Baron Trigault's Vengeance [99]
enough in hue to frighten a cab horse, was extremely eccentric in cut; but it certainly set off her peculiar style of beauty to admirable advantage.
"That's the baroness," whispered the servant, after she had passed.
Pascal did not need to be told this. He had seen her but once, and then only for a second; but it had been under such circumstances that he should never forget her so long as he lived. And now he understood the strange and terrible impression which had been produced upon him when he saw her first. Mademoiselle Marguerite was the living prototype of this lady, save as regards the color of her hair. And there would have been no difference in this respect had the baroness allowed her locks to retain their natural tint. Her hair had been black, like Marguerite's, and black it had remained until she was thirty-five, when she bleached it to the fashionable color of the time. And every fourth day even now her hairdresser came to apply a certain compound to her head, after which she remained in the bright sunlight for several hours, so as to impart a livelier shade of gold to her dyed locks.
Pascal had scarcely regained his composure, when the servant opened the door of an immense apartment as large as a handsome suite of rooms, and magnificently furnished. Here sat the baron, surrounded by several clerks, who were busily engaged in putting a pile of papers and documents in order.
But as soon as Pascal entered, the baron rose, and cordially holding out his hand, exclaimed, "Ah! here you are at last, Monsieur Maumejan!"
So he had not forgotten the name which Pascal had assumed. This was a favorable omen. "I called, monsieur----" began the young man.
"Yes--I know--I know!" interrupted the baron. "Come, we must have a talk."
And, taking Pascal's arm, he led him into his private sanctum, separated from the large apartment by folding-doors, which had been removed, and replaced by hangings. Once there he indicated by a gesture that they could be heard in the adjoining room, and that it was necessary to speak in a low tone. "You have no doubt come," said he, "for the money I promised that dear Marquis de Valorsay--I have it all ready for you; here it is." So saying, he opened an escritoire, and took out a large roll of bank-notes, which he handed to Pascal. "Here, count it," he added, "and see if the amount is correct."
But Pascal, whose face had suddenly become as red as fire, did not utter a word in reply. On receiving this money a new but quite natural thought had entered his mind for the first time. "What is the matter?" inquired the baron, surprised by this sudden embarrassment. "What has happened to you?"
"Nothing, monsieur, nothing! Only I was asking myself--if I ought-- if I can accept this money."
"Bah! and why not?"
"Because if you lend it to M. de Valorsay, it is perhaps lost."
"PERHAPS! You are polite----"
"Yes, monsieur, you are right. I ought to have said that it is sure to be lost; and hence my embarrassment. Is it not solely on my account that you sacrifice a sum which would be a fortune to many men? Yes. Very well, then. I am asking myself if it is right for me to accept such a sacrifice, when it is by no means certain that I shall ever be able to requite it. Shall I ever have a hundred thousand francs to repay you?"
"But isn't this money absolutely necessary to enable you to win Valorsay's confidence?"
"Yes, and if it belonged to me I should not hesitate."
Though the baron had formed a high estimate of Pascal's character, he was astonished and deeply touched by these scruples, and this excessive delicacy of feeling. Like most opulent men, he knew few poor people who wore their poverty with grace and dignity, and who did not snatch at a twenty-franc piece wherever they chanced to find it. "Ah, well, my dear Ferailleur," he said, kindly, "don't trouble yourself on this score. It's not at your request nor solely on your account that I make this sacrifice."
"Oh!"
"No; I give you my word of honor it isn't. Leaving you quite out of
"That's the baroness," whispered the servant, after she had passed.
Pascal did not need to be told this. He had seen her but once, and then only for a second; but it had been under such circumstances that he should never forget her so long as he lived. And now he understood the strange and terrible impression which had been produced upon him when he saw her first. Mademoiselle Marguerite was the living prototype of this lady, save as regards the color of her hair. And there would have been no difference in this respect had the baroness allowed her locks to retain their natural tint. Her hair had been black, like Marguerite's, and black it had remained until she was thirty-five, when she bleached it to the fashionable color of the time. And every fourth day even now her hairdresser came to apply a certain compound to her head, after which she remained in the bright sunlight for several hours, so as to impart a livelier shade of gold to her dyed locks.
Pascal had scarcely regained his composure, when the servant opened the door of an immense apartment as large as a handsome suite of rooms, and magnificently furnished. Here sat the baron, surrounded by several clerks, who were busily engaged in putting a pile of papers and documents in order.
But as soon as Pascal entered, the baron rose, and cordially holding out his hand, exclaimed, "Ah! here you are at last, Monsieur Maumejan!"
So he had not forgotten the name which Pascal had assumed. This was a favorable omen. "I called, monsieur----" began the young man.
"Yes--I know--I know!" interrupted the baron. "Come, we must have a talk."
And, taking Pascal's arm, he led him into his private sanctum, separated from the large apartment by folding-doors, which had been removed, and replaced by hangings. Once there he indicated by a gesture that they could be heard in the adjoining room, and that it was necessary to speak in a low tone. "You have no doubt come," said he, "for the money I promised that dear Marquis de Valorsay--I have it all ready for you; here it is." So saying, he opened an escritoire, and took out a large roll of bank-notes, which he handed to Pascal. "Here, count it," he added, "and see if the amount is correct."
But Pascal, whose face had suddenly become as red as fire, did not utter a word in reply. On receiving this money a new but quite natural thought had entered his mind for the first time. "What is the matter?" inquired the baron, surprised by this sudden embarrassment. "What has happened to you?"
"Nothing, monsieur, nothing! Only I was asking myself--if I ought-- if I can accept this money."
"Bah! and why not?"
"Because if you lend it to M. de Valorsay, it is perhaps lost."
"PERHAPS! You are polite----"
"Yes, monsieur, you are right. I ought to have said that it is sure to be lost; and hence my embarrassment. Is it not solely on my account that you sacrifice a sum which would be a fortune to many men? Yes. Very well, then. I am asking myself if it is right for me to accept such a sacrifice, when it is by no means certain that I shall ever be able to requite it. Shall I ever have a hundred thousand francs to repay you?"
"But isn't this money absolutely necessary to enable you to win Valorsay's confidence?"
"Yes, and if it belonged to me I should not hesitate."
Though the baron had formed a high estimate of Pascal's character, he was astonished and deeply touched by these scruples, and this excessive delicacy of feeling. Like most opulent men, he knew few poor people who wore their poverty with grace and dignity, and who did not snatch at a twenty-franc piece wherever they chanced to find it. "Ah, well, my dear Ferailleur," he said, kindly, "don't trouble yourself on this score. It's not at your request nor solely on your account that I make this sacrifice."
"Oh!"
"No; I give you my word of honor it isn't. Leaving you quite out of