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

does it become you to be constantly reproaching me with my long-past imprudence? You have no right to be thus harassing me, till I dare not say my life is my own! Your power is at an end, and God only knows how deeply I regret having been insane enough to yield to its base sway! So long as I alone was to be the tool, you found me weak and timid; but, now that you seek the ruin of those I love, I rebel against your usurped authority. I have still a little conscience left, and nothing under heaven will force me to sacrifice my gentle, pure-hearted Madeleine!”

“May I inquire, madame, why you regard Mlle. Madeleine’s becoming the Marchioness of Clameran as a disgrace and a sacrifice?”

“My niece chose, of her own free will, a husband whom she will shortly marry. She loves M. Prosper Bertomy.”

The marquis disdainfully shrugged his shoulders.

“A schoolgirl love-affair,” said he; “she will forget all about it, if you wish her to do so.”

“I do not wish it. I wish her to marry him.”

“Listen to me,” he replied, in the low, suppressed tone of a man trying to control himself: “let us not waste time in these idle discussions. Hitherto you have always commenced by protesting against my proposed plans, and in the end acknowledge the good sense and justness of my arguments; now, for once why not yield without going through with the customary preliminaries? I ask it as a favor.”

“Never,” said Mme. Fauvel, “never will I yield.”

Clameran paid no attention to this interruption, but went on:

“I insist upon this marriage, mainly on your account, although it will enable me to reestablish my own affairs, as well as yours and Raoul’s. Of course you see that the allowance you give your son is insufficient for his extravagant style of living. The time approaches when, having nothing more to give him, you will have to encroach upon your husband’s money-drawer to such an extent that longer concealment will be impossible. When that day comes what is to be done? Perhaps you have some feasible plan of escape?”

Mme. Fauvel shuddered. The dreadful day of discovery could not be far off, and no earthly way was there to escape it.

The marquis went on:

“Assist me now, and, instead of having to make a shameful confession, you will thank me for having saved you. Mlle. Madeleine is rich: her dowry will enable me to supply the deficiency, and spare you all further anxiety about Raoul.”

“I would rather be ruined than be saved by such means.”

“But I will not permit you to ruin us all. Remember, madame, that we are associated in a common cause, the future welfare of Raoul; and, although you have a right to rush upon destruction yourself, you certainly shall not drag us with you.”

“Cease your importunities,” she said, looking him steadily in the eye. “I have made up my mind irrevocably.”

“To what?”

“To do everything and anything to escape your shameful persecution. Oh! you need not smile. I shall throw myself at M. Fauvel’s feet, and confess everything. He is noble-hearted and generous, and, knowing how I have suffered, will forgive me.”

“Do you think so?” said Clameran derisively.

“You mean to say that he will be pitiless, and banish me from his roof. So be it; it will only be what I deserve. There is no torture that I cannot bear, after what I have suffered through you.”

This inconceivable resistance so upset all the marquis’s plans that he lost all constraint, and, dropping the mask of politeness, appeared in his true character.

“Indeed!” he said in a fierce, brutal tone, “so you have decided to confess to your loving, magnanimous husband! A famous idea! What a pity you did not think of it before; it is rather late to try it now. Confessing everything the first day I called on you, you might have been forgiven. Your husband might have pardoned a youthful fault atoned for by twenty years of irreproachable conduct; for none can deny that you have been a faithful wife and a good mother. But picture the indignation of your trusting husband when you tell him that this pretended nephew, whom you imposed upon his family circle, who sat at his table, who borrowed his money, is your illegitimate son! M. Fauvel is, no doubt, an excellent, kindhearted man; but I scarcely think he will pardon a deception of this nature, which betrays such depravity, duplicity, and audacity.”

All that the angry marquis said was horribly true; yet Mme. Fauvel listened unflinchingly, as if the coarse cruelty of his words strengthened her resolution to have nothing more to do with him, but to throw herself on her husband’s mercy.

“Upon my soul,” he went on, “you must be very much infatuated with this M. Bertomy! Between the honor of your husband’s name, and pleasing this lovesick cashier, you refuse to hesitate. Well, I suppose he will console you. When M. Fauvel divorces you, and Abel and Lucien avert their faces at your approach, and blush at being your sons, you will be able to say, ‘I have made Prosper happy!’ ”

“Happen what may, I shall do what is right,” said Mme. Fauvel.

“You shall do what I say!” cried Clameran, threateningly. “Do you suppose that I will allow your sentimentality to blast all my hopes? I shall tolerate no such folly, madame, I can assure you. Your niece’s fortune is indispensable to us, and, more than that⁠—I love the fair Madeleine, and am determined to marry her.”

The blow once struck, the marquis judged it prudent to await the result. With cool politeness, he continued:

“I will leave you now, madame, to think the matter over, and you cannot fail to view it in the same light as I do. You had better take my advice, and consent to this sacrifice of prejudice, as it will be the last required of you. Think of the honor of your family, and not of your niece’s love-affair. I will return in three days for your answer.”

“Your return is unnecessary, monsieur: I shall tell my