“For three years my husband has been watching your steward for the purpose of depriving him of his place.—We are outspoken, you see. Moreau has made us his enemies, and we have kept our eyes open. I have come therefore to tell you that you are being tricked in this business of the Moulineaux farm lands. You are to be cheated of a hundred thousand francs, which will be shared between the notary, Léger, and Moreau. You have given orders that Margueron is to be asked to dinner, and you intend to go to Presles tomorrow; but Margueron will be ill, and Léger is so confident of getting the farm that he is in Paris realizing enough capital. As we have enlightened you, if you want an honest agent, engage my husband. Though of noble birth, he will serve you as he served his country. Your steward has made and saved two hundred and fifty thousand francs, so he is not to be pitied.”
The Count thanked Madame de Reybert very coldly and answered her with empty speeches, for he detested an informer; still, as he remembered Derville’s suspicions, he was shaken in his mind, and then his eye fell on Moreau’s letter; he read it, and in those assurances of devotion, and the respectful remonstrances as to the want of confidence implied by his intention of conducting this business himself, he saw the truth about Moreau.
“Corruption has come with wealth, as usual,” said he to himself.
He had questioned Madame de Reybert less to ascertain the details than to give himself time to study her, and he had then written a line to his notary to desire him not to send his clerk to Presles, but to go there himself and meet him at dinner.
“If you should have formed a bad opinion of me, Monsieur le Comte, for the step I have taken unknown to my husband,” said Madame Reybert in conclusion, “you must at least be convinced that we have obtained our knowledge as concerning your steward by perfectly natural means; the most sensitive conscience can find nothing to blame us for.”
Madame de Reybert née de Corroy held herself as straight as a pikestaff.
The Count’s rapid survey took in a face pitted by the smallpox till it looked like a colander, a lean, flat figure, a pair of eager, light-colored eyes, fair curls flattened on an anxious brow, a faded green silk bonnet lined with pink, a white stuff dress with lilac spots, and kid shoes. Monsieur de Sérizy discerned in her the wife of the poor gentleman; some Puritanical soul subscribing to the Courrier Français, glowing with virtue, but very well aware of the advantages of a fixed place, and coveting it.
“A pension of six hundred francs, you said?” replied the Count, answering himself rather than Madame de Reybert’s communication.
“Yes, Monsieur le Comte.”
“You were a de Corroy?”
“Yes, monsieur, of a noble family of the Messin country, my husband’s country.”
“And in what regiment was Monsieur de Reybert?”
“In the 7th Artillery.”
“Good!” said the Count, writing down the number.
He thought he might very well place the management of the estate in the hands of a retired officer, concerning whom he could get the fullest information at the War Office.
“Madame,” he went on, ringing for his valet, “return to Presles with my notary, who is to arrange to dine there tonight, and to whom I have written a line of introduction; this is his address. I am going to Presles myself, but secretly, and will let Monsieur de Reybert know where to call on me.”
So it was not a false alarm that had startled Pierrotin with the news of Monsieur de Sérizy’s journey in a public chaise, and the warning to keep his name a secret; he foresaw imminent danger about to fall on one of his best customers.
On coming out of the café, Pierrotin perceived, at the gate of the Silver Lion, the woman and youth whom his acumen had recognized as travelers; for the lady, with outstretched neck and an anxious face, was evidently looking for him. This lady, in a re-dyed black silk, a gray bonnet, and an old French cashmere shawl, shod in openwork silk stockings and kid shoes, held a flat straw basket and a bright blue umbrella. She had once been handsome, and now looked about forty; and her blue eyes, bereft of the sparkle that happiness might have given them, showed that she had long since renounced the world. Her dress no less than her person betrayed a mother entirely given up to her housekeeping and her son. If the bonnet-strings were shabby, the shape of it dated from three years back. Her shawl was fastened with a large broken needle, converted into a pin by means of a head of sealing-wax.
This person was impatiently awaiting Pierrotin to commend her son to his care; the lad was probably traveling alone for the first time, and she had accompanied him as far as the coach office, as much out of mistrust as out of motherly devotion. The son was in a way supplementary to his mother; and without the mother the son would have seemed less comprehensible. While the mother was content to display darned gloves, the son wore an olive-green overcoat, with sleeves rather short at the wrists, showing that he was still growing, as lads do between eighteen and nineteen. And his blue trousers, mended by the mother, showed that they had been new-seated whenever the tails of his coat parted maliciously behind.
“Do not twist your gloves up in that way,” she was saying
