CHAPTER V.
Next morning, at the usual hour, Marguerite was at the door of the Conciergerie.
The thread of affairs had become so intricate—matters that she felt at liberty to explain to her father, and other circumstances, which regard for the page’s safety forbade disclosing—that, for the first time in her life, she felt ill at ease in his presence. She was conscious of being, to a certain degree, culpable—the unreserved confidence hitherto subsisting between father and daughter was no more—there was reservation, and it produced distress, regret, and confusion.
Still she was true to her own intent. She had made a deliberate resolve of secrecy when her mind was calm and free to judge, and she would not break it when in a state of fluttering and depression. The veteran was delighted with the progress in his affairs—there was yet some chance, he said, of his being able to make provision for a dutiful daughter—some temporal solace for old age.
Leaving him after a short visit—for, in truth, she felt much of what he said as a secret reproach—Marguerite hastened to the advocate.
“The packet is deposited in sure hands—and not at the Tuileries, Monsieur Giraud!” was her salutation.
“And half an hour hence will see me at the Hôtel De Fontrailles,” replied the party addressed.
“But I dread the peril you incur, Monsieur,” rejoined the damsel; “is there no”—
“Has Marguerite done her duty?” demanded Giraud, interrupting her.
“I have,” exclaimed the lady, firmly.
“Then have no fear for the advocate,” said her friend, relaxing the piercing gaze he bent on the maiden.
Let us accompany Giraud. Donning hat—plain and featherless—tying a black mantle round his throat, and, with cane in hand—for he was a gentleman of the robe, not of the sword, and bore no weapon—he sallied forth, walking with deliberate air, till he reached a gloomy mansion in the Rue D’Orleans.
The gate or porte-cochère was opened to his knock by the ever ready porter, and he stood beneath the archway. The count had not yet gone abroad, and would doubtless see him—the name was carried to Monseigneur, and the lackey returned to usher the visiter. A spacious staircase of polished chesnut-wood, so slippery that the advocate had much ado to keep footing, led to a vestibule whence doors opened into various chambers. Passing through an ante-chamber into a saloon, he was at length conducted to the library of the Hôtel De Fontrailles.
The folios stood ranged in goodly rows, but the taste of the noble owner appeared more conspicuously in the abundance of maps, charts, plans of cities, models of European fortresses, and arms and armor. A large gothic arched window at the extremity afforded light to the chamber, and looked over a paved yard in the rear of the hôtel.
Fontrailles was seated at a table, his back toward the window. Robed in a loose gown, surrounded with papers, books, opened letters, and others tied with tape, among which had been negligently thrown his walking rapier; the courtier and diplomatist was more apparent in the occupation, than the gambler, gallant, and active political intriguer. The count might have attained forty years, perhaps more. The long dark face and prominent features, softened by the shade in which he sat, were far from unpleasing. In repose, the face might be reckoned handsome, certainly dignified.
A silent gesture to the advocate to take the seat which the lackey placed at the opposite end of the table, and who, upon doing so, immediately quitted the chamber—left the parties alone. The count waited in silence the business of the visiter, who announced himself as Etienne Giraud, avocat du parlement, friend and kinsman of Monsieur De Pontis, confined in the Conciergerie du Palais, and engaged in defending him against two suits now before the courts.
The count indicated by a slight motion that he was an attentive listener—then added, after a moment’s pause—
“I am not ignorant of Monsieur Giraud’s merits, but I believe he has mistaken my hôtel for that of the President Longueil, the third porte-cochère beyond.”
“I have the honor to address the Count De Fontrailles?” replied the advocate in a tone of inquiry.
“I was at a loss to account for Monsieur connecting me with suits in the courts of parliament!” rejoined the count, smiling, “but I pray him to proceed.”
Giraud detailed concisely the history of De Pontis—his uniform ill luck, the present desperate situation of his affairs, and the probable destitution of Mademoiselle. Fontrailles replied that the case was distressing, but, like every other case of such description, it had originated in culpable negligence. De Pontis was so eager to avail himself of the fruits of the droit, that he had commenced appropriating the effects ere the necessary legal forms had been gone through—ere, indeed, it could be ascertained whether the deceased died a wealthy man or a bankrupt.
“But why make my ear the receptacle of Monsieur De Pontis’ calamities—I whom, I believe, he has never exchanged a word with,” asked the count, in astonishment, “and who am neither the organ of grace or justice?”
