File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (10 ebook reader TXT) 📕

always commenced by protesting against my proposed plans, and in the end acknowledge the good sense and justness of my arguments; now, for once why not yield without going through with the customary preliminaries? I ask it as a favor.”

“Never,” said Mme. Fauvel, “never will I yield.”

Clameran paid no attention to this interruption, but went on:

“I insist upon this marriage, mainly on your account, although it will enable me to re-establish my own affairs, as well as yours and Raoul’s. Of course you see that the allowance you give your son is insufficient for his extravagant style of living. The time approaches when, having nothing more to give him, you will have to encroach upon your husband’s money-drawer to such an extent that longer concealment will be impossible. When that day comes what is to be done? Perhaps you have some feasible plan of escape?”

Mme. Fauvel shuddered. The dreadful day of discovery could not be far off, and no earthly way was there to escape it.

The marquis went on:

“Assist me now, and, instead of having to make a shameful confession, you will thank me for having saved you. Mlle. Madeleine is rich: her dowry will enable me to supply the deficiency, and spare you all further anxiety about Raoul.”

“I would rather be ruined than be saved by such means.”

“But I will not permit you to ruin us all. Remember, madame, that we are associated in a common cause, the future welfare of Raoul; and, although you have a right to rush upon destruction yourself, you certainly shall not drag us with you.”

“Cease your importunities,” she said, looking him steadily in the eye. “I have made up my mind irrevocably.”

“To what?”

“To do everything and anything to escape your shameful persecution. Oh! you need not smile. I shall throw myself at M. Fauvel’s feet, and confess everything. He is noble-hearted and generous, and, knowing how I have suffered, will forgive me.”

“Do you think so?” said Clameran derisively.

“You mean to say that he will be pitiless, and banish me from his roof. So be it; it will only be what I deserve. There is no torture that I cannot bear, after what I have suffered through you.”

This inconceivable resistance so upset all the marquis’s plans that he lost all constraint, and, dropping the mask of politeness, appeared in his true character.

“Indeed!” he said in a fierce, brutal tone, “so you have decided to confess to your loving, magnanimous husband! A famous idea! What a pity you did not think of it before; it is rather late to try it now. Confessing everything the first day I called on you, you might have been forgiven. Your husband might have pardoned a youthful fault atoned for by twenty years of irreproachable conduct; for none can deny that you have been a faithful wife and a good mother. But picture the indignation of your trusting husband when you tell him that this pretended nephew, whom you imposed upon his family circle, who sat at his table, who borrowed his money, is your illegitimate son! M. Fauvel is, no doubt, an excellent, kind-hearted man; but I scarcely think he will pardon a deception of this nature, which betrays such depravity, duplicity, and audacity.”

All that the angry marquis said was horribly true; yet Mme. Fauvel listened unflinchingly, as if the coarse cruelty of his words strengthened her resolution to have nothing more to do with him, but to throw herself on her husband’s mercy.

“Upon my soul,” he went on, “you must be very much infatuated with this M. Bertomy! Between the honor of your husband’s name, and pleasing this love-sick cashier, you refuse to hesitate. Well, I suppose he will console you. When M. Fauvel divorces you, and Abel and Lucien avert their faces at your approach, and blush at being your sons, you will be able to say, ‘I have made Prosper happy!’”

“Happen what may, I shall do what is right,” said Mme. Fauvel.

“You shall do what I say!” cried Clameran, threateningly. “Do you suppose that I will allow your sentimentality to blast all my hopes? I shall tolerate no such folly, madame, I can assure you. Your niece’s fortune is indispensable to us, and, more than that—I love the fair Madeleine, and am determined to marry her.”

The blow once struck, the marquis judged it prudent to await the result. With cool politeness, he continued:

“I will leave you now, madame, to think the matter over, and you cannot fail to view it in the same light as I do. You had better take my advice, and consent to this sacrifice of prejudice, as it will be the last required of you. Think of the honor of your family, and not of your niece’s love-affair. I will return in three days for your answer.”

“Your return is unnecessary, monsieur: I shall tell my husband everything to-night.”

If Mme. Fauvel had not been so agitated herself, she would have detected an expression of alarm upon Clameran’s face.

But this uneasiness was only momentary. With a shrug, which meant, “Just as you please,” he said:

“I think you have sense enough to keep your secret.”

He bowed ceremoniously, and left the room, but slammed the front door after him so violently as to prove that his restrained anger burst forth before leaving the house.

Clameran had cause for fear. Mme. Fauvel’s determination was not feigned. She was firm in her resolve to confess.

“Yes,” she cried, with the enthusiasm of a noble resolution, “yes, I will tell Andre everything!”

She believed herself to be alone, but turned around suddenly at the sound of footsteps, and found herself face to face with Madeleine, who was pale and swollen-eyed with weeping.

“You must obey this man, aunt,” she quietly said.

Adjoining the parlor was a little card-room separated only by a heavy silk curtain, instead of a door.

