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Baron Trigault\'s Vengeance

E >> Emile Gaboriau >> Baron Trigault\'s Vengeance



Baron Trigault's Vengeance
by Emile Gaboriau



A Sequel to "The Count's Millions"
Translated from the French





I


Vengeance! that is the first, the only thought, when a man finds
himself victimized, when his honor and fortune, his present and
future, are wrecked by a vile conspiracy! The torment he endures
under such circumstances can only be alleviated by the prospect of
inflicting them a hundredfold upon his persecutors. And nothing
seems impossible at the first moment, when hatred surges in the
brain, and the foam of anger rises to the lips; no obstacle seems
insurmountable, or, rather, none are perceived. But later, when
the faculties have regained their equilibrium, one can measure the
distance which separates the dream from reality, the project from
execution. And on setting to work, how many discouragements
arise! The fever of revolt passes by, and the victim wavers. He
still breathes bitter vengeance, but he does not act. He
despairs, and asks himself what would be the good of it? And in
this way the success of villainy is once more assured.

Similar despondency attacked Pascal Ferailleur when he awoke for
the first time in the abode where he had hidden himself under the
name of Maumejan. A frightful slander had crushed him to the
earth--he could kill his slanderer, but afterward--? How was he to
reach and stifle the slander itself? As well try to hold a handful
of water; as well try to stay with extended arms the progress of
the poisonous breeze which wafts an epidemic on its wings. So the
hope that had momentarily lightened his heart faded away again.
Since he had received that fatal letter from Madame Leon the
evening before, he believed that Marguerite was lost to him
forever, and in this case, it was useless to struggle against
fate. What would be the use of victory even if he conquered?
Marguerite lost to him--what did the rest matter? Ah! if he had
been alone in the world. But he had his mother to think of;--he
belonged to this brave-hearted woman, who had saved him from
suicide already. "I will not yield, then; I will struggle on for
her sake," he muttered, like a man who foresees the futility of
his efforts.

He rose, and had nearly finished dressing, when he heard a rap at
his chamber door. "It is I, my son," said Madame Ferailleur
outside.

Pascal hastened to admit her. "I have come for you because the
woman you spoke about last evening is already here, and before
employing her, I want your advice."

"Then the woman doesn't please you, mother?"

"I want you to see her."

On entering the little parlor with his mother, Pascal found
himself in the presence of a portly, pale-faced woman, with thin
lips and restless eyes, who bowed obsequiously. It was indeed
Madame Vantrasson, the landlady of the model lodging-house, who
was seeking employment for the three or four hours which were at
her disposal in the morning, she said. It certainly was not for
pleasure that she had decided to go out to service again; her
dignity suffered terribly by this fall--but then the stomach has
to be cared for. Tenants were not numerous at the model lodging-
house, in spite of its seductive title; and those who slept there
occasionally, almost invariably succeeded in stealing something.
Nor did the grocery store pay; the few half-pence which were left
there occasionally in exchange for a glass of liquor were pocketed
by Vantrasson, who spent them at some neighboring establishment;
for it is a well-known fact that the wine a man drinks in his own
shop is always bitter in flavor. So, having no credit at the
butcher's or the baker's, Madame Vantrasson was sometimes reduced
to living for days together upon the contents of the shop--mouldy
figs or dry raisins--which she washed down with torrents of
ratafia, her only consolation here below.

But this was not a satisfying diet, as she was forced to confess;
so she decided to find some work, that would furnish her with food
and a little money, which she vowed she would never allow her
worthy husband to see.

"What would you charge per month?" inquired Pascal.

She seemed to reflect, and after a great deal of counting on her
fingers, she finally declared that she would be content with
breakfast and fifteen francs a month, on condition she was allowed
to do the marketing. The first question of French cooks, on
presenting themselves for a situation, is almost invariably,
"Shall I do the marketing?" which of course means, "Shall I have
any opportunities for stealing?" Everybody knows this, and nobody
is astonished at it.

"I shall do the marketing myself," declared Madame Ferailleur,
boldly.

"Then I shall want thirty francs a month," replied Madame
Vantrasson, promptly.

Pascal and his mother exchanged glances. They were both
unfavorably impressed by this woman, and were equally determined
to rid themselves of her, which it was easy enough to do. "Too
dear!" said Madame Ferailleur; "I have never given over fifteen
francs."

