is the baron?” he inquired.

“As sound as an oak,” answered Mme. de Thaller, “notwithstanding all the cares and the troubles, which you can well imagine.  By the way, you know what has happened to us?”

“I read in the papers that the cashier of the Mutual Credit had disappeared.”

“And it is but too true.  That wretch Favoral has gone off with an enormous amount of money.”

“Twelve millions, I heard.”

“Something like it.  A man who had the reputation of a saint too; a puritan.  Trust people’s faces after that!  I never liked him, I confess.  But M. de Thaller had a perfect fancy for him; and, when he had spoken of his Favoral, there was nothing more to say.  Any way, he has cleared out, leaving his family without means.  A very interesting family, it seems, too,—a wife who is goodness itself, and a charming daughter:  at least, so says Costeclar, who is very much in love with her.”

M. de Tregars’ countenance remained perfectly indifferent, like that of a man who is hearing about persons and things in which he does not take the slightest interest.

Mme. de Thaller noticed this.

“But it isn’t to tell you all this,” she went on, “that I came up.  It is an interested motive brought me.  We have, some of my friends and myself, organized a lottery—a work of charity, my dear marquis, and quite patriotic—for the benefit of the Alsatians, I have lots of tickets to dispose of; and I’ve thought of you to help me out.”

More smiling than ever,

“I am at your orders, madame,” answered Marius, “but, in mercy, spare me.”

She took out some tickets from a small shell pocket-book.

“Twenty, at ten francs,” she said.  “It isn’t too much, is it?”

“It is a great deal for my modest resources.”

She pocketed the ten napoleons which he handed her, and, in a tone of ironical compassion,

“Are you so very poor, then?” she asked.

“Why, I am neither banker nor