convinced that you have succeeded. I leave you, therefore, as I took
you,--rich, but little respected. Adieu! I also intend from this time
to work on my own account. Accept my acknowledgments for the example you
have set me, and which I intend following.
"Your very devoted husband,
"Baron Danglars."
The baroness had watched Debray while he read this long and painful
letter, and saw him, notwithstanding his self-control, change color
once or twice. When he had ended the perusal, he folded the letter and
resumed his pensive attitude. "Well?" asked Madame Danglars, with an
anxiety easy to be understood.
"Well, madame?" unhesitatingly repeated Debray.
"With what ideas does that letter inspire you?"
"Oh, it is simple enough, madame; it inspires me with the idea that M.
Danglars has left suspiciously."
"Certainly; but is this all you have to say to me?"
"I do not understand you," said Debray with freezing coldness.
"He is gone! Gone, never to return!"
"Oh, madame, do not think that!"
"I tell you he will never return. I know his character; he is inflexible
in any resolutions formed for his own interests. If he could have made
any use of me, he would have taken me with him; he leaves me in Paris,
as our separation will conduce to his benefit;--therefore he has gone,
and I am free forever," added Madame Danglars, in the same supplicating
tone. Debray, instead of answering, allowed her to remain in an attitude
of nervous inquiry. "Well?" she said at length, "do you not answer me?"
"I have but one question to ask you,--what do you intend to do?"
"I was going to ask you," replied the baroness with a beating heart.
"Ah, then, you wish to ask advice of me?"
"Yes; I do wish to ask your advice," said Madame Danglars with anxious
expectation.
"Then if you wish to take my advice," said the young man coldly, "I
would recommend you to travel."
"To travel!" she murmured.
"Certainly; as M. Danglars says, you are rich, and perfectly free. In
my opinion, a withdrawal from Paris is absolutely necessary after the
double catastrophe of Mademoiselle Danglars' broken contract and M.
Danglars' disappearance. The world will think you abandoned and poor,
for the wife of a bankrupt would never be forgiven, were she to keep up
an appearance of opulence. You have only to remain in Paris for about a
fortnight, telling the world you are abandoned, and relating the details
of this desertion to your best friends, who will soon spread the report.
Then you can quit your house, leaving your jewels and giving up your
jointure, and every one's mouth will be filled with praises of your
disinterestedness. They will know you are deserted, and think you also
poor, for I alone know your real financial position, and am quite ready
to give up my accounts as an honest partner." The dread with which the
pale and motionless baroness listened to this, was equalled by the calm
indifference with which Debray had spoken. "Deserted?" she repeated;
"ah, yes, I am, indeed, deserted! You are right, sir, and no one can
doubt my position." These were the only words that this proud and
violently enamoured woman could utter in response to Debray.
"But then you are rich,--very rich, indeed," continued Debray, taking
out some papers from his pocket-book, which he spread upon the table.
Madame Danglars did not see them; she was engaged in stilling the
beatings of her heart, and restraining the tears which were ready to
gush forth. At length a sense of dignity prevailed, and if she did not
entirely master her agitation, she at least succeeded in preventing the
fall of a single tear. "Madame," said Debray, "it is nearly six months
since we have been associated. You furnished a principal of 100,000
francs. Our partnership began in the month of April. In May we commenced
operations, and in the course of the month gained 450,000 francs.
In June the profit amounted to 900,000. In July we added 1,700,000
francs,--it was, you know, the month of the Spanish bonds. In August we
lost 300,000 francs at the beginning of the month, but on the 13th we
made up for it, and we now find that our accounts, reckoning from the
first day of partnership up to yesterday, when I closed them, showed
a capital of 2,400,000 francs, that is, 1,200,000 for each of us. Now,
madame," said Debray, delivering up his accounts in the methodical
manner of a stockbroker, "there are still 80,000 francs, the interest of
this money, in my hands."