But Madame Vantrasson was not the woman to be easily discouraged,
especially as she knew that if she failed to obtain this
situation, she might have considerable difficulty in finding
another one. She could only hope to obtain employment from
strangers and newcomers, who were ignorant of the reputation of
the model lodging-house. So in view of softening the hearts of
Pascal and his mother, she began to relate the history of her
life, skilfully mingling the false with the true, and representing
herself as an unfortunate victim of circumstances, and the inhuman
cruelty of relatives. For she belonged, like her husband, to a
very respectable family, as the Maumejans might easily ascertain
by inquiry. Vantrasson's sister was the wife of a man named
Greloux, who had once been a bookbinder in the Rue Saint-Denis,
but who had now retired from business with a competency. "Why had
this Greloux refused to save them from bankruptcy? Because one
could never hope for a favor from relatives," she groaned; "they
are jealous if you succeed; and if you are unfortunate, they cast
you off."

However, these doleful complaints, far from rendering Madame
Vantrasson interesting, imparted a deceitful and most disagreeable
expression to her countenance. "I told you that I could only give
fifteen francs," interrupted Madame Ferailleur--"take it or leave
it."

Madame Vantrasson protested. She expressed her willingness to
deduct five francs from the sum she had named, but more--it was
impossible! Would they haggle over ten francs to secure such a
treasure as herself, an honest, settled woman, who was entirely
devoted to her employers?" Besides, I have been a grand cook in my
time," she added, "and I have not lost all my skill. Monsieur and
madame would be delighted with my cooking, for I have seen more
than one fine gentleman smack his lips over my sauces when was in
the employment of the Count de Chalusse."

Pascal and his mother could not repress a start on hearing this
name; but it was in a tone of well-assumed indifference that
Madame Ferailleur repeated, "M. de Chalusse?"

"Yes, madame--a count--and so rich that he didn't know how much he
was worth. If he were still alive I shouldn't be compelled to go
out to service again. But he's dead and he's to be buried this
very day." And with an air of profound secrecy, she added: "On
going yesterday to the Hotel de Chalusse to ask for a little help,
I heard of the great misfortune. Vantrasson, my husband,
accompanied me, and while we were talking with the concierge, a
young woman passed through the hall, and he recognized her as a
person who some time ago was--well--no better than she should be.
Now, however, she's a young lady as lofty as the clouds, and the
deceased count has been passing her off as his daughter. Ah! this
is a strange world."

Pascal had become whiter than the ceiling. His eyes blazed; and
Madame Ferailleur trembled. "Very well," she said, "I will give
you twenty-five francs--but on condition you come without
complaining if I sometimes require your services of an evening.
On these occasions I will give you your dinner." And taking five
francs from her pocket she placed them in Madame Vantrasson's
hand, adding: ' Here is your earnest money."

The other quickly pocketed the coin, not a little surprised by
this sudden decision which she had scarcely hoped for, and which
she by no means understood. Still she was so delighted with this
denouement that she expressed her willingness to enter upon her
duties at once; and to get rid of her Madame Ferailleur was
obliged to send her out to purchase the necessary supplies for
breakfast. Then, as soon as she was alone with her son, she
turned to him and asked: "Well, Pascal?"

But the wretched man seemed turned to stone, and seeing that he
neither spoke nor moved, she continued in a severe tone: "Is this
the way you keep your resolutions and your oaths! You express your
intention of accomplishing a task which requires inexhaustible
patience and dissimulation, and at the very first unforeseen
circumstance your coolness deserts you, and you lose your head
completely. If it had not been for me you would have betrayed
yourself in that woman's presence. You must renounce your
revenge, and tamely submit to be conquered by the Marquis de
Valorsay if your face is to be an open book in which any one may
read your secret plans and thoughts."

Pascal shook his head dejectedly. "Didn't you hear, mother?" he
faltered.

"Hear what?"

"What that vile woman said? This young lady whom she spoke of,
whom her husband recognized, can be none other than Marguerite."

"I am sure of it."

He recoiled in horror. "You are sure of it!" he repeated; "and
you can tell me this unmoved--coldly, as if it were a natural, a
possible thing. Didn't you understand the shameful meaning of her
insinuations? Didn't you see her hypocritical smile and the malice
gleaming in her eyes?" He pressed his hands to his burning brow,
and groaned "And I did not crush the infamous wretch! I did not
fell her to the ground!"

