File No. 113 by Émile Gaboriau (summer beach reads .txt) 📕

“I suppose you would have pardoned the fault, had it enriched us.”

But these revolts of Valentine were rare, although her life was a series of tortures inflicted with inquisitorial cruelty.

Even the memory of Gaston had become a suffering.

Perhaps, discovering the uselessness of her sacrifice, of her courage, and her devotion to what she had considered her duty, she regretted not having followed him. What had become of him? Might he not have contrived to send her a letter, a word to let her know that he was still alive? Perhaps he was not dead. Perhaps he had forgotten her. He had sworn to return a rich man before the lapse of three years. Would he ever return?

There was a risk in his returning under any circumstances. His disappearance had not ended the terrible affair of Tarascon. He was supposed to be dead; but as there was no positive proof of his death, and his body could not be found, the law was compelled to yield to the clamor of public opinion.

The case was brought before the assize court; and, in default of appearance, Gaston de Clameran was sentenced to several years of close confinement.

As to Louis de Clameran, no one knew positively what had become of him. Some people said he was leading a life of reckless extravagance in Paris.

Informed of these facts by her faithful Mihonne, Valentine became more gloomy and hopeless than ever. Vainly did she question the dreary future; no ray appeared upon the dark horizon of her life.

Her elasticity was gone; and she had finally reached that state of passive resignation peculiar to people who are oppressed and cowed at home.

In this miserable way, passed four years since the fatal evening when Gaston left her.

Mme. de la Verberie had spent these years in constant discomfort. Seeing that she could not live upon her income, and having too much pride to sell her land, which was so badly managed that it only brought her in two percent, she mortgaged her estate in order to raise money only to be spent as soon as borrowed.

In such matters, it is the first step that costs; and, after having once commenced to live upon her capital, the countess made rapid strides in extravagance, saying to herself, “After me, the deluge!” Very much as her neighbor, the late Marquis of Clameran, had managed his affairs, she was now conducting hers, having but one object in view⁠—her own comfort and pleasure.

She made frequent visits to the neighboring towns of Nimes and Avignon; she sent to Paris for the most elegant toilets, and entertained a great deal of company. All the luxury that she had hoped to obtain by the acquisition of a rich son-in-law, she determined to give herself, utterly regardless of the fact that she was reducing her child to beggary. Great sorrows require consolation!

The summer that she returned from London, she did not hesitate to indulge her fancy for a horse; it was rather old, to be sure, but, when harnessed to a secondhand carriage bought on credit at Beaucaire, made quite a good appearance.

She would quiet her conscience, which occasionally reproached her for this constant extravagance, by saying, “I am so unhappy!”

The unhappiness was that this luxury cost her dear, very dear.

After having sold the rest of her rents, the countess first mortgaged the estate of La Verberie, and then the château itself.

In less than four years she owed more than forty thousand francs, and was unable to pay the interest of her debt.

She was racking her mind to discover some means of escape from her difficulties, when chance came to her rescue.

For some time a young engineer, employed in surveys along the Rhone, had made the village of Beaucaire the centre of his operations.

Being handsome, agreeable, and of polished manners, he had been warmly welcomed by the neighboring society, and the countess frequently met him at the houses of her friends where she went to play cards in the evenings.

This young engineer was named André Fauvel.

The first time he met Valentine he was struck by her beauty, and after once looking into her large, melancholy eyes, his admiration deepened into love; a love so earnest and passionate, that he felt that he could never be happy without her.

Before being introduced to her, his heart had surrendered itself to her charms.

He was wealthy; a splendid career was open to him, he was free; and he swore that Valentine should be his.

He confided all his matrimonial plans to an old friend of Mme. de la Verberie, who was as noble as a Montmorency, and as poor as Job.

With the precision of a graduate of the polytechnic school, he had enumerated all his qualifications for being a model son-in-law.

For a long time the old lady listened to him without interruption; but, when he had finished, she did not hesitate to tell him that his pretensions were presumptuous.

What! he, a man of no pedigree, a Fauvel, a common surveyor, to aspire to the hand of a La Verberie!

After having enumerated all the superior advantages of that superior order of beings, the nobility, she condescended to take a commonsense view of the case, and said:

“However, you may succeed. The poor countess owes money in every direction; not a day passes without the bailiffs calling upon her; so that, you understand, if a rich suitor appeared, and agreed to her terms for settlements⁠—well, well, there is no knowing what might happen.”

André Fauvel was young and sentimental: the insinuations of the old lady seemed to him preposterous.

On reflection, however, when he had studied the character of the nobility in the neighborhood, who were rich in nothing but prejudices, he clearly saw that pecuniary considerations alone would be strong enough to decide the proud Countess de la Verberie to grant him her daughter’s hand.

This certainly ended his hesitations, and he turned his whole attention to devising a plan for presenting his claim.

He did not find this an easy thing to accomplish. To