The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 3 of 6

"But it is not the good doctor of whom we have to discourse," continued Madame d'Harville's stepmother. "You see me very uneasy. My husband is indisposed; his health becomes weaker and weaker every day. Without experiencing serious alarm, his condition gives me much concern, – or rather, gives him much concern," said Madame d'Orbigny, drying her eyes, which were slightly moistened.

"What is the business, madame?"

"He is constantly talking of making his last arrangements, – of his will." Here Madame d'Orbigny concealed her face in her pocket-handkerchief for some minutes.

"It is very afflicting, no doubt," said the notary; "but the precaution has nothing terrible in itself. And what may be M. d'Orbigny's intentions, madame?"

"Dear sir! How do I know? You may suppose that when he commences the subject I do not allow him to dwell on it long."

"Well, then, he has not up to this time told you anything positive?"

"I think," replied Madame d'Orbigny, with a deep sigh, – "I think that he wishes to leave me not only all that the law will allow him to bequeath to me, but – But, really, I pray of you, do not let us talk of that."

"Of what, then, shall we talk?"

"Alas, you are right, pitiless man! I must, in spite of myself, return to the sad subject that brings me here to see you. Well, then, M. d'Orbigny's inclination extends so far that he desires to sell a part of his estate and present me with a large sum."

"But his daughter – his daughter?" exclaimed M. Ferrand, harshly. "I must tell you that, during the last year, M. d'Harville has placed his affairs in my hands, and I have lately purchased a splendid estate for him. You know my blunt way of doing business? Whether M. d'Harville is my client or not is no matter. I stand up only for justice. If your husband makes up his mind to behave to his daughter in a way that I do not approve, I tell you plainly he must not reckon on my assistance. Upright and downright, such has always been my line of conduct."

"And mine, also! Therefore it is that I am always saying to my husband what you now say to me, 'Your daughter has behaved very ill to you, that is but too true; but that is no reason why you should disinherit her.'"

"Very good, – quite right! And what answer does he make to that?"

"He replies, 'I shall leave my daughter twenty-five thousand livres of annual income (1,000l.); she had more than a million (40,000l.) from her mother. Her husband has an enormous fortune of his own; and, therefore, why should I not leave you the residue of my fortune, – you, my tender love, the sole support, the only comfort of my declining years, my guardian angel?' I repeat these very flattering words to you," said Madame d'Orbigny, with an air of modesty, "to prove to you how kind M. d'Orbigny is to me. But, in spite of that, I have always refused his offers; and, as he perceives that, he has compelled me to come and seek you."

"But I do not know M. d'Orbigny."

"But he, like all the world, knows your high character."

"But why should he send you to me?"

"To put an end to all my scruples and refusals, he said to me, 'I will not ask you to consult my notary, because you will think him too much devoted to my service; but I will trust myself entirely to the decision of a man of whose extreme probity of character I have heard you so frequently speak in praise, – M. Jacques Ferrand. If he considers your delicacy compromised by your consent to my wishes, we will not say another word on the subject; otherwise, you must comply without a word.' 'I consent!' I replied to M. d'Orbigny. And so now you are the arbitrator between us. 'If M. Ferrand approves,' added my husband, 'I will send him ample power to realise in my name my rents and investments, and he shall keep the proceeds in his hands as a deposit; and thus, after my decease, my tender love, you will at least have an existence worthy of you.'"

Perhaps M. Ferrand never had greater need of his spectacles than at this moment; for, had he not worn them, Madame d'Orbigny would doubtless have been struck with the sparkle of the notary's eyes, which seemed to dart fire when the word deposit was pronounced. However, he replied, in his usual coarse way:

"It is very tiresome. This is the tenth or twelfth time that I have been made the arbitrator in a similar matter, always under the pretence of my honesty, – that is the only word in people's mouths. My honesty! – my honesty! What a fine quality, forsooth! – which only brings me in a great deal of tiresome trouble."

"My good M. Ferrand! Come, do not repulse me. You will write at once to M. d'Orbigny, who only awaits your letter to send you full powers to act for him, and to realise the sum required."

"Which amounts to how much?"

"Why, I think he said four or five hundred thousand francs" (16,000l. or 20,000l.).

"The sum, after all, is not so much as I thought. You are devoted to M. d'Orbigny. His daughter is very rich; you have nothing. That is not just; and I really think you should accept it."

