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

go in quest of a wife with her purchase-money in his hand was repugnant to his feelings, and contrary to his ideas of delicacy. But he had no one to urge his suit for him on his own merits; so he was compelled to shut his eyes to the distasteful features of his task, and treat his passion as a matter of business.

The occasion so anxiously awaited, to explain his intentions, soon presented itself.

One day he entered a hotel at Beaucaire, and, as he sat down to dinner, he saw that Mme. de la Verberie was at the adjoining table. He blushed deeply, and asked permission to sit at her table, which was granted with a most encouraging smile.

Did the countess suspect the love of the young engineer? Had she been warned by her friend?

At any rate, without giving André time to gradually approach the subject weighing on his mind, she began to complain of the hard times, the scarcity of money, and the grasping meanness of the tradespeople.

She had come to Beaucaire, indeed, to borrow money, and found every bank and cashbox closed against her; and her lawyer had advised her to sell her land for what it would bring. This made her very angry.

Temper, joined to that secret instinct of the situation of affairs which is the sixth sense of a woman, loosened her tongue, and made her more communicative to this comparative stranger than she had ever been to her bosom friends. She explained to him the horror of her situation, her present needs, her anxiety for the future, and, above all, her great distress at not being able to marry off her beloved daughter. If she only had a dowry for her child!

André listened to these complaints with becoming commiseration, but in reality he was delighted.

Without giving her time to finish her tale, he began to state what he called his view of the matter.

He said that, although he sympathized deeply with the countess, he could not account for her uneasiness about her daughter.

What? Could she be disturbed at having no dowry for her? Why, the rank and beauty of Mlle. Valentine were a fortune in themselves, of which any man might be proud.

He knew more than one man who would esteem himself only too happy if Mlle. Valentine would accept his name, and confer upon him the sweet duty of relieving her mother from all anxiety and care. Finally, he did not think the situation of the countess’s affairs nearly so desperate as she imagined. How much money would be necessary to pay off the mortgages upon La Verberie? About forty thousand francs, perhaps? Indeed! That was but a mere trifle.

Besides, this sum need not be a gift from the son-in-law; if she chose, it might be a loan, because the estate would be his in the end, and in time the land would be double its present value; it would be a pity to sell now. A man, too, worthy of Valentine’s love could never let his wife’s mother want for the comforts and luxuries due to a lady of her age, rank, and misfortunes. He would be only too glad to offer her a sufficient income, not only to provide comfort, but even luxury.

As André spoke, in a tone too earnest to be assumed, it seemed to the countess that a celestial dew was dropping upon her pecuniary wounds. Her countenance was radiant with joy, her fierce little eyes beamed with the most encouraging tenderness, her thin lips were wreathed in the most friendly smiles.

One thought disturbed the young engineer.

“Does she understand me seriously?” he thought.

She certainly did, as her subsequent remarks proved. He saw that the would-be sentimental old lady had an eye to business.

“Alas!” she sighed, “La Verberie cannot be saved by forty thousand francs; the principal and interest of the debt amount to sixty thousand.”

“Oh, either forty or sixty thousand is nothing worth speaking of.”

“Four thousand francs is not enough to support a lady respectably,” she said after a pause. “Everything is so dear in this section of the country! But with six thousand francs⁠—yes, six thousand francs would make me happy!”

The young man thought that her demands were becoming excessive, but with the generosity of an ardent lover he said:

“The son-in-law of whom we are speaking cannot be very devoted to Mlle. Valentine, if the paltry sum of two thousand francs were objected to for an instant.”

“You promise too much!” muttered the countess.

“The imaginary son-in-law,” she finally added, “must be an honorable man who will fulfil his promises. I have my daughter’s happiness too much at heart to give her to a man who did not produce⁠—what do you call them?⁠—securities, guarantees.”

“Decidedly,” thought Fauvel with mortification, “we are making a bargain and sale.”

Then he said aloud:

“Of course, your son-in-law would bind himself in the marriage contract to⁠—”

“Never! monsieur, never! Put such an agreement in the marriage contract! Think of the impropriety of the thing! What would the world say?”

“Permit me, madame, to suggest that your pension should be mentioned as the interest of a sum acknowledged to have been received from you.”

“Well, that might do very well; that is very proper.”

The countess insisted upon taking André home in her carriage. During the drive, no definite plan was agreed upon between them; but they understood each other so well, that, when the countess set the young engineer down at his own door, she invited him to dinner the next day, and held out her skinny hand which André kissed with devotion, as he thought of the rosy fingers of Valentine.

When Mme. de la Verberie returned home, the servants were dumb with astonishment at her good-humor: they had not seen her in this happy frame of mind for years.

And her day’s work was of a nature to elevate her spirits: she had been unexpectedly raised from poverty to affluence. She, who boasted of such proud sentiments, never stopped to think of the infamy of the transaction in which she had been engaged: it seemed quite right