Part 21

He scarcely deigned to come back, and he made no attempt to conceal his impatience. “Well, what is it?” he asked, hastily.

“I wish to give you a bit of parting advice. The court will undoubtedly decide in your favor; I shall be placed in possession of my brother’s estate; but neither you nor I will have the disposal of these millions.”

“Why?”

“Because, though this fortune belongs to me, the control of it belongs to your father.”

M. Wilkie was thunderstruck. “To my father?” he exclaimed. “Impossible!”

“It is so, however; and you would not have been ignorant of the fact, if your greed for money had not made you forget to question me. You believe yourself an illegitimate child. Wilkie, you are mistaken. You are my legitimate child. I am a married woman----”

“Bah!”

“And my husband--your father--is not dead. If he is not here now, threatening our safety, it is because I have succeeded in eluding him. He lost all trace of us eighteen years ago. Since then he has been constantly striving to discover us, but in vain. He is still watching, you may be sure of that; and as soon as there is any talk of a law-suit respecting the Chalusse property, you will see him appear, armed with his rights. He is the head of the family--your master and mine. Ah! this seems to disturb you. You will find him full of insatiable greed for wealth, a greed which has been whetted by twenty years’ waiting. You may yet see the day when you will regret the paltry twenty thousand francs a year formerly given you by your poor mother.”

Wilkie’s face was whiter than his shirt. “You are deceiving me,” he stammered.

“To-morrow I will show you my marriage certificate.”

“Why not this evening?”

“Because it is locked up in a room which is now full of people.”

“And what was my father’s name?”

“Arthur Gordon--he is an American.”

“Then my name is Wilkie Gordon?”

“Yes.”

“And---is my father rich?” he inquired.

“No.”

“What does he do?”

“Everything that a man can do when he has a taste for luxury and a horror for work.”

This reply was so explicit in its brevity, and implied so many terrible accusations, that Wilkie was dismayed. “The devil!” he exclaimed, “and where does he live!”

“He lives at Baden or Homburg in the summer; in Paris or at Monaco in the winter.”

“Oh! oh! oh!” ejaculated Wilkie, in three different tones. He knew what he had to expect from such a father as that. Anger now followed stupor--one of those terrible, white rages which stir the bile and not the blood. He saw his hopes and his cherished visions fade. Luxury and notoriety, high-stepping horses, yellow-haired mistresses, all vanished. He pictured himself reduced to a mere pittance, and held in check and domineered over by a brutal father. “Ah! I understand your game,” he hissed through his set teeth. “If you would only quietly assert your rights, everything could be arranged privately, and I should have time to put the property out of my father’s reach before he could claim it. Instead of doing that--as you hate me--you compel me to make the affair public, so that my father will hear of it and defraud me of everything. But you won’t play this trick on me. You are going to write at once, and make known your claim to your brother’s estate.”

“No.”

“Ah! you won’t? You refuse----” He approached threateningly, and caught hold of her arm. “Take care!” he vociferated; “take care! Do not infuriate me beyond endurance----”

As cold and rigid as marble, Madame d’Argeles faced him with the undaunted glance of a martyr whose spirit no violence can subdue. “You will obtain nothing from me,” she said, firmly; “nothing, nothing, nothing!”

Maddened with rage and disappointment, M. Wilkie dared to lift his hand as if about to strike her. But at this moment the door was flung open, and a man sprang upon him. It was Baron Trigault.

Like the other guests, the baron had seen the terrible effect produced upon Madame d’Argeles by a simple visiting card. But he had this advantage over the others: he thought he could divine and explain the reason of this sudden, seemingly incomprehensible terror. “The poor woman has been betrayed,” he thought; “her son is here!” Still, while the other players crowded around their hostess, he did not leave the card-table. He was sitting opposite M. de Coralth, and he had seen the dashing viscount start and change color. His suspicions were instantly aroused, and he wished to verify them. He therefore pretended to be more than ever absorbed in the cards, and swore lustily at the deserters who had broken up the game. “Come back, gentleman, come back,” he cried, angrily. “We are wasting precious time. While you have been trifling there, I might have gained--or lost--a hundred louis.”