There was a dangerous gleam of anger in Mademoiselle Marguerite's eyes, as she coldly replied: "I am honored by your request, monsieur; but my future is already decided."

Some seconds elapsed before M. de Fondege could recover his powers of speech. "This is a piece of foolishness," he faltered, at last with singular agitation. "Let me hope that you will reconsider the matter. And if Gustave doesn't please you, we will find some one better. But under no circ.u.mstances will Chalusse's old comrade ever desert you. I shall send Madame de Fondege to see you this evening. She's a good woman and you will understand each other. Come, answer me, what do you say to it?"

His persistence irritated the poor girl beyond endurance, and to put an end to the painful scene, she at last asked: "Would you not like to look-for the last time-at M. de Chalusse?"

"Ah! yes, certainly-an old friend of thirty years' standing." So saying he advanced toward the door leading into the death-room, but on reaching the threshold, he cried in sudden terror: "Oh! no, no, I could not." And with these words he withdrew or rather he fled from the room down the stairs.

As long as the General had been there, the magistrate had given no sign of life. But seated beyond the circle of light cast by the lamps, he had remained an attentive spectator of the scene, and now that he found himself once more alone with Mademoiselle Marguerite he came forward, and leaning against the mantelpiece and looking her full in the face he exclaimed: "Well, my child?"

The girl trembled like a culprit awaiting sentence of death, and it was in a hollow voice that she replied: "I understood-"

"What?" insisted the pitiless magistrate.

She raised her beautiful eyes, in which angry tears were still glittering, and then answered in a voice which quivered with suppressed pa.s.sion, "I have fathomed the infamy of those two men who have just left the house. I understood the insult their apparent generosity conceals. They had questioned the servants, and had ascertained that two millions were missing. Ah, the scoundrels! They believe that I have stolen those millions; and they came to ask me to share the ill-gotten wealth with them. What an insult! and to think that I am powerless to avenge it! Ah! the servants' suspicions were nothing in comparison with this. At least, they did not ask for a share of the booty as the price of their silence!"

The magistrate shook his head as if this explanation scarcely satisfied him. "There is something else, there is certainly something else," he repeated. But the doors were still open, so he closed them carefully, and then returned to the girl he was so desirous of advising. "I wish to tell you," he said, "that you have mistaken the motives which induced these gentlemen to ask for your hand in marriage."

"Do you believe, then, that you have fathomed them?"

"I could almost swear that I had. Didn't you remark a great difference in their manner? Didn't one of them, the marquis, behave with all the calmness and composure which are the result of reflection and calculation? The other, on the contrary, acted most precipitately, as if he had suddenly come to a determination, and formed a plan on the impulse of the moment."

Mademoiselle Marguerite reflected.

"That's true," she said, "that's indeed true. Now I recollect the difference."

"And this is my explanation of it," resumed the magistrate. "'The Marquis de Valorsay,' I said to myself, 'must have proofs in his possession that Mademoiselle Marguerite is the count's daughter-written and conclusive proofs, that is certain-probably a voluntary admission of the fact from the father. Who can prove that M. de Valorsay does not possess this acknowledgment? In fact, he must possess it. He hinted it himself.' Accordingly on hearing of the count's sudden death, he said to himself, 'If Marguerite was my wife, and if I could prove her to be M. de Chalusse's daughter, I should obtain several millions.' Whereupon he consulted his legal adviser who a.s.sured him that it would be the best course he could pursue; and so he came here. You repulsed him, but he will soon make another a.s.sault, you may rest a.s.sured of that. And some day or other he will come to you and say, 'Whether we marry or not, let us divide.'"

Mademoiselle Marguerite was amazed. The magistrate's words seemed to dispel the mist which had hitherto hidden the truth from view. "Yes," she exclaimed, "yes, you are right, monsieur."

He was silent for a moment, and then he resumed: "I understand M. de Fondege's motive less clearly; but still I have some clue. He had not questioned the servants. That is evident from the fact that on his arrival here he believed you to be the sole legatee. He was also aware that M. de Chalusse had taken certain precautions we are ignorant of, but which he is no doubt fully acquainted with. What you told him about your poverty amazed him, and he immediately evinced a desire to atone for the count's neglect with as much eagerness as if he were the cause of this negligence himself. And, indeed, judging by the agitation he displayed when he was imploring you to become his son's wife, one might almost imagine that the sight of your misery awakened a remorse which he was endeavoring to quiet. Now, draw your own conclusions."

