"That you have no one but me to support you now; but I will never fail you."
Adeline was completely crushed; sobs choked her utterance; but at last the tears came in torrents.
"That is right," said her brother; "cry, my poor Liline, shed tears for the fate of that young man who had more courage than honorable feeling; and for me too, for I was compelled to punish him, and I shall always have that terrible sight before my eyes. But remember that you are a mother, and that you must live for your child."
Despite his profound sorrow over Albert's death, Sans-Cravate's mind constantly recurred to what he had learned concerning Paul, his former comrade.
"He's the man," he thought; "there's no doubt of it—he's Monsieur Vermoncey's son, and it rests with me to give him the name and rank and fortune that belong to him. But he deceived me shamefully; he took Bastringuette away from me—the woman I loved—yes, and love still! He's with her now, for I met him leaning on the faithless hussy's arm; and if I helped him to a fortune, he'd enjoy it with her! No, no! sacrédié! that shan't be. I ain't virtuous enough to return good for evil, and I'll keep my secret!"
XXIX
A REPUTATION
Monsieur Vermoncey, wholly absorbed by his grief, lived in strict retirement and saw no one; but, as he did not wish it known that his son had been killed by a messenger,—for the knowledge might have led to a disclosure of the duel, and would have reflected little credit on his son's memory,—Monsieur Vermoncey, knowing that Albert's servant was the only witness of that fatal event, had given Joseph a considerable sum and sent him back to his province, after causing him to spread the report through the neighborhood, and among his confrères, that his young master had fought with one of his friends, after a quarrel of which he did not know the subject. And no one had doubted the truth of the story, because it was much more probable than that Albert had fought a duel with a messenger.
Nearly a month had passed since the events that resulted in Albert's death, when a short, stout young man, dressed with ostentatious elegance, alighted from a cabriolet one morning in front of Monsieur Vermoncey's residence, and, having inserted his monocle in his eye to make sure that he had made no mistake, entered the house and called out to the concierge:
"I am going up to see my friend Monsieur Albert Vermoncey; I believe he has returned from his trip to Normandie, and I have a thousand things to say to him."
The concierge ran after Tobie Pigeonnier,—for it was he, transformed into a showy and self-confident lion,—and stopped him at the foot of the stairs, saying: