第 四 章 · When Noel and old Tabaret were seated face to face in Noel’s study, and

the door had been carefully shut, the old fellow felt uneasy, and said:

“What if your mother should require anything.”

“If Madame Gerdy rings,” replied the young man drily, “the servant will

attend to her.”

This indifference, this cold disdain, amazed old Tabaret, accustomed as

he was to the affectionate relations always existing between mother and

son.

“For heaven’s sake, Noel,” said he, “calm yourself. Do not allow

yourself to be overcome by a feeling of irritation. You have, I see,

some little pique against your mother, which you will have forgotten

to-morrow. Don’t speak of her in this icy tone; but tell me what you

mean by calling her Madame Gerdy?”

“What I mean?” rejoined the advocate in a hollow tone,--“what I mean?”

Then rising from his arm-chair, he took several strides about the room,

and, returning to his place near the old fellow, said,--

“Because, M. Tabaret, Madame Gerdy is not my mother!”

This sentence fell like a heavy blow on the head of the amateur

detective.

“Oh!” he said, in the tone one assumes when rejecting an absurd

proposition, “do you really know what you are saying, Noel? Is it

credible? Is it probable?”

“It is improbable,” replied Noel with a peculiar emphasis which was

habitual to him: “it is incredible, if you will; but yet it is true.

That is to say, for thirty-three years, ever since my birth, this woman

has played a most marvellous and unworthy comedy, to ennoble and enrich

her son,--for she has a son,--at my expense!”

“My friend,” commenced old Tabaret, who in the background of the picture

presented by this singular revelation saw again the phantom of the

murdered Widow Lerouge.

But Noel heard not, and seemed hardly in a state to hear. The young man,

usually so cold, so self-contained, could no longer control his anger.

At the sound of his own voice, he became more and more animated, as a

good horse might at the jingling of his harness.

“Was ever man,” continued he, “more cruelly deceived, more miserably

duped, than I have been! I, who loved this woman, who knew not how to

show my affection for her, who, for her sake, sacrificed my youth! How

she must have laughed at me! Her infamy dates from the moment when for

the first time she took me on her knees; and, until these few days past,

she has sustained without faltering her execrable role. Her love for me

was nothing but hypocrisy! her devotion, falsehood! her caresses,

lies! And I adored her! Ah! why can I not take back all the embraces I

bestowed on her in exchange for her Judas kisses? And for what was all

this heroism of deception, this caution, this duplicity? To betray me

more securely, to despoil me, to rob me, to give to her bastard all

that lawfully appertained to me; my name, a noble name, my fortune, a

princely inheritance!”

“We are getting near it!” thought old Tabaret, who was fast relapsing

into the colleague of M. Gevrol; then aloud he said, “This is very

serious, all that you have been saying, my dear Noel, terribly serious.

We must believe Madame Gerdy possessed of an amount of audacity and

ability rarely to be met with in a woman. She must have been assisted,

advised, compelled perhaps. Who have been her accomplices? She could

never have managed this unaided; perhaps her husband himself.”

“Her husband!” interrupted the advocate, with a laugh. “Ah! you too have

believed her a widow. Pshaw! She never had a husband, the defunct Gerdy

never existed. I was a bastard, dear M. Tabaret, very much a bastard;

Noel, son of the girl Gerdy and an unknown father!”

“Ah!” cried the old fellow; “that then was the reason why your marriage

with Mademoiselle Levernois was broken off four years ago?”

“Yes, my friend, that was the reason. And what misfortunes might have

been averted by this marriage with a young girl whom I loved! However

I did not complain to her whom I then called my mother. She wept, she

accused herself, she seemed ready to die of grief: and I, poor fool! I

consoled her as best I could, I dried her tears, and excused her in her

own eyes. No, there was no husband. Do such women as she have husbands?

She was my father’s mistress; and, on the day when he had had enough of

her, he took up his hat and threw her three hundred thousand francs, the

price of the pleasures she had given him.”

