The wretched girl looked questioningly at the magistrate as if she hesitated to trust the thoughts which his words had awakened in her mind. “Then you think, monsieur,” she said, with evident reluctance, “you think, you suppose, that the General is acquainted with the whereabouts of the missing millions?”
“Quite correct,” answered the magistrate, and then as if he feared that he had gone too far, he added: “but draw your own conclusions respecting the matter. You have the whole night before you. We will talk it over again to-morrow, and if I can be of service to you in any way, I shall be only too glad.”
“But, monsieur—”
“Oh—to-morrow, to-morrow—I must go to dinner now; besides, my clerk must be getting terribly impatient.”
The clerk was, indeed, out of temper. Not that he had finished taking an inventory of the appurtenances of this immense house, but because he considered that he had done quite enough work for one day. And yet his discontent was sensibly diminished when he calculated the amount he would receive for his pains. During the nine years he had held this office he had never made such an extensive inventory before. He seemed somewhat dazzled, and as he followed his superior out of the house, he remarked: “Do you know, monsieur, that as nearly as I can discover the deceased’s fortune must amount to more than twenty millions—an income of a million a year! And to think that the poor young lady shouldn’t have a penny of it. I suspect she’s crying her eyes out.”
But the clerk was mistaken. Mademoiselle Marguerite was then questioning M. Casimir respecting the arrangements which he had made for the funeral, and when this sad duty was concluded, she consented to take a little food standing in front of the sideboard in the dining-room. Then she went to kneel in the count’s room, where four members of the parochial clergy were reciting the prayers for the dead.
She was so exhausted with fatigue that she could scarcely speak, and her eyelids were heavy with sleep. But she had another task to fulfil, a task which she deemed a sacred duty. She sent a servant for a cab, threw a shawl over her shoulders, and left the house accompanied by Madame Leon. The cabman drove as fast as possible to the house where Pascal and his mother resided in the Rue d’Ulm; but on arriving there, the front door was found to be closed, and the light in the vestibule was extinguished. Marguerite was obliged to ring five or six times before the concierge made his appearance.
“I wish to see Monsieur Ferailleur,” she quietly said.
The man glanced at her scornfully, and then replied: “He no longer lives here. The landlord doesn’t want any thieves in his house. He’s sold his rubbish and started for America, with his old witch of a mother.”
So saying he closed the door again, and Marguerite was so overwhelmed by this last and unexpected misfortune, that she could hardly stagger back to the vehicle. “Gone!” she murmured; “gone! without a thought of me! Or does he believe me to be like all the rest? But I will find him again. That man Fortunat, who ascertained addresses for M. de Chalusse, will find Pascal for me.”