"Oh! she has already tried it: this was to borrow one hundred thousand francs from her husband, and she succeeded; but these are experiments that cannot be tried twice. Let us see, my dear Badinot, until now you have never had any reason to complain of me. I have always been generous; try to obtain some delay from this miserable Pet.i.t Jean. You know I always can find means to recompense those who serve me; this last affair once hushed, I will take a new flight--you shall be content with me."
"Pet.i.t Jean is as inflexible as you are unreasonable."
"I!"
"Try only to interest once more your generous friend in your sad fate.
The devil! Tell her right out the truth; not as you have already said, that you are the dupe, but that you are the forger himself."
"No, never will I make such an acknowledgment; it would be shame without any advantage."
"Do you prefer that she should learn it to-morrow by the "Police Gazette"?"
"I have three hours left--I can fly."
"Where will you go without money? Judge now! on the contrary, this last forgery taken up, you will find yourself in a superb position; you would have no more debts. Come, come, promise me to speak once more to the d.u.c.h.ess. You are such a rake, you know how to make yourself so interesting in spite of your faults; at the very worst, perhaps, you will be esteemed the less, or even no more, but you will be lifted out of this sc.r.a.pe. Come, promise me to see your friend, and I will run to Pet.i.t Jean, and do my best to obtain an hour or two more."
"h.e.l.l! must I drink of shame to the very dregs?"
"Come now! good luck--be tender, charming, fond; I run to Pet.i.t Jean: you will find me here until three o"clock; later it will no longer be in time: the public prosecutor"s office is closed after four o"clock."
Badinot took his departure.
When the door was closed, Florestan was heard to cry, in profound despair, "Lost!"
During this conversation, which unmasked to the count the infamy of his son, and to Madame de Lucenay the infamy of the man whom she had so blindly loved, both remained immovable, scarcely breathing, under the weight of this frightful revelation.
It would be impossible to describe the mute eloquence of the sorrowful scene which pa.s.sed between this young woman and the count, when there was no longer any doubt of the crime of Florestan. Extending his arm toward the room where his son remained, the old man smiled with bitter irony, cast a withering look on Madame de Lucenay, and seemed to say to her:
"Behold him for whom you have braved all shame, made every sacrifice!
Behold him you have reproached me for abandoning!"
The d.u.c.h.ess understood the look; for a moment she hung her head under the weight of her shame. The lesson was terrible.
Then by degrees, to the cruel anxiety which had contracted the features of Madame de Lucenay succeeded a kind of n.o.ble indignation.
The inexcusable faults of this woman were at least palliated by the fidelity of her love, by the boldness of her devotion, by the grandeur of her generosity, by the frankness of her character, and by her inexorable aversion for everything that was cowardly and dishonest.
Still too young, too handsome, too much sought after, to experience the humility of having been made use of, this proud and decided woman, once the illusion of love having vanished, felt neither hatred nor anger; instantaneously, without any transition, a mortal disgust, an icy disdain, killed her affection, until then so lively; it was no longer a woman deceived by her lover, but it was the lady of fashion discovering that a man of her society was a cheat and a forger.
In supposing even that some circ.u.mstances might have extenuated the ignominy of Florestan, Madame de Lucenay would not have admitted them; according to her views, the man who overstepped certain limits of honor, either through vice or weakness, no longer existed in her eyes, honor being for her a question of existence or non-existence. The only sorrowful feeling experienced by the d.u.c.h.ess, was excited by the terrible effect which this unexpected revelation produced on the count, her old friend. For some moments he appeared not to see nor hear; his eyes were fixed, his head hung down, his arms suspended, his paleness livid, and from time to time a convulsive sigh escaped from his bosom. With a man as resolute as he was energetic, such a state of dejection was more alarming than the most furious bursts of rage.
Madame de Lucenay looked at him with much anxiety. "Courage, my friend," said she to him, in a low tone, "for you, for me, for this man--I know what remains for me to do."
The old man looked at her fixedly; then, as if he had been aroused from his stupor by some violent shock, he raised his head, his features a.s.sumed a threatening appearance, and, forgetting that his son might hear him, he cried: "And I, also, for you, for me, for this man--I know what I have to do."
"Who is there?" cried Florestan, surprised.
Madame de Lucenay, fearing to meet the viscount, disappeared through the small door, and descended the private staircase.
Florestan, having again demanded who was there, and receiving no answer, entered the saloon.
The long beard of the old man changed him so much, he was so poorly dressed, that his son, who had not seen him for many years, did not at first recognize him; he advanced rapidly toward him with a menacing air, and said, "Who are you? What do you want here?"
"I am the husband of that woman!" answered the count, showing the portrait of Madame de Saint Remy.
"My father!" cried Florestan, retreating in alarm; and he endeavored to recall to mind the features so long forgotten. Erect, formidable, his looks irritated, his face purple with rage, his white hair thrown back, his arms crossed on his breast, the count, over-awed, confounded his son, who, with his head down, dared not to raise his eyes upon him. Yet Saint Remy, from some secret motive, made a violent effort to remain calm and to conceal his feelings of resentment.
"Father!" said Florestan, in a faltering voice, "you were there!" "I was there."
