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TITLE: THE COUNT'S MILLIONS
AUTHOR: EMILE GABORIAU
EBOOK: E01557 (O'Briens Book Cellar)

THE COUNT'S MILLIONS

Translated from the French of
EMILE GABORIAU

A novel in two parts.  Part Two of this novel is found in the volume:
Baron Trigault's Vengeance

PASCAL AND MARGUERITE.

1.

It was a Thursday evening, the fifteenth of October; and although
only half-past six o'clock, it had been dark for some time
already.  The weather was cold, and the sky was as black as ink,
while the wind blew tempestuously, and the rain fell in torrents.

The servants at the Hotel de Chalusse, one of the most magnificent
mansions in the Rue de Courcelles in Paris, were assembled in the
porter's lodge, a little building comprising a couple of rooms
standing on the right hand side of the great gateway.  Here, as in
all large mansions, the "concierge" or porter, M. Bourigeau, was a
person of immense importance, always able and disposed to make any
one who was inclined to doubt his authority, feel it in cruel
fashion.  As could be easily seen, he held all the other servants
in his power.  He could let them absent themselves without leave,
if he chose, and conceal all returns late at night after the
closing of public balls and wine-shops.  Thus, it is needless to
say that M. Bourigeau and his wife were treated by their fellow-
servants with the most servile adulation.

The owner of the house was not at home that evening, so that M.
Casimir, the count's head valet, was serving coffee for the
benefit of all the retainers.  And while the company sipped the
fragrant beverage which had been generously tinctured with cognac,
provided by the butler, they all united in abusing their common
enemy, the master of the house.  For the time being, a pert little
waiting-maid, with an odious turn-up nose, had the floor.  She was
addressing her remarks to a big, burly, and rather insolent-
looking fellow, who had been added only the evening before to the
corps of footmen.  "The place is really intolerable," she was
saying.  "The wages are high, the food of the very best, the
livery just such as would show off a good-looking man to the best
advantage, and Madame Leon, the housekeeper, who has entire charge
of everything, is not too lynx-eyed."

"And the work?"

"A mere nothing.  Think, there are eighteen of us to serve only
two persons, the count and Mademoiselle Marguerite.  But then
there is never any pleasure, never any amusement here."

"What! is one bored then?"

"Bored to death.  This grand house is worse than a tomb.  No
receptions, no dinners--nothing.  Would you believe it, I have
never seen the reception-rooms! They are always closed; and the
furniture is dropping to pieces under its coverings.  There are
not three visitors in the course of a month."

She was evidently incensed, and the new footman seemed to share
her indignation.  "Why, how is it?" he exclaimed.  "Is the count
an owl?  A man who's not yet fifty years old, and who's said to be
worth several millions."

"Yes, millions; you may safely say it--and perhaps ten, perhaps
twenty millions too."

"Then all the more reason why there should be something going on
here.  What does he do with himself alone, all the blessed day?"

"Nothing.  He reads in the library, or wanders about the garden. 
Sometimes, in the evening, he drives with Mademoiselle Marguerite
to the Bois de Boulogne in a closed carriage; but that seldom
happens.  Besides, there is no such thing as teasing the poor man. 
I've been in the house for six months, and I've never heard him
say anything but: 'yes'; 'no'; 'do this'; 'very well'; 'retire.'
You would think these are the only words he knows.  Ask M. Casimir
if I'm not right."

"Our guv'nor isn't very gay, that's a fact," responded the valet.

The footman was listening with a serious air, as if greatly
interested in the character of the people whom he was to serve. 
"And mademoiselle," he asked, "what does she say to such an
existence?"

"Bless me! during the six months she has been here, she has never
once complained."

"If she is bored," added M. Casimir, "she conceals it bravely."

"Naturally enough," sneered the waiting-maid, with an ironical
gesture; "each month that mademoiselle remains here, brings her
too much money for her to complain."

By the laugh that greeted this reply, and by the looks the older
servants exchanged, the new-comer must have realized that he had
discovered the secret skeleton hidden in every house.  "What!
what!" he exclaimed, on fire with curiosity; "is there really
anything in that?  To tell the truth, I was inclined to doubt it."

His companions were evidently about to tell him all they knew, or
rather all they thought they knew, when the front-door bell rang
vigorously.

"There he comes!" exclaimed the concierge; "but he's in too much
of a hurry; hell have to wait awhile."

He sullenly pulled the cord, however; the heavy door swayed on its
hinges, and a cab-driver, breathless and hatless, burst into the
room, crying, "Help! help!"

The servants sprang to their feet.

"Make haste!" continued the driver.  "I