Part 64

Madame Trigault tottered, as if she were about to fall. “Then it is only a reprieve,” she moaned, “and I am none the less ruined. Those cursed letters will necessarily be read, and all will be discovered. They will see----” The thought of what they would see endowed her with the energy of despair, and clutching hold of Marguerite’s wrists: “Listen!” said she, approaching so near that her hot breath scorched the girl’s cheeks, “no one must be allowed to see those letters!--it must not be! I will tell you what they contain. I hated my husband; I loved the Count de Chalusse madly, and he had sworn that he would marry me if ever I became a widow. Do you understand now? The name of the poison I obtained--how I proposed to administer it, and what its effects would be--all this is plainly written in my own handwriting and signed--yes, signed--with my own name. The plot failed, but it was none the less real, positive, palpable--and those letters are a proof of it. But they shall never be read--no--not if I am obliged to set fire to the Hotel de Chalusse with my own hand.”

Now the count’s constant terror, the fear with which this woman had inspired him, were explained. He was an accomplice--he also had written no doubt, and she had preserved his letters as he had preserved hers. Crime had bound them indissolubly together.

Horrified beyond expression, Marguerite freed herself from Madame Trigault’s grasp. “I swear to you, madame, that everything any human being can do to save your letters shall be done by me,” she exclaimed.

“And have you any hope of success?”

“Yes,” replied the girl, remembering her friend, the magistrate.

Moved by a far more powerful emotion than any she had ever known before, the baroness uttered an exclamation of joy. “Ah! how good you are!” she exclaimed--“how generous! how noble! You take your revenge in giving me back life, honor, everything--for you are my daughter; do you not know it? Did they not tell you, before bringing you here, that I was the hated and unnatural mother who abandoned you?”

She advanced with tearful eyes and outstretched arms, but Marguerite sternly waved her back. “Spare yourself, madame, and spare me, the humiliation of an unnecessary explanation.”

“Marguerite! Good God! you repulse me. After all you have promised to do for me, will you not forgive me?”

“I will try to forget, madame,” replied the girl and she was already stepping toward the door when the baroness threw herself at her feet, crying, in a heart-rending tone: “Have pity, Marguerite, I am your mother. One has no right to deny one’s own mother.”

But the young girl passed on. “My mother is dead, madame; I do not know you!” And she left the room without even turning her head, without even glancing at the baroness, who had fallen upon the floor in a deep swoon.

XIX

Baron Trigault still held Madame de Fondege a prisoner in the hall. What did he say to her in justification of the expedient he had improvised? His own agitation was so great that he scarcely knew, and it mattered but little after all, for the good lady did not even pretend to listen to his apologies. Although by no means overshrewd, she suspected some great mystery, some bit of scandal, perhaps, and her eyes never once wandered from the door leading to the boudoir. At last this door opened and Mademoiselle Marguerite reappeared. “Great heavens!” exclaimed Madame de Fondege; “what has happened to my poor child?”

For the unfortunate girl advanced with an automatic tread, her eyes fixed on vacancy, and her hands outstretched, as if feeling her way. It indeed seemed to her as if the floor swayed to and fro under her feet, as if the walls tottered, as if the ceiling were about to fall and crush her.

Madame de Fondege sprang forward. “What is the matter, my dearest?”

Alas! the poor girl was utterly overcome. “It is but a trifle,” she faltered. But her eyes closed, her hands clutched wildly for some support, and she would have fallen to the ground if the baron had not caught her in his arms and carried her to a sofa. “Help!” cried Madame de Fondege, “help, she is dying!--a physician!”

But there was no need of a physician. One of the maids came with some fresh water and a bottle of smelling salts, and Marguerite soon recovered sufficiently to sit up, and cast a frightened glance around her, while she mechanically passed her hand again and again over her cold forehead. “Do you feel better my darling?” inquired Madame de Fondege at last.

“Yes.”

“Ah! you gave me a terrible fright; see how I tremble.” But the worthy lady’s fright was as nothing in comparison with the curiosity that tortured her. It was so powerful, indeed, that she could not control it. “What has happened?” she asked.

“Nothing, madame, nothing.”

“But----”

“I am subject to such attacks. I was very cold, and the heat of the room made me feel faint.”

Although she could only speak with the greatest difficulty, the baron realized by her tone that she would never reveal what had taken place, and his attitude and relief knew no bounds. “Don’t tire the poor child,” he said to Madame de Fondege. “The best thing you can do would be to take her home and put her to bed.”

“I agree with you; but unfortunately, I have sent away my brougham with orders not to return for me until one o’clock.”

“Is that the only difficulty? If so, you shall have a carriage at once, my dear madame.” So saying, the baron made a sign to one of the servants, and the man started on his mission at once.

Madame de Fondege was silent but furious. “He is actually putting me out of doors,” she thought. “This is a little too much! And why doesn’t the baroness make her appearance--she must certainly have heard my voice? What does it all mean? However, I’m sure Marguerite will tell me when we are alone.”

But Madame de Fondege was wrong, for she vainly plied the girl with questions all the way from the Rue de la Ville l’Eveque to the Rue Pigalle. She could only obtain this unvarying and obstinate reply: “Nothing has happened. What do you suppose could have happened?”

Never in her whole life had Madame de Fondege been so incensed. “The blockhead!” she mentally exclaimed. “Who ever saw such obstinacy! Hateful creature!--I could beat her!”

She did not beat her, but on reaching the house she eagerly asked: “Do you feel strong enough to go up stairs alone?”