File No. 113 - Emile Gaboriau (large screen ebook reader TXT) 📗

and he will soon return to the path of sober duty. He has too noble a heart to do anything really wrong.”

“He has suffered so much!” was Mme. Fauvel’s constant excuse for Raoul. This was her invariable reply to M. de Clameran’s complaints of his nephew’s conduct.

And, having once commenced, he was now constant in his accusations against Raoul.

“Nothing restrains his extravagance and dissipation,” Louis would say in a mournful voice; “the instant a piece of folly enters his head, it is carried out, no matter at what cost.”

Mme. Fauvel saw no reason why her son should be thus harshly judged.

“You must remember,” she said in an aggrieved tone, “that from infancy he has been left to his own unguided impulses. The unfortunate boy never had a mother to tend and counsel him. You must remember, too, that he has never known a father’s guidance.”

“There is some excuse for him, to be sure; but nevertheless he must change his present course. Could you not speak seriously to him, madame? You have more influence over him than I.”

She promised, but forgot her good resolution when with Raoul. She had so little time to devote to him, that it seemed cruel to spend it in reprimands. Sometimes she would hurry from home for the purpose of following the marquis’s advice; but, the instant she saw Raoul, her courage failed; a pleading look from his soft, dark eyes silenced the rebuke upon her lips; the sound of his voice banished every anxious thought, and lulled her mind to the present happiness.

But Clameran was not a man to lose sight of the main object, in what he considered a sentimental wasting of time. He would have no compromise of duty.

His brother had bequeathed to him, as a precious trust, his son Raoul; he regarded himself, he said, as his guardian, and would be held responsible in another world for his welfare.

He entreated Mme. Fauvel to use her influence, when he found himself powerless in trying to check the heedless youth in his headlong career. She ought, for the sake of her child, to see more of him, study his disposition, and daily admonish him in his duty to himself and to her.

“Alas,” the poor woman replied, “that would be my heart’s desire. But how can I do it? Have I the right to ruin myself? I have other children, for whom I must be careful of my reputation.”

This answer appeared to astonish Clameran. A fortnight before, Mme. Fauvel would not have alluded to her other sons.

“I will think the matter over,” said Louis, “And perhaps when I see you next I shall be able to submit to you a plan which will reconcile everything.”

The reflections of a man of so much experience could not be fruitless. He had a relieved, satisfied look, when he called to see Mme. Fauvel on the following week.

“I think I have solved the problem,” he said.

“What problem?”

“The means of saving Raoul.”

He explained himself by saying, that as Mme. Fauvel could not, without arousing her husband’s suspicions, continue her daily visits to Raoul, she must receive him at her own house.

This proposition shocked Mme. Fauvel; for though she had been imprudent, even culpable, she was the soul of honor, and naturally shrank from the idea of introducing Raoul into the midst of her family, and seeing him welcomed by her husband, and perhaps become the friend of his sons. Her instinctive sense of justice made her declare that she would never consent to such an infamous step.

“Yes,” said the marquis, thoughtfully, “there is some risk; but then, it is the only chance of saving your child.”

She resisted with so much firmness and indignation that Louis was astonished, and for a time nonplussed; though he by no means let the subject drop, but seized every opportunity of impressing upon her tortured mind that Raoul’s salvation depended entirely upon her.

“No,” she would always reply, “no! Never will I be so base and perfidious to my husband!”

Unfortunate woman! little did she know of the pitfalls which stand ever ready to swallow up wanderers from the path of virtue.

Before a week had passed, she listened to this project, which at first had filled her with horror, with a willing ear, and even began to devise means for its speedy execution.

Yes, after a cruel struggle, she finally yielded to the pressure of Clameran’s politely uttered threats and Raoul’s wheedling entreaties.

“But how,” she asked, “upon what pretext can I receive Raoul?”

“It would be the easiest thing in the world,” replied Clameran, “to admit him as an ordinary acquaintance, and, indeed, to place him on the same footing which I myself occupy—that of an intimate friend and habitue of your drawing-rooms. But Raoul must have more than this; he needs your constant care.”

After torturing Mme. Fauvel for a long time, he finally revealed his scheme.

“We have in our hands,” he said, “the solution of this problem, which may be so easily reached that I regard it as an inspiration.”

Mme. Fauvel eagerly scanned his face as she listened with the pitiable resignation of a martyr.

“Have you not a cousin, a widow lady, who had two daughters, living at St. Remy?” asked Louis.

“Yes, Mme. de Lagors.”

“Precisely so. What fortune has she?”

“She is poor, monsieur, very poor.”

“And, but for the assistance you render her secretly, she would be thrown upon the charity of the world.”

Mme. Fauvel was bewildered at finding the marquis so well informed of her private affairs.

“How could you have discovered this?” she asked.

