De Mussidan, when he read the name on the card, turned ghastly pale.
“Show him into the library,” said he curtly.
Florestan left the room, and the Count mutely handed the card to his wife, but she had no need to read it.
“I can tell what it is,” gasped she.
“The day for settling accounts has come,” said the Count, “and this name is the fatal sign.”
The Countess flung herself upon her knees, and taking the hand that hung placidly by his side, pressed her lips tenderly to it.
“Forgive me, Octave!” she muttered. “Will you not forgive me? I am a miserable wretch, and why did not Heaven punish me for the sins that I have committed, and not make others expiate my offences?”
The Count put her gently aside. He suffered intensely, and yet no word of reproach escaped his lips against the woman who had ruined his whole life.
“And Sabine,” she went on, “must she, a De Mussidan, marry one of these wretched scoundrels?”
Sabine was the only one in the room who preserved her calmness; she had so schooled herself that her distress of mind was not apparent to the outward eye.
“Do not make yourselves miserable,” said she, with a faint smile; “how do we know that M. de Croisenois may not make me an excellent husband after all?”
The Count gazed upon his daughter with a look of the fondest affection and gratitude.
“Dearest Sabine!” murmured he. Her fortitude had restored his self-command. “Let us be outwardly resigned,” said he, “whatever our feelings may be. Time may do much for us, and at the very church door we may find means of escape.”
XXVII
A Cruel Slur
Florestan had conducted Tantaine to the sumptuous library, in which the Count had received Mascarin’s visit; and, to pass away the time, the old man took a mental inventory of the contents of the room. He tried the texture of the curtains, looked at the handsome bindings of the books, and admired the magnificent bronzes on the mantelpiece.
“Aha,” muttered he, as he tried the springs of a luxurious armchair, “everything is of the best, and when matters are settled, I half think that I should like a resting-place just like this—”
He checked himself, for the door opened, and the Count made his appearance, calm and dignified, but very pale. Tantaine made a low bow, pressing his greasy hat against his breast.
“Your humble servant to command,” said he.
The Count had come to a sudden halt.
“Excuse me,” said he, “but did you send up a card asking for an interview?”
“I am not Mascarin certainly, but I used that highly respectable gentleman’s name, because I knew that my own was totally unknown to you. I am Tantaine, Adrien Tantaine.”
M. de Mussidan gazed with extreme surprise upon the squalid individual before him. His mild and benevolent face inspired confidence, and yet he doubted him.
“I have come on the same business,” pursued the old man. “I have been ordered to tell you that it must be hurried on.”
The Count hastily closed the door and locked it; the manner of this man made him feel even too plainly the ignominy of his position.
“I understand,” answered he. “But how is it that you have come, and not the other one?”
“He intended to come; but at the last moment he drew back; Mascarin, you see, has a great deal to lose, while I—” He paused, and holding up the tattered tails of his coat, turned round, as though to exhibit his shabby attire. “All my property is on my back,” continued he.
“Then I can treat with you?” asked the Count.
Tantaine nodded his head. “Yes, Count, I have the missing leaves from the Baron’s journal, and also, well—I suppose you know everything, all of your wife’s correspondence.”
“Enough,” answered the Count, unable to hide his disgust. “Sit down.”
“Now, Count, I will go to the point—are you going to put the police on us?”
“I have said that I would do nothing of the kind.”
“Then we can get to business.”
“Yes, if—”
The old man shrugged his shoulders.
“There is no ‘if’ in the case,” returned he. “We state our conditions, for acceptance or rejection.”
These words were uttered in a tone of such extreme insolence that the Count was strongly tempted to hurl the extortionate scoundrel from the window, but he contrived to restrain his passion.
“Let us hear the conditions then,” said he impatiently.
Tantaine extracted from some hidden recess of his coat a much-worn pocketbook, and drew from it a paper.
“Here are our conditions,” returned he slowly. “The Count de Mussidan promises to give the hand of his daughter to Henri Marquis de Croisenois. He will give his daughter a wedding portion of six hundred thousand francs, and promises that the marriage shall take place without delay. The Marquis de Croisenois will be formally introduced at your house, and he must be cordially received. Four days afterwards he must be asked to dinner. On the fifteenth day from that M. de Mussidan will give a grand ball in honor of the signing of the marriage contract. The leaves from the diary and the whole of the correspondence will be handed to M. de Mussidan as soon as the civil ceremony is completed.”
With firmly compressed lips and clenched hands, the Count sat listening to these conditions.
“And who can tell me,” said he, “that you will keep your engagements, and that these papers will be restored to me at all?”
Tantaine looked at him with a air of pity.
“Your own good sense,” answered he. “What more could we expect to get out of you than your daughter and your money?”
The Count did not answer, but paced up and down the room, eyeing the ambassador keenly, and endeavoring to detect some weak point in his manner of cynicism and audacity. Then speaking in the calm tone of a man who had made up
