In any age but the present, Madame d’Argeles’s story would have seemed absolutely incredible. Nowadays, however, such episodes are by no means rare. Two men—two men of exalted rank and highly respected, to use a common expression—associate in opening a gaming-house under the very eyes of the police, and in coining money out of a woman’s supposed disgrace. ‘Tis after all but an everyday occurrence.
The unhappy woman had told her story with apparent coldness, and yet, in her secret heart, she perhaps hoped that by disclosing her terrible sacrifice and long martyrdom, she would draw a burst of gratitude and tenderness from her son, calculated to repay her for all her sufferings. But the hope was vain. It would have been easier to draw water from a solid rock than to, extract a sympathetic tear from Wilkie’s eyes. He was only alive to the practical side of this narrative, and what impressed him most was the impudent assurance of Madame d’Argeles’s business associates. “Not a bad idea; not bad at all,” he exclaimed. And, boiling over with curiosity, he continued: “I would give something handsome to know those men’s names. Really you ought to tell me. It would be worth one’s while to know.”
Any other person than this interesting young man would have been crushed by the look his mother gave him—a look embodying the deepest disappointment and contempt. “I think you must be mad,” she remarked coldly. And as he sprang up, astonished that any one should doubt his abundant supply of good sense, “Let us put an end to this,” she sternly added.
Thereupon she hastily went into the adjoining room, reappearing a moment later with a roll of papers in her hand. “Here,” she remarked, “is my marriage certificate, your certificate of birth, and a copy of my renunciation—a perfectly valid document, since the court has authorized it, owing to my husband’s absence. All these proofs I am ready and willing to place at your disposal, but on one condition.”
This last word fell like a cold shower-bath upon Wilkie’s exultant joy. “What is this condition?” he anxiously inquired.
“It is that you should sign this deed, which has been drawn up by my notary—a deed by which you pledge yourself to hand me the sum of two million francs on the day you come into possession of the Chalusse property.”
Two millions! The immensity of the sum struck Wilkie dumb with consternation. Nor did he forget that he would be compelled to give the Viscount de Coralth the large reward he had promised him—a reward promised in writing, unfortunately. “I shall have nothing left,” he began, piteously.
But with a disdainful gesture Madame d’Argeles interrupted him. “Set your mind at rest,” said she. “You will still be immensely rich. All the estimates which have been made are far below the mark. When I was a girl I often heard my father say that his income amounted to more than eight hundred thousand francs a year. My brother inherited the whole property, and I would be willing to swear that he never spent more than half of his income.”
Wilkie’s nerves had never been subjected to so severe a shock. He tottered and his brain whirled. “Oh! oh!” he stammered. This was all he could say.
“Only I must warn you of a more than probable deception,” pursued Madame d’Argeles. “As my brother was firmly resolved to deprive me even of my rightful portion of the estate, he concealed his fortune in every possible way. It will undoubtedly require considerable time and trouble to gain possession of the whole. However I know a man, formerly the Count de Chalusse’s confidential agent, who might aid you in this task.”