Part 42

“So much the better.”

“But you will allow me to explain my intentions?”

“It is quite unnecessary, my dear sir.”

“Excuse me; if I follow my present plan, I shall be obliged to ascribe certain sentiments, words, and even acts, to you, which you might perhaps disavow, and--”

With a careless toss of the head, accompanied by a disdainful snap of the fingers, the baron interrupted him. “Set to work, and don’t give yourself the slightest uneasiness about that. You may do whatever you like, if you only succeed in unmasking this dear marquis, and Coralth, his worthy acolyte. Show me up in whatever light you choose. Who will you be in Valorsay’s eyes? Why, Maumejan, one of my business agents, and I can always throw the blame on you.” And as if to prove that he had divined even the details of the scheme devised by his young friend, he added: “Besides, every one knows that a millionaire’s business agent is anything but a pleasant person to deal with. A millionaire, who is not a fool, must always smile, and no matter how absurd the demands upon him may be, he must always answer: ‘Yes, certainly, certainly--I should be only too happy!’ But then he adds: ‘You must arrange the matter with my agent. Confer with him.’ And it is the unlucky agent who must object, declare that his employer has no money at his disposal just now, and finally say, ‘No.’”

Pascal was still disposed to insist, but the baron was obdurate. “Oh! enough, enough!” he exclaimed. “Don’t waste precious time in idle discussion. The days are only twenty-four hours long: and as you see, I’m very busy, so busy that I’ve not touched a card since the day before yesterday. I am preparing a delightful surprise for Madame Trigault, my daughter, and my son-in-law. It has been rather a delicate operation, but I flatter myself that I have succeeded finely.” And he laughed a laugh that was not pleasant to hear. “You see, I’ve had enough of paying several hundred thousand francs a year for the privilege of being sneered at by my wife, scorned by my daughter, swindled by my son-in-law, and vilified and anathematized by all three of them. I am still willing to go on paying, but only on conditions that they give me in return for my money, if not the reality, at least a show of love, affection, and respect. I’m determined to have the semblance of these things; I’m quite resolved on that. Yes, I will have myself treated with deference. I’ll be petted and coddled and made much of, or else I’ll suspend payment. It was one of my old friends, a parvenu like myself--a man whose domestic happiness I have envied for many years--who gave me this receipt: ‘At home,’ said he, ‘with my wife, my daughters, and my sons-in-law, I’m like a peer of England at an hotel. I order first-class happiness at so much a month. If I get it I pay for it; if I don’t get it, I cut off the supplies. When I get extras I pay for them cheerfully, without haggling. Follow my example, my old friend, and you’ll have a comfortable life.’ And I shall follow his advice, M. Ferailleur, for I am convinced that his theory is sound and practicable. I have led this life long enough. I’ll spend my last days in peace, or, as God hears me, I’ll let my family die of starvation!”

His face was purple, and the veins on his forehead stood out like whipcords, but not so much from anger as from the constraint he imposed upon himself by speaking in a whisper. He drew a long breath, and then in a calmer tone, resumed: “But you must make haste and succeed, M. Ferailleur, if you don’t want the young girl you love to be deprived of her rightful heritage. You do not know into what unworthy hands the Chalusse property is about to fall.” He was on the point of telling Pascal the story of Madame d’Argeles and M. Wilkie, when he was interrupted by the sound of a lively controversy in the hall.

“Who’s taking such liberty in my house?” the baron began. But the next instant he heard some one fling open the door of the large room adjoining, and then a coarse, guttural voice called out: “What! he isn’t here! This is too much!”

The baron made an angry gesture. “That’s Kami-Bey,” said he, “the Turk whom I am playing that great game of cards with. The devil take him! He will be sure to force his way in here--so we may as well join him, M. Ferailleur.”

On reentering the adjoining apartment Pascal beheld a very corpulent man, with a very red face, a straggling beard, a flat nose, small, beadlike eyes, and sensual lips. He was clad in a black frock-coat, buttoned tight to the throat, and he wore a fez. This costume gave him the appearance of a chunky bottle, sealed with red wax. Such, indeed, was Kami-Bey, a specimen of those semi-barbarians, loaded with gold who are not attracted to Paris by its splendors and glories, but rather by its corruption--people who come there persuaded that money will purchase anything and everything, and who often return home with the same conviction. Kami was no doubt more impudent, more cynical and more arrogant than others of his class. As he was more wealthy, he had more followers; he had been more toadied and flattered, and victimized to a greater extent by the host of female intriguers, who look upon every foreigner as their rightful prey.

He spoke French passably well, but with an abominable accent. “Here you are at last!” he exclaimed, as the baron entered the room. “I was becoming very anxious.”

“About what, prince?”

Why Kami-Bey was called prince no one knew, not even the man himself. Perhaps it was because the lackey who opened his carriage door on his arrival at the Grand Hotel had addressed him by that title.

“About what!” he repeated. “You have won more than three hundred thousand francs from me, and I was wondering if you intended to give me the slip.”

The baron frowned, and this time he omitted the title of prince altogether. “It seems to me, sir, that according to our agreement, we were to play until one of us had won five hundred thousand francs,” he said haughtily.

“That’s true--but we ought to play every day.”

“Possibly: but I’m very busy just now. I wrote to you explaining this, did I not? If you are at all uneasy, tear up the book in which the results of our games are noted, and that shall be the end of it. You will gain considerably by the operation.”