Ah! if she had obeyed the impulse of her heart. Madame Ferailleur
would have thrown her arms round her son's neck, and have mingled
her tears with his, but reason prevailed. The worthy woman's
heart was pervaded with that lofty sentiment of duty which
sustains the humble heroines of the fireside, and lends them even
more courage than the reckless adventurers whose names are
recorded by history could boast of. She felt that Pascal must not
be consoled, but spurred on to fresh efforts; and so mustering all
her courage, she said: "Are you acquainted with Mademoiselle
Marguerite's past life? No. You only know that hers has been a
life of great vicissitudes--and so it is not strange that she
should be slandered."

"In that case, mother," said Pascal, "you were wrong to interrupt
Madame Vantrasson. She would probably have told us many things."

"I interrupted her, it is true, and sent her away--and you know
why. But she is in our service now; and when you are calm, when
you have regained your senses, nothing will prevent you from
questioning her. It may be useful for you to know who this man
Vantrasson is, and how and where he met Mademoiselle Marguerite."

Shame, sorrow, and rage, brought tears to Pascal's eyes. "My
God!" he exclaimed, "to be reduced to the unspeakable misery of
hearing my mother doubt Marguerite!" He did not doubt her. HE
could have listened to the most infamous accusations against her
without feeling a single doubt. However, Madame Ferailleur had
sufficient self-control to shrug her shoulders. "Ah, well!
silence this slander," she exclaimed. "I wish for nothing better;
but don't forget that we have ourselves to rehabilitate. To crush
your enemies will be far more profitable to Mademoiselle
Marguerite than vain threats and weak lamentations. It seemed to
me that you had sworn to act, not to complain."

This ironical thrust touched Pascal's sensitive mind to the quick;
he rose at once to his feet, and coldly said, "That's true. I
thank you for having recalled me to myself."

She made no rejoinder, but mentally thanked God. She had read her
son's heart, and perceiving his hesitation and weakness she had
supplied the stimulus he needed. Now she saw him as she wished to
see him. Now he was ready to reproach himself for his lack of
courage and his weakness in displaying his feelings. And as a
test of his powers of endurance, he decided not to question Madame
Vantrasson till four or five days had elapsed. If her suspicions
had been aroused, this delay would suffice to dispel them.

He said but little during breakfast; for he was now eager to
commence the struggle. He longed to act, and yet he scarcely knew
how to begin the campaign. First of all, he must study the
enemy's position--gain some knowledge of the men he had to deal
with, find out exactly who the Marquis de Valorsay and the
Viscount de Coralth were. Where could he obtain information
respecting these two men? Should he be compelled to follow them
and to gather up here and there such scraps of intelligence as
came in his way? This method of proceeding would be slow and
inconvenient in the extreme. He was revolving the subject in his
mind when he suddenly remembered the man who, on the morning that
followed the scene at Madame d'Argeles's house, had come to him in
the Rue d'Ulm to give him a proof of his confidence. He
remembered that this strange man had said: "If you ever need a
helping hand, come to me." And at the recollection he made up his
mind. "I am going to Baron Trigault's," he remarked to his
mother; "if my presentiments don't deceive me, he will be of
service to us."

In less than half an hour he was on his way. He had dressed
himself in the oldest clothes he possessed; and this, with the
change he had made by cutting off his hair and beard, had so
altered his appearance that it was necessary to look at him
several times, and most attentively, to recognize him. The
visiting cards which he carried in his pocket bore the
inscription: "P. Maumejan, Business Agent, Route de la Revolte."
His knowledge of Parisian life had induced him to choose the same
profession as M. Fortunat followed--a profession which opens
almost every door. "I will enter the nearest cafe and ask for a
directory," he said to himself. "I shall certainly find Baron
Trigault's address in it."

The baron lived in the Rue de la Ville-l'Eveque. His mansion was
one of the largest and most magnificent in the opulent district of
the Madeleine, and its aspect was perfectly in keeping with its
owner's character as an expert financier, and a shrewd
manufacturer, the possessor of valuable mines. The marvellous
luxury so surprised Pascal, that he asked himself how the owner of
this princely abode could find any pleasure at the gaming table of
the Hotel d'Argeles. Five or six footmen were lounging about the
courtyard when he entered it. He walked straight up to one of
them, and with his hat in his hand, asked: "Baron Trigault, if you
please?"

If he had asked for the Grand Turk the valet would not have looked
at him with greater astonishment. His surprise, indeed, seemed so
profound that Pascal feared he had made some mistake and added:
"Doesn't he live here?"