“It is to crave the intercession of Monseigneur with one who is the organ of both—to crave the intercession of the Count De Fontrailles with his eminence to cancel the penal proceedings, being, at best, a prosecution for the mere omission of a legal form which an old soldier could know nothing of,” replied the advocate.
“This pleading, Monsieur Giraud,” said Fontrailles, impatiently, “may prove effective in the proper quarters, but on me it is lost. I believe you mean well, but zeal in the cause of a friend has made you overlook the ordinary usages of society, in forcing the veteran’s tale of error and distress on a stranger. I, therefore, am calmer than I might be—indeed, may remind you that, being principally employed on foreign services, and indulging, unavoidably, in some of the irregularities of those whom it falls to my duty to have affairs with, I have not perhaps that personal weight and consideration with his majesty and with his court, which attends the grave and quiet discharge of offices of trust and responsibility in Paris and the Provinces. Mine has been a life of peril, though not of military warfare—danger has often beset me in foreign lands—but here, in Paris, my services are overlooked, and the disorders incident to a life of travel commented on. It is Monsieur’s zeal for De Pontis, which I admire, that wrings this confession from me—and I would recommend his application to the Tuileries, or the Palais Cardinal, or, if he be seeking a patron for his client, to some personage of more austere and reverential course of life than his humble servant.”
So speaking, the count rose with an air which implied that the interview should here terminate. The advocate could not but be surprised with the language and manner assumed by the dissolute, turbulent noble—his affected candor and sincerity—which he had doubtless acquired by intercourse with foreign courts—a varnish to the vices which disgraced his character.
Notwithstanding, however, this nonchalance, and professed ignorance of the affairs of De Pontis, there was that in his discourse which encouraged the advocate to persevere. His affectation of candor—the confession wrung from him!—rather overshot the mark, and betrayed weakness. Fontrailles was not the man to suffer any thing to be wrung from him; and the plea of want of personal weight and character, a mere mask. But wherefore interpose a mask, if there were nothing to conceal?
’Tis the most difficult part of simulation to refrain from covert defence of an act, of which the party may be acutely self-conscious, but desirous of concealing. With a shrewd, subtle, penetrating adversary—such for instance as Giraud—it defeats the very object, to aid which it is evoked. In the mild, moderate language of the count, the advocate felt that he was speaking in a falsetto key—that the sentiments were foreign to his natural character; and there was not, or ought not to be, any necessity for extreme complaisance, and disguise of feeling, with one of the comparative humbleness of the auditor.
Giraud arose from his seat in unison with the count’s movement, but had no intention of taking leave.
“It is reported,” said he, “that Monseigneur is interested in the droit d’aubaine for which Monsieur De Pontis holds the sign manual, which may, perhaps, furnish a better argument than I have yet advanced for my appeal.”
“I know of no such report!” exclaimed the count, in a stern voice, “evil news flies quick, and had such been current, I have too many friends, glad of an opportunity to retail the slander, that they might watch its effect. But I must retract the high opinion I had of Monsieur Giraud, in carrying these fools’ messages—perhaps inventing. But we had better part, sir, ere I have reason to suspect worse of your motives.”
With these words, the count approached the table and rang a silver bell, a signal to the lackey in attendance to conduct the visiter to the gate.
“I have that to say, Monsieur le Comte, which it were better your household should not hear,” said the advocate, retaining his place.
“Ah! has it come to that?” exclaimed Fontrailles, darting a glance of anger; “so, the pleader threatens! Like the Spanish mendicant, he first solicits alms, and when refused, points the fusil which he had concealed in the grass.”
The lackey here entered in obedience to the summons, but the count motioned him to retire.
The advocate remarked in reply, that, as Monseigneur seemed bent on retaining his vantage-ground of professed ignorance of any special knowledge of the affairs of his client—and disclaimed the report respecting the droit d’aubaine—it became necessary that he should inform the count that an individual, one Pedro Olivera, whom he believed was not unknown to Monseigneur, had, like his superiors, occasion for more money than he could legitimately obtain, and that, often borrowing of his deceased countryman, the Spaniard, without the power or will of refunding, he was at length reduced, in efforts to obtain further supplies, to place in the hands of his rich friend, what was deemed good security, although of a strange character. He professed to have certain unsettled claims on the Count De Fontrailles for services of espionage, and holding intercourse with underlings of the ministerial bureau in Madrid. From his showing, it appeared that he had been the medium of a negotiation between the Spanish ministry and the count. For this service Fontrailles had not yet bestowed an equivalent, alleging the urgency of his own necessities; but, in one instance, certainly an unguarded one, he had given Pedro an authority in writing to appropriate to himself a certain portion of a sum of money, receivable at the bureau, in Madrid, and to be handed the count. Pedro, however, was unlucky, for, on application, he was informed that satisfaction had been afforded Fontrailles in person. He felt that this conduct of his patron was unhandsome—hence, perhaps, the betrayal of the count’s secrets—there was no proof, indeed, that the money had been paid Monseigneur—but the authority of Pedro to appropriate a portion of what he should receive, was still in existence in the count’s handwriting.
