The Count's Millions [148]
misfortunes would bind them more closely to each other, and cement the bonds of their love more strongly. And if it were absolutely necessary for them to leave France--ah, well! they would leave it. To them Fatherland would always be the spot where they lived together.
As the cab approached the Rue d'Ulm she pictured Pascal's sorrow, and the joy and surprise he would feel when she suddenly appeared before him, and faltered: "They accuse you--here I am! I know that you are innocent, and I love you!"
But the brutal voice of the concierge, informing her of Pascal's secret departure, in the most insulting terms, abruptly dispelled her dreams. If Pascal had failed her, everything had failed her. If she had lost him, she had lost her all. The world seemed empty--struggling would be folly--happiness was only an empty name. She indeed longed for death!
Madame Leon who had a set of formulas adapted to all circumstances, undertook to console her. "Weep, my dear young lady, weep; it will do you good. Ah! this is certainly a horrible catastrophe. You are young, fortunately, and Time is a great consoler. M. Ferailleur isn't the only man on earth. Others will love you. There are others who love you already!"
"Silence!" interrupted Marguerite, more revolted than if she had heard a libertine whispering shameful proposals in her ear. "Silence! I forbid you to add another word." To speak of another-- what sacrilege! Poor girl. She was one of those whose life is bound up in one love alone, and if that fails them--it is death!
The thought that she was utterly alone added to the horror of her situation. Whom could she depend upon? Not on Madame Leon. She distrusted her; she had no confidence whatever in her. Should she ask for the advice of either of her suitors? The Marquis de Valorsay inspired her with unconquerable aversion, and she despised the so-called General de Fondege. So her only friend, her only protector was a stranger, the old justice of the peace who had taken her defence, by crushing the slander of the servants, and whom she had opened her heart to. But he would soon forget her, she thought; and the future, such as it was presented to her imagination, seemed a terrible one. However, she was too courageous to remain for long in despair--she struggled against her sorrow; and the thought that she might, perhaps, reach Pascal through M. Fortunat at last occurred to her mind. This hope was her sole chance of salvation. She clung to it as a shipwrecked mariner clings to the plank which is his only hope of life.
When she returned to the mansion her mind was made up, and she had regained her usual composure. For ten minutes or so she had been praying by the count's bedside, when M. Bourigeau, the concierge, appeared and handed her a letter which had just been brought to the house. It was addressed to "Mademoiselle Marguerite de Durtal de Chalusse, at the Hotel de Chalusse, Rue de Courcelles."
Mademoiselle Marguerite blushed. Who was it that addressed her by this name which she no longer had the right to bear? She studied the handwriting for a moment, but she did not remember ever having seen it before. At last, however, she opened the letter and read: " My dear, dear child." "Dear child!" indeed. What could this mean? Was there any one in the world sufficiently interested in her welfare, or loving her enough, to address her in this style? She quickly turned the sheet to see the signature; and when her eyes fell on it she turned pale. "Ah!" she exclaimed, involuntarily, "ah! ah!"
The letter was signed: "Athenais de Fondege." It had been written by the General's wife. She resumed her perusal of it, and this is what she read: "I this instant hear of the cruel loss you have sustained, and also learn that, for want of testamentary provisions, the poor Count de Chalusse leaves you, his idolized daughter, almost without resources. I will not attempt to offer you consolation, God alone can assuage certain sorrows. I should come and weep with you if I were not kept in bed by illness. But
As the cab approached the Rue d'Ulm she pictured Pascal's sorrow, and the joy and surprise he would feel when she suddenly appeared before him, and faltered: "They accuse you--here I am! I know that you are innocent, and I love you!"
But the brutal voice of the concierge, informing her of Pascal's secret departure, in the most insulting terms, abruptly dispelled her dreams. If Pascal had failed her, everything had failed her. If she had lost him, she had lost her all. The world seemed empty--struggling would be folly--happiness was only an empty name. She indeed longed for death!
Madame Leon who had a set of formulas adapted to all circumstances, undertook to console her. "Weep, my dear young lady, weep; it will do you good. Ah! this is certainly a horrible catastrophe. You are young, fortunately, and Time is a great consoler. M. Ferailleur isn't the only man on earth. Others will love you. There are others who love you already!"
"Silence!" interrupted Marguerite, more revolted than if she had heard a libertine whispering shameful proposals in her ear. "Silence! I forbid you to add another word." To speak of another-- what sacrilege! Poor girl. She was one of those whose life is bound up in one love alone, and if that fails them--it is death!
The thought that she was utterly alone added to the horror of her situation. Whom could she depend upon? Not on Madame Leon. She distrusted her; she had no confidence whatever in her. Should she ask for the advice of either of her suitors? The Marquis de Valorsay inspired her with unconquerable aversion, and she despised the so-called General de Fondege. So her only friend, her only protector was a stranger, the old justice of the peace who had taken her defence, by crushing the slander of the servants, and whom she had opened her heart to. But he would soon forget her, she thought; and the future, such as it was presented to her imagination, seemed a terrible one. However, she was too courageous to remain for long in despair--she struggled against her sorrow; and the thought that she might, perhaps, reach Pascal through M. Fortunat at last occurred to her mind. This hope was her sole chance of salvation. She clung to it as a shipwrecked mariner clings to the plank which is his only hope of life.
When she returned to the mansion her mind was made up, and she had regained her usual composure. For ten minutes or so she had been praying by the count's bedside, when M. Bourigeau, the concierge, appeared and handed her a letter which had just been brought to the house. It was addressed to "Mademoiselle Marguerite de Durtal de Chalusse, at the Hotel de Chalusse, Rue de Courcelles."
Mademoiselle Marguerite blushed. Who was it that addressed her by this name which she no longer had the right to bear? She studied the handwriting for a moment, but she did not remember ever having seen it before. At last, however, she opened the letter and read: " My dear, dear child." "Dear child!" indeed. What could this mean? Was there any one in the world sufficiently interested in her welfare, or loving her enough, to address her in this style? She quickly turned the sheet to see the signature; and when her eyes fell on it she turned pale. "Ah!" she exclaimed, involuntarily, "ah! ah!"
The letter was signed: "Athenais de Fondege." It had been written by the General's wife. She resumed her perusal of it, and this is what she read: "I this instant hear of the cruel loss you have sustained, and also learn that, for want of testamentary provisions, the poor Count de Chalusse leaves you, his idolized daughter, almost without resources. I will not attempt to offer you consolation, God alone can assuage certain sorrows. I should come and weep with you if I were not kept in bed by illness. But