The Count's Millions [122]
in reference to all other women. So, without taking pity on Pascal's embarrassment, she urged him to continue.
"I gave the driver five francs on condition that he would hurry his horses," he resumed, "and we were rattling along at a rapid rate, when, suddenly, near the Hotel de Chalusse, I noticed a change in the motion of the vehicle. I looked out and saw that we were driving over a thick layer of straw which had been spread across the street. I can scarcely describe my feelings on seeing this. A cold perspiration came over me--I fancied I saw Marguerite in agony, dying--far from me, and calling me in vain. Without waiting for the vehicle to stop, I sprang to the ground, and was obliged to exercise all my self-control to prevent myself from rushing into the concierge's lodge, and wildly asking: 'Who is dying here?' But an unforeseen difficulty presented itself. It was evident that I ought not to go in person to inquire for Madame Leon. Whom could I send? There were no commissionaires at the street corners, and nothing would have induced me to confide the message to any of the lads in the neighboring wine-shops. Fortunately, my driver--the same who is driving us now--is an obliging fellow, and I intrusted him with the commission, while I stood guard over his horses. Ten minutes later, Madame Leon left the house and came to meet me. I knew her at once, for I had seen her a hundred times with Marguerite when they lived near the Luxembourg; and having seen me pass and repass so often, she recognized me in spite of my changed appearance. Her first words, 'M. de Chalusse is dead,' relieved my heart of a terrible weight. I could breathe again. But she was in such haste that she could not stop to tell me any particulars. Still I gave her my letter, and she promised me a prompt reply from Marguerite. Everybody will be up and moving about the house to-night, and she said she could easily make her escape for a few moments. So, at half-past twelve to-night she will be at the little garden gate, and if I am promptly at hand, I shall have a reply from Marguerite."
Madame Ferailleur seemed to be expecting something more, and as Pascal remained silent, she remarked: "You spoke of a great misfortune. In what does it consist? I do not perceive it."
With an almost threatening gesture, and in a gloomy voice, he answered: "The misfortune is this: if it had not been for this abominable conspiracy, which has dishonored me, Marguerite would have been my wife before a month had elapsed, for now she is free, absolutely free to obey the dictates of her own will and heart."
"Then why do you complain?"
"Oh, mother! don't you understand? How can I marry her? Would it be right for me to think of offering her a dishonored name? It seems to me that I should be guilty of a most contemptible act--of something even worse than a crime--if I dared speak to her of my love and our future before I have crushed the villains who have ruined me."
Regret, anger, and the consciousness of his present powerlessness drew from him tears which fell upon Madame Ferailleur's heart like molten lead; but she succeeded in concealing her agony. "All the more reason," she answered, almost coldly, "why you should not lose a second, but devote all your energy and intelligence to the work of justification."
"Oh, I shall have my revenge, never fear. But in the meantime, what is to become of HER? Think, mother, she is alone in the world, without a single friend. It is enough to drive one mad!"
"She loves you, you tell me. What have you to fear? Now she will be freed from the persecutions of the suitor they intended to force upon her, whom she has spoken to you about--the Marquis de Valorsay, is it not?"
This name sent Pascal's blood to his brain. "Ah, the scoundrel!" he exclaimed. "If there was a God in heaven----"
"Wretched boy!" interrupted Madame Ferailleur; "you blaspheme when Providence has already interposed on your behalf. And who suffers most at this moment, do you think?--you, strong in your innocence, or the marquis, who
"I gave the driver five francs on condition that he would hurry his horses," he resumed, "and we were rattling along at a rapid rate, when, suddenly, near the Hotel de Chalusse, I noticed a change in the motion of the vehicle. I looked out and saw that we were driving over a thick layer of straw which had been spread across the street. I can scarcely describe my feelings on seeing this. A cold perspiration came over me--I fancied I saw Marguerite in agony, dying--far from me, and calling me in vain. Without waiting for the vehicle to stop, I sprang to the ground, and was obliged to exercise all my self-control to prevent myself from rushing into the concierge's lodge, and wildly asking: 'Who is dying here?' But an unforeseen difficulty presented itself. It was evident that I ought not to go in person to inquire for Madame Leon. Whom could I send? There were no commissionaires at the street corners, and nothing would have induced me to confide the message to any of the lads in the neighboring wine-shops. Fortunately, my driver--the same who is driving us now--is an obliging fellow, and I intrusted him with the commission, while I stood guard over his horses. Ten minutes later, Madame Leon left the house and came to meet me. I knew her at once, for I had seen her a hundred times with Marguerite when they lived near the Luxembourg; and having seen me pass and repass so often, she recognized me in spite of my changed appearance. Her first words, 'M. de Chalusse is dead,' relieved my heart of a terrible weight. I could breathe again. But she was in such haste that she could not stop to tell me any particulars. Still I gave her my letter, and she promised me a prompt reply from Marguerite. Everybody will be up and moving about the house to-night, and she said she could easily make her escape for a few moments. So, at half-past twelve to-night she will be at the little garden gate, and if I am promptly at hand, I shall have a reply from Marguerite."
Madame Ferailleur seemed to be expecting something more, and as Pascal remained silent, she remarked: "You spoke of a great misfortune. In what does it consist? I do not perceive it."
With an almost threatening gesture, and in a gloomy voice, he answered: "The misfortune is this: if it had not been for this abominable conspiracy, which has dishonored me, Marguerite would have been my wife before a month had elapsed, for now she is free, absolutely free to obey the dictates of her own will and heart."
"Then why do you complain?"
"Oh, mother! don't you understand? How can I marry her? Would it be right for me to think of offering her a dishonored name? It seems to me that I should be guilty of a most contemptible act--of something even worse than a crime--if I dared speak to her of my love and our future before I have crushed the villains who have ruined me."
Regret, anger, and the consciousness of his present powerlessness drew from him tears which fell upon Madame Ferailleur's heart like molten lead; but she succeeded in concealing her agony. "All the more reason," she answered, almost coldly, "why you should not lose a second, but devote all your energy and intelligence to the work of justification."
"Oh, I shall have my revenge, never fear. But in the meantime, what is to become of HER? Think, mother, she is alone in the world, without a single friend. It is enough to drive one mad!"
"She loves you, you tell me. What have you to fear? Now she will be freed from the persecutions of the suitor they intended to force upon her, whom she has spoken to you about--the Marquis de Valorsay, is it not?"
This name sent Pascal's blood to his brain. "Ah, the scoundrel!" he exclaimed. "If there was a God in heaven----"
"Wretched boy!" interrupted Madame Ferailleur; "you blaspheme when Providence has already interposed on your behalf. And who suffers most at this moment, do you think?--you, strong in your innocence, or the marquis, who