"Really, do you think so, indeed?" said Madame d'Orbigny, who was the dupe, like the rest of the world, of the proverbial probity of the notary, and who had not been enlightened by Polidori in this particular.

"You may accept," he repeated.

"I will accept, then," said Madame d'Orbigny, with a sigh.

The chief clerk knocked at the door.

"Who is there?" inquired M. Ferrand.

"Madame the Countess Macgregor."

"Request her to wait a moment."

"I will go, then, my dear M. Ferrand," said Madame d'Orbigny. "You will write to my husband, since he wishes it, and he will send you the requisite authority by return of post?"

"I will write."

"Adieu, my worthy and excellent counsellor!"

"Ah, you do not know, you people of the world, how disagreeable it is to take charge of such deposits, – the responsibility which we then assume. I tell you that there is nothing more detestable in the world than this fine character for probity, which brings down upon one all these turmoils and troubles."

"And the admiration of all good people."

"Thank Heaven, I place otherwise than here below the hopes of the reward at which I aim!" said M. Ferrand, in a hypocritical tone.

To Madame d'Orbigny succeeded Sarah Macgregor.

Sarah entered the cabinet of the notary with her usual coolness and assurance. Jacques Ferrand did not know her, nor the motives of her visit, and he therefore scrutinised her carefully in the hope of catching another dupe. He looked most attentively at the countess; and, despite the imperturbability of this marble-fronted woman, he observed a slight working of the eyebrows, which betrayed a repressed embarrassment. The notary rose from his seat, handed a chair, and, motioning to Sarah to sit down, thus accosted her:

"You have requested of me, madame, an interview for to-day. I was very much engaged yesterday, and could not reply until this morning. I beg you will accept my apology for the delay."

"I was desirous of seeing you, sir, on a matter of the greatest importance. Your reputation for honesty, kindness, and complaisance has made me hope that the step I have taken with you will be successful."

The notary bent forward slightly in his chair.

"I know, sir, that your discretion is perfect."

"It is my duty, madame."

"You are, sir, a man of rigid, moral, and incorruptible character."

"Yes, madame."

"Yet, sir, if you were told that it depended on you to restore life – more than life, reason – to an unhappy mother, should you have the courage to refuse her?"

"If you will state the circumstances, madame, I shall be better able to reply."

"It is fourteen years since, at the end of the month of December, 1824, a man in the prime of life, and dressed in deep mourning, came to ask you to take, by way of life-annuity, the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs (6,000l.), which it was desired should be sunk in favour of a child of three years of age, whose parents were desirous of remaining unknown."

"Well, madame?" said the notary, careful not to reply in the affirmative.

"You assented, and took charge of this sum, agreeing to insure the child a yearly pension of eight thousand francs (320l.). Half this income was to accumulate for the child's benefit until of age; the other half was to be paid by you to the person who took care of this little girl."

"Well, madame?"

"At the end of two years," said Sarah, unable to repress a slight emotion, "on the 28th of November, 1827, the child died."

"Before we proceed any farther, madame, with this conversation, I must know what interest you take in this matter?"

"The mother of this little girl, sir, was – my sister.2 I have here proofs of what I advance: the declaration of the poor child's death, the letters of the person who took charge of her, and the acknowledgment of one of your clients with whom you have placed the hundred and fifty thousand francs."

"Allow me to see those papers, madame."

Somewhat astonished at not being believed on her word, Sarah drew from a pocket-book several papers, which the notary examined with great attention.

"Well, madame, what do you desire? The declaration of decease is perfectly in order. The hundred and fifty thousand francs came to my client, M. Petit-Jean, on the death of the child. It is one of the chances of life-annuities, as I remarked to the person who placed the affair in my hands. As to the pension, it was duly paid by me up to the time of the child's decease."

"I am ready to declare, sir, that nothing could be more satisfactory than your conduct throughout the whole of the affair. The female who had charge of the child is also entitled to our gratitude, for she took the greatest care of my poor little niece."

"True, madame. And I was so much satisfied with her conduct, that, seeing her out of place after the death of the child, I took her into my employment; and, since that time, she has remained with me."

"Is Madame Séraphin in your service, sir?"

"She has been my housekeeper these fourteen years, and I must ever speak in her praise."