Noel would probably have continued much longer to pour forth his furious

denunciations; but M. Tabaret stopped him. The old fellow felt he was

on the point of learning a history in every way similar to that which he

had imagined; and his impatience to know whether he had guessed aright,

almost caused him to forget to express any sympathy for his friend’s

misfortunes.

“My dear boy,” said he, “do not let us digress. You ask me for advice;

and I am perhaps the best adviser you could have chosen. Come, then,

to the point. How have you learned this? Have you any proofs? where are

they?”

The decided tone in which the old fellow spoke, should no doubt, have

awakened Noel’s attention; but he did not notice it. He had not leisure

to reflect. He therefore answered,--

“I have known the truth for three weeks past. I made the discovery by

chance. I have important moral proofs; but they are mere presumptive

evidence. A word from Widow Lerouge, one single word, would have

rendered them decisive. This word she cannot now pronounce, since they

have killed her; but she had said it to me. Now, Madame Gerdy will deny

all. I know her; with her head on the block, she will deny it. My father

doubtless will turn against me. I am certain, and I possess proofs; now

this crime makes my certitude but a vain boast, and renders my proofs

null and void!”

“Explain it all to me,” said old Tabaret after a pause--“all, you

understand. We old ones are sometimes able to give good advice. We will

decide what’s to be done afterwards.”

“Three weeks ago,” commenced Noel, “searching for some old documents,

I opened Madame Gerdy’s secretary. Accidentally I displaced one of the

small shelves: some papers tumbled out, and a packet of letters fell in

front of my eyes. A mechanical impulse, which I cannot explain, prompted

me to untie the string, and, impelled by an invincible curiosity, I read

the first letter which came to my hand.”

“You did wrong,” remarked M. Tabaret.

“Be it so; anyhow I read. At the end of ten lines, I was convinced that

these letters were from my father, whose name, Madame Gerdy, in spite of

my prayers, had always hidden from me. You can understand my emotion.

I carried off the packet, shut myself up in this room, and devoured the

correspondence from beginning to end.”

“And you have been cruelly punished my poor boy!”

“It is true; but who in my position could have resisted? These letters

have given me great pain; but they afford the proof of what I just now

told you.”

“You have at least preserved these letters?”

“I have them here, M. Tabaret,” replied Noel, “and, that you may

understand the case in which I have requested your advice, I am going to

read them to you.”

The advocate opened one of the drawers of his bureau, pressed an

invisible spring, and from a hidden receptacle constructed in the

thick upper shelf, he drew out a bundle of letters. “You understand, my

friend,” he resumed, “that I will spare you all insignificant details,

which, however, add their own weight to the rest. I am only going to

deal with the more important facts, treating directly of the affair.”

Old Tabaret nestled in his arm-chair, burning with curiosity; his face

and his eyes expressing the most anxious attention. After a selection,

which he was some time in making, the advocate opened a letter, and

commenced reading in a voice which trembled at times, in spite of his

efforts to render it calm.

“‘My dearly loved Valerie,’--

“Valerie,” said he, “is Madame Gerdy.”

“I know, I know. Do not interrupt yourself.”

Noel then resumed.

“‘My dearly loved Valerie,

“‘This is a happy day. This morning I received your darling letter, I

have covered it with kisses, I have re-read it a hundred times; and now

it has gone to join the others here upon my heart. This letter, oh, my

love! has nearly killed me with joy. You were not deceived, then; it was

true! Heaven has blessed our love. We shall have a son.

“‘I shall have a son, the living image of my adored Valerie! Oh! why are

we separated by such an immense distance? Why have I not wings that I

might fly to your feet and fall into your arms, full of the sweetest

voluptuousness! No! never as at this moment have I cursed the fatal

union imposed upon me by an inexorable family, whom my tears could not

move. I cannot help hating this woman, who, in spite of me bears my

name, innocent victim though she is of the barbarity of our parents.

And, to complete my misery, she too will soon render me a father.

Who can describe my sorrow when I compare the fortunes of these two

children?

“‘The one, the son of the object of my tenderest love, will have neither

father nor family, nor even a name, since a law framed to make lovers

unhappy prevents my acknowledging him. While the other, the son of

my detested wife, by the sole fact of his birth, will be rich, noble,

surrounded by devotion and homage, with a great position in the world.