The wretched girl looked questioningly at the magistrate as if she hesitated to trust the thoughts which his words had awakened in her mind. "Then you think, monsieur," she said, with evident reluctance, "you think, you suppose, that the General is acquainted with the whereabouts of the missing millions?"

"Quite correct," answered the magistrate, and then as if he feared that he had gone too far, he added: "but draw your own conclusions respecting the matter. You have the whole night before you. We will talk it over again to-morrow, and if I can be of service to you in any way, I shall be only too glad."

"But, monsieur-"

"Oh-to-morrow, to-morrow-I must go to dinner now; besides, my clerk must be getting terribly impatient."

The clerk was, indeed, out of temper. Not that he had finished taking an inventory of the appurtenances of this immense house, but because he considered that he had done quite enough work for one day. And yet his discontent was sensibly diminished when he calculated the amount he would receive for his pains. During the nine years he had held this office he had never made such an extensive inventory before. He seemed somewhat dazzled, and as he followed his superior out of the house, he remarked: "Do you know, monsieur, that as nearly as I can discover the deceased's fortune must amount to more than twenty millions-an income of a million a year! And to think that the poor young lady shouldn't have a penny of it. I suspect she's crying her eyes out."

But the clerk was mistaken. Mademoiselle Marguerite was then questioning M. Casimir respecting the arrangements which he had made for the funeral, and when this sad duty was concluded, she consented to take a little food standing in front of the sideboard in the dining-room. Then she went to kneel in the count's room, where four members of the parochial clergy were reciting the prayers for the dead.

She was so exhausted with fatigue that she could scarcely speak, and her eyelids were heavy with sleep. But she had another task to fulfil, a task which she deemed a sacred duty. She sent a servant for a cab, threw a shawl over her shoulders, and left the house accompanied by Madame Leon. The cabman drove as fast as possible to the house where Pascal and his mother resided in the Rue d'Ulm; but on arriving there, the front door was found to be closed, and the light in the vestibule was extinguished. Marguerite was obliged to ring five or six times before the concierge made his appearance.

"I wish to see Monsieur Ferailleur," she quietly said.

The man glanced at her scornfully, and then replied: "He no longer lives here. The landlord doesn't want any thieves in his house. He's sold his rubbish and started for America, with his old witch of a mother."

So saying he closed the door again, and Marguerite was so overwhelmed by this last and unexpected misfortune, that she could hardly stagger back to the vehicle. "Gone!" she murmured; "gone! without a thought of me! Or does he believe me to be like all the rest? But I will find him again. That man Fortunat, who ascertained addresses for M. de Chalusse, will find Pascal for me."

XIII.

Few people have any idea of the great number of estates which, in default of heirs to claim them, annually revert to the government. The treasury derives large sums from this source every year. And this is easily explained, for nowadays family ties are becoming less and less binding. Brothers cease to meet; their children no longer know each other; and the members of the second generation are as perfect strangers as though they were not united by a bond of consanguinity. The young man whom love of adventure lures to a far-off country, and the young girl who marries against her parents' wishes, soon cease to exist for their relatives. No one even inquires what has become of them. Those who remain at home are afraid to ask whether they are prosperous or unfortunate, lest they should be called upon to a.s.sist the wanderers. Forgotten themselves, the adventurers in their turn soon forget. If fortune smiles upon them, they are careful not to inform their relatives. Poor-they have been cast off; wealthy-they themselves deny their kindred. Having become rich unaided, they find an egotistical satisfaction in spending their money alone in accordance with their own fancies. Now when a man of this cla.s.s dies what happens? The servants and people around him profit of his loneliness and isolation, and the justice of the peace is only summoned to affix the seals, after they have removed all the portable property. An inventory is taken, and after a few formalities, as no heirs present themselves, the court declares the inheritance to be in abeyance, and appoints a trustee.

This trustee's duties are very simple. He manages the property and remits the income to the Treasury until a legal judgment declares the estate the property of the country, regardless of any heirs who may present themselves in future.

