Volume II Part 91 (1/2)
”You are right, sir,” said Saint Remy. ”As to the victim of the robbery, you can tell him to call at M. Dupont's, banker.”
”Rue du Richelieu. He is well known,” answered the magistrate.
”At what amount are the stolen diamonds estimated?”
”At about thirty thousand francs, my lord; the person who bought them, through whom the robbery was discovered, gave that amount for them to your son.”
”I can yet pay this, sir. Let the jeweler call the day after to-morrow on my banker; I will settle with him.”
The commissary bowed, and the count departed. As soon as he was gone, the magistrate, profoundly touched at this unexpected scene, turned toward the saloon, the curtains of which were down. He raised them with emotion.
”n.o.body!” cried he, astonished, looking round the room, and not seeing the least trace of the tragic event which was supposed to have occurred.
Then, remarking the small door in the tapestry, he ran thither. It was locked on the other side. ”A trick,” cried he in a rage; ”he has undoubtedly made his escape in this way.”
And, in fact, the viscount, before his father, pointed the pistol at his heart, but he had afterwards very dexterously discharged it under his arm, and immediately fled.
Notwithstanding the most active researches in all parts of the house, he was not to be found.
During the conversation between his father and the commissary, he had rapidly gained the boudoir, thence the conservatory, the back street and finally the Champs Elysees.
CHAPTER x.x.xI.
GOOD-BYE IN PRISON.
The morning after these last-mentioned events a touching scene took place in Saint Lazare, at the hour of the recreation of the prisoners.
On this day, during the promenade of her companions, Fleur-de-Marie was seated on a bench near the basin, already called hers. By a sort of tacit agreement, the prisoners abandoned this place, which she loved, for the sweet influence of the girl had much increased.
Goualeuse preferred this seat near the fountain, because the moss which grew around the border of the reservoir recalled to her mind the verdure of the fields, and even the limpid water with which it was filled made her think of the little river of Bouqueval village.
To the sad gaze of a prisoner, a tuft of gra.s.s is a meadow, a flower is a garden.
Confiding in the kind promise of Madame d'Harville, Fleur-de-Marie had been expecting for two days to leave Saint Lazare. Although she had no reason for inquietude at the delay, she from her habitual misfortunes, hardly dared to hope soon for freedom.
Naturally, from the expectation of so soon seeing her friends at Bouqueval and Rudolph, Fleur-de-Marie should have been transported with joy.
It was not so. Her heart beat sadly; her thoughts returned without ceasing to the words and lofty looks of Madame d'Harville, when the poor prisoner had spoken with so much enthusiasm of her benefactor.
With singular intuition, Goualeuse had thus discovered a part of the lady's secret.
”The warmth of my grat.i.tude for M. Rudolph has wounded this young lady, so handsome, and of a rank so elevated,” thought Fleur-de-Marie.
”Now I comprehend the bitterness of her words! she expressed disdainful jealousy! She, jealous of me! then she loves him, and I love him, also! My love must have betrayed itself in spite of me! To love him--I--a creature forever ruined! ungrateful, and wretch that I am! Oh! if that were so, rather death a hundred times.”
Let us hasten to say, the unhappy child, who seemed doomed to every kind of martyrdom, exaggerated what she called her love. To her profound grat.i.tude toward Rudolph was joined an involuntary admiration of the grace, strength, and beauty which distinguished him above all; nothing less material, nothing more pure than this admiration, but it existed lively and powerful, because physical beauty is always attractive.
And then, besides, the voice of blood, so often denied, mute, unknown, or disowned, sometimes makes itself heard; these bursts of pa.s.sionate tenderness, which drew Fleur-de-Marie toward Rudolph, and alarmed her because in her ignorance she misconstrued their tendency, resulted from mysterious sympathies as evident, but also as inexplicable, as the resemblance of features. In a word, Fleur-de-Marie, learning that she was Rudolph's daughter, could have at once accounted for her feelings toward him; then, completely enlightened, she could admire without any scruple the beauty of her father.
Thus is explained the dejectedness of Fleur-de-Marie, although she expected at any moment to leave Saint Lazare.