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Madame d'Argeles's disclosures formed, as it were, a sequel to the confidential revelations of Pascal Ferailleur, and the involuntary confession of the Marquis de Valorsay; and the baron could no longer doubt the existence of the shameful intrigue which had been planned in view of obtaining possession of the count's millions.
If he wins, he is free to follow up his vein of good-luck, or to pass the deal. When he loses, the deal passes at once to the next player on the right. A moment sufficed for Pascal Ferailleur to learn the rules of the game. It was already Ferdinand's deal. M. de Coralth staked a hundred francs; the bet was taken; he dealt, lost, and handed the cards to Pascal.
The noise of a spirited altercation between the servant and some visitor, came from the ante-room. "I tell you that he IS at home," said some one in a panting voice, "and I must see him and speak with him at once. It is such an urgent matter that I left a card-party just at the most critical moment to come here." "I assure you, monsieur, that M. Ferailleur has gone out."
"What is the matter?" she inquired, unable to master her alarm "what has happened?" "Ah! a great misfortune!" "My God! still another?" "I have been to the Rue de Courcelles; and I have spoken to Madame Leon." "What did she say?" "The Count de Chalusse died this morning." Madame Ferailleur drew a long breath, as if greatly relieved.
Some Englishmen those strange travellers, who are at the same time so foolishly prodigal and so ridiculously miserly were making a great hue and cry over the four sous gratuity claimed by a poor commissionaire; but these were the only persons in sight. Partially reassured, Madame Ferailleur hastily ascended the staircase, and entered the large waiting-room.
It was the shameful article which described the events that had robbed Pascal of his honor. And to make assurance doubly sure, to prevent the least mistake concerning the printed initials, the coward who sent the paper had appended the names of the persons mixed up in the affair, at full length, in pencil. He had written d'Argeles, Pascal Ferailleur, Ferdinand de Coralth, Rochecote.
It was in this street "out of the world," as M. de Coralth expressed it that Pascal Ferailleur resided with his mother. They occupied a second floor, a pretty suite of five rooms, looking out upon a garden. Their rent was high. Indeed, they paid fourteen hundred francs a year.
The idea of denying his intention never once occurred to him; besides, he was unable to articulate a word. But on his desk there lay a letter addressed to his mother which would speak for him. Madame Ferailleur took it, tore the envelope open, and read: "Forgive me I'm about to die. It must be so. I cannot survive dishonor; and I am dishonored."
"Pascal, what has happened to you?" she asked. He trembled from head to foot as the sound of her voice suddenly roused him from his stupor. "Nothing," he stammered; "nothing at all." And as his mother pressed him with questions, he pushed her gently aside and went on to his room. "Poor child!" murmured Madame Ferailleur, at once grieved and reassured; "and he is always so temperate.
The step she was about to take cost her a terrible effort. It was a difficult task for her, a girl naturally so reserved, to confide in a stranger, and open to him her maidenly heart, filled with love for Pascal Ferailleur! Still, she was much calmer than she had been on the previous evening, when she called on the photographer for a facsimile of M. de Valorsay's letter.
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