Kami-Bey felt that the baron would not tolerate his arrogance, and so with more moderation he exclaimed: “It isn’t strange that I’ve become suspicious. I’m so victimized on every side. Because I’m a foreigner and immensely rich, everybody fancies he has a right to plunder me. Men, women, hotel-keepers and merchants, all unite in defrauding me. If I buy pictures, they sell me vile daubs at fabulous prices. They ask ridiculous amounts for horses, and then give me worthless, worn-out animals. Everybody borrows money from me--and I’m never repaid. I shall be ruined if this sort of thing goes on much longer.”

He had taken a seat, and the baron saw that he was not likely to get rid of his guest very soon; so approaching Pascal he whispered: “You had better go off, or you may miss Valorsay. And be careful, mind; for he is exceedingly shrewd. Courage and good luck!”

Courage! It was not necessary to recommend that to Pascal. He who had triumphed over his despair in the terrible hours, when he had reason to suppose that Marguerite believed him guilty and had abandoned him, could scarcely lack courage. While he was condemned to inaction, his mind had no doubt been assailed by countless doubts and fears; but now that he knew whom he was to attack--now that the decisive moment had come, he was endowed with indomitable energy; he had turned to bronze, and he felt sure that nothing could disconcert or even trouble him in future. The weapons he had to use were not at all to his taste, but he had not been allowed a choice in the matter; and since his enemies had decided on a warfare of duplicity, he was resolved to surpass them in cunning, and vanquish them by deception.

So, while hastening to the Marquis de Valorsay’s residence, he took stock of his chances, and recapitulated his resources, striving to foresee and remember everything. Thus if he failed--for he admitted the possibility of defeat, without believing in it--he would have no cause to reproach himself. Only fools find consolation in saying: “Who could have foreseen that?” Great minds do foresee. And Pascal felt almost certain that he was fully prepared for any emergency.

That morning, before leaving home, he had dressed with extreme care, realizing that the shabby clothes he had worn on his first visit to the Trigault mansion would not be appropriate on such an occasion as this. The baron’s agent could scarcely have a poverty-stricken appearance, for contact with millionaires is supposed to procure wealth as surely as proximity to fire insures warmth. So he arrayed himself in a suit of black, which was neither too elegant nor too much worn, and donned a broad white necktie. He could see only one immediate, decisive chance against him. M. de Valorsay might possibly recognize him. He thought not, but he was not sure; and anxious on this account, he at first decided to disguise himself. However, on reflection, he concluded not to do so. An imperfect disguise would attract attention and awaken suspicion; and could he really disguise his physiognomy? He was certain he could not. Very few men are capable of doing so successfully, even after long experience. Only two or three detectives and half a dozen actors possess the art of really changing their lineaments. Thus after weighing the pros and cons, Pascal determined to present himself as he was at the marquis’s house.

On approaching M. de Valorsay’s residence in the Avenue des Champs Elysees, he slackened his pace. The mansion, which stood between a courtyard and a garden, was very large and handsome. The stables and carriage-house--really elegant structures--stood on either side of the courtyard, near the half-open gate of which five or six servants were amusing themselves by teasing a large dog. Pascal was just saying to himself that the coast was clear, and that he should incur no danger by going in, when he saw the servants step aside, the gate swing back, and M. de Coralth emerged, accompanied by a young, fair-haired man, whose mustaches were waxed and turned up in the most audacious fashion. They were arm in arm, and turned in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe. Pascal’s heart thrilled with joy. “Fate favors me!” he said to himself. “If it hadn’t been for Kami-Bey, who detained me a full quarter of an hour at Baron Trigault’s, I should have found myself face to face with that miserable viscount, and then all would have been lost. But now I’m safe!”

It was with this encouraging thought that he approached the house.

“The marquis is very busy this morning,” said the servant to whom Pascal addressed himself at the gate. “I doubt if he can see you.” But when Pascal handed him one of his visiting cards, bearing the name of Maumejan, with this addition in pencil: “Who calls as the representative of Baron Trigault,” the valet’s face changed as if by enchantment. “Oh!” said he, “that’s quite a different matter. If you come from Baron Trigault, you will be received with all the respect due to the Messiah. Come in. I will announce you myself.”

Everything in M. de Valorsay’s house, as at the baron’s residence, indicated great wealth, and yet a close observer would have detected a difference. The luxury of the Rue de la Ville-l’Eveque was of a real and substantial character, which one did not find in the Avenue des Champs Elysees. Everything in the marquis’s abode bore marks of the haste which mars the merest trifle produced at the present age. “Take a seat here, and I will see where the marquis is,” said the servant, as he ushered Pascal into a large drawing-room. The apartment was elegantly furnished, but had somewhat lost its freshness; the carpet, which had once been a marvel of beauty, was stained in several places, and as the servants had not always been careful to keep the shutters closed, the sunlight had perceptibly faded the curtains. The attention of visitors was at once attracted by the number of gold and silver cups, vases, and statuettes scattered about on side-tables and cheffoniers. Each of these objects bore an inscription, setting forth that it had been won at such a race, in such a year, by such a horse, belonging to the Marquis de Valorsay. These were indeed the marquis’s chief claims to glory, and had cost him at least half of the immense fortune he had inherited. However, Pascal did not take much interest in these trophies, so the time of waiting seemed long. “Valorsay is playing the diplomat,” he thought. “He doesn’t wish to appear to be anxious. Unfortunately, his servant has betrayed him.”

At last the valet returned. “The marquis will see you now, monsieur,” said he.

This summons affected Pascal’s heart like the first roll of a drum beating the charge. But his coolness did not desert him. “Now is the decisive moment,” he thought. “Heaven grant that he may not recognize me!” And with a firm step he followed the valet.