Chapter Nine.
A Burned Paper.
Mme. Lemaire stood in the window of M. de Cadanet’s sitting-room, looking out. The day before he had been wheeled into it, and with the fretfulness of an invalid had declared it was very strange that those who could walk about and see so much had nothing entertaining to tell him. Amélie had accepted the reproach cheerfully, and betaken herself to one of the long windows, with its lace and ugly red moreen curtains, hoping to find materials for his distraction.
But the materials were few, or she did not know how to make the best of them. He did not in the least care to hear of a grey sister, with snowy collar and flapping cap, walking with her school; nor, though it made a pretty picture, of the balcony opposite, on which a girl in a black dress stood with her arm on a railing looking down at the busy street below. At last he desired her, irritably, to say no more, and was silent.
The room in which they were was not M. de Cadanet’s study, for that looked into the court-yard, and this into the street. It had been chosen because it was sunnier and more cheerful. But the cheerfulness being a failure, he presently insisted upon being wheeled into the study. There, with the stove lit, though it was very warm, he seemed to revive, and Mme. Lemaire left him in charge of André, with many instructions as to food and rest. Charles was burning with impatience as to the conversation which lay before him, and of which the subject was to be Léon de Beaudrillart, but the doctor had forbidden any talk that threatened excitement, until a few more days had passed, and the count was stronger.
When Amélie arrived at the house the next morning, she found her uncle in bed and very much weaker. It seemed that he had insisted upon André fetching a tin box from the library, which, when it was unlocked, turned out to contain a bundle of papers. These M. de Cadanet had studied for a long time, afterwards replacing them with marked agitation. He had evidently felt extreme fatigue in consequence, and the doctor spoke with gravity to Mme. Lemaire, declaring that the access of weakness was a very discouraging sign. The old count himself said very little, but towards evening remarked:
“Tell your husband I wish to speak to him to-morrow afternoon.” And when Amélie attempted a remonstrance, he added, peremptorily: “I wish it;” and the doctor, to whom she appealed the next morning, only replied:
“It may, of course, be injurious—all emotion is likely to be injurious—but I cannot take it upon me to prevent Monsieur de Cadanet from giving what are, possibly, important directions. His condition is too critical.”
Charles himself, who had been on thorns, disliked the prospect. If M. de Cadanet was at last dying, he was of opinion that matters had better remain as they were, without further allusions to Léon. André, closely cross-questioned, revealed nothing. His master had read the papers and replaced them, that was all. Certainly no notary had been sent for, and he himself had never once left the room. Charles, always suspicious, had an idea that the man was keeping back something, but as his questions could not find ground for the opinion, there was nothing to say or do. Nor, however much he might have preferred to avoid the coming interview, could he venture to do so, for, weak as he was, M. de Cadanet might no more be safely contradicted now than at any former time. He came accordingly at the hour appointed, and Amélie was waiting in the anteroom.
“He is terribly changed,” she whispered. “The doctor thinks there must be another attack shortly.”
“Does he know what he is about?” her husband asked, eagerly.
“Oh, perfectly. He is asking for you; and you can go in at once, only do be careful.”
He went, though unwillingly. Sickness and death were repulsive to him, and he had a dread of some inconvenient request being made, with which he would rather not comply. Still, as he reflected, better he should be sent for than any other man, and he put on a cheerful air as he advanced to the bed in the alcove.
“Sorry to find you here again, dear uncle. I’m afraid you have been attempting a little too much. However, in a day or two—”
M. de Cadanet interrupted him.
“I have something for you to do, Charles.”
“With all my heart.”
“You know the low book-shelf in my study?”
“Perfectly.”
“There is a small tin box by its side. Fetch it.”
His voice was feeble and broken as well as indistinct. It took him some time to utter a sentence. Charles left the room with a feeling of congratulation that whatever had to be done, he would not have the inconvenience of another witness. If Amélie had been still in the anteroom he would have sent even her, on some excuse, out of the house. But she had vanished, and after all, as he reflected, the precaution would have been absurd. The tin box was where M. de Cadanet had said, where Charles himself had seen it a hundred times. He looked at it now curiously. Something of importance must be in it to cause it to lie so heavy on the mind of the dying man, and he would have given a good deal to have had a peep into its contents before he carried it back. All that he could judge was that it was light, and not closely filled, for he could feel papers slipping loosely inside. Perhaps, after all, the great affair meant no more than that there were letters to be destroyed, perhaps old love-letters—he laughed. If Mme. de Cadanet, Amélie’s aunt, had resembled Amélie, it was not impossible. Another thought made him reflect that the joke might turn out to be awkward, and instead of laughing, he looked angrily at the box which might contain dangerous witnesses. M. de Cadanet received it without a sign, except one which notified that it should be placed on a chair by his bedside. Then he said to Charles:
“Sit down.”
