The Lerouge Case by Émile Gaboriau (best classic books TXT) 📕

as were all the rooms of the ground floor, and was most magnificently furnished. The count was not only a great eater, but was vain of his enormous appetite. He was fond of recalling the names of great men, noted for their capacity of stomach. Charles V devoured mountains of viands. Louis XIV swallowed at each repast as much as six ordinary men would eat at a meal. He pretended that one can almost judge of men’s qualities by their digestive capacities; he compared them to lamps, whose power of giving light is in proportion to the oil they consume.

During the first half hour, the count and his son both remained silent. M. de Commarin ate conscientiously, not perceiving or not caring to notice that Albert ate nothing, but merely sat at the table as if to countenance him. The old nobleman’s ill-humour and volubility returned with the dessert, apparently increased by a Burgundy of which he was particularly fond, and of which he drank freely.

He was partial, moreover, to an after dinner argument, professing a theory that moderate discussion is a perfect digestive. A letter which had been delivered to him on his arrival, and which he had found time to glance over, gave him at once a subject and a point of departure.

“I arrived home but an hour ago;” said he, “and I have already received a homily from Broisfresnay.”

“He writes a great deal,” observed Albert.

“Too much; he consumes himself in ink. He mentions a lot more of his ridiculous projects and vain hopes, and he mentions a dozen names of men of his own stamp who are his associates. On my word of honour, they seem to have lost their senses! They talk of lifting the world, only they want a lever and something to rest it on. It makes me die with laughter!”

For ten minutes the count continued to discharge a volley of abuse and sarcasm against his best friends, without seeming to see that a great many of their foibles which he ridiculed were also a little his own.

“If,” continued he more seriously⁠—“if they only possessed a little confidence in themselves, if they showed the least audacity! But no! they count upon others to do for them what they ought to do for themselves. In short, their proceedings are a series of confessions of helplessness, of premature declarations of failure.”

The coffee having been served, the count made a sign, and the servants left the room.

“No,” continued he, “I see but one hope for the French aristocracy, but one plank of salvation, one good little law, establishing the right of primogeniture.”

“You will never obtain it.”

“You think not? Would you then oppose such a measure, viscount?”

Albert knew by experience what dangerous ground his father was approaching, and remained silent.

“Let us put it, then, that I dream of the impossible!” resumed the count. “Then let the nobles do their duty. Let all the younger sons and the daughters of our great families forego their rights, by giving up the entire patrimony to the firstborn for five generations, contenting themselves each with a couple of thousand francs a year. By that means great fortunes can be reconstructed, and families, instead of being divided by a variety of interests, become united by one common desire.”

“Unfortunately,” objected the viscount, “the time is not favorable to such devotedness.”

“I know it, sir,” replied the count quickly; “and in my own house I have the proof of it. I, your father, have conjured you to give up all idea of marrying the granddaughter of that old fool, the Marchioness d’Arlange. And all to no purpose; for I have at last been obliged to yield to your wishes.”

“Father⁠—” Albert commenced.

“It is well,” interrupted the count. “You have my word; but remember my prediction: you will strike a fatal blow at our house. You will be one of the largest proprietors in France; but have half a dozen children, and they will be hardly rich. If they also have as many, you will probably see your grandchildren in poverty!”

“You put all at the worst, father.”

“Without doubt: it is the only means of pointing out the danger, and averting the evil. You talk of your life’s happiness. What is that? A true noble thinks of his name above all. Mademoiselle d’Arlange is very pretty, and very attractive; but she is penniless. I had found an heiress for you.”

“Whom I should never love!”

“And what of that? She would have brought you four millions in her apron⁠—more than the kings of today give their daughters. Besides which she had great expectations.”

The discussion upon this subject would have been interminable, had Albert taken an active share in it; but his thoughts were far away. He answered from time to time so as not to appear absolutely dumb, and then only a few syllables. This absence of opposition was more irritating to the count than the most obstinate contradiction. He therefore directed his utmost efforts to excite his son to argue.

However he was vainly prodigal of words, and unsparing in unpleasant allusions, so that at last he fairly lost his temper, and, on receiving a laconic reply, he burst forth: “Upon my word, the butler’s son would say the same as you! What blood have you in your veins? You are more like one of the people than a Viscount de Commarin!”

There are certain conditions of mind in which the least conversation jars upon the nerves. During the last hour, Albert had suffered an intolerable punishment. The patience with which he had armed himself at last escaped him.

“Well, sir,” he answered, “if I resemble one of the people, there are perhaps good reasons for it.”

The glance with which the viscount accompanied his speech was so expressive that the count experienced a sudden shock. All his animation forsook him, and in a hesitating voice, he asked: “What is that you say, viscount?”

Albert had no sooner uttered the sentence than he regretted his precipitation, but he had gone too far to stop.

“Sir,”