The servant laughed heartily. "This is certainly his house," he
replied, "and strange to say, by some fortunate chance, he's
here."

"I wish to speak with him on business."

The servant called one of his colleagues. "Eh! Florestan--is the
baron receiving?"

"The baroness hasn't forbidden it."

This seemed to satisfy the footman; for, turning to Pascal he
said: "In that case, you can follow me."



II.


The sumptuous interior of the Trigault mansion was on a par with
its external magnificence. Even the entrance bespoke the lavish
millionaire, eager to conquer difficulties, jealous of achieving
the impossible, and never haggling when his fancies were
concerned. The spacious hall, paved with costly mosaics, had been
transformed into a conservatory full of flowers, which were
renewed every morning. Rare plants climbed the walls up gilded
trellis work, or hung from the ceiling in vases of rare old china,
while from among the depths of verdure peered forth exquisite
statues, the work of sculptors of renown. On a rustic bench sat a
couple of tall footmen, as bright in their gorgeous liveries as
gold coins fresh from the mint; still, despite their splendor,
they were stretching and yawning to such a degree, that it seemed
as if they would ultimately dislocate their jaws and arms.

"Tell me," inquired the servant who was escorting Pascal, "can any
one speak to the baron?"

"Why?"

"This gentleman has something to say to him."

The two valets eyed the unknown visitor, plainly considering him
to be one of those persons who have no existence for the menials
of fashionable establishments, and finally burst into a hearty
laugh. "Upon my word!" exclaimed the eldest, "he's just in time.
Announce him, and madame will be greatly obliged to you. She and
monsieur have been quarrelling for a good half-hour. And,
heavenly powers, isn't he tantalizing!"

The most intense curiosity gleamed in the eyes of Pascal's
conductor, and with an airy of secrecy, he asked: "What is the
cause of the rumpus? That Fernand, no doubt--or some one else?"

"No; this morning it's about M. Van Klopen."

"Madame's dressmaker?"

"The same. Monsieur and madame were breakfasting together--a most
unusual thing--when M. Van Klopen made his appearance. I thought
to myself, when I admitted him: 'Look out for storms!' I scented
one in the air, and in fact the dressmaker hadn't been in the room
five minutes before we heard the baron's voice rising higher and
higher. I said to myself: 'Whew! the mantua-maker is presenting
his bill!' Madame cried and went on like mad; but, pshaw! when the
master really begins, there's no one like him. There isn't a cab-
driver in Paris who's his equal for swearing."

"And M. Van Klopen?"

"Oh, he's used to such scenes! When gentlemen abuse him he does
the same as dogs do when they come up out of the water; he just
shakes his head and troubles himself no more about it. He has
decidedly the best of the row. He has furnished the goods, and
he'll have to be paid sooner or later----"

"What! hasn't he been paid then?"

"I don't know; he's still here."

A terrible crash of breaking china interrupted this edifying
conversation. "There!" exclaimed one of the footmen, "that's
monsieur; he has smashed two or three hundred francs' worth of
dishes. He MUST be rich to pay such a price for his angry fits."

"Well," observed the other, "if I were in monsieur's place I
should be angry too. Would you let your wife have her dresses
fitted on by a man? I says that it's indecent. I'm only a
servant, but----"

"Nonsense, it's the fashion. Besides, monsieur does not care
about that. A man who----"

He stopped short; in fact, the others had motioned him to be
silent. The baron was surrounded by exceptional servants, and the
presence of a stranger acted as a restraint upon them. For this
reason, one of them, after asking Pascal for his card, opened a
door and ushered him into a small room, saying: "I will go and
inform the baron. Please wait here."

"Here," as he called it, was a sort of smoking-room hung with
cashmere of fantastic design and gorgeous hues, and encircled by a
low, cushioned divan, covered with the same material. A profusion
of rare and costly objects was to be seen on all sides, armor,
statuary, pictures, and richly ornamented weapons. But Pascal,
already amazed by the conversation of the servants, did not think
of examining these objects of virtu. Through a partially open
doorway, directly opposite the one he had entered by, came the
sound of loud voices in excited conversation. Baron Trigault, the
baroness, and the famous Van Klopen were evidently in the
adjoining room. It was a woman, the baroness, who was speaking,
and the quivering of her clear and somewhat shrill voice betrayed
a violent irritation, which was only restrained with the greatest
difficulty. "It is hard for the wife of one of the richest men in
Paris to see a bill for absolute necessities disputed in this
style," she was saying.