Pedro, as before intimated, having drawn all he could obtain by ordinary means from the deceased, inscribed a formal claim on the count for the heretofore named services, which he specially enumerated, and in which he made reference to the count’s authorization appended to the statement. The deceased upholsterer saw in this document, not only a security for the money owing by Pedro, but also a collateral guarantee for the refunding of what Fontrailles, who was also heavily his debtor, owed him.
In short, added Giraud, the evidence appeared clearly to convict the Count De Fontrailles of receiving money from Spain. The papers came into the possession of Monsieur De Pontis, and were by him handed to the advocate.
It would have baffled the painter’s art to have depicted the changing aspects which dwelt for awhile, and then fled the countenance of the noble. One minute listening attentively—the next he appeared lost in abstraction, or meditating some course of action—then starting up suddenly with menacing looks, the features took such a semblance, that his most intimate friend could not have indentified the face as belonging to the Count De Fontrailles.
“And this cunning cheat of forgery—this deep laid villany,” exclaimed the favorite of Richelieu, “what if I were so weak as to quail beneath it? What would the worthy, zealous, Monsieur Giraud require of me?”
“That the Count De Fontrailles cause Pedro Olivera to relinquish his fabricated claim—prevail on the cardinal to cancel the procureur’s proceedings, and leave the poor veteran in possession of the droit d’aubaine,” replied the undaunted advocate.
“A moderate request,” gasped the count, with suppressed rage, “what, give up all?”
“I knew not, so far as his own declaration went,” said Giraud, calmly, “that there was any thing for Monseigneur to give up. Unlike his friends, Pedro, and the deceased, we do not make the possession of these documents a pretext of extortion to be held over his head in terrorem—we ask of the count not the slightest pecuniary sacrifice, not a livre—we ask him merely to use his intercession, to act the honorable and coveted part of an interceder for mercy between justice and an innocent defendant. Such conduct will go far to lend the count that personal weight and respectability of character which he so much feels the want of.”
“Liar! It is false!” shouted the bitterly enraged noble, rushing upon the advocate. Seizing him by the throat, he bent his body over the table, depriving the victim both of power of speech and motion. “It is false, old dotard!” continued Fontrailles, without relaxing his grasp, “thou believest the droit is mine—and wouldst have me surrender it to gratify thy paltry pride. I have sweet revenge in store, or thou shouldst never have the chance of coining fresh lies!”
Being a powerful man, he was enabled to hold the advocate, prostrate and gasping for breath, with the right hand on his throat, whilst his left searched for the hand bell, which he rung violently. On the lackey entering, he commanded the attendance of Eugene and Robert, both armed, and to come without delay. Poor Giraud was nearly choked, and his back almost broken by the torturing position in which he was pinned to the library-table; nor did the count afford a moment’s respite till his creatures arrived armed to the teeth.
“Stand guard over the wretch,” cried Fontrailles, quitting his victim—“stand guard, at the peril of your lives, till I return—and if he offer the least resistance, or utters a single cry to raise an alarm, both of you fire—let him not escape, happen what may!”
The men mutely signified acquiescence by each taking a position, with pistols cocked, at the doors of the library.
“Monsieur le Comte!” said Giraud, in a feeble voice, recovering from the violence, “if you seek to commit a robbery, I promise you will be foiled—if you perpetrate violence on an unarmed man, it will not pass unrevenged. There are those able and willing waiting my return in safety—if I return not, then let the Count De Fontrailles tremble!”
“Peace, old dotard! You are not addressing a president of the Cour Royale!” said the count, now busily engaged in locking up his private papers.
“I warn you that what you seek will prove beyond reach,” added Giraud.
The count glanced at him for one moment without speaking, and then finished his occupation. Snatching the rapier, he quitted the chamber.
——