"But," said the baroness, "I thought you never put the money out to
interest."
"Excuse me, madame," said Debray coldly, "I had your permission to do
so, and I have made use of it. There are, then, 40,000 francs for your
share, besides the 100,000 you furnished me to begin with, making in all
1,340,000 francs for your portion. Now, madame, I took the precaution of
drawing out your money the day before yesterday; it is not long ago, you
see, and I was in continual expectation of being called on to deliver up
my accounts. There is your money,--half in bank-notes, the other half
in checks payable to bearer. I say there, for as I did not consider
my house safe enough, or lawyers sufficiently discreet, and as landed
property carries evidence with it, and moreover since you have no right
to possess anything independent of your husband, I have kept this sum,
now your whole fortune, in a chest concealed under that closet, and for
greater security I myself concealed it there.
"Now, madame," continued Debray, first opening the closet, then
the chest;--"now, madame, here are 800 notes of 1,000. francs each,
resembling, as you see, a large book bound in iron; to this I add a
certificate in the funds of 25,000. francs; then, for the odd cash,
making I think about 110,000. francs, here is a check upon my banker,
who, not being M. Danglars, will pay you the amount, you may rest
assured." Madame Danglars mechanically took the check, the bond, and the
heap of bank-notes. This enormous fortune made no great appearance on
the table. Madame Danglars, with tearless eyes, but with her breast
heaving with concealed emotion, placed the bank-notes in her bag, put
the certificate and check into her pocket-book, and then, standing pale
and mute, awaited one kind word of consolation. But she waited in vain.
"Now, madame," said Debray, "you have a splendid fortune, an income of
about 60,000 livres a year, which is enormous for a woman who cannot
keep an establishment here for a year, at least. You will be able
to indulge all your fancies; besides, should you find your income
insufficient, you can, for the sake of the past, madame, make use of
mine; and I am ready to offer you all I possess, on loan."
"Thank you, sir--thank you," replied the baroness; "you forget that
what you have just paid me is much more than a poor woman requires, who
intends for some time, at least, to retire from the world."
Debray was, for a moment, surprised, but immediately recovering himself,
he bowed with an air which seemed to say, "As you please, madame."
Madame Danglars had until then, perhaps, hoped for something; but when
she saw the careless bow of Debray, and the glance by which it was
accompanied, together with his significant silence, she raised her head,
and without passion or violence or even hesitation, ran down-stairs,
disdaining to address a last farewell to one who could thus part from
her. "Bah," said Debray, when she had left, "these are fine projects!
She will remain at home, read novels, and speculate at cards, since she
can no longer do so on the Bourse." Then taking up his account book, he
cancelled with the greatest care all the entries of the amounts he had
just paid away. "I have 1,060,000 francs remaining," he said. "What a
pity Mademoiselle de Villefort is dead! She suited me in every respect,
and I would have married her." And he calmly waited until the twenty
minutes had elapsed after Madame Danglars' departure before he left the
house. During this time he occupied himself in making figures, with his
watch by his side.
Asmodeus--that diabolical personage, who would have been created by
every fertile imagination if Le Sage had not acquired the priority in
his great masterpiece--would have enjoyed a singular spectacle, if
he had lifted up the roof of the little house in the Rue
Saint-Germain-des-Pres, while Debray was casting up his figures. Above
the room in which Debray had been dividing two millions and a half with
Madame Danglars was another, inhabited by persons who have played too
prominent a part in the incidents we have related for their appearance
not to create some interest. Mercedes and Albert were in that room.
Mercedes was much changed within the last few days; not that even in her
days of fortune she had ever dressed with the magnificent display which
makes us no longer able to recognize a woman when she appears in a
plain and simple attire; nor indeed, had she fallen into that state of
depression where it is impossible to conceal the garb of misery; no,
the change in Mercedes was that her eye no longer sparkled, her lips
no longer smiled, and there was now a hesitation in uttering the words
which formerly sprang so fluently from her ready wit.
