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

enumerated the beams, joists, ashlars, and the ironwork, and volubly praised the old domain.

As for Mihonne, the presence of the marquis had a wonderful effect upon her.

If the faithful servant had hitherto never breathed the secret confided to her probity, it was none the less heavy for her to bear.

After marrying, and being so harshly treated that she daily prayed for death to come to her relief, she began to blame everybody but herself for her misfortunes.

Weakly superstitious, she traced back the origin of her sorrows to the day when she took the oath on the holy gospel during mass.

Her constant prayers that God would send her a child to soothe her wounded heart, being unanswered, she was convinced that she was cursed with barrenness for having assisted in the abandonment of an innocent, helpless babe.

She often thought, that by revealing everything, she could appease the wrath of Heaven, and once more enjoy a happy home. Nothing but her love for Valentine gave her strength to resist a constant temptation to confess everything.

But today the sight of Louis decided her to relieve her mind. She thought there could be no danger in confiding in Gaston’s brother. Alas for woman’s tongue!

The sale was finally concluded. It was agreed that Fougeroux should give five thousand two hundred and eighty francs in cash for the château, and land attached; and Joseph was to have the old furniture.

The marquis and the new owner of the château shook hands, and noisily called out the essential word:

“Agreed!”

Fougeroux went himself to get the “bargain bottle” of old wine.

The occasion was favorable to Mihonne; she walked quickly over to where the marquis stood, and said in a nervous whisper:

“M. the marquis, I must speak with you apart.”

“What can you want to tell me, my good woman?”

“It is a secret of life and death. This evening, at dusk, meet me in the walnut wood, and I will tell you everything.”

Hearing her husband’s approaching step, she darted back to her corner by the fire.

Fougeroux filled the glasses, and drank to the health of Clameran.

As they returned to the boat, Louis tried to think what could be the object of this singular rendezvous.

“Joseph, what the deuce can that old witch want with me?” he said musingly.

“Who can tell? She used to be in the service of a lady who was very intimate with M. Gaston; so my father used to say. If I were in your place I would go and see what she wanted, monsieur. You can dine with me, and, after dinner, Pilorel will row you over.”

Curiosity decided Louis to go, about seven o’clock, to the walnut wood, where he found Mihonne impatiently awaiting him.

“Ah, here you are, at last, M. the marquis,” she said, in a tone of relief. “I was afraid you would disappoint me.”

“Yes, here I am, my good woman, to listen to what you have to say.”

“I have many things to say. But first tell me some news of your brother.”

Louis regretted having come, supposing from this request that the old woman was childish, and might bother him for hours with her senseless gabble.

“You know well enough that my poor brother was drowned in the Rhone.”

“Good heavens!” cried Mihonne, “are you ignorant, then, of his escape? Yes, he did what has never been done before; he swam across the swollen Rhone. The next day Mlle. Valentine went to Clameran to tell the news; but St. Jean prevented her from seeing you. Afterward I carried a letter from her, but you had left the country.”

Louis could not believe this strange revelation.

“Are you not mixing up dreams with real events, my good woman?” he said banteringly.

“No,” she replied, mournfully shaking her head. “If Père Menoul were alive, he would tell you how he took charge of your brother until he embarked for Marseilles. But that is nothing compared to the rest. M. Gaston has a son.”

“My brother had a son! You certainly have lost your mind, my poor woman.”

“Alas, no. Unfortunately for my happiness in this world and in the world to come, I am only telling the truth; he had a child, and Mlle. Valentine was its mother. I took the poor babe, and carried it to a woman whom I paid to take charge of it.”

Then Mihonne described the anger of the countess, the journey to London, and the abandonment of little Raoul.

With the accurate memory natural to people unable to read and write, she related the most minute particulars⁠—the names of the village, the nurse, the child’s Christian name, and the exact date of everything which had occurred.

Then she told of Valentine’s wretched suffering, of the impending ruin of the countess, and finally how everything was happily settled by the poor girl’s marriage with an immensely rich man, who was now one of the richest bankers in Paris, and was named Fauvel.

A harsh voice calling, “Mihonne! Mihonne!” here interrupted the old woman.

“Heavens!” she cried in a frightened tone, “that is my husband, looking for me.”

And, as fast as her trembling limbs could carry her, she hurried to the farmhouse.

For several minutes after her departure, Louis stood rooted to the spot.

Her recital had filled his wicked mind with an idea so infamous, so detestable, that even his vile nature shrank for a moment from its enormity.

He knew Fauvel by reputation, and was calculating the advantages he might gain by the strange information of which he was now possessed by means of the old Mihonne. It was a secret, which, if skilfully managed, would bring him in a handsome income.

The few faint scruples he felt were silenced by the thought of an old age spent in poverty. After the price of the château was spent, to what could he look forward? Beggary.

“But first of all,” he thought, “I must ascertain the truth of the old woman’s story; then I will decide upon a plan.”

This was why, the next day, after receiving the five thousand two hundred and eighty francs from Fougeroux, Louis de Clameran set out for London.