"Since that is the case, sir, she may be of the greatest use to us, if you will kindly grant me a request, which may appear strange, perhaps even culpable, at first sight, but when you know the motive – "

"A culpable request, madame, is what I cannot believe you capable of addressing to me."

"Sir, I am acquainted with the rectitude of your principles; but all my hope – my only hope – is in your pity. Under any event, I may rely on your discretion?"

"Madame, you may."

"Well, then, I will proceed. The death of this poor child was so great a shock to her mother, that her grief is as great now as it was fourteen years since, and, having then feared for her life, we are now in dread for her reason."

"Poor mother!" said M. Ferrand, in a tone of sympathy.

"Oh, yes, poor unhappy mother, indeed, sir! for she could only blush at the birth of her child at the time when she lost it; whilst now circumstances are such, that, if the child were still alive, my sister could render her legitimate, be proud of her, and never again allow her to quit her. Thus this incessant regret, coming to add to her other sorrows, we are afraid every hour lest she should be bereft of her senses."

"It is unfortunate that nothing can be done in the matter."

"Yes, sir – "

"What, madame?"

"Suppose some one told the poor mother, 'Your child was reported to be dead, but she did not die: the woman who had charge of her when she was little could vouch for this.'"

"Such a falsehood, madame, would be cruel. Why give so vain a hope to the poor mother?"

"But, supposing it were not a falsehood, sir? or, rather, if the supposition could be realised?"

"By a miracle? If it only required my prayers to be united with your own to obtain this result, I would give them to you from the bottom of my heart, – believe me, madame. Unfortunately, the register of decease is strictly regular."

"Oh, yes, sir, I know well enough that the child is dead; and yet, if you will agree, that misfortune need not be irreparable."

"Is this some riddle, madame?"

"I will speak more clearly. If my sister were to-morrow to recover her daughter, she would be certain not only to be restored to health, but to be wedded to the father of her child, who is now as free as herself. My niece died at six years old. Separated from her parents from a very tender age, they have not the slightest recollection of her. Suppose a young girl of seventeen was produced (my niece would be about that age), – a young girl (such as there are many) forsaken by her parents, – and it was said to my sister, 'Here's your daughter, for you have been imposed upon. Important interests have required that she should have been said to be dead. The female who brought her up and a respectable notary will confirm these facts, and prove to you that it is really she – '"

Jacques Ferrand, after having allowed the countess to speak on without interruption, rose abruptly, and exclaimed, with an indignant air:

"Madame, this is infamous!"

"Sir!"

"To dare to propose such a thing to me – to me! A supposititious child, the destruction of a registry of decease; a criminal act, indeed! It is the first time in my life that I was ever subjected to so outrageous a proposal, – a proposal I have not merited, and you know it!"

"But, sir, what wrong does this do to any one? My sister and the individual she desires to marry are widow and widower, and childless, both bitterly lamenting the child they have lost. To deceive them is to restore them to happiness, to life, is to ensure a happy destiny to some poor, forsaken girl; and it becomes, therefore, a noble, a generous action, and not a crime!"

"Really, madame, I marvel to see how the most execrable projects may be coloured, so as to pass for beautiful pictures!"

"But, sir, reflect – "

"I repeat to you, madame, that it is infamous! And it is shameful to see a lady of your rank lend herself to such abominable machinations, – to which, I trust, your sister is a stranger."

"Sir – "

"Enough, madame, enough! I am not a polished gentleman, I am not, and I shall speak my mind bluntly."

Sarah gave the notary a piercing look with her jet-black eyes, and said, coldly:

"You refuse?"

"I pray, madame, that you will not again insult me."

"Beware!"

"What! Threats?"

"Threats! And that you may learn they are not vain ones, learn, first, that I have no sister – "

"What, madame?"

"I am the mother of this child!"

"You?"

"I – I made a circuitous route to reach my end – coined a tale to excite your interest; but you are pitiless. I raise the mask, you are for war. Well, war be it then!"

"War! Because I refuse to associate myself with you in a criminal machination! What audacity!"

"Listen to me, sir! Your reputation as an honest man is established, acknowledged, undisputed – "

"Because deserved; and, therefore, you must have lost your reason to make me such a proposal as you have done, and then threaten me because I will not accede to it."

