The Mysteries of Paris, Volume 3 of 6

"Need I say that I have an estate four leagues from Paris, which brings me in eighty thousand francs (3,200l.) a year? That will suffice, I should think, for what you call your securities?"

"Yes, madame, when the mortgage is properly secured."

"What do you mean? Some formality of law, no doubt? Do it, sir, do it."

"Such a deed cannot be drawn up in less than a fortnight, and we must have your husband's assent, madame."

"But the estate is mine, and mine only," said the duchess, impatiently.

"No matter, madame, you have a husband; and mortgage deeds are very long and very minute."

"But, once again, sir, you will not ask me to believe that it is so difficult to find one hundred thousand francs in two hours?"

"Then, madame, apply to the notary you usually employ, or your steward; as for me, it is impossible."

"I have my reasons for keeping this secret," said Madame de Lucenay, haughtily. "You know the rogues who seek to take advantage of M. de Saint-Remy, and that is the reason why I address myself to you."

"Your confidence does me much honour, madame; but I cannot do what you ask of me."

"You have not this sum?"

"I have much more than that sum, in bank-notes or bright and good gold, here in my chest."

"Then why waste time about it? You require my signature, I suppose? Well, let me give it to you, and let us end the matter."

"Even admitting, madame, that you were Madame de Lucenay – "

"Come to the Hôtel de Lucenay in one hour, sir, and I will sign whatever may be requisite."

"And will the duke sign, also?"

"I do not understand, sir."

"Your signature, alone, would be worthless to me, madame."

Jacques Ferrand delighted, with cruel joy, in the manifest impatience of the duchess, who, under the appearance of coolness and hauteur, repressed really painful agony.

For an instant she was at her wits' end. On the previous evening, her jeweller had advanced her a considerable sum on her jewels, some of which had been confided to Morel, the lapidary. This sum had been employed in paying the bills of M. de Saint-Remy, and thus disarming the other creditors; M. Dubreuil, the farmer of Arnouville, was more than a year's rent in advance on the farm; and, then, the time was so pressing. Still more unfortunately for Madame de Lucenay, two of her friends, to whom she could have had recourse in this moment of distress, were then absent from Paris. In her eyes, the viscount was innocent of the forgery. He had said, and she had believed him, that he was the victim of two rogues; but yet his position was not the less terrible. He accused! He led to prison! And, even if he took flight, his name would be no less dishonoured by the suspicion that would light on him. At these distressing thoughts, Madame de Lucenay trembled with affright. She blindly loved this man, at the same time so degraded, and gifted with such strong seductive powers; and her passion for him was one of those affections which women, of her character and her temperament, ordinarily experience when they attain an age of maturity.

Jacques Ferrand carefully watched every variation in the physiognomy of Madame de Lucenay, who seemed to him more lovely and attractive at every moment, and awakened still more his ardent feeling. Yet he felt a fierce pleasure in tormenting, by his refusals, this female, who could only entertain disgust and contempt for him. The lady had spurned the idea of saying a word to the notary that might seem like a supplication; yet, when she found the uselessness of other attempts, which she had addressed to him who alone could save M. de Saint-Remy, she said, at length, trying to repress all evidence of emotion:

"Since you have the sum of money which I ask of you, sir, and my guarantee is sufficient, why do you refuse it to me?"

"Because men have their caprices, as well as ladies, madame."

"Well, what is this caprice which thus impels you to act against your own interest? For I repeat, sir, that whatever may be your conditions, I accept them."

"You will accept all my conditions, madame?" said the notary, with a singular expression.

"All, – two, three, four thousand francs, more, if you please. For you must know, sir," added the duchess, in a tone almost confidential, "I have no resource but in you, sir, and in you only. It will be impossible for me at this moment to find elsewhere what I require for to-morrow, and I must have it, as you know, – I must absolutely have it. Thus I repeat to you that, whatever terms you require for this service, I accept them; nothing will be a sacrifice to me, – nothing."

The breath of the notary became thick, and, in his ignoble blindness, he interpreted the last words of Madame de Lucenay in an unworthy manner. He saw, through his darkened understanding, a woman as bold as some of the females of the old court, – a woman driven to her wits' end for fear of the dishonour of him whom she loved, and capable, perhaps, of any sacrifice to save him. It was even more stupid than infamous to think so, but, as we have said already, Jacques Ferrand sometimes, though rarely, forgot himself.

He quitted his chair abruptly, and approached Madame de Lucenay, who, surprised, rose when he did, and looked at him with much astonishment.

"Nothing will be a sacrifice to you, say you? To you, who are so lovely?" he exclaimed, with a voice trembling and broken with agitation, as he went towards the duchess. "Well, then, I will lend you this sum, on one condition, – one condition only, – and I swear to you – "

He could not finish his declaration.

By one of those singular contradictions of human nature, at the sight of the singularly ugly features of M. Ferrand, at the strange and whimsical thoughts which arose in Madame de Lucenay's mind, at his ridiculous pretensions, which she guessed in spite of her disquietude and anxiety, she burst into a fit of laughter, so hearty, so loud, and so excessive, that the disconcerted notary reeled back. Then, without allowing him a moment to utter another word, the duchess gave way still more to her increasing mirth, lowered her veil, and, between two bursts of irrepressible laughter, she said to the notary, overwhelmed by hatred, rage, and fury:

"Really, I should much rather prefer asking this advance from M. de Lucenay."

She then left the room, laughing so heartily that, even when the door of his room was closed, the notary heard her still.

Jacques Ferrand no sooner recovered his reason than he cursed his imprudence; but he became reassured on reflecting that the duchess could not allude to this adventure without compromising herself. Still, the day had been unpropitious, and he was plunged in thought when the door of his study opened, and Madame Séraphin entered in great agitation.

"Ah, Ferrand," she exclaimed, "you were right when you declared that, one day or other, we should be ruined for having allowed her to live!"

"Who?"

"That cursed little girl!"

"What do you mean?"

"A one-eyed woman, whom I did not know, and to whom Tournemine gave the little chit to get rid of her, fourteen years ago, when we wished to make her pass for dead – Ah, who would have thought it!"

"Speak! Speak! Why don't you speak?"

"This one-eyed woman has been here, was down-stairs just now, and told me that she knew it was I who had delivered up the little brat."

"Malediction! Who could have told her? Tournemine is at the galleys."

"I denied it, and treated the one-eyed woman as a liar. But bah! she declares she knows where the girl is now, and that she has grown up, that she has her, and that it only depends on her to discover everything."

"Is hell, then, unchained against me to-day?" exclaimed the notary, in a fit of rage. "What shall I say to this woman? What shall I offer her to hold her tongue? Does she seem well off?"

"As I treated her like a beggar, she shook her hand-basket, and there was money inside of it."

"And she knows where this young girl is now?"

"So she says."

"And she is the daughter of the Countess Sarah Macgregor!" said the stupefied notary; "and just now she offered me so much to declare that her daughter was not dead; and the girl is alive, and I can restore her to her mother! But, then, the false register of her death! If a search were made, I am ruined! This crime may put others on the scent."

After a moment's silence, he said to Madame Séraphin:

"This one-eyed woman knows where the child is?"