I cannot bear the thought of this terrible injustice! How it is to be

prevented, I do not know: but rest assured I shall find a way. It is to

him who is the most desired, the most cherished, the most beloved, that

the greater fortune should come; and come to him it shall, for I so will

it.’”

“From where is that letter dated?” asked old Tabaret. The style in which

it was written had already settled one point in his mind.

“See,” replied Noel. He handed the letter to the old fellow, who read,--

“Venice, December, 1828.”

“You perceive,” resumed the advocate, “all the importance of this first

letter. It is like a brief statement of the facts. My father, married in

spite of himself, adores his mistress, and detests his wife. Both find

themselves enceinte at the same time, and his feelings towards the two

infants about to be born, are not at all concealed. Towards the end one

almost sees peeping forth the germ of the idea which later on he will

not be afraid to put into execution, in defiance of all law human or

divine!”

He was speaking as though pleading the cause, when old Tabaret

interrupted him.

“It is not necessary to explain it,” said he. “Thank goodness, what you

have just read is explicit enough. I am not an adept in such matters, I

am as simple as a juryman; however I understand it admirably so far.”

“I pass over several letters,” continued Noel, “and I come to this one

dated Jan. 23, 1829. It is very long, and filled with matters altogether

foreign to the subject which now occupies us. However, it contains

two passages, which attest the slow but steady growth of my father’s

project. ‘A destiny, more powerful than my will, chains me to this

country; but my soul is with you, my Valerie! Without ceasing, my

thoughts rest upon the adored pledge of our love which moves within you.

Take care, my darling, take care of yourself, now doubly precious. It

is the lover, the father, who implores you. The last part of your letter

wounds my heart. Is it not an insult to me, for you to express anxiety

as to the future of our child! Oh heaven! she loves me, she knows me,

and yet she doubts!’

“I skip,” said Noel, “two pages of passionate rhapsody, and stop at

these few lines at the end. ‘The countess’s condition causes her to

suffer very much! Unfortunate wife! I hate and at the same time pity

her. She seems to divine the reason of my sadness and my coldness. By

her timid submission and unalterable sweetness, one would think she

sought pardon for our unhappy union. Poor sacrificed creature! She also

may have given her heart to another, before being dragged to the altar.

Our fates would then be the same. Your good heart will pardon my pitying

her.’

“That one was my mother,” cried the advocate in a trembling voice. “A

saint! And he asks pardon for the pity she inspires! Poor woman.”

He passed his hands over his eyes, as if to force back his tears, and

added,--

“She is dead!”

In spite of his impatience, old Tabaret dared not utter a word. Besides

he felt keenly the profound sorrow of his young friend, and respected

it. After a rather long silence, Noel raised his head, and returned to

the correspondence.

“All the letters which follow,” said he, “carry traces of the

preoccupation of my father’s mind on the subject of his bastard son. I

lay them, however, aside. But this is what strikes me in the one written

from Rome, on March 5, 1829. ‘My son, our son, that is my great, my only

anxiety. How to secure for him the future position of which I dream?

The nobles of former times were not worried in this way. In those days

I would have gone to the king, who, with a word, would have assured

the child’s position in the world. To-day, the king who governs with

difficulty his disaffected subjects can do nothing. The nobility has

lost its rights, and the highest in the land are treated the same as

the meanest peasants!’ Lower down I find,--‘My heart loves to picture to

itself the likeness of our son. He will have the spirit, the mind, the

beauty, the grace, all the fascinations of his mother. He will inherit

from his father, pride, valour, and the sentiments of a noble race. And

the other, what will he be like? I tremble to think of it. Hatred can

only engender a monster. Heaven reserves strength and beauty for the

children of love!’ The monster, that is I!” said the advocate, with

intense rage. “Whilst the other--But let us ignore these preliminaries

to an outrageous action. I only desired up to the present to show you

the aberration of my father’s reason under the influence of his passion.

We shall soon come to the point.”