"If I only had a twentieth part of the money that is lost in this way, my fortune would be made," exclaimed a shrewd man, some thirty years ago.

The person who spoke was Antoine Vaudore. For six months he secretly nursed the idea, studying it, examining it in all respects, weighing its advantages and disadvantages, and at last he decided that it was a good one. That same year, indeed, a.s.sisted by a little capital which he had obtained no one knew how, he created a new, strange, and untried profession to supply a new demand.

Thus Vaudore was the first man who made heir-hunting a profession. As will be generally admitted, it is not a profession that can be successfully followed by a craven. It requires the exercise of unusual shrewdness, untiring activity, extraordinary energy and courage, as well as great tact and varied knowledge. The man who would follow it successfully must possess the boldness of a gambler, the sang-froid of a duelist, the keen perceptive powers and patience of a detective, and the resources and quick wit of the shrewdest attorney.

It is easier to decry the profession than to exercise it. To begin with, the heir-hunter must be posted up with information respecting unclaimed inheritances, and he must have sufficient acquaintance with the legal world to be able to obtain information from the clerks of the different courts, notaries, and so on. When he learns that a man has died without any known heirs, his first care is to ascertain the amount of unclaimed property, to see if it will pay him to take up the case. If he finds that the inheritance is a valuable one, he begins operations without delay. He must first ascertain the deceased's full name and age. It is easy to procure this information; but it is more difficult to discover the name of the place where the deceased was born, his profession, what countries he lived in, his tastes and mode of life-in a word, everything that const.i.tutes a complete biography.

However, when he has armed himself with the more indispensable facts, our agent opens the campaign with extreme prudence, for it would be ruinous to awake suspicion. It is curious to observe the incomparable address which the agent displays in his efforts to learn the particulars of the deceased's life, by consulting his friends, his enemies, his debtors, and all who ever knew him, until at last some one is found who says: "Such and such a man-why, he came from our part of the country. I never knew HIM, but I am acquainted with one of his brothers-with one of his uncles-or with one of his nephews."

Very often years of constant research, a large outlay of money, and costly and skilful advertising in all the European journals, are necessary before this result is reached. And it is only when it has been attained that the agent can take time to breathe. But now the chances are greatly in his favor. The worst is over. The portion of his task which depended on chance alone is concluded. The rest is a matter of skill, tact, and shrewdness. The detective must give place to the crafty lawyer. The agent must confer with this heir, who has been discovered at the cost of so much time and trouble and induce him to bestow a portion of this prospective wealth on the person who is able to establish his claim. There must be an agreement in writing clearly stating what proportion-a tenth, a third, or a half-the agent will be ent.i.tled to. The negotiation is a very delicate and difficult one, requiring prodigious presence of mind, and an amount of duplicity which would make the most astute diplomatist turn pale with envy. Occasionally, the heir suspects the truth, sneers at the proposition, and hurries off to claim the whole of the inheritance that belongs to him. The agent may then bid his hopes farewell. He has worked and spent money for nothing.

However, such a misfortune is of rare occurrence. On hearing of the unexpected good fortune that has befallen him, the heir is generally unsuspicious, and willingly promises to pay the amount demanded of him. A contract is drawn up and signed; and then, but only then, does the agent take his client into his confidence. "You are the relative of such a person, are you not?" "Yes." "Very well. He is dead, and you are his heir. Thank Providence, and make haste to claim your money."

As a rule, the heir loyally fulfils his obligation. But sometimes it happens that, when he has obtained undisputed possession of the property, he declares that he has been swindled, and refuses to fulfil his part of the contract. Then the case must go to the courts. It is true, however, that the judgment of the tribunals generally recalls the refractory client to a sense of grat.i.tude and humility.

Now our friend M. Isidore Fortunat was a hunter of missing heirs. Undoubtedly he often engaged in other business which was a trifle less respectable; but heir-hunting was one of the best and most substantial sources of his income. So we can readily understand why he so quickly left off lamenting that forty thousand francs lent to the Marquis de Valorsay.

