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"If I were to offer you ten thousand francs to tell me where Monsieur Ferragus lives, how then?" "Ha! n, o, no, my little friend, and that ends the matter," she said, emphasizing this singular reply with a popular gesture. "There's no sum in the world could make me tell you. I have the honor to bid you good-day. How do I get out of here?"
Perhaps, also, Monsieur Jules and Ferragus XXIII. may have proved sufficiently interesting to make a few words on their after life not entirely out of place. Besides, some persons like to be told all, and wish, as one of our cleverest critics has remarked, to know by what chemical process oil was made to burn in Aladdin's lamp.
But the imbroglio is of itself stupid; these fathers who cannot be made known to husbands are mere stage properties, and should never be fetched out of the theatrical lumber-room by literature. La Duchesse de Langeais is, I think, a better story, with more romantic attraction, free from the objections just made to Ferragus, and furnished with a powerful, if slightly theatrical catastrophe.
"Ha! the sly old creature, she answers like a Norman," thought Jules, "We shall agree. Do not give yourself the trouble to tell falsehoods, madame," he resumed, "In the first place, let me tell you that I mean no harm either to you or to your lodger who is suffering from cautery, or to your daughter Ida, a stay-maker, the friend of Ferragus. You see, I know all your affairs.
In spite of his aversion for prefaces, the author feels bound to place the following statement at the head of this narrative. Ferragus is a first episode which clings by invisible links to the "History of the Thirteen," whose power, naturally acquired, can alone explain certain acts and agencies which would otherwise seem supernatural.
If an empress was my rival, I'd go straight to her, empress as she was; because all pretty women are equals, monsieur " "Enough! enough!" said Jules. "Where do you live?" "Rue de la Corderie-du-Temple, number 14, monsieur, Ida Gruget, corset-maker, at your service, for we make lots of corsets for men." "Where does the man whom you call Ferragus live?"
Jules fancied that he saw above that face the terrible head of Ferragus, and his own anger was silenced by such a vengeance. The husband found pity in his heart for the vacant wreck of what was once a man. "The duel has taken place," said the vidame. "But he has killed many," answered Jules, sorrowfully. "And many dear ones," added the old man.
Jules, impelled by a sense of prudence, paid no attention to the widow's invitation when she said civilly, showing him an inner room: "Come in here, monsieur, and warm yourself." Fearing to be overheard by Ferragus, Jules asked himself whether it were not wisest to conclude the arrangement he had come to make with the old woman in the crowded antechamber.
The stranger departed. Ten minutes later Jules heard, with a feverish shudder, the rustle of a silk gown, and almost recognized by their sound the steps of his wife. "Well, father," said Clemence, "my poor father, are you better? What courage you have shown!" "Come here, my child," replied Ferragus, holding out his hand to her. Clemence held her forehead to him and he kissed it.
"Well, then, good-bye until to-night," said Ferragus, holding out his hand to the man, who had just replaced the bandage. "Yes, to-night," said the other, pressing his hand cordially. "I wish I could see you past your sufferings." "To-morrow Monsieur de Funcal's papers will be delivered to us, and Henri Bourignard will be dead forever," said Ferragus.
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