“Mère Fouchon knows how to cover her steps,” and the woman chuckled grimly. “The gendarmerie think themselves very acute, but there are others who are sharper. How could they suspect that Mère Fouchon, twenty years ago, was Madame Basarge, housekeeper for M. and Mme. Charles Ribaut, and their brother, that very respectable M. Jacques Ribaut, whom we both love so dearly?”
She saw my look of dazed astonishment, and smiled again, still more grimly.
“It seems you do not understand,” she continued after a moment, during which she seemed to be debating how much she should tell me. Caution warned her to be silent; but the spirit of bravado held her in its grip; a silence of many years clamored to be broken; the devil in her urged her on, not to be denied. “After all,” she said, “what harm in talking to a dead man? Listen attentively, then, Monsieur. It was sixteen years ago, while I was employed in the Ribaut household, that Madame Ribaut gave birth to a girl—that adorable Nanette whom you already know. The mother died a week later, and the father soon followed her. He was a good man, and so adored his wife that he found life not worth living without her—just the opposite of most men! Ah, I remember her so well—picture to yourself, Monsieur, a woman twice as beautiful as this Nanette and with a soul like the Virgin’s—well, that would be she. I have never seen another like her—if she had lived, there might, perhaps, have been another story to tell.”
She paused for a moment, and I gazed at her astounded. Her mouth was working and her fingers clutching at the bosom of her dress—could it be, after all, that this hell-hag had a heart? But she caught my eyes and threw her emotion from her.
“But she did not live,” she said, with an ugly laugh. “I am what I am—there is no going back. Let me get on with the story. Charles Ribaut was a good man, but his brother, Jacques—well, that they could have been moulded in the same womb was a miracle—they were like black and white, like night and day, like hell and heaven. His brother was left to take care of the baby and to look after her fortune for her—for her father was rich, oh, tremendously rich. She was sent off to a convent for the good sisters to care for. The name on the sign in front of the shop in the Rue des Moulins was altered from Charles Ribaut to Jacques Ribaut. I was discharged, for it seems that he did not wish to have any one near him who had known his brother. In ten years no one remembered that such a man as Charles Ribaut had ever existed. His brother was still taking care of his fortune, and as the moment drew near when he knew he must part with it, the thought came to him, why part with it at all? Clearly, there was only one thing which could disturb his possession—that was the girl’s marriage. Her husband would, of course, demand an accounting of her affairs.”
She paused for a moment and looked at me.
“Yes,” I nodded. “I begin to see.”
“You will understand, then,” she continued, “that it was necessary for Ribaut to find for the girl a husband who would not be too curious—who would be satisfied with a dowry of twenty or thirty thousand crowns and who would ask no questions. Such a husband was found in the person of a certain M. Jean Briquet.”
I shuddered as I recalled that hideous face.
“I see you know him,” she chuckled. “He is beautiful, is he not?”