The Greatest Works of Émile Gaboriau - Emile Gaboriau

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awaiting him.

      “Ah, here you are, at last, M. the marquis,” she said, in a tone of relief. “I was afraid you would disappoint me.”

      “Yes, here I am, my good woman, to listen to what you have to say.”

      “I have many things to say. But first tell me some news of your brother.”

      Louis regretted having come, supposing from this request that the old woman was childish, and might bother him for hours with her senseless gabble.

      “You know well enough that my poor brother was drowned in the Rhone.”

      “Good heavens!” cried Mihonne, “are you ignorant, then, of his escape? Yes, he did what has never been done before; he swam across the swollen Rhone. The next day Mlle. Valentine went to Clameran to tell the news; but St. Jean prevented her from seeing you. Afterward I carried a letter from her, but you had left the country.”

      Louis could not believe this strange revelation.

      “Are you not mixing up dreams with real events, my good woman?” he said banteringly.

      “No,” she replied, mournfully shaking her head. “If Pere Menoul were alive, he would tell you how he took charge of your brother until he embarked for Marseilles. But that is nothing compared to the rest. M. Gaston has a son.”

      “My brother had a son! You certainly have lost your mind, my poor woman.”

      “Alas, no. Unfortunately for my happiness in this world and in the world to come, I am only telling the truth; he had a child, and Mlle. Valentine was its mother. I took the poor babe, and carried it to a woman whom I paid to take charge of it.”

      Then Mihonne described the anger of the countess, the journey to London, and the abandonment of little Raoul.

      With the accurate memory natural to people unable to read and write, she related the most minute particulars—the names of the village, the nurse, the child’s Christian name, and the exact date of everything which had occurred.

      Then she told of Valentine’s wretched suffering, of the impending ruin of the countess, and finally how everything was happily settled by the poor girl’s marriage with an immensely rich man, who was now one of the richest bankers in Paris, and was named Fauvel.

      A harsh voice calling, “Mihonne! Mihonne!” here interrupted the old woman.

      “Heavens!” she cried in a frightened tone, “that is my husband, looking for me.”

      And, as fast as her trembling limbs could carry her, she hurried to the farm-house.

      For several minutes after her departure, Louis stood rooted to the spot.

      Her recital had filled his wicked mind with an idea so infamous, so detestable, that even his vile nature shrank for a moment from its enormity.

      He knew Fauvel by reputation, and was calculating the advantages he might gain by the strange information of which he was now possessed by means of the old Mihonne. It was a secret, which, if skilfully managed, would bring him in a handsome income.

      The few faint scruples he felt were silenced by the thought of an old age spent in poverty. After the price of the chateau was spent, to what could he look forward? Beggary.

      “But first of all,” he thought, “I must ascertain the truth of the old woman’s story; then I will decide upon a plan.”

      This was why, the next day, after receiving the five thousand two hundred and eighty francs from Fougeroux, Louis de Clameran set out for London.

      XVI

       Table of Contents

      During the twenty years of her married life, Valentine had experienced but one real sorrow; and this was one which, in the course of nature, must happen sooner or later.

      In 1859 her mother caught a violent cold during one of her frequent journeys to Paris, and, in spite of every attention which money could procure, she became worse, and died.

      The countess preserved her faculties to the last, and with her dying breath said to her daughter:

      “Ah, well! was I not wise in prevailing upon you to bury the past? Your silence has made my old age peaceful and happy, and I now thank you for having done your duty to yourself and to me. You will be rewarded on earth and in heaven, my dear daughter.”

      Mme. Fauvel constantly said that, since the loss of her mother, she had never had cause to shed a tear.

      And what more could she wish for? As years rolled on, Andre’s love remained steadfast; he was as devoted a husband as the most exacting woman could wish. To his great love was added that sweet intimacy which results from long conformity of ideas and unbounded confidence.

      Everything prospered with this happy couple. Andre was twice as wealthy as he had ever hoped to be even in his wildest visions; every wish of Valentine was anticipated by Andre; their two sons, Lucien and Abel, were handsome, intelligent young men, whose honorable characters and graceful bearing reflected credit upon their parents, who had so carefully watched over their education.

      Nothing seemed wanting to insure Valentine’s felicity. When her husband and sons were at their business, her solitude was cheered by the intelligent, affectionate companionship of a young girl whom she loved as her own daughter, and who in return filled the place of a devoted child.

      Madeleine was M. Fauvel’s niece, and when an infant had lost both parents, who were poor but very worthy people. Valentine begged to adopt the babe, thinking she could thus, in a measure, atone for the desertion of the poor little creature whom she had abandoned to strangers.

      She hoped that this good work would bring down the blessings of God upon her.

      The day of the little orphan’s arrival, M. Fauvel invested for her ten thousand francs, which he presented to Madeleine as her dowry.

      The banker amused himself by increasing this ten thousand francs in the most marvellous ways. He, who never ventured upon a rash speculation with his own money, always invested it in the most hazardous schemes, and was always so successful, that at the end of fifteen years the ten thousand francs had become half a million.

      People were right when they said that the Fauvel family were to be envied.

      Time had dulled the remorse and anxiety of Valentine. In the genial atmosphere of a happy home, she had found rest, and almost forgetfulness. She had suffered so much at being compelled to deceive Andre that she hoped she was now at quits with fate.

      She began to look forward to the future, and her youth seemed buried in an impenetrable mist, and was, as it were, the memory of a painful dream.

      Yes, she believed herself saved, and her very feeling of security made the impending danger more fearful in its shock.

      One rainy November day, her husband had gone to Provence on business. She was sitting, gazing into the bright fire, and thankfully meditating upon her present happiness, when the servant brought her a letter, which had been left by a stranger, who refused to give his name.

      Without the faintest presentiment of evil, she carelessly broke the seal, and in an instant was almost petrified by the words which met her terrified eye:

      “MADAME—Would it be relying too much upon the memories of the past to hope for half an hour of your time?

      “To-morrow, between two and three, I will do myself the honor of calling upon you.

      “THE MARQUIS OF CLAMERAN.”

      Fortunately, Mme. Fauvel was alone.

      Trembling like a leaf, she read the letter over and over again, as if to convince herself that she was not the victim of a horrible hallucination.

      Half a dozen times, with a sort of terror, she whispered

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