The Slaves of Paris by Émile Gaboriau (good book recommendations .txt) 📕

to see the sons who ought to have been their honor and glory the scourge to punish their worldly aspirations,” exclaimed the old man.

“Good! that is really a very telling speech,” murmured Gaston approvingly, “considering that you have not made a special study of elocution.”

Fortunately his father did not catch these words, and continued in a voice broken by emotion, “That, M. André, is my son, who for twenty years has been my sole care. Well, believe it or not, as you like, he has been speculating on my death, as you might speculate on a racehorse at Vincennes.”

“No, no,” put in Gaston, but his father stopped him with a disdainful gesture.

“Have at least the courage to acknowledge your fault. You thought me blind because I said nothing, but your past conduct has opened my eyes.”

“But, father!”

“Do not attempt to deny it. This very morning my man of business, M. Catenac, wrote to me, and with that real courage which only true friends possess, told me all. I must tell you, M. André,” resumed the contractor, “I was ill. I had a severe attack of the gout, such as a man seldom recovers from, and my son was constant in his attendance at my sick couch. This consoled me. ‘He loves me after all,’ said I. But it was only my testamentary arrangements that he wanted to discover, and he went straight to a moneylender called Clergot and raised a hundred thousand francs assuring the bloodsucker that I had not many hours to live.”

“It is a lie!” cried Gaston, his face crimsoning with shame.

The old man raised the leg of the chair in his hand, and made so threatening a movement that André flung himself between father and son. “Great heavens!” cried he, “think what you are doing, sir, and forbear.”

The old man paused, passed his hand round his brow, and flung the weapon into a remote corner of the room. “I thank you,” said he, grasping André’s hand; “you have saved me from a great crime. In another moment I should have murdered him.”

Gaston was no coward, and he still retained the position he had been in before.

“This is quite romantic,” muttered he. “The governor seems to be going in for infanticide.”

André did not allow him to finish the sentence, for, grasping the young man’s wrist, he whispered fiercely, “Not another word; silence!”

“But I want to know what it all means?” answered the irrepressible youth.

“I had in my hands,” said the old man, addressing André, and ignoring the presence of his son, “the important paper he had copied. Yes; not more than an hour ago I read it. These were the terms: if I died within eight days from the date of signature, my son agreed to pay a bonus of thirty thousand francs; but if I lived for one month, he would take up the bill by paying one hundred and fifty thousand. If, however, by any unforeseen chance, I should recover entirely, he bound himself to pay Clergot the hundred thousand francs.”

The old man tore the cravat from his swelling throat, and wiped the beads of cold sweat that bedewed his brow.

“When this man recovers his self-command,” thought André, “he will never forgive me for having been the involuntary listener to this terrible tale.” But in this André was mistaken, for unsophisticated nature requires sympathy, and Nichols Gandelu would have said the same to the first comer.

“Before, however, delivering the hundred thousand francs, the usurer wished to make himself more secure, and asked for a certificate from someone who had seen me. This person was his friend. He spoke to me of a medical man, a specialist, who would understand my case at once. Would I not see him? Never had I seen my son so tender and affectionate. I yielded to his entreaties at last, and one evening I said to him, ‘Bring in this wonderful physician, if you really think he can do anything for me,’ and he did bring him.

“Yes, M. André, he found a medical man base and vile enough to become the tool of my son, and a moneylender; and if I choose, I can expose him to the loathing of the world, and the contempt of his brethren.

“The fellow came, and his visit lasted nearly an hour. I can see him now, asking questions and feeling my pulse. He went away at last, and my son followed him. They both met Clergot, who was waiting in the street. ‘You can pay him the cash; the old man won’t last twenty-four hours longer,’ said the doctor; and then my son came back happy and radiant, and assured me that I should soon be well again. And strange as it may seem, a change for the better took place that very night. Clergot had asked for forty-eight hours in which to raise the sum required. He heard of my convalescence, and my son lost the money.

“Was it courage you lacked?” asked the old man, turning for the first time to his son. “Did you not know that ten drops instead of one of the medicine I was taking would have freed you from me forever?”

Gaston did not seem at all overwhelmed. Indeed, he was wondering how the matter had reached his father’s ears, and how Catenac had discovered the rough draft of the agreement.

The contractor had imagined that his son would implore forgiveness; but seeing that he remained obdurate, his violence burst forth again. “And do you know what use my son would make of my fortune? He would squander it on a creature he picked up out of the streets⁠—a woman he called Madame de Chantemille⁠—a fit companion for a noble count!”

The shaft had penetrated the impassability which Gaston had up to this displayed. “You should not insult Zora,” said he.

“I shall not,” returned his father with a grim laugh, “take the trouble to do that; you are not of age, and I shall clap your friend Madame de Chantemille into prison.”

“You would not do that!”

“Would