Part 47

She sank on to a chair; and, without asking her visitor to take a seat: “Explain yourself,” she said, briefly.

M. Fortunat’s knowledge of the importance of the game in which he had already risked so much had already restored his presence of mind. He had only needed a glance to form a true estimate of Madame d’Argeles’s character; and he realized that it would require a sudden, powerful, and well-directed blow to shatter her composure. “I have the unpleasant duty of informing you of a great misfortune, madame,” he began. “A person who is very dear to you, and who is nearly related to you, was a victim of a frightful accident yesterday evening and died this morning.”

This gloomy preamble did not seem to produce the slightest effect on Madame d’Argeles. “Whom are you speaking of?” she coldly asked.

M. Fortunat assumed his most solemn manner as he replied: “Of your brother, madame--of the Count de Chalusse.”

She sprang up, and a convulsive shudder shook her from head to foot. “Raymond is dead!” she faltered.

“Alas! yes, madame. Struck with death at the very moment he was repairing to the appointment you had given him at the Hotel de Homburg.”

This clever falsehood, which was not entirely one, would, so the agent thought, be of advantage to him, since it would prove he was acquainted with previous events. But Madame d’Argeles did not seem to notice, or even to hear the remark. She had fallen back in her arm-chair, paler than death. “How did he die?” she asked.

“From an attack of apoplexy.”

“My God!” exclaimed the wretched woman, who now suspected the truth; “my God, forgive me. It was my letter that killed him!” and she wept as if her heart were breaking--this woman who had suffered and wept so much.

It is needless to say that M. Fortunat was moved with sympathy; he always evinced a respectful sympathy for the woes of others; but in the present instance, his emotion was greatly mitigated by the satisfaction he felt at having succeeded so quickly and so completely. Madame d’Argeles had confessed everything! This was indeed a victory, for it must be admitted that he had trembled lest she should deny all, and bid him leave the house. He still saw many difficulties between his pocket and the Count de Chalusse’s money; but he did not despair of conquering them after such a successful beginning. And he was muttering some words of consolation, when Madame d’Argeles suddenly looked up and said: “I must see him--I will see him once more! Come, monsieur!” But a terrible memory rooted her to the spot and with a despairing gesture, and in a voice quivering with anguish she exclaimed:

“No, no--I cannot even do that.”

M. Fortunat was not a little disturbed; and it was with a look of something very like consternation that he glanced at Madame d’Argeles, who had reseated herself and was now sobbing violently, with her face hidden on the arm of her chair. “What prevents her?” he thought. “Why this sudden terror now that her brother is dead? Is she unwilling to confess that she is a Chalusse? She must make up her mind to it, however, if she wishes to receive the count’s property--and she must make up her mind to it, for my sake, if not for her own.”

He remained silent, until it seemed to him that Madame d’Argeles was calmer, then: “Excuse me, madame,” he began, “for breaking in upon your very natural grief, but duty requires me to remind you of your interests.”

With the passive docility of those who are wretched, she wiped away her tears, and replied, gently: “I am listening, monsieur.”

He had had time to prepare his discourse. “First of all, madame,” he remarked, “I must tell you that I was the count’s confidential agent. In him I lose a protector. Respect alone prevents me from saying a friend. He had no secrets from me.” M. Fortunat saw so plainly that Madame d’Argeles did not understand a word of this sentimental exordium that he thought it necessary to add: “I tell you this, not so much to gain your consideration and good-will, as to explain to you how I became acquainted with these matters relating to your family--how I became aware of your existence, for instance, which no one else suspected.” He paused, hoping for some reply, a word, a sign, but not receiving this encouragement, he continued: “I must, first of all, call your attention to the peculiar situation of M. de Chalusse, and to the circumstances which immediately preceded and attended his departure from life. His death was so unexpected that he was unable to make any disposition of his property by will, or even to indicate his last wishes. This, madame, is fortunate for you. M. de Chalusse had certain prejudices against you, as you are aware. Poor count. He certainly had the best heart in the world, and yet hatred with him was almost barbaric in its intensity. There can be no doubt whatever, that he had determined to deprive you of your inheritance. With this intention he had already begun to convert his estates into ready money, and had he lived six months longer you would not have received a penny.”

With a gesture of indifference, which was difficult to explain after the vehemence and the threatening tone of her letter, Madame d’Argeles murmured:

“Ah, well! what does it matter?”

“What does it matter?” repeated M. Fortunat. “I see, madame, that your grief prevents you from realizing the extent of the peril you have escaped. M. de Chalusse had other, and more powerful reasons even than his hatred for wishing to deprive you of your share of his property. He had sworn that he would give a princely fortune to his beloved daughter.”

For the first time, Madame d’Argeles’s features assumed an expression of surprise. “What, my brother had a child?”

“Yes, madame, an illegitimate daughter, Mademoiselle Marguerite, a lovely and charming girl whom I had the pleasure of restoring to his care some years ago. She has been living with him for six months or so; and he was about to marry her, with an enormous dowry, to a nobleman bearing one of the proudest names in France, the Marquis de Valorsay.”

The name shook Madame d’Argeles as if she had experienced the shock of an electric battery, and springing to her feet, with flashing eyes: “You say that my brother’s daughter was to marry M. de Valorsay?” she asked.

“It was decided--the marquis adored her.”

“But she--she did not love him--confess that she did not love him.”

M. Fortunat did not know what to reply. The question took him completely by surprise; and feeling that his answer would have a very considerable influence upon what might follow, he hesitated.

“Will you answer me?” insisted Madame d’Argeles, imperiously. “She loved another, did she not?”

“To tell the truth, I believe she did,” the agent stammered. “But I have no proof of it, madame.”

“Ah! the wretch!” she exclaimed with a threatening gesture; “the traitor! the infamous scoundrel! Now I understand it all. And to think that it occurred in my house. But no; it was best so, I can still repair everything.” And darting to the bell-rope, she pulled it violently.

A servant at once appeared. “Job,” she said, “hasten after Baron Trigault--he left the house a moment ago and bring him back. I must speak with him. If you do not overtake him, go to his club, to his house, to the houses of his friends, go to every place where there is any chance of finding him. Make haste, and do not return without him.”