Part 23

Full of this idea, he hastily changed his clothes, and hurried from his room. His mother was watching for him--inclined to laugh at him a little; but a single glance warned her that her son was in terrible trouble, and that some dire misfortune had certainly befallen him. “Pascal, in heaven’s name, what has happened?” she cried.

“A slight difficulty--a mere trifle,” he replied.

“Where are you going?”

“To the Palais de Justice.” And such was really the case, for he hoped to meet his most intimate friend there.

Contrary to his usual custom, he took the little staircase on the right, leading to the grand vestibule, where several lawyers were assembled, earnestly engaged in conversation. They were evidently astonished to see Pascal, and their conversation abruptly ceased on his approach. They assumed a grave look and turned away their heads in disgust. The unfortunate man at once realized the truth, and pressed his hand to his forehead, with a despairing gesture, as he murmured: “Already!--already!”

However, he passed on, and not seeing his friend, he hurried to the little conference hall, where he found five of his fellow-advocates. On Pascal’s entrance, two of them at once left the hall, while two of the others pretended to be very busily engaged in examining a brief which lay open on the table. The fifth, who did not move, was not the friend Pascal sought, but an old college comrade named Dartelle. Pascal walked straight toward him. “Well?” he asked.

Dartelle handed him a Figaro, still damp from the printing-press, but crumpled and worn, as if it had already passed through more than a hundred hands. “Read!” said he.

Pascal read as follows: “There was great sensation and a terrible scandal last night at the residence of Madame d’A----, a well-known star of the first magnitude. A score of gentlemen of high rank and immense wealth were enjoying a quiet game of baccarat, when it was observed that M. F---- was winning in a most extraordinary manner. He was watched and detected in the very act of dexterously slipping some cards into the pack he held. Crushed by the overpowering evidence against him, he allowed himself to be searched, and without much demur consented to refund the fruit of his knavery, to the amount of two thousand louis. The strangest thing connected with this scandal is, that M. F----, who is an advocate by profession, has always enjoyed an enviable reputation for integrity; and, unfortunately, this prank cannot be attributed to a momentary fit of madness, for the fact that he had provided himself with these cards in advance proves the act to have been premeditated. One of the persons present was especially displeased. This was the Viscount de C----, who had introduced M. F---- to Madame d’A----. Extremely annoyed by this contretemps, he took umbrage at an offensive remark made by M. de R----, and it was rumored that these gentlemen would cross swords at daybreak this morning.

“LATER INTELLIGENCE.--We learn at the moment of going to press that an encounter has just taken place between M. de R---- and M. de C----. M. de R---- received a slight wound in the side, but his condition is sufficiently satisfactory not to alarm his friends.”

The paper slipped from Pascal’s hand. His features were almost unrecognizable in his passion and despair. “It is an infamous lie!” he said, hoarsely. “I am innocent; I swear it upon my honor!” Dartelle averted his face, but not quickly enough to prevent Pascal from noticing the look of withering scorn in his eyes. Then, feeling that he was condemned, that his sentence was irrevocable, and that there was no longer any hope: “I know the only thing that remains for me to do!” he murmured.

Dartelle turned, his eyes glistening with tears. He seized Pascal’s hands and pressed them with sorrowful tenderness, as if taking leave of a friend who is about to die. “Courage!” he whispered.

Pascal fled like a madman. “Yes,” he repeated, as he rushed along the Boulevard Saint-Michel, “that is the only thing left me to do.”

When he reached home he entered his office, double-locked the door, and wrote two letters--one to his mother, the other to the president of the order of Advocates. After a moment’s thought he began a third, but tore it into pieces before he had completed it. Then, without an instant’s hesitation, and like a man who had fully decided upon his course, he took a revolver and a box of cartridges from a drawer in his desk. “Poor mother!” he murmured; “it will kill her--but my disgrace would kill her too. Better shorten the agony.”

He little fancied at that supreme moment that each of his gestures, each contraction of his features, were viewed by the mother whose name he faltered. Since her son had left her to go to the Palais de Justice, the poor woman had remained almost crazy with anxiety; and when she heard him return and lock himself in his office--a thing he had never done before--a fearful presentiment was aroused in her mind. Gliding into her son’s bedroom, she at once approached the door communicating with his office. The upper part of this portal was of glass; it was possible to see what was occurring in the adjoining room. When Madame Ferailleur perceived Pascal seat himself at his desk and begin to write, she felt a trifle reassured, and almost thought of going away. But a vague dread, stronger than reason or will, riveted her to the spot. A few moments later, when she saw the revolver in her son’s hand, she understood everything. Her blood froze in her veins; and yet she had sufficient self-control to repress the cry of terror which sprang to her lips. She realized that the danger was terrible, imminent, extreme. Her heart, rather than her bewildered reason, told her that her son’s life hung on a single thread. The slightest sound, a word, a rap on the door might hasten the unfortunate man’s deed.