"I know, sir, better than any one how much reputations for immaculate virtue are to be distrusted; they often mask wantonness in women and roguery in men."

"Madame?"

"Ever since our conversation began, – I do not know why, but I have mistrusted your claim to the esteem and consideration which you enjoy."

"Really, madame, your mistrust does honour to your penetration!"

"Does it not? For this mistrust is based on mere nothings – on instinct – on inexplicable presentiments; but these intimations have rarely beguiled me."

"Madame, let us terminate this conversation."

"First learn my determination. I begin by telling you that I am convinced of the death of my poor daughter. But, no matter, I shall pretend that she is not dead: the most unlikely things do happen. You are at this moment in a position of which very many must be envious, and would be delighted at any weapon with which to assail you. I will supply one."

"You?"

"I, by attacking you under some absurd pretext, some irregularity in the declaration of death; say – no matter what – I will insist that my child is not dead. As I have the greatest interest in making it believed that she is still alive, though lost, this action will be useful to me in giving a wide circulation to the affair. A mother who claims her child is always interesting; and I should have with me those who envy you, – your enemies, and every sensitive and romantic mind."

"This is as mad as it is malevolent! What motive could I have in making your daughter pass for dead, if she were not really defunct?"

"That is true enough, and the motive may be difficult to find; but, then, have we not the attorneys and barristers at our elbows? Now I think of it (excellent idea!), desirous of sharing with your client the sum sunk in the annuity on this unfortunate child, you caused her disappearance."

The unabashed notary shrugged his shoulders.

"If I had been criminal enough for that, instead of causing its disappearance, I should have killed it!"

Sarah started with surprise, remained silent for a moment, and then said, with bitterness:

"For a pious man, this is an idea of crime deeply reflective! Can I by chance, then, have hit the mark when I fired at random? I must think of this, – and think I will. One other word. You see the sort of woman I am: I crush without remorse all obstacles that lie in my onward path. Reflect well, then, for to-morrow this must be decided on. You may do what I ask you with impunity. In his joy, the father of my daughter will not think of doubting the possibility of his child's restoration, if our falsehoods, which will make him happy, are adroitly combined. Besides, he has no other proofs of the death of our daughter than those I wrote to him of fourteen years ago, and I could easily persuade him that I had deceived him on this subject; for then I had real causes of complaint against him. I will tell him that in my grief I was desirous of breaking every existing tie that bound us to each other. You cannot, therefore, be compromised in any way. Affirm only, irreproachable man. Affirm that all was in former days concerted between us, – you and me and Madame Séraphin, – and you will be credited. As to the fifteen thousand francs sunk in an annuity for my child, that is my affair solely. They will remain acquired by your client, who must be kept profoundly ignorant of this; and, moreover, you shall yourself name your own recompense."

Jacques Ferrand maintained all his sang-froid in spite of the singularity of his situation, remarkable and dangerous as it was. The countess, really believing in the death of her daughter, had proposed to the notary to pass off the dead child as living, whom, living, he had declared to have died fourteen years before. He was too clever, and too well acquainted with the perils of his position, not to understand the effect of all Sarah's threats. His reputation, although admirably and laboriously built up, was based on a substructure of sand. The public detaches itself as easily as it becomes infatuated, liking to have the right to trample under foot him whom but just now it elevated to the skies. How could the consequences of the first assault on the reputation of Jacques Ferrand be foreseen? However absurd the attack might be, its very boldness might give rise to suspicions. Wishing to gain time to determine on the mode by which he would seek to parry the dangerous blow, the notary said, frigidly, to Sarah:

"You have given me, madame, until to-morrow at noon; I give you until the next day to renounce a plot whose serious nature you do not seem to have contemplated. If, between this and then, I do not receive from you a letter informing me that you have abandoned this criminal and crazy enterprise, you will learn to your cost that Justice knows how to protect honest people who refuse guilty associations, and what may happen to the concoctors of hateful machinations."

"You mean to say, sir, that you ask from me one more day to reflect on my proposals? That is a good sign, and I grant the delay. The day after to-morrow, at this hour, I will come here again, and it shall be between us peace or war, – I repeat it, – but a 'war to the knife,' without mercy or pity."

And Sarah left the room.