“Now for the confession,” reflected the young man, drawing a chair near the dying man.
“I have a story to tell, and little breath with which to speak,” said M. de Cadanet. “In that bottle is brandy; give me a spoonful.”
Charles obeyed. He was silent, because he did not know what to say.
“And here are my keys. Unlock the box.”
His hand trembling with anxiety, the young man did as he was told. A small packet of letters lay at the bottom, confirming his suspicions. But when he would have lifted it out, M. de Cadanet stopped him.
“Not yet. First hear my story. These letters relate to Monsieur Léon de Beaudrillart.”
“I was a fool. I might have seen that they were not so old,” thought the other.
Relief and curiosity began to struggle with him.
“You have not met him for some years.”
“No. It has surprised me. Is it six years?”
“Between six and seven. He has been afraid to come.”
“Yes?” Charles leaned eagerly forward.
“The day he was here he committed a crime, and I could have had him arrested.”
“Ah!”
M. de Cadanet’s voice had grown yet feebler, and Charles, on fire with mad desire to hear, was in terror lest it should fail altogether. He poured out more brandy, but the other pushed it away with an impatient gesture.
“When I ask. Not before. And don’t interrupt me. Where was I?”
“You said you could have had him arrested.”
“So I could. It was this way. You know what straits he was in; you had been clever enough to find out. Well, he had the effrontery to come to me—me, whom he had laughed at—and to invite me to pay his debts; I should say, rather, to lend him money enough to pay them himself.”
“The same thing.”
“Precisely. Then I had my opportunity. I told my gentleman that I had made inquiries and knew all about his affairs. That if he had come well out of them, I would, for his father’s sake, have made over to him two hundred thousand francs; I even showed him the cheque.”
M. Charles whistled.
“You think it was imprudent?” said M. de Cadanet, turning his dark eyes towards him.
“I think he was a desperate man.”
“Well, I still looked upon him as his father’s son. However, in his presence, I directed it to you—” His voice died away, and the next words were undistinguishable. Charles jumped up and poured out brandy.
“Drink this, sir, I implore you!”
“I must rest. Perhaps in ten minutes a little strength will have come back, but I am very ill—very, very ill.”
He was; but his hearer was so burningly anxious to hear more that he almost forgot the sympathy it was incumbent upon him to show. He commanded himself, however, in time, and begged M. de Cadanet for their sakes not to over-excite himself. There was a long, almost interminable, silence. The room was hot, flies buzzed on the window-panes, and the clock ticked loudly, even triumphantly, as if it knew it were measuring out M. de Cadanet’s moments, and that its work was nearly over. When the old man spoke again, Charles clinched his hands with disappointment.
“Your wife is a good woman.”
“Oh, she is!” He added, “Apparently she takes after her aunt.”
M. de Cadanet’s answer was rather a grunt than an assent, but after another pause he remarked:
“Nevertheless, neither she nor any one must ever hear what I am telling you.”
“Rest assured they will not. You know me, I think, my dear uncle, and that I am not a tattler. But I am deeply interested. You had, if I understood rightly, enclosed that sum of money most generously intended for me, and Monsieur de Beaudrillart was aware of it? What followed?”
“A quarrel.”
“Did he attempt to wrest it from you?”
“I believe he thought of it, but gave up his idea for another.”
“Ah, now I have it!” cried Lemaire, triumphantly. “He forged your name.”
M. de Cadanet flung him a glance of contempt. “Apparently, monsieur, you are very little acquainted with the De Beaudrillarts.”
The young man saw his mistake, and caught it back.
“Of course not, of course not! I spoke without thought, and forgetting the family. Pray excuse me, and tell me what really happened.”
