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

would destroy it rather than restore it to you at present. But as soon as you became his wife, he intended to produce it and thus obtain possession of the count’s millions.”

“Ah! the old justice of the peace was not mistaken,” murmured Mademoiselle Marguerite.

Pascal did not hear her. All his faculties were absorbed in the attempt he was making to give a clear and concise explanation, for he had much to say, and it was growing late. “As for the enormous sum you have been accused of taking,” he continued, “I know what has become of it; it is in the hands of M. de Fondege.”

“I know that, Pascal—I’m sure of it; but the proof, the proof!”

“The proof exists, and, like the will, it is in the hands of the Marquis de Valorsay.”

“Is it possible! Great Heavens! You are sure you are not deceived?”

“I have seen the proof, and it is overpowering, irrefutable! I have touched it—I have held it in my hands. And it explains everything which may have seemed strange and incomprehensible to you. The letter which M. de Chalusse received on the day of his death was written by his sister. She asked in it for her share of the family estate, threatening him with a terrible scandal if he refused to comply with her request. Had the count decided to brave this scandal rather than yield? We have good reason to suppose so. However, this much is certain: he had a terrible hatred, not so much for his sister, perhaps, as for the man who had seduced her, and afterward married her, actuated by avaricious motives alone. He had sworn thousands of times that neither husband nor wife should ever have a penny of the large fortune which really belonged to them. Believing that a lawsuit was now inevitable, and wishing to conceal his wealth, he was greatly embarrassed by the large amount of money he had on hand. What should he do with it? Where could he hide it? He finally decided to intrust it to the keeping of M. de Fondege, who was known as an eccentric man, but whose honesty seemed to be above suspicion. So, when he left home, on the afternoon of his illness, he took the package of bank-notes and bonds, which you had noticed in the escritoire that morning, away with him. We shall never know what passed between your father and the General—we can only surmise. But what I do know, and what I shall be able to prove, is that M. de Fondege accepted the trust, and that he gave an acknowledgment of it in the form of a letter, which read as follows:

“‘MY DEAR COUNT DE CHALUSSE—I hereby acknowledge the receipt, on Thursday, October 15, 186-, of the sum of two millions, two hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I shall deposit, in my name, at the Bank of France, subject to the orders of Mademoiselle Marguerite, your daughter, on the day she presents this letter. And believe, my dear count, in the absolute devotion of your old comrade, “GENERAL DE FONDEGE.’”

Mademoiselle Marguerite was thunderstruck. “Who can have furnished you with these particulars?” she inquired.

“The Marquis de Valorsay, my dearest; and I will explain how he was enabled to do so. M. de Fondege wrote the address of his ‘old comrade’ on this letter, which was folded and sealed, but not enclosed in an envelope. M. de Chalusse proposed to post it himself, so that the official stamp might authenticate its date. But on reflection, he became uneasy. He felt that this tiny, perishable scrap of paper would be the only proof of the deposit which he had confided to M. de Fondege’s honor. This scrap might be lost, burned, or stolen. Then what would happen? He had so often seen trustees betray the confidence of which they had seemed worthy. So M. de Chalusse racked his brains to discover a means of protection from an improbable but possible misfortune. He found it. Passing a stationer’s shop, he went in, purchased one of those letter-presses which merchants use in their correspondence, and, under pretext of trying it, took a copy of M. de Fondege’s letter. Having done this, he placed the copy in an envelope addressed to the Marquis de Valorsay, and, with his heart relieved of all anxiety, posted it at the same time as the original letter. A few moments later he got into the cab in which he was stricken down with apoplexy.”

Extraordinary as Pascal’s explanations must have seemed to her, Marguerite did not doubt their accuracy in the least. “Then it is the copy of this letter which you saw in the possession of the Marquis de Valorsay?”

“Yes.”

“And the original?”

“M. de Fondege alone can tell what has become of that. It is evident that he has somehow succeeded in obtaining possession of it. Would he have dared to squander money as he has done if he had not been convinced that there was no proof of his guilt in existence? Perhaps on hearing of the count’s sudden death he bribed the concierge at the Hotel de Chalusse to watch for this letter and return it to him. But on this subject I have only conjectures to offer. If they wish you to marry their son, it is probably because it seems too hard that you should be left in abject poverty while they are enjoying the fortune they have stolen from you. The vilest scoundrels have their scruples. Besides, a marriage with their son would protect them against any possible mischance in the future.”

He was silent for a moment, and then more slowly resumed: “You see, Marguerite, we have clear, palpable, and irrefutable proofs of YOUR innocence; but in my efforts to clear my own name of disgrace, I have been far less fortunate. I have tried in vain to collect material proofs of the conspiracy against me. It is only by proving the guilt of the Marquis de Valorsay and the Viscount de Coralth that I can establish my innocence, and so far I am powerless to do so.”

Mademoiselle Marguerite’s face brightened with supreme joy. “Then I can serve you, in my turn, my only love,” she exclaimed. “Ah! blessed be God who inspired me, and who thus rewards me for an hour of courage. My poor father’s plan also occurred to me, Pascal. Was it not strange? The material proof of your innocence which you have sought for in vain, is in my possession, written and signed by the Marquis de Valorsay. Like M. de Fondege, he believes that the letter which proves his guilt is annihilated. He burned it himself, and yet it exists.” So saying, she drew from her bosom one of the copies which she had received from Carjat the photographer, and handed it to Pascal, adding, “Look!”

Pascal eagerly perused the marvellous facsimile of the letter which the marquis had written to Madame Leon. “Ah! this is the scoundrel’s death warrant.” he exclaimed, exultantly. And approaching Madame Ferailleur, who still stood leaning against the door, silent and motionless: “Look, mother,” he repeated, “look!”

And he pointed to this paragraph which was so convincing and so explicit, that the most exacting jury would have asked for no further evidence. “I have formed a plan which will completely efface all remembrance of that cursed P. F., in case any one could condescend to think of him, after the disgrace we fastened upon him the other evening at the house of Madame d’A——.”

“Nor is this all,” resumed Mademoiselle Marguerite. “There are other letters which will prove that this plot was the