"You have heard--"
"All."
"Oh!" cried the viscount, mournfully, concealing his face in his hands.
There was a moment"s pause. Florestan, at first as much astonished as vexed at the unexpected apparition of his father, soon began to think what he could make out of this incident. "All is not lost," said he to himself; "the presence of my father is a stroke of fate. He knows all; he will not have his name dishonored; he is not rich, but be must have more than twenty-five thousand francs. Let us play close--address, emotion, and a little tenderness. I will let the d.u.c.h.ess alone, and I am saved!"
Then, giving to his charming features an expression of mournful dejection, moistening his eyes with the tears of repentance, a.s.suming his most thrilling tones, his most pathetic manner, he cried, joining his hands with a gesture of despair: "Oh, my father: I am very unhappy! after so many years--to see you again, and at such a moment!
I must appear so culpable to you! But deign to listen to me, I entreat you--I supplicate you; permit me, not to justify myself, but to explain to you my conduct; will you, my father?"
Old Saint Remy answered not a word: his features remained immovable: he seated himself, and with his chin resting on the palm of his hand, looked at his son in silence.
If Florestan had known the thoughts which filled the mind of his father with hatred, fury, and vengeance, alarmed at the apparent calmness of the count, he would not have tried to dupe him.
But, ignorant of the suspicions attached to his birth, ignorant of the fault of his mother, Florestan doubted not the success of his trick, believing he had only to soften a father who, at once a misanthrope and very proud of his name, would be capable, rather than see his name dishonored, to decide on any sacrifice.
"My father," he resumed timidly, "permit me to try, not to exculpate myself, but to tell you how, from involuntary misleadings, I have reached, almost in spite of myself, actions--infamous--I acknowledge."
The viscount took the silence of his father for a tacit consent, and continued:
"When I had the misfortune to lose my mother--my poor mother, who loved me so well--I was not twenty. I found myself alone, without counsel, without protection. Master of a considerable fortune, accustomed to luxury from my childhood, I had made it a habit, a want.
Ignorant of the difficulty of earning money, I lavished it without measure. Unfortunately--and I say unfortunately, because this ruined me--my expenses, foolish as they were, by their elegance were remarkable. By good taste I eclipsed people who were ten times richer than I was. This first success intoxicated me. I became a man of luxury as one becomes a warrior or a statesman; yes, I loved luxury, not from vulgar ostentation, but I loved it as the painter loves a picture, as the poet loves poetry; like every other artist, I was jealous of my work; and my work was my luxury. I sacrificed everything to its perfection. I wished it fine, grand, complete, splendidly harmonious in everything, from my stables to my table, from my dress to my house. I wished in everything to be a model of taste and elegance. As an artist, in fine, I was greedy of the applause of the crowd, and of the admiration of people of fashion; this success, so rare, I obtained."
In speaking thus, the features of Florestan lost by degrees their hypocritical expression; his eyes shone with a kind of enthusiasm; he told the truth; he had been at first reduced by this rather uncommon manner of understanding luxury. He looked inquiringly at his father; he thought he appeared rather softened.
He resumed, with growing warmth: "Oracle and regulator of the fashions, my praise or censure made the law; I was quoted, copied, extolled, admired, and that by the best company in Paris, that is to say, Europe, the world. The women partook of the general infatuation; the most charming disputed for the pleasure of coming to some very select fetes which I gave; and everywhere, and always, nothing was heard but of the incomparable elegance and exquisite taste of these fetes, which the millionaires could neither equal nor eclipse; in fine, I was the Gla.s.s of Fashion. This word will tell you all, my father, if you understand it."
"I understand it, and I am sure that at the galleys you will invent some refined elegance in the manner of carrying your chain, that will become the fashion in the yard, and will be called a la Saint Remy,"
said the old man, with bitter irony; then he added, "and Saint Remy is my name!"
It caused Florestan to exercise much control over himself to conceal the wound caused by this sarcasm.
He continued, in a more humble tone: "Alas! my father, it is not from pride that I recall the fact of this success; for, I repeat to you, this success ruined me. Sought after, envied, flattered, praised, not by interested parasites, but by people whose position much surpa.s.sed mine, and over whom I only had the advantage derived from elegance-- which is to luxury what taste is to the arts--my head was turned; I did not calculate that my fortune must be spent in a few years; little did I heed it. Could I renounce this feverish, dazzling life, in which pleasure succeeded to pleasure, enjoyments to enjoyments, fetes to fetes, intoxications of all sorts to enchantments of all sorts? Oh, if you knew, my father, what it is to be everywhere noticed as the hero of the day; to hear the whisperings which announce your entrance into a saloon; to hear the women say, "It is he!--there he is!" Oh! if you knew----"
"I know," said the old man, interrupting his son, and without changing his position; "I know. Yes, the other day, in a public square, there was a crowd, suddenly I heard a noise, like that with which you are received when you go anywhere; then the looks of all, the women especially, were fixed on a very handsome young man, just as they are fixed on you, and they pointed him out, just as they do you, saying, "It is he! there he is!" just exactly as they say of you."
"But this man, my father?"
"Was a forger they were placing in the pillory."