The Mystery of Orcival - Émile Gaboriau (books for 6 year olds to read themselves txt) 📗

whom you know, of whom I have often spoken to you, whom you will like because I love him, and because he is my oldest comrade, my best friend.”

And standing aside, he gently pushed Hector into the room.

“Madame Sauvresy, permit me to present to you Monsieur the Count de Trémorel.”

Bertha rose suddenly, blushing, confused, agitated by an indefinable emotion, as if she saw in reality an apparition. For the first time in her life she was abashed, and did not dare to raise her large, clear blue eyes.

“Monsieur,” she stammered, “you are welcome.”

She knew Trémorel’s name well. Sauvresy had often mentioned it, and she had seen it often in the papers, and had heard it in the drawing-rooms of all her friends. He who bore it seemed to her, after what she had heard a great personage. He was, according to his reputation, a hero of another age, a social Don Quixote, a terribly fast man of the world. He was one of those men whose lives astonish common people, whom the well-to-do citizen thinks faithless and lawless, whose extravagant passions overleap the narrow bounds of social prejudice; a man who tyrannizes over others, whom all fear, who fights on the slightest provocation, who scatters gold with a prodigal hand, whose iron health resists the most terrible excesses. She had often in her miserable reveries tried to imagine what kind of man this Count de Trémorel was. She awarded him with such qualities as she desired for her fancied hero, with whom she could fly from her husband in search of new adventures. And now, of a sudden, he appeared before her.

“Give Hector your hand, dear,” said Sauvresy. She held out her hand, which Trémorel lightly pressed, and his touch seemed to give her an electric shock.

Sauvresy threw himself into an armchair.

“You see, Bertha,” said he, “our friend Hector is exhausted with the life he has been leading. He has been advised to rest, and has come to seek it here, with us.”

“But, dear,” responded Bertha, “aren’t you afraid that the count will be bored a little here?”

“Why?”

“Valfeuillu is very quiet, and we are but dull country folks.”

Bertha talked for the sake of talking, to break a silence which embarrassed her, to make Trémorel speak, and hear his voice. As she talked she observed him, and studied the impression she made on him. Her radiant beauty usually struck those who saw her for the first time with open admiration. He remained impassible. She recognized the worn-out rake of title, the fast man who has tried, experienced, exhausted all things, in his coldness and superb indifference. And because he did not admire her she admired him the more.

“What a difference,” thought she, “between him and that vulgar Sauvresy, who is surprised at everything, whose face shows all that he thinks, whose eye betrays what he is going to say before he opens his mouth.”

Bertha was mistaken. Hector was not as cold and indifferent as she imagined. He was simply wearied, utterly exhausted. He could scarcely sit up after the terrible excitements of the last twenty-four hours. He soon asked permission to retire. Sauvresy, when left alone with his wife, told her all that happened, and the events which resulted in Trémorel’s coming to Valfeuillu; but like a true friend omitted everything that would cast ridicule upon his old comrade.

“He’s a big child,” said he, “a foolish fellow, whose brain is weak but we’ll take care of him and cure him.”

Bertha never listened to her husband so attentively before. She seemed to agree with him, but she really admired Trémorel. Like Jenny, she was struck with the heroism which could squander a fortune and then commit suicide.

“Ah!” sighed she, “Sauvresy would not have done it!”

No, Sauvresy was quite a different man from the Count de Trémorel. The next day he declared his intention to adjust his friend’s affairs. Hector had slept well, having spent the night on an excellent bed, undisturbed by pressing anxieties; and he appeared in the morning sleek and well-dressed, the disorder and desperation of the previous evening having quite disappeared. He had a nature not deeply impressible by events; twenty-four hours consoled him for the worst catastrophes, and he soon forgot the severest lessons of life. If Sauvresy had bid him begone, he would not have known where to go; yet he had already resumed the haughty carelessness of the millionnaire, accustomed to bend men and circumstances to his will. He was once more calm and cold, coolly joking, as if years had passed since that night at the hotel, and as if all the disasters to his fortune had been repaired. Bertha was amazed at this tranquillity after such great reverses, and thought this childish recklessness force of character.

“Now,” said Sauvresy, “as I’ve become your man of business, give me my instructions, and some valuable hints. What is, or was, the amount of your fortune?”

“I haven’t the least idea.”

Sauvresy provided himself with a pencil and a large sheet of paper, ready to set down the figures. He seemed a little surprised.

“All right,” said he, “we’ll put x down as the unknown quantity of the assets: now for the liabilities.”

Hector made a superbly disdainful gesture.

“Don’t know, I’m sure, what they are.”

“What, can’t you give a rough guess?”

“Oh, perhaps. For instance, I owe between five and six hundred thousand francs to Clair & Co., five hundred thousand to Dervoy; about as much to Dubois, of Orleans⁠—”

“Well?”

“I can’t remember any more.”

“But you must have a memorandum of your loans somewhere?”

“No.”

“You have at least kept your bonds, bills, and the sums of your various debts?”

“None of them. I burnt up all my papers yesterday.”

Sauvresy jumped up from his chair in astonishment; such a method of doing business seemed to him monstrous; he could not suppose that Hector was lying. Yet he was lying, and this affectation of ignorance was a conceit of the aristocratic man of the world. It was very noble, very distingué, to ruin one’s self without knowing how!

“But, my