Madeleine was sitting in this little room when the marquis arrived, and, as there was no egress save through the parlor, had remained, and thus overheard the conversation.

“Good Heaven!” cried Mme. Fauvel with terror, “do you know–-”

“I know everything, aunt.”

“And you wish me to sacrifice you to this fiend?”

“I implore you to let me save you from misery.”

“You certainly despise and hate M. de Clameran; how can you think I would let you marry him?”

“I do despise him, aunt, and shall always regard him as the basest of men; nevertheless I will marry him.”

Mme. Fauvel was overcome by the magnitude of this devotion.

“And what is to become of Prosper, my poor child—Prosper, whom you love?”

Madeleine stifled a sob, and said in a firm voice:

“To-morrow I will break off my engagement with M. Bertomy.”

“I will never permit such a wrong,” cried Mme. Fauvel. “I will not add to my sins by suffering an innocent girl to bear their penalty.”

The noble girl sadly shook her head, and replied:

“Neither will I suffer dishonor to fall upon this house, which is my home, while I have power to prevent it. Am I not indebted to you for more than life? What would I now be had you not taken pity on me? A factory girl in my native village. You warmly welcomed the poor orphan, and became a mother to her. Is it not to your husband that I owe the fortune which excites the cupidity of this wicked Clameran? Are not Abel and Lucien brothers to me? And now, when the happiness of all who have been loving and generous to me is at stake, do you suppose I would hesitate? No. I will become the wife of Clameran.”

Then began a struggle of self-sacrifice between Mme. Fauvel and her niece, as to which should be the victim; only the more sublime, because each offered her life to the other, not from any sudden impulse, but deliberately and willingly.

But Madeleine carried the day, fired as she was by that holy enthusiasm of sacrifice which is the sustaining element of martyrs.

“I am responsible to none but myself,” said she, well knowing this to be the most vulnerable point she could attack; “whilst you, dear aunt, are accountable to your husband and children. Think of the pain and sorrow of M. Fauvel if he should learn the truth; it would kill him.”

The generous girl was right. She knew her uncle’s heart.

After having sacrificed her husband to her mother, Mme. Fauvel was about to immolate her husband and children for Raoul.

As a general thing, a first fault draws many others in its train. As an impalpable flake is the beginning of an avalanche, so an imprudence is often the prelude to a great crime.

To false situations there is but one safe issue: truth.

Mme. Fauvel’s resistance grew weaker and more faint, as her niece pointed out the line for her to pursue: the path of wifely duty.

“But,” she faintly argued, “I cannot accept your sacrifice. What sort of a life will you lead with this man?”

“We can hope for the best,” replied Madeleine with a cheerfulness she was far from feeling; “he loves me, he says; perhaps he will be kind to me.”

“Ah, if I only knew where to obtain money! It is money that the grasping man wants; money alone will satisfy him.”

“Does he not want it for Raoul? Has not Raoul, by his extravagant follies, dug an abyss which must be bridged over by money? If I could only believe M. de Clameran!”

Mme. Fauvel looked at her niece with bewildered curiosity.

What! this inexperienced girl had weighed the matter in its different lights before deciding upon a surrender; whereas, she, a wife and a mother, had blindly yielded to the inspirations of her heart!

“What do you mean? Madeleine, what do you suspect?”

“I mean this, aunt: that I do not believe that Clameran has any thought of his nephew’s welfare. Once in possession of my fortune, he may leave you and Raoul to your fates. And there is another dreadful suspicion that tortures my mind.”

“A suspicion?”

“Yes, and I would reveal it to you, if I dared; if I did not fear that you—”

“Speak!” insisted Mme. Fauvel. “Alas! misfortune has given me strength to bear all things. There is nothing worse than has already happened. I am ready to hear anything.”

Madeleine hesitated; she wished to enlighten her credulous aunt, and yet hesitated to distress her.

“I would like to be certain,” she said, “that some secret understanding between M. de Clameran and Raoul does not exist. Do you not think they are acting a part agreed upon for the purpose of extorting money?”

Love is blind and deaf. Mme. Fauvel would not remember the laughing eyes of the two men, upon the occasion of the pretended quarrel in her presence. Infatuation had drowned suspicion. She could not, she would not, believe in such hypocrisy. Raoul plot against the mother? Never!

“It is impossible,” she said, “the marquis is really indignant and distressed at his nephew’s mode of life, and he certainly would not countenance any disgraceful conduct. As to Raoul, he is vain, trifling, and extravagant; but he has a good heart. Prosperity has turned his head, but he loves me still. Ah, if you could see and hear him, when I reproach him for his faults, your suspicions would fly to the winds. When he tearfully promises to be more prudent, and never again give me trouble, he means to keep his word; but perfidious friends entice him away, and he commits some piece of folly without thinking of the consequences.”

Mothers always blame themselves and everyone else for the sins of their sons. The innocent friends come in for the principal