“We quarrelled, as I said, and I told him never to return. He never has come back. But on his way along the street he was overtaken by André, who, as you know, is an honest dolt, and who was taking my letters to the post Baron Léon, it appears, asked to look at them, and in that moment contrived to substitute a letter of his own for the one which contained the money. You follow me?”
“Perfectly, perfectly.” Charles was leaning forward, and keeping his eyes fixed on the ground to conceal their exultation. “It is terribly sad.”
“He must indeed have been desperate,” said the old count, sadly.
“Quite desperate. You know I told you I was afraid that he had got his affairs into a hopeless mess. But how did you discover what had happened? Through André, I imagine?” There was another silence of exhaustion, and this lasted so long that, however unwillingly, Charles felt he must call in one of the women. For some reason or other he distrusted the nurse, and was not sure that his wife was still in the house. He found her, however, in the anteroom, and hurried her back, whispering that she must give a strong restorative, as it was of the greatest consequence that M. de Cadanet should finish what they were about. Her slow methodical movements enraged him, and as quickly as possible he got her out of the room, though she went reluctantly.
“Is it quite necessary, my friend?”
“Quite. He will never rest until it is told.”
“If there is something on his mind, I would gladly fetch a priest.”
“No, no, my dear Amélie; it is business—business, I assure you, which only I can arrange. Now, go.” He went back to the bedside, and sat there impatiently before he ventured to remark: “André, of course, told you?”
“No,” returned the old count, feebly. “You are quite wrong. It was Léon himself who told me.”
“Ah! Repented,” said Lemaire, with a sneer.
“Not at all.” A weak smile flitted across the sick man’s face. “If you will be good enough to extract the top letter from that bundle, you may read it. Read it. Read it aloud.” Charles had it in his hand. He glanced at the bed. “Aloud?”
“Aloud. Though I know every word.”
“My Cousin,—I have taken the liberty of borrowing the sum which you had so thoughtfully prepared for Monsieur Charles. It would have been better for him if you had accepted my offer to post your letter; as you declined to trust me, I had no scruple in exchanging it for another which found itself in my hand at the exact moment. Do not blame your messenger, who is quite unaware of the transaction. By my writing to you, you will perceive that I have no intention of denying what I have done. It is in your power to have me arrested. You know where to find me, and I will remain in Paris for two days, so as to avoid the pain to my family of a scandal at Poissy. Permit me, however, to point out that I have only taken the money as a loan, that it will be returned to you by instalments and with interest, though, I fear, slowly, and that you may find it more advantageous to allow the matter to rest than to ruin one who, however unworthy, is the son of the man to whom you are certainly indebted for your prosperity.”
M. Charles silently refolded the letter, and the count lay watching him. “Well?” he asked, at last.
“The money has, of course, never been repaid?”
“Every penny.”
This answer came upon the hearer as an extraordinary surprise. He stared amazedly at the old man.
“I received, first, an instalment of five hundred francs, afterwards all that remained of the debt. You are astonished!”
“I should not have expected it of—of the Baron Léon.”
“Ah, I told you you did not understand the De Beaudrillarts. But now listen. I have never forgiven him. I have never sent him a line of acknowledgment. I have kept his confession and André’s statement—”
“Oh,” said Charles, pricking his ears.
”—Because I chose to feel that at any time I might crush him. Since then he has married, and has a boy. It seems to me that makes a difference. A boy—innocent, and the old baron’s grandchild. Besides, I am dying. Anger becomes as useless as one’s clothes. What do you feel, Charles?”
If at that moment M. de Cadanet had known what the younger man was really feeling, it might have startled him. But Lemaire’s mind sprang quickly from point to point—weighing that, considering this. He saw that the old man was relenting, but that he had done nothing as yet. If he said what was in his heart, it might irritate him—would certainly raise his suspicions; it would be far wiser to appear to go with him, and, if possible, get matters—and proofs—into his own hands.
“I feel that you are generous, sir, and your generosity has converted me. Trust to me to help you in anything you wish done.”
“Good.” The word was rather sighed than spoken, but, by the relaxation of tense fingers, it was evident that Lemaire’s speech had come as a relief. The young man spoke again:
“Do you wish me, perhaps, to write!”
“Write! No. Why should I write? I’ve nothing to say, and he would not thank me for saying it. No. The best thing I can do for him is to burn this letter.”