“Oh, I know all about this affair, and many others besides. I know, for example, that your husband has never met any of your relatives, and that he is not even aware of the existence of your cousin De Lagors. Do you begin to comprehend my plan?”

She not only understood it, but also knew that she would end by being a party to it.

“All will succeed if you follow my instructions,” said Louis. “To-morrow or next day, you will receive a letter from your cousin at St. Remy, telling you that she has sent her son to Paris on a visit, and begs you to receive and watch over him. Naturally you show this letter to your husband; and a few days afterward he warmly welcomes your nephew, Raoul de Lagors, a handsome, rich, attractive young man, who does everything he can to please you both.”

“Monsieur,” replied Mme. Fauvel, “my cousin is a pious, honorable woman, and nothing would induce her to countenance so shameful a transaction.”

The marquis smiled scornfully, and said:

“Who told you that I intended to confide in her?”

“But you would be obliged to do so! How else?”

“You are very simple, madame. The letter which you will receive, and show to your husband, will be dictated by me, and posted at St. Remy by a friend of mine. If I spoke of the obligations under which you have placed your cousin, it was merely to show you that, in case of accident, her own interest would make her serve you. Do you see any obstacle to this plan, madame?”

Mme. Fauvel’s eyes flashed with indignation.

“Is my will of no account?” she exclaimed. “You seem to have made your arrangements without consulting me at all.”

“Excuse me,” said the marquis, with ironical politeness, “but I knew that you would take the same view of the matter as myself. Your good sense would convince you of the necessity of using every possible means of rescuing your child from destruction.”

“But it is a crime, monsieur, that you propose—an abominable crime! My mind revolts at the very idea of it!”

This speech seemed to arouse all the bad passions slumbering in Clameran’s bosom; and his pale face had a fiendish expression as he fiercely replied:

“We had better end this humbuggery, and come to a clear understanding at once. Before you begin to talk about crime, think over your past life. You were not so timid and scrupulous when you gave yourself up to your lover; neither did you hesitate to faithlessly refuse to share his exile, although for your sake he had just jeopardized his life by killing two men. You felt no scruples at abandoning your child in London; although rolling in wealth, you never even inquired if this poor waif had bread to eat. You felt no scruples about marrying M. Fauvel. Did you tell your confiding husband of the lines of shame concealed beneath that orange wreath? Did you hesitate to confirm and strengthen his happy delusion, that his lips had pressed the first kiss upon your brow? No! All these crimes you indulged in; and, when in Gaston’s name I demand reparation, you indignantly refuse. But, mark my words, madame, it is too late! You ruined the father; but you shall save the son, or, by all the saints in heaven, I swear you shall no longer cheat the world of its esteem.”

“I will obey you, monsieur,” murmured the trembling, frightened woman.

The following week Raoul, now Raoul de Lagors, was seated at the banker’s dinner-table, between Mme. Fauvel and Madeleine.

XVII

It was not without the most painful suffering and self-condemnation that Mme. Fauvel submitted to the will of the pitiless Marquis of Clameran.

She had used every argument and entreaty to soften him; but he merely looked upon her with a triumphant, sneering smile, when she knelt at his feet, implored him to be merciful and spare her the shame and remorse of committing another crime. Spare her this torture, and she would grant anything else he wished, give Raoul all she possessed while alive, and insure him a handsome competency after her death.

Alas! neither tears nor prayers moved him. Disappointed, and almost desperate, she sought the intercession of her son.

Raoul was in a state of furious indignation at the sight of his mother’s distress, and hastened to demand an apology from Clameran.

But he had reckoned without his host. He soon returned with downcast eyes, and moodily angry at his own powerlessness, declaring that safety demanded a complete surrender to the tyrant.

Now only did the wretched woman fully fathom the abyss into which she was being dragged, and clearly see the labyrinth of crime of which she was becoming the victim.

And all this suffering was the consequence of a fault, an interview granted to Gaston. Ever since that fatal day she had been vainly struggling against the implacable logic of events. Her life had been spent in trying to overcome the past, and now it had risen to crush her.

The hardest thing of all to do, the act that most wrung her heart, was showing to her husband the forged letter from St. Remy, and saying that she expected to see her rich young nephew in a day or two. ‘Tis hard to deceive those who trust and love us.

But words cannot paint the torture she endured on the evening that she introduced Raoul to her family, and saw the honest banker cordially shake hands with this nephew of whom he had never heard before, and affectionately say to him:

“I am not surprised that a rich young fellow like yourself should prefer Paris to St. Remy, and nothing will give me more pleasure than your visit; for I seldom have an opportunity of welcoming a relative of my dear wife, for whose sake I take an interest in everyone coming from St. Remy.”

Raoul exerted his utmost to deserve this warm reception.

If his early education had been neglected, and he lacked those delicate refinements of manner and conversation which home influence imparts, his superior tact concealed these