Changing his tactics, he said to himself that, even if he had lost this amount through M. de Chalusse's sudden death, it was much less than he might obtain if he succeeded in discovering the unknown heirs to so many millions. And he had some reason to hope that he would be able to do so. Having been employed by M. de Chalusse when the latter was seeking Mademoiselle Marguerite, M. Fortunat had gained some valuable information respecting his client, and the additional particulars which he had obtained from Madame Vantra.s.son elated him to such an extent that more than once he exclaimed: "Ah, well! it is, perhaps, a blessing in disguise, after all."

Still, M. Isidore Fortunat slept but little after his stormy interview with the Marquis de Valorsay. A loss of forty thousand francs is not likely to impart a roseate hue to one's dreams-and M. Fortunat prized his money as if it had been the very marrow of his bones. By way of consolation, he a.s.sured himself that he would not merely regain the sum, but triple it; and yet this encouragement did not entirely restore his peace of mind. The gain was only a possibility, and the loss was a certainty. So he twisted, and turned, and tossed on his bed as if it had been a hot gridiron, exhausting himself in surmises, and preparing his mind for the difficulties which he would be obliged to overcome.

His plan was a simple one, but its execution was fraught with difficulties. "I must discover M. de Chalusse's sister, if she is still living-I must discover her children, if she is dead," he said to himself. It was easy to SAY this; but how was he to do it? How could he hope to find this unfortunate girl, who had abandoned her home thirty years previously, to fly, no one knew where, or with whom? How was he to gain any idea of the life she had lived, or the fate that had befallen her? At what point on the social scale, and in what country, should he begin his investigations? These daughters of n.o.ble houses, who desert the paternal roof in a moment of madness, generally die most miserably after a wretched life. The girl of the lower cla.s.ses is armed against misfortune, and has been trained for the conflict. She can measure and calculate the force of her fall, and regulate and control it to a certain extent. But the others cannot. They have never known privation and hardship, and are, therefore, defenceless. And for the very reason that they have been hurled from a great height, they often fall down into the lowest depths of infamy.

"If morning would only come," sighed M. Isidore Fortunat, as he tossed restlessly to and fro. "As soon as morning comes I will set to work!"

But just before daybreak he fell asleep; and at nine o'clock he was still slumbering so soundly that Madame Dodelin, his housekeeper, had considerable difficulty in waking him. "Your clerks have come," she exclaimed, shaking him vigorously; "and two clients are waiting for you in the reception-room."

He sprang up, hastily dressed himself, and went into his office. It cost him no little effort to receive his visitors that morning; but it would have been folly to neglect all his other business for the uncertain Chalusse affair. The first client who entered was a man still young, of common, even vulgar appearance. Not being acquainted with M. Fortunat, he deemed it proper to introduce himself without delay. "My name is Leplaintre, and I am a coal merchant," said he. "I was recommended to call on you by my friend Bouscat, who was formerly in the wine trade."

M. Fortunat bowed. "Pray be seated," was his reply. "I remember your friend very well. If I am not mistaken I gave him some advice with reference to his third failure."

"Precisely; and it is because I find myself in the same fix as Bouscat that I have called on you. Business is very bad, and I have notes to a large amount overdue, so that-"

"You will be obliged to go into bankruptcy."

"Alas! I fear so."

M. Fortunat already knew what his client desired, but it was against his principles to meet these propositions more than half way. "Will you state your case?" said he.

The coal merchant blushed. It was hard to confess the truth; but the effort had to be made. "This is my case," he replied, at last. "Among my creditors I have several enemies, who will refuse me a release. They would like to deprive me of everything I possess. And in that case, what would become of me? Is it right that I should be compelled to starve?"

"It is a bad outlook."

"It is, indeed, monsieur; and for this reason, I desire-if possible, if I can do so without danger-for I am an honest man, monsieur-I wish to retain a little property-secretly, of course, not for myself, by any means, but I have a young wife and--"

M. Fortunat took compa.s.sion on the man's embarra.s.sment. "In short," he interrupted, "you wish to conceal a part of your capital from your creditors?"

