The Count's Millions [36]
He pushed away the man who had caught his hands, with such violence that he sent him reeling under a sofa; then he stepped back and surveyed the excited throng with an air of menace and defiance. Useless! Seven or eight players sprang upon him and overpowered him, as if he had been the vilest criminal.
Meanwhile, the executioner, as he had styled himself, had risen to his feet with his cravat untied, and his clothes in wild disorder. "Yes," he said, addressing Pascal, "you are a thief! I saw you slip other cards among those which were handed to you."
"Wretch!" gasped Pascal.
"I saw you--and I am going to prove it." So saying he turned to the mistress of the house, who had dropped into an arm-chair, and imperiously asked, "How many packs have we used?"
"Five."
"Then there ought to be two hundred and sixty cards upon the table."
Thereupon he counted them slowly and with particular care, and he found no fewer than three hundred and seven. "Well, scoundrel!" he cried; "are you still bold enough to deny it?"
Pascal had no desire to deny it. He knew that words would weigh as nothing against this material, tangible, incontrovertible proof. Forty-seven cards had been fraudulently inserted among the others. Certainly not by him! But by whom? Still he, alone, had been the gainer through the deception.
"You see that the coward will not even defend himself!" exclaimed one of the women.
He did not deign to turn his head. What did the insult matter to him? He knew himself to be innocent, and yet he felt that he was sinking to the lowest depths of infamy--he beheld himself disgraced, branded, ruined. And realizing that he must meet facts with facts, he besought God to grant him an idea, an inspiration, that would unmask the real culprit.
But another person came to his aid. With a boldness which no one would have expected on his part, M. de Coralth placed himself in front of Pascal, and in a voice which betokened more indignation than sorrow, he exclaimed: "This is a terrible mistake, gentlemen. Pascal Ferailleur is my friend; and his past vouches for his present. Go to the Palais de Justice, and make inquiries respecting his character there. They will tell you how utterly impossible it is that this man can be guilty of the ignoble act he is accused of."
No one made any reply. In the opinion of all his listeners, Ferdinand was simply fulfilling a duty which it would have been difficult for him to escape. The old gentleman who had decided the suspension and the resumption of the game, gave audible expression to the prevailing sentiment of the party. He was a portly man, who puffed like a porpoise when he talked, and whom his companions called the baron. "Your words do you honor--really do you honor," he said, addressing Ferdinand--"and no possible blame can attach to you. That your friend is not an honest man is no fault of yours. There is no outward sign to distinguish scoundrels."
Pascal had so far not opened his lips. After struggling for a moment in the hands of his captors, he now stood perfectly motionless, glancing furiously around him as if hoping to discover the coward who had prepared the trap into which he had fallen. For he felt certain that he was the victim of some atrocious conspiracy, though it was impossible for him to divine what motive had actuated his enemies. Suddenly those who were holding him felt him tremble. He raised his head; he fancied he could detect a ray of hope. "Shall I be allowed to speak in my own defence?" he asked.
"Speak!"
He tried to free himself; but those beside him would not relax their hold, so he desisted, and then, in a voice husky with emotion, he exclaimed: "I am innocent! I am the victim of an infamous plot. Who the author of it is I do not know. But there is some one here who must know." Angry exclamations and sneering laughs interrupted him. "Would you condemn me unheard?" he resumed, raising his voice. "Listen to me. About an hour ago, while you were at supper, Madame d'Argeles almost threw herself at my feet as she
Meanwhile, the executioner, as he had styled himself, had risen to his feet with his cravat untied, and his clothes in wild disorder. "Yes," he said, addressing Pascal, "you are a thief! I saw you slip other cards among those which were handed to you."
"Wretch!" gasped Pascal.
"I saw you--and I am going to prove it." So saying he turned to the mistress of the house, who had dropped into an arm-chair, and imperiously asked, "How many packs have we used?"
"Five."
"Then there ought to be two hundred and sixty cards upon the table."
Thereupon he counted them slowly and with particular care, and he found no fewer than three hundred and seven. "Well, scoundrel!" he cried; "are you still bold enough to deny it?"
Pascal had no desire to deny it. He knew that words would weigh as nothing against this material, tangible, incontrovertible proof. Forty-seven cards had been fraudulently inserted among the others. Certainly not by him! But by whom? Still he, alone, had been the gainer through the deception.
"You see that the coward will not even defend himself!" exclaimed one of the women.
He did not deign to turn his head. What did the insult matter to him? He knew himself to be innocent, and yet he felt that he was sinking to the lowest depths of infamy--he beheld himself disgraced, branded, ruined. And realizing that he must meet facts with facts, he besought God to grant him an idea, an inspiration, that would unmask the real culprit.
But another person came to his aid. With a boldness which no one would have expected on his part, M. de Coralth placed himself in front of Pascal, and in a voice which betokened more indignation than sorrow, he exclaimed: "This is a terrible mistake, gentlemen. Pascal Ferailleur is my friend; and his past vouches for his present. Go to the Palais de Justice, and make inquiries respecting his character there. They will tell you how utterly impossible it is that this man can be guilty of the ignoble act he is accused of."
No one made any reply. In the opinion of all his listeners, Ferdinand was simply fulfilling a duty which it would have been difficult for him to escape. The old gentleman who had decided the suspension and the resumption of the game, gave audible expression to the prevailing sentiment of the party. He was a portly man, who puffed like a porpoise when he talked, and whom his companions called the baron. "Your words do you honor--really do you honor," he said, addressing Ferdinand--"and no possible blame can attach to you. That your friend is not an honest man is no fault of yours. There is no outward sign to distinguish scoundrels."
Pascal had so far not opened his lips. After struggling for a moment in the hands of his captors, he now stood perfectly motionless, glancing furiously around him as if hoping to discover the coward who had prepared the trap into which he had fallen. For he felt certain that he was the victim of some atrocious conspiracy, though it was impossible for him to divine what motive had actuated his enemies. Suddenly those who were holding him felt him tremble. He raised his head; he fancied he could detect a ray of hope. "Shall I be allowed to speak in my own defence?" he asked.
"Speak!"
He tried to free himself; but those beside him would not relax their hold, so he desisted, and then, in a voice husky with emotion, he exclaimed: "I am innocent! I am the victim of an infamous plot. Who the author of it is I do not know. But there is some one here who must know." Angry exclamations and sneering laughs interrupted him. "Would you condemn me unheard?" he resumed, raising his voice. "Listen to me. About an hour ago, while you were at supper, Madame d'Argeles almost threw herself at my feet as she