Lemaire’s fingers closed round it, and he asked, with an affectation of not understanding: “Burn it? But why!”
“Because, when I am gone, that letter will prove the very devil of a witness against him.”
“Surely you don’t suppose that any one would wish to rake up such a story?”
“I suspect he would give a good deal to sees it destroyed. No receipts for the money paid, and this letting out everything, besides André’s testimony, which I took down myself. The next paper. Yes. That. Give it me. Give them both to me.”
Charles looked and decided.
“You are quite right, sir; it should be done at once. Will you trust them to me?”
“No,” said M. de Cadanet, sharply, “to no one. Do it here by my bed. I would burn them myself, but that I am too— O God, this weakness!”
“You shall see your wishes carried out close to you,” Charles promised, consolingly. “I am only going into the next room to get a candle, because those silver ones are so heavy.” He dashed through the anteroom where his wife sat working, and into the study. When he came back he carried a short candle, and up his sleeve, which Amélie did not see, a couple of folded letters. He was pale, for he was not a brave man, and he was playing a dangerous game.
M. de Cadanet lay, a shrunk and ghastly figure, with all about him, except his will, exhausted. That still looked out of his eyes, and clutched the papers.
“Here it is,” Charles said, cheerfully; “and now you shall see your letters burn. It is a pity the Baron Léon is not here to assist. May I have them?”
To his dismay, the old count made a sign of refusal, at the same time that he beckoned to him to bring the light close; and the feeble hand, by an almost superhuman effort, held a corner of the letter to the candle. But the strength was insufficient; and hardly had the flame caught the paper than it wavered and dropped. Charles hurriedly snatched it up, and cried out:
“Good Heaven, my dear uncle, what risks you run! Suppose the bed had been set on fire!”
“Is anything wrong?” asked Amélie’s voice, anxiously, at the door.
Her husband turned round with scarcely subdued wrath. “No, no, nothing! Leave us for another five minutes. Now, sir, you shall see it burn, without danger to yourself.”
And standing with light in one hand, and letters in the other, he allowed M. de Cadanet to watch them slowly consume. As the last scrap vanished, the old man uttered a low “Ah!”
“There!” said Lemaire. “This has been a good day’s work for Monsieur de Beaudrillart.”
“You will remember,”—M. de Cadanet’s voice sounded strangely strong—“that Monsieur de Beaudrillart has paid everything, and that I have nothing against him.”
“Hush, hush!” cried the other, glancing round uneasily; “you will fatigue yourself too much. You may be sure I shall always remember.”
“And if ever you meet him, you may say it was for the sake of the child—the boy—Now, go, and send your wife.”
Amélie, who was again at her post in the anteroom, hurried in, and called the nurse. The two women did what they could to restore the fast-ebbing strength, murmuring reproaches at the obstinacy of man. The doctor came and said that it could not be long. Nevertheless, for some days M. de Cadanet lay, and watched the flies on the ceiling, and the sunshine creep from shadow to shadow, and gradually ceased to watch, and lost all consciousness, until, when M. Lemaire came one rooming, he heard that he was gone.
It must be owned that his only feeling was one of relief. The necessary visits to the old man had become a wearisome burden, endured for the sake of gifts, which were generous, and for the prospect of a substantial legacy. A certain part of the property would go to cousins of the count’s, but the sum left to himself was too large to be trifled with; he was in considerable difficulties, and here lay the only road out of it. At the same time, the part of hypocrite, though he could play it with success, was irksome to him, and he raged at the fetters it imposed. He had a capacity for open rebellion, or thought he had, and believed that he would have enjoyed flinging his glove in the face of the world, and defying opinion. Hinderance lay in the fact that the moment never arrived for this more daring attitude, self-interest always clinging to his arm just when he might have hurled the challenge.
But with M. de Cadanet out of the way, he was free from his chief difficulty, and in the first frenzy of his dreams he felt himself sailing on a sea of liberty, restraining cords loosened, golden castles on the horizon before him. He thought of his wife as a humdrum nonentity, easy to shake off. He would give up his house, place her in lodgings, and spend his time as he chose. In the midst of these delightful imaginings he remembered Léon de Beaudrillart.
