“But how?”
“Like this: Mr. Roquevillard, in order to secure the money he wanted, advertised La Vigie for sale. Mr. Doudan, the notary, offered him one hundred thousand francs for it, payable immediately, but reserving the right to keep the name of the true purchaser secret for a fortnight. A fortnight—bear this in mind. Mr. Roquevillard, who hadn’t much time or choice before the trial, accepted. He could not hope for anything better in so brief an interval. Now, through the indiscretion of a clerk, it has leaked out—I learned it just now—that the real purchaser was Mr. Frasne. Mr. Frasne, if you please, spends one hundred thousand francs with one hand and receives it back with the other, and finds himself to boot, by a simple trick the proprietor of a magnificent estate for nothing.”
This machiavellian ruse was too far beyond the common run of bourgeois artifice not to provoke astonishment. They did not hunt for the moral point of it, neither did they sound the depths of the Roquevillards’ sacrifice of the family patrimony. Mr. Frasne had gone through a sorry crisis; his home, if not his fortune, had been ruined, and he had devoted his energies to the only thing that was still susceptible of diverting him—business—as an artist finds his consolation in art or a rich woman hers in charity. Interesting combinations of contracts or figures established an alibi for his sad thoughts. He forgot his own weariness for the moment in unravelling the affairs of his clients, with a satisfaction like that of a skilful fighter in the battle of interests. The case of La Vigie had inspired him to a bit of audaciously clever tactics that he could not resist. He had hoped the secret of it would be guarded until after the assizes. But what secret can be kept in a town of less than twenty thousand inhabitants, where it is regarded as pretentious and original to lead one’s personal life as one likes?
Mr. Latache was the first to give his views on the transaction, in two words, which, coming from the President of the Chamber of Discipline, were worth a speech.
“It’s not just.”
“Why do you say that?” retorted Mr. Coulanges. “An estate was for sale. Some one bought it. It’s the law.”
Nevertheless, the sagacious manœuvre of Mr. Frasne won, after all, only a small measure of approbation, and this from the youthful camp, which plays its enthusiasm to-day, like its funds, on solid wickets. He had succeeded too well in his material enterprise, and the gallery, severe in manners and practical in its good sense, was more sorry about his conduct now than it had been diverted by his wife’s flight with Maurice.
Besides, he came from Dauphiné, and in the eyes of a community accustomed to particularise, that made a stranger of him, whom such gains enriched at the expense of their own province. People had not been vexed, to be sure, by the humiliation of the Roquevillards, because the high esteem in which the family was generally held irritated the mediocrities, but they were surprised to find the Roquevillards making the disaster worse, astonished to think they consummated their ruin with their own hands. Why this disinterestedness if Maurice was not guilty, and if he was, why this admission? For they were not aware of the resolution the young man had taken. Mr. Hamel was very secretive, and as for Mr. Battard, his silence was calculated: an epicure of cases that made talk, he still hoped that his support would be called for.
At the same time he was excited by these revelations, and could not refrain from talking in his turn. The special circle where the affair had been under discussion was now disturbed, the dance being finished, by new arrivals. Conversation began again here and there, breaking out in little separate groups, like smothered fire that sparkles and scatters. The district attorney, Mr. Vallerois, rejoined Mr. Battard in the embrasure of a window.
“You will hold the cards when you plead now,” he said. “You can riddle Mrs. Frasne’s husband with sarcasm.”