On hearing this precise and formal statement of his honorable intentions, the coal-merchant trembled. His feelings of integrity would not have been alarmed by a periphrasis, but this plain speaking shocked him. "Oh, monsieur!" he protested, "I would rather blow my brains out than defraud my creditors of a single penny that was rightfully theirs. What I am doing is for their interest, you understand. I shall begin business again under my wife's name; and if I succeed, they shall be paid-yes, monsieur, every sou, with interest. Ah! if I had only myself to think of, it would be quite different; but I have two children, two little girls, so that--"

"Very well," replied M. Fortunat. "I should suggest to you the same expedient as I suggested to your friend Bouscat. But you must gather a little ready money together before going into bankruptcy."

"I can do that by secretly disposing of a part of my stock, so--"

"In that case, you are saved. Sell it and put the money beyond your creditors' reach."

The worthy merchant scratched his ear in evident perplexity. "Excuse me," said he. "I had thought of this plan; but it seemed to me-dishonorable-and-also very dangerous. How could I explain this decrease in my stock? My creditors hate me. If they suspected anything, they would accuse me of fraud, and perhaps throw me into prison; and then--"

M. Fortunat shrugged his shoulders. "When I give advice," he roughly replied, "I furnish the means of following it without danger. Listen to me attentively. Let us suppose, for a moment, that some time ago you purchased, at a very high figure, a quant.i.ty of stocks and shares, which are to-day almost worthless, could not this unfortunate investment account for the absence of the sum which you wish to set aside? Your creditors would be obliged to value these securities, not at their present, but at their former value."

"Evidently; but, unfortunately, I do not possess any such securities."

"You can purchase them."

The coal-merchant opened his eyes in astonishment. "Excuse me," he muttered, "I don't exactly understand you."

He did not understand in the least; but M. Fortunat enlightened him by opening his safe, and displaying an enormous bundle of stocks and shares which had flooded the country a few years previously, and ruined a great many poor, ignorant fools which were hungering for wealth; among them were shares in the Tifila Mining Company, the Berchem Coal Mines, the Greenland Fisheries, the Mutual Trust and Loan a.s.sociation, and so on. There had been a time when each of these securities would have fetched five hundred or a thousand francs at the Bourse, but now they were not worth the paper on which they were printed.

"Let us suppose, my dear sir," resumed M. Fortunat, "that you had a drawer full of these securities--"

But the other did not allow him to finish. "I see," he exclaimed; "I see-I can sell my stock, and put the proceeds in my pocket with perfect safety. There is enough to represent my capital a thousand times over."

And, in a paroxysm of delight, he added: "Give me enough of these shares to represent a capital of one hundred and twenty thousand francs; and give me some of each kind. I should like my creditors to have a variety."

Thereupon M. Fortunat counted out a pile of these worthless securities as carefully as if he had been handling bank-notes; and his client at the same time drew out his pocketbook.

"How much do I owe you?" he inquired.

"Three thousand francs."

The honest merchant bounded from his chair. "Three thousand francs!" he repeated. "You must be jesting. That trash is not worth a louis."

"I would not even give five francs for it," rejoined M. Fortunat, coldly; "but it is true that I don't desire to purchase these shares in my creditors' interest. With you it is quite a different matter-this trash, as you very justly call it, will save you at least a hundred thousand francs. I ask only three per cent., which is certainly not dear. Still, you know, I don't force any one to purchase them." And, in a terribly significant tone, he added: "You can undoubtedly buy similar securities on better terms; but take care you don't arouse your creditors' suspicions by applying elsewhere."

"He would betray me, the scoundrel!" thought the merchant. And, realizing that he had fallen into a trap, "Here are three thousand francs," he sighed; "but at least, my dear sir, give me good measure, and throw in a few thousand francs more."

The coal-merchant smiled the ghastly smile of a man who sees no way of escape from imposition, and has, therefore, resolved to submit with the best grace possible. But M. Fortunat's gravity did not relax. He gave what he had promised-neither more nor less-in exchange for the bank-notes, and even gravely exclaimed: "See if the amount is correct."

His client pocketed the shares without counting them: but before leaving the room he made his estimable adviser promise to a.s.sist him at the decisive moment, and help him to prepare one of those clear financial statements which make creditors say: "This is an honest man who has been extremely unfortunate."

