The Count's Millions [123]
realizes that he has committed an infamous crime in vain?"
The sudden stopping of the cab put an end to their conversation. Leaving the Route d'Asnieres, the driver had turned into the Route de la Revolte, and had drawn up in front of an unpretentious two- storied house which stood entirely alone. "We have arrived, mother," said Pascal.
A man, who was standing on the threshold, stepped forward to open the cab door. It was the furniture-dealer. "Here you are at last, M. Maumejan," said he. "Come in, and you'll see that I've strictly fulfilled the conditions of our contract." His words proved true. He was paid the sum stipulated, and went away satisfied.
"Now, my dear mother," said Pascal, "allow me to do the honors of the poor abode I have selected."
He had taken only the ground floor of this humble dwelling. The story above, which had an independent entrance and staircase, was occupied by the quiet family of the owner. Although the space was small, the architect had made the most of it. He had divided it into four small rooms, separated by a corridor; and the kitchen looked out upon a little garden about four times as large as an ordinary sheet. The furniture which Pascal had purchased was more than plain; but it was well suited to this humble abode. It had just been brought in, but any one would have supposed it had been in its place for a couple of years.
"We shall be very comfortable here," declared Madame Ferailleur. "Yes, very comfortable. By to-morrow evening you won't recognize the place. I have saved a few trifles from the wreck--some curtains, a couple of lamps, a clock--you'll see. It's wonderful how much four trunks can be made to hold."
When his mother set him such a noble example Pascal would have blushed to allow himself to be outdone. He very quietly explained the reasons which had influenced him in choosing these rooms, the principal one being that there was no concierge, and he was therefore assured absolute liberty in his movements, as well as entire immunity from indiscreet gossip. "Certainly, my dear mother," he added, "it is a lonely and unattractive neighborhood; but you will find all the necessaries of life near at hand. The owner of the house lives on the floor above. I have talked with the wife--they seem to be honest, quiet people--and she will pilot you about. I inquired for some one to do the heavy work, and she mentioned a poor woman named Vantrasson, who lives in the neighborhood, and who is anxious to obtain employment. They were to inform her this evening, and you will see her to-morrow. And above all, don't forget that you are henceforth Madame Maumejan."
Occupied with these arrangements for the future, he was still talking, when Madame Ferailleur, drawing out her watch, gently remarked: "And your appointment? You forget that the cab is waiting at the door."
It was true; he had forgotten it. He caught up his hat, hastily embraced his mother, and sprang into the vehicle. The horses were almost exhausted, but the driver was so willing that he found a means of making them trot as far as the Rue de Courcelles. However, on arriving there, he declared that his animals and himself could endure no more, and after receiving the amount due to him, he departed.
The air was chilly, the night dark, and the street deserted. The gloomy silence was only disturbed at long intervals by the opening or shutting of a door, or by the distant tread of some belated pedestrian. Having at least twenty minutes to wait, Pascal sat down on the curbstone opposite the Hotel de Chalusse, and fixed his eyes upon the building as if he were striving to penetrate the massive walls, and see what was passing within. Only one window-- that of the room where the dead man was lying--was lighted up, and he could vaguely distinguish the motionless form of a woman standing with her forehead pressed against the pane of glass. A prey to the indescribable agony which seizes a man when he feels that his life is at stake--that his future is about to be irrevocably decided--Pascal
The sudden stopping of the cab put an end to their conversation. Leaving the Route d'Asnieres, the driver had turned into the Route de la Revolte, and had drawn up in front of an unpretentious two- storied house which stood entirely alone. "We have arrived, mother," said Pascal.
A man, who was standing on the threshold, stepped forward to open the cab door. It was the furniture-dealer. "Here you are at last, M. Maumejan," said he. "Come in, and you'll see that I've strictly fulfilled the conditions of our contract." His words proved true. He was paid the sum stipulated, and went away satisfied.
"Now, my dear mother," said Pascal, "allow me to do the honors of the poor abode I have selected."
He had taken only the ground floor of this humble dwelling. The story above, which had an independent entrance and staircase, was occupied by the quiet family of the owner. Although the space was small, the architect had made the most of it. He had divided it into four small rooms, separated by a corridor; and the kitchen looked out upon a little garden about four times as large as an ordinary sheet. The furniture which Pascal had purchased was more than plain; but it was well suited to this humble abode. It had just been brought in, but any one would have supposed it had been in its place for a couple of years.
"We shall be very comfortable here," declared Madame Ferailleur. "Yes, very comfortable. By to-morrow evening you won't recognize the place. I have saved a few trifles from the wreck--some curtains, a couple of lamps, a clock--you'll see. It's wonderful how much four trunks can be made to hold."
When his mother set him such a noble example Pascal would have blushed to allow himself to be outdone. He very quietly explained the reasons which had influenced him in choosing these rooms, the principal one being that there was no concierge, and he was therefore assured absolute liberty in his movements, as well as entire immunity from indiscreet gossip. "Certainly, my dear mother," he added, "it is a lonely and unattractive neighborhood; but you will find all the necessaries of life near at hand. The owner of the house lives on the floor above. I have talked with the wife--they seem to be honest, quiet people--and she will pilot you about. I inquired for some one to do the heavy work, and she mentioned a poor woman named Vantrasson, who lives in the neighborhood, and who is anxious to obtain employment. They were to inform her this evening, and you will see her to-morrow. And above all, don't forget that you are henceforth Madame Maumejan."
Occupied with these arrangements for the future, he was still talking, when Madame Ferailleur, drawing out her watch, gently remarked: "And your appointment? You forget that the cab is waiting at the door."
It was true; he had forgotten it. He caught up his hat, hastily embraced his mother, and sprang into the vehicle. The horses were almost exhausted, but the driver was so willing that he found a means of making them trot as far as the Rue de Courcelles. However, on arriving there, he declared that his animals and himself could endure no more, and after receiving the amount due to him, he departed.
The air was chilly, the night dark, and the street deserted. The gloomy silence was only disturbed at long intervals by the opening or shutting of a door, or by the distant tread of some belated pedestrian. Having at least twenty minutes to wait, Pascal sat down on the curbstone opposite the Hotel de Chalusse, and fixed his eyes upon the building as if he were striving to penetrate the massive walls, and see what was passing within. Only one window-- that of the room where the dead man was lying--was lighted up, and he could vaguely distinguish the motionless form of a woman standing with her forehead pressed against the pane of glass. A prey to the indescribable agony which seizes a man when he feels that his life is at stake--that his future is about to be irrevocably decided--Pascal