"All goes well," she said. "This miserable girl, in whom Rodolph capriciously takes so much interest, and has sent to the farm at Bouqueval, in order, no doubt, to make her his mistress hereafter, is no longer to be feared, – thanks to the one-eyed woman who has freed me from her. Rodolph's adroitness has saved Madame d'Harville from the snare into which I meant she should fall; but it is impossible that she can escape from the fresh plot I have laid for her, and thus she must be for ever lost to Rodolph. Thus, saddened, discouraged, isolated from all affection, will he not be in a frame of mind such as will best suit my purpose of making him the dupe of a falsehood to which, by the notary's aid, I can give every impress of truth? And the notary will aid me, for I have frightened him. I shall easily find a young orphan girl, interesting and poor, who, taught her lesson by me, will fill the character of our child so bitterly mourned by Rodolph. I know the expansiveness, the generosity of his heart, – yes, to give a name, a rank to her whom he will believe to be his daughter, till now forsaken and abandoned, he will renew those bonds between us which I believed indissoluble. The predictions of my nurse will be at length realised, and I shall thus and then attain the constant aim of my life, – a crown!"

Sarah had scarcely left the notary before M. Charles Robert entered, after alighting from a very dashing cabriolet. He went like a person on most intimate terms to the private room of Jacques Ferrand.

The commandant, as Madame Pipelet called him, entered without ceremony into the notary's cabinet, whom he found in a surly, bilious mood, and who thus accosted him:

"I reserve the afternoon for my clients; when you wish to speak to me come in the morning, will you?"

"My dear lawyer" (this was a standing pleasantry of M. Robert), "I have a very important matter to talk about in the first place, and, in the next, I was anxious to assure you in person against any alarms you might have – "

"What alarms?"

"What! Haven't you heard?"

"What?"

"Of my duel – "

"Your duel?"

"With the Duke de Lucenay. Is it possible you have not heard of it?"

"Quite possible."

"Pooh! pooh!"

"But what did you fight about?"

"A very serious matter, which called for bloodshed. Only imagine that, at a very large party, M. de Lucenay actually said that I had a phlegmy cough!"

"That you had – "

"A phlegmy cough, my dear lawyer; a complaint which is really most ridiculously absurd!"

"And did you fight about that?"

"What the devil would you have a man fight about? Can you imagine that a man could stand calmly and hear himself charged with having a phlegmy cough? And before a lovely woman, too! Before a little marchioness, who – who – In a word, I could not stand it!"

"Really!"

"The military men, you see, are always sensitive. My seconds went, the day before yesterday, to try and obtain some explanation from those of the duke. I put the matter perfectly straight, – a duel or an ample apology."

"An ample apology for what?"

"For the phlegmy cough, pardieu!– the phlegmy cough that he fastened on me."

The notary shrugged his shoulders.

"The duke's seconds said, 'We bear testimony to the honourable character of M. Charles Robert, but M. de Lucenay cannot, ought not, and will not retract.' 'Then, gentlemen,' replied my seconds, 'M. de Lucenay is obstinately determined to assert that M. Charles Robert has a phlegmy cough?' 'Yes, gentlemen, but he does not therefore mean in the slightest way to impugn the high respectability of M. Charles Robert.' 'Then let him retract – ' 'No, gentlemen, M. de Lucenay acknowledges M. Robert as a most decidedly worthy gentleman, but still asserts that he has a phlegmy cough.' You see there was no means of arranging so serious an affair."

"To be sure not. You were insulted in the point which a man holds dearest."

"Wasn't I? Well, time and place were agreed on; and yesterday morning we met at Vincennes, and everything passed off in the most honourable manner possible. I touched M. de Lucenay slightly in the arm, and the seconds declared that honour was satisfied. Then the duke, with a loud voice, said, 'I never retract before a meeting, but, afterwards, it is a very different thing. It is, therefore, my duty, and my honour impels me to declare, that I falsely accused M. Charles Robert of having a phlegmy cough. Gentlemen, I not only declare that my honourable opponent had not a phlegmy cough, but I trust he never will have one.' Then the duke extended his hand in the most cordial manner, saying,'Are you now satisfied?' 'We are friends through life and death,' I replied; and it was really due to him to say so. The duke has behaved to perfection. Either he might have said nothing, or contented himself with declaring that I had not the phlegmy cough. But to express his wish that I might never have it, was a most delicate attention on his part."