M. Fortunat was admirably fitted to render this little service; for he devoted such part of his time as was not spent in hunting for missing heirs to difficult liquidations, and he had indeed made bankruptcy a specialty in which he was without a rival. The business was a remunerative one, thanks to the expedient he had revealed to the coal-merchant-an expedient which is common enough nowadays, but of which he might almost be called the inventor. It consisted in compelling the persons who asked for his advice to purchase worthless shares at whatever price he chose to set upon them, and they were forced to submit, under penalty of denunciation and exposure.

The client who followed the coal-merchant proved to be a simple creature, who had called to ask for some advice respecting a slight difficulty between himself and his landlord. M. Fortunat speedily disposed of him, and then, opening the door leading into the outer office, he called: "Cashier!"

A shabbily-dressed man, some thirty-five years of age, at once entered the private sanctum, carrying a money-bag in one hand and a ledger in the other.

"How many debtors were visited yesterday?" inquired M. Fortunat.

"Two hundred and thirty-seven."

"What was the amount collected?"

"Eighty-nine francs."

M. Isidore Fortunat's grimace was expressive of satisfaction. "Not bad," said he, "not at all bad."

Then a singular performance began. M. Fortunat called over the names of his debtors, one by one, and the cashier answered each name by reading a memorandum written against it on the margin of a list he held. "Such a one," said the agent, "and such a one-and such--" Whereupon the cashier replied: "Has paid two francs-was not at home-paid twenty sous-would not pay anything."

How did it happen that M. Fortunat had so many debtors? This question can be easily answered. In settling bankrupts' estates it was easy for him to purchase a large number of debts which were considered worthless, at a trifling cost, and he reaped a bountiful harvest on a field which would have yielded nothing to another person. It was not because he was rigorous in his demands; he conquered by patience, gentleness, and politeness, but also by unwearying perseverance and tenacity. When he decided that a debtor was to pay him a certain sum, it was paid. He never relaxed in his efforts. Every other day some one was sent to visit the debtor, to follow him, and hara.s.s him; he was surrounded by M. Fortunat's agents; they pursued him to his office, shop, or cafe-everywhere, continually, incessantly-and always with the most perfect urbanity. At last even the most determined succ.u.mbed; to escape this frightful persecution, they, somehow or other, found the money to satisfy M. Fortunat's claim. Besides Victor Chupin, he had five other agents whose business it was to visit these poor wretches. A list was a.s.signed to each man every morning; and when evening came, he made his report to the cashier, who in turn reported to his employer. This branch of industry added considerably to the profits of M. Fortunat's other business, and was the third and last string to his bow.

The report proceeded as usual, but it was quite evident that M. Fortunat's thoughts were elsewhere. He paused each moment to listen eagerly for the slightest sound outside, for before receiving the coal-merchant he had told Victor Chupin to run to the Rue de Courcelles and ask M. Casimir for news of the Count de Chalusse. He had done this more than an hour before; and Victor Chupin, who was usually so prompt, had not yet made his appearance.

At last, however, he returned, whereupon M. Fortunat dismissed the cashier, and addressed his messenger: "Well?" he asked.

"He is no longer living. They think he died without a will, and that the pretty young lady will be turned out of the house."

This information agreed so perfectly with M. Fortunat's presentiments that he did not even wince, but calmly asked: "Will Casimir keep his appointment?"

"He told me that he would endeavor to come, and I'd wager a hundred to one that he will be there; he would travel ten leagues to put something good into his stomach."

M. Fortunat's opinion coincided with Chupin's. "Very well," said he. "Only you were a long time on the road, Victor."

"That's true, m'sieur; but I had a little matter of my own to attend to-a matter of a hundred francs, if you please."

M. Fortunat knit his brows angrily. "It's only right to attend to business," said he; "but you think too much of money, Victor-altogether too much. You are insatiable."

The young man proudly lifted his head, and with an air of importance, replied: "I have so many responsibilities--"

"Responsibilities!-you?"

"Yes, indeed, m'sieur. And why not? My poor, good mother hasn't been able to work for a year, and who would care for her if I didn't? Certainly not my father, the good-for-nothing scamp, who squandered all the Duke de Sairmeuse's money without giving us a sou of it. Besides, I'm like other men, I'm anxious to be rich, and enjoy myself. I should like to ride in my carriage like other people do. And whenever a gamin, such as I was once, opened the door for ME, I should put a five-franc piece in his hand--"