An inspiration from heaven came to the poor mother. Pascal had contented himself with locking the door leading to the ante-room. He had forgotten this one, or neglected it, not thinking that anybody would approach his office through his bedroom. But his mother perceived that this door opened toward her. So, turning the knob with the utmost caution, she flung it suddenly open, and reaching her son’s side with a single bound, she clasped him closely in her arms. “Pascal, wretched boy! what would you do?”

He was so surprised that his weapon fell from his hand, and he sank back almost fainting in his arm-chair. The idea of denying his intention never once occurred to him; besides, he was unable to articulate a word. But on his desk there lay a letter addressed to his mother which would speak for him.

Madame Ferailleur took it, tore the envelope open, and read: “Forgive me--I’m about to die. It must be so. I cannot survive dishonor; and I am dishonored.”

“Dishonored!--you!” exclaimed the heartbroken mother. “My God! what does this mean? Speak. I implore you: tell me all--you must. I command you to do so. I command you!”

He complied with this at once supplicating and imperious behest, and related in a despairing voice the events which had wrought his woe. He did not omit a single particular, but tried rather to exaggerate than palliate the horrors of his situation. Perhaps he found a strange satisfaction in proving to himself that there was no hope left; possibly he believed his mother would say: “Yes, you are right; and death is your only refuge!”

As Madame Ferailleur listened, however, her eyes dilated with fear and horror, and she scarcely realized whether she were awake or in the midst of some frightful dream. For this was one of those unexpected catastrophes which are beyond the range of human foresight or even imagination, and which her mind could scarcely conceive or admit. But SHE did not doubt him, even though his friends had doubted him. Indeed, if he had himself told her that he was guilty of cheating at cards, she would have refused to believe him. When his story was ended, she exclaimed: “And you wished to kill yourself? Did you not think, senseless boy, that your death would give an appearance of truth to this vile calumny?”

With a mother’s wonderful, sublime instinct, she had found the most powerful reason that could be urged to induce Pascal to live. “Did you not feel, my son, that it showed a lack of courage on your part to brand yourself and your name with eternal infamy, in order to escape your present sufferings? This thought ought to have stayed your hand. An honest name is a sacred trust which no one has a right to abuse. Your father bequeathed it to you, pure and untarnished, and so you must preserve it. If others try to cover it with opprobrium, you must live to defend it.”

He lowered his head despondently, and in a tone of profound discouragement, he replied: “But what can I do? How can I escape from the web which has been woven around me with such fiendish cunning? If I had possessed my usual presence of mind at the moment of the accusation, I might have defended and justified myself, perhaps. But now the misfortune is irreparable. How can I unmask the traitor, and what proofs of his guilt can I cast in his face?”

“All the same, you ought not to yield without a struggle,” interrupted Madame Ferailleur, sternly. “It is wrong to abandon a task because it is difficult; it must be accepted, and, even if one perish in the struggle, there is, at least, the satisfaction of feeling that one has not failed in duty.”

“But, mother----”

“I must not keep the truth from you, Pascal! What! are you lacking in energy? Come, my son, rise and raise your head. I shall not let you fight alone. I will fight with you.”

Without speaking a word, Pascal caught hold of his mother’s hands and pressed them to his lips. His face was wet with tears. His overstrained nerves relaxed under the soothing influence of maternal tenderness and devotion. Reason, too, had regained her ascendency. His mother’s noble words found an echo in his own heart, and he now looked upon suicide as an act of madness and cowardice. Madame Ferailleur felt that the victory was assured, but this did not suffice; she wished to enlist Pascal in her plans. “It is evident,” she resumed, “that M. de Coralth is the author of this abominable plot. But what could have been his object? Has he any reason to fear you, Pascal? Has he confided to you, or have you discovered, any secret that might ruin him if it were divulged?”

“No, mother.”

“Then he must be the vile instrument of some even more despicable being. Reflect, my son. Have you wounded any of your friends? Are you sure that you are in nobody’s way? Consider carefully. Your profession has its dangers; and those who adopt it must expect to make bitter enemies.”