It was not poverty which had broken her spirit; it was not a want
of courage which rendered her poverty burdensome. Mercedes, although
deposed from the exalted position she had occupied, lost in the sphere
she had now chosen, like a person passing from a room splendidly lighted
into utter darkness, appeared like a queen, fallen from her palace to
a hovel, and who, reduced to strict necessity, could neither become
reconciled to the earthen vessels she was herself forced to place
upon the table, nor to the humble pallet which had become her bed. The
beautiful Catalane and noble countess had lost both her proud glance and
charming smile, because she saw nothing but misery around her; the walls
were hung with one of the gray papers which economical landlords choose
as not likely to show the dirt; the floor was uncarpeted; the furniture
attracted the attention to the poor attempt at luxury; indeed,
everything offended eyes accustomed to refinement and elegance.
Madame de Morcerf had lived there since leaving her house; the continual
silence of the spot oppressed her; still, seeing that Albert continually
watched her countenance to judge the state of her feelings, she
constrained herself to assume a monotonous smile of the lips alone,
which, contrasted with the sweet and beaming expression that usually
shone from her eyes, seemed like "moonlight on a statue,"--yielding
light without warmth. Albert, too, was ill at ease; the remains of
luxury prevented him from sinking into his actual position. If he wished
to go out without gloves, his hands appeared too white; if he wished to
walk through the town, his boots seemed too highly polished. Yet these
two noble and intelligent creatures, united by the indissoluble ties
of maternal and filial love, had succeeded in tacitly understanding one
another, and economizing their stores, and Albert had been able to tell
his mother without extorting a change of countenance,--"Mother, we have
no more money."
Mercedes had never known misery; she had often, in her youth, spoken of
poverty, but between want and necessity, those synonymous words, there
is a wide difference. Amongst the Catalans, Mercedes wished for a
thousand things, but still she never really wanted any. So long as the
nets were good, they caught fish; and so long as they sold their fish,
they were able to buy twine for new nets. And then, shut out from
friendship, having but one affection, which could not be mixed up with
her ordinary pursuits, she thought of herself--of no one but herself.
Upon the little she earned she lived as well as she could; now there
were two to be supported, and nothing to live upon.
Winter approached. Mercedes had no fire in that cold and naked
room--she, who was accustomed to stoves which heated the house from
the hall to the boudoir; she had not even one little flower--she whose
apartment had been a conservatory of costly exotics. But she had her
son. Hitherto the excitement of fulfilling a duty had sustained them.
Excitement, like enthusiasm, sometimes renders us unconscious to the
things of earth. But the excitement had calmed down, and they felt
themselves obliged to descend from dreams to reality; after having
exhausted the ideal, they found they must talk of the actual.
"Mother," exclaimed Albert, just as Madame Danglars was descending the
stairs, "let us reckon our riches, if you please; I want capital to
build my plans upon."
"Capital--nothing!" replied Mercedes with a mournful smile.
"No, mother,--capital 3,000 francs. And I have an idea of our leading a
delightful life upon this 3,000 francs."
"Child!" sighed Mercedes.
"Alas, dear mother," said the young man, "I have unhappily spent too
much of your money not to know the value of it. These 3,000 francs
are enormous, and I intend building upon this foundation a miraculous
certainty for the future."
"You say this, my dear boy; but do you think we ought to accept these
3,000 francs?" said Mercedes, coloring.
"I think so," answered Albert in a firm tone. "We will accept them the
more readily, since we have them not here; you know they are buried in
the garden of the little house in the Allees de Meillan, at Marseilles.
With 200 francs we can reach Marseilles."
"With 200 francs?--are you sure, Albert?"
"Oh, as for that, I have made inquiries respecting the diligences and
steamboats, and my calculations are made. You will take your place
in the coupe to Chalons. You see, mother, I treat you handsomely for
