The Count's Millions [47]
with questions, he pushed her gently aside and went on to his room.
"Poor child!" murmured Madame Ferailleur, at once grieved and reassured; "and he is always so temperate. Some one must have forced him to drink."
She was entirely wrong in her surmise, and yet Pascal's sensations were exactly like those of an intoxicated man. How he had returned home, by what road, and what had happened on the way, he could not tell. He had found his way back mechanically, merely by force of habit--physical memory, as it might be called. He had a vague impression, however, that he had sat down for some time on a bench in the Champs-Elysees, that he had felt extremely cold, and that he had been accosted by a policeman, who threatened him with arrest if he did not move on. The last thing he could clearly recollect was rushing from Madame d'Argeles's house in the Rue de Berry. He knew that he had descended the staircase slowly and deliberately; that the servants in the vestibule had stood aside to allow him to pass; and that, while crossing the courtyard, he had thrown away the candelabrum with which he had defended himself. After that, he remembered nothing distinctly. On reaching the street he had been overcome by the fresh air, just as a carouser is overcome on emerging from a heated dining-room. Perhaps the champagne which he had drank had contributed to this cerebral disorder. At all events, even now, in his own room, seated in his own arm-chair, and surrounded by familiar objects, he did not succeed in regaining the possession of his faculties.
He had barely strength enough to throw himself on to the bed, and in a moment he was sleeping with that heavy slumber which so often seizes hold of one on the occasion of a great crisis, and which has so frequently been observed among persons condemned to death, on the night preceding their execution. Four or five times his mother came to listen at the door. Once she entered, and seeing her son sleeping soundly, she could not repress a smile of satisfaction. "Poor Pascal!" she thought; "he can bear no excess but excess of work. Heavens! how surprised and mortified he will be when he awakes!"
Alas! it was not a trifling mortification, but despair, which awaited the sleeper on his wakening; for the past, the present, and the future were presented simultaneously and visionlike to his imagination. Although he had scarcely regained the full use of his faculties, he was, to some extent, at least capable of reflection and deliberation, and he tried to look the situation bravely in the face. First, as to the past, he had not the shadow of a doubt. He realized that he had fallen into a vile trap, and the person who had laid it for him was undoubtedly M. de Coralth, who, seated at his right, had prepared the "hands" with which he had won. This was evident. It seemed equally proven that Madame d'Argeles knew the real culprit--possibly she had detected him in the act, possibly he had taken her into his confidence. But what he could not fathom was M. de Coralth's motive. What could have prompted the viscount to commit such an atrocious act? The incentive must have been very powerful, since he had naturally incurred the danger of detection and of being considered an accomplice at the least. And then what influence had closed Madame d'Argeles's lips? But after all, what was the use of these conjectures? It was an actual, unanswerable, and terrible fact that this infamous plot had been successful, and that Pascal was dishonored. He was honesty itself, and yet he was accused--more than that, CONVICTED--of cheating at cards! He was innocent, and yet he could furnish no proofs of his innocence. He knew the real culprit, and yet he could see no way of unmasking him or even of accusing him. Do what he would, this atrocious, incomprehensive calumny would crush him. The bar was closed against him; his career was ended. And the terrible conviction that there was no escape from the abyss into which he had fallen made his reason totter--he felt that he was incapable of deciding on
"Poor child!" murmured Madame Ferailleur, at once grieved and reassured; "and he is always so temperate. Some one must have forced him to drink."
She was entirely wrong in her surmise, and yet Pascal's sensations were exactly like those of an intoxicated man. How he had returned home, by what road, and what had happened on the way, he could not tell. He had found his way back mechanically, merely by force of habit--physical memory, as it might be called. He had a vague impression, however, that he had sat down for some time on a bench in the Champs-Elysees, that he had felt extremely cold, and that he had been accosted by a policeman, who threatened him with arrest if he did not move on. The last thing he could clearly recollect was rushing from Madame d'Argeles's house in the Rue de Berry. He knew that he had descended the staircase slowly and deliberately; that the servants in the vestibule had stood aside to allow him to pass; and that, while crossing the courtyard, he had thrown away the candelabrum with which he had defended himself. After that, he remembered nothing distinctly. On reaching the street he had been overcome by the fresh air, just as a carouser is overcome on emerging from a heated dining-room. Perhaps the champagne which he had drank had contributed to this cerebral disorder. At all events, even now, in his own room, seated in his own arm-chair, and surrounded by familiar objects, he did not succeed in regaining the possession of his faculties.
He had barely strength enough to throw himself on to the bed, and in a moment he was sleeping with that heavy slumber which so often seizes hold of one on the occasion of a great crisis, and which has so frequently been observed among persons condemned to death, on the night preceding their execution. Four or five times his mother came to listen at the door. Once she entered, and seeing her son sleeping soundly, she could not repress a smile of satisfaction. "Poor Pascal!" she thought; "he can bear no excess but excess of work. Heavens! how surprised and mortified he will be when he awakes!"
Alas! it was not a trifling mortification, but despair, which awaited the sleeper on his wakening; for the past, the present, and the future were presented simultaneously and visionlike to his imagination. Although he had scarcely regained the full use of his faculties, he was, to some extent, at least capable of reflection and deliberation, and he tried to look the situation bravely in the face. First, as to the past, he had not the shadow of a doubt. He realized that he had fallen into a vile trap, and the person who had laid it for him was undoubtedly M. de Coralth, who, seated at his right, had prepared the "hands" with which he had won. This was evident. It seemed equally proven that Madame d'Argeles knew the real culprit--possibly she had detected him in the act, possibly he had taken her into his confidence. But what he could not fathom was M. de Coralth's motive. What could have prompted the viscount to commit such an atrocious act? The incentive must have been very powerful, since he had naturally incurred the danger of detection and of being considered an accomplice at the least. And then what influence had closed Madame d'Argeles's lips? But after all, what was the use of these conjectures? It was an actual, unanswerable, and terrible fact that this infamous plot had been successful, and that Pascal was dishonored. He was honesty itself, and yet he was accused--more than that, CONVICTED--of cheating at cards! He was innocent, and yet he could furnish no proofs of his innocence. He knew the real culprit, and yet he could see no way of unmasking him or even of accusing him. Do what he would, this atrocious, incomprehensive calumny would crush him. The bar was closed against him; his career was ended. And the terrible conviction that there was no escape from the abyss into which he had fallen made his reason totter--he felt that he was incapable of deciding on