Those who talk most of liberty are generally the first to find themselves in bonds of their own making; and it did not take long to oblige Lemaire to own, with an oath, that if he affronted respectability, he would be placed at an immediate disadvantage with regard to what he had in his mind. It might have been supposed that as there was now no fear of M. de Cadanet’s money finding its way to Poissy, his rancour would have taken flight—evil does not so readily spread its wings, and he felt that before he could unrestrainedly take his pleasure, he must ruin the man he hated. To do this he must bring into court a specious semblance: remain outwardly respectable, point to an excellent wife, and the trust proved by M. de Cadanet’s legacy—in fact, impress the world with all the solid weight of character added to substantial proof.
He often read the letters, and always with increased assurance. The one point which gave him uneasiness was the absence of the mention of any particular sum. Suppose that Léon chose to say that it was a matter only of some four or five thousand francs, how could the contrary be proved! Here lay the fret; here was the point for a clever counsel to extract an admission; here, unfortunately for Charles, who felt himself injured in consequence, was the necessity to have a very clever counsel, who would be proportionately more expensive, but might be trusted to make his points.
He questioned André, the concierge, without arriving at fresh discoveries. The man only repeated what we already know; he might not even have remembered that, if it had not been taken down by a notary in the presence of M. de Cadanet, and therefore indelibly fixed on his memory. He remarked that he had never seen M. de Beaudrillart since, and was sorry for it.
“Ah, you got a good pourboire with no more trouble than letting him look at your master’s letters, eh?” said Charles, spitefully.
“As to that, the young baron often gave me a piece of twenty sous, when he could not afford it so well as other people,” returned the concierge, imperturbably.
“Twenty sous? No more! If you had been sharp, that look should have been worth more than twenty sous.”
“Ah, well, monsieur knows better than I. And as I asked for nothing, he might have given me nothing, and that’s all about it,” said André, retreating.
The cousins who hurried to the Rue du Bac knew nothing of the old count’s acquaintances, or to whom should be sent notice of his death. They were very glad of Amélie’s assistance, and the arrangement suited her methodical habits. She spent an afternoon with them, suggesting names, and directing envelopes. Charles hated anything which had to do with death, and pleaded the acuteness of his feelings to excuse his absence. When his wife came back he asked if it was finished.
“Yes, quite. The poor man, alas, had not many to mourn for him.”
“Who has?” asked Charles, cynically. “People please their friends better by dying than by living.”
“Oh, Charles!”
“Well, we need not discuss it. I, for one, should find it very inconvenient if Monsieur de Cadanet were to come to life again.”
“I miss him dreadfully,” said Amélie, simply. “And Charles—”
“Well?”
“I sent a notice of his death to Poissy.”
“To Poissy! What the—” he checked himself. “What possessed you?”
“I think he would have liked it, for I am sure he thought of that child.”
“What folly!”
“It can do no harm,” said his wife, calmly.
On reflection, M. Lemaire thought the same—was even glad that she had suggested it. His great desire was to act suddenly, to give no hint to M. de Beaudrillart of the shock that was in store for him until with the thunder came the bolt. This letter would disarm suspicion, and probably relieve Léon’s mind of a great fear. Charles desired, above all, to act prudently. He was racked by doubts of whether in spite of no acknowledgment having been sent, the young baron might not have provided himself with proof of its repayment. If he had grown really careful, he would have done so, and then, although it might be easy to deny that M. de Cadanet had received it, the case would bear, criminally, a very different complexion, and have a very different issue. As it was, all going well, if he could manage to prove that M. de Beaudrillart had stolen money which had been sent to him, he might extract compensation, if by no other way, as hush-money. He sometimes thought it would be the safest plan to work on the young baron’s fears, and after having reduced him to abject misery, sell the compromising papers for something larger than the original sum. By such means his pocket would be very much the better, although his revenge would not have the joy of publicity. A degree of this, even, might be gained, for it is never difficult to let a little evil rumour sift out: a word here, and a word there, and M. de Beaudrillart would be a marked man.
Finally, he resolved to move quickly but cautiously at first. If he were imprudent he might find matters taken out of his keeping, and his hand forced. Léon should feel the net closing round him before he was prepared, but the net should be held by Charles Lemaire, and Charles Lemaire only, and the next step would depend upon what that gentleman judged to be of the most advantage to himself. That, and that only, should guide the course of events.