“No, no—I cannot even do that.”
M. Fortunat was not a little disturbed; and it was with a look of something very like consternation that he glanced at Madame d’Argeles, who had reseated herself and was now sobbing violently, with her face hidden on the arm of her chair. “What prevents her?” he thought. “Why this sudden terror now that her brother is dead? Is she unwilling to confess that she is a Chalusse? She must make up her mind to it, however, if she wishes to receive the count’s property—and she must make up her mind to it, for my sake, if not for her own.”
He remained silent, until it seemed to him that Madame d’Argeles was calmer, then: “Excuse me, madame,” he began, “for breaking in upon your very natural grief, but duty requires me to remind you of your interests.”
With the passive docility of those who are wretched, she wiped away her tears, and replied, gently: “I am listening, monsieur.”
He had had time to prepare his discourse. “First of all, madame,” he remarked, “I must tell you that I was the count’s confidential agent. In him I lose a protector. Respect alone prevents me from saying a friend. He had no secrets from me.” M. Fortunat saw so plainly that Madame d’Argeles did not understand a word of this sentimental exordium that he thought it necessary to add: “I tell you this, not so much to gain your consideration and good-will, as to explain to you how I became acquainted with these matters relating to your family—how I became aware of your existence, for instance, which no one else suspected.” He paused, hoping for some reply, a word, a sign, but not receiving this encouragement, he continued: “I must, first of all, call your attention to the peculiar situation of M. de Chalusse, and to the circumstances which immediately preceded and attended his departure from life. His death was so unexpected that he was unable to make any disposition of his property by will, or even to indicate his last wishes. This, madame, is fortunate for you. M. de Chalusse had certain prejudices against you, as you are aware. Poor count. He certainly had the best heart in the world, and yet hatred with him was almost barbaric in its intensity. There can be no doubt whatever, that he had determined to deprive you of your inheritance. With this intention he had already begun to convert his estates into ready money, and had he lived six months longer you would not have received a penny.”
With a gesture of indifference, which was difficult to explain after the vehemence and the threatening tone of her letter, Madame d’Argeles murmured:
“Ah, well! what does it matter?”
“What does it matter?” repeated M. Fortunat. “I see, madame, that your grief prevents you from realizing the extent of the peril you have escaped. M. de Chalusse had other, and more powerful reasons even than his hatred for wishing to deprive you of your share of his property. He had sworn that he would give a princely fortune to his beloved daughter.”
For the first time, Madame d’Argeles’s features assumed an expression of surprise. “What, my brother had a child?”
“Yes, madame, an illegitimate daughter, Mademoiselle Marguerite, a lovely and charming girl whom I had the pleasure of restoring to his care some years ago. She has been living with him for six months or so; and he was about to marry her, with an enormous dowry, to a nobleman bearing one of the proudest names in France, the Marquis de Valorsay.”