A man's voice, with a strong Teutonic accent, the voice of Van
Klopen, the Hollander, caught up the refrain. "Yes, strict
necessities, one can swear to that. And if, before flying into a
passion, Monsieur le Baron had taken the trouble to glance over my
little bill, he would have seen----"

"No more! You bore me to death. Besides I haven't time to listen
to your nonsense; they are waiting for me to play a game of whist
at the club."

This time it was the master of the house, Baron Trigault, who
spoke, and Pascal recognized his voice instantly.

"If monsieur would only allow me to read the items. It will take
but a moment," rejoined Van Klopen. And as if he had construed
the oath that answered him as an exclamation of assent, he began:
"In June, a Hungarian costume with jacket and sash, two train
dresses with upper skirts and trimmings of lace, a Medicis
polonaise, a jockey costume, a walking costume, a riding-habit,
two morning-dresses, a Velleda costume, an evening dress."

"I was obliged to attend the races very frequently during the
month of June," remarked the baroness.

But the illustrious adorner of female loveliness had already
resumed his reading. "In July we have: two morning-jackets, one
promenade costume, one sailor suit, one Watteau shepherdess
costume, one ordinary bathing-suit, with material for parasol and
shoes to match, one Pompadour bathing-suit, one dressing-gown, one
close-fitting Medicis mantle, two opera cloaks----"

"And I was certainly not the most elegantly attired of the ladies
at Trouville, where I spent the month of July," interrupted the
baroness.

"There are but few entries in the month of August," continued Van
Klopen. "We have: a morning-dress, a travelling-dress, with
trimmings----" And he went on and on, gasping for breath, rattling
off the ridiculous names which he gave to his "creations," and
interrupted every now and then by the blow of a clinched fist on
the table, or by a savage oath.

Pascal stood in the smoking-room, motionless with astonishment.
He did not know what surprised him the most, Van Klopen's
impudence in daring to read such a bill, the foolishness of the
woman who had ordered all these things, or the patience of the
husband who was undoubtedly going to pay for them. At last, after
what seemed an interminable enumeration, Van Klopen exclaimed:
"And that's all!"

"Yes, that's all," repeated the baroness, like an echo.

"That's all!" exclaimed the baron--"that's all! That is to say, in
four months, at least seven hundred yards of silk, velvet, satin,
and muslin, have been put on this woman's back!"

"The dresses of the present day require a great deal of material.
Monsieur le Baron will understand that flounces, puffs, and
ruches----"

"Naturally! Total, twenty-seven thousand francs!"

"Excuse me! Twenty-seven thousand nine hundred and thirty-three
francs, ninety centimes."

"Call it twenty-eight thousand francs then. Ah, well, M. Van
Klopen, if you are ever paid for this rubbish it won't be by me."

If Van Klopen was expecting this denouement, Pascal wasn't; in
fact, he was so startled, that an exclamation escaped him which
would have betrayed his presence under almost any other
circumstances. What amazed him most was the baron's perfect
calmness, following, as it did, such a fit of furious passion,
violent enough even to be heard in the vestibule. "Either he has
extraordinary control over himself or this scene conceals some
mystery," thought Pascal.

Meanwhile, the man-milliner continued to urge his claims--but the
baron, instead of replying, only whistled; and wounded by this
breach of good manners, Van Klopen at last exclaimed: "I have had
dealings with all the distinguished men in Europe, and never
before did one of them refuse to pay me for his wife's toilettes."

"Very well--I don't pay for them--there's the difference. Do you
suppose that I, Baron Trigault, that I've worked like a negro for
twenty years merely for the purpose of aiding your charming and
useful branch of industry? Gather up your papers, Mr. Ladies'
Tailor. There may be husbands who believe themselves responsible
for their wives' follies--it's quite possible there are--but I'm
not made of that kind of stuff. I allow Madame Trigault eight
thousand francs a month for her toilette--that is sufficient--and
it is a matter for you and her to arrange together. What did I
tell you last year when I paid a bill of forty thousand francs?
That I would not be responsible for any more of my wife's debts.
And I not only said it, I formally notified you through my private
secretary."

"I remember, indeed----"

"Then why do you come to me with your bill? It is with my wife
that you have opened an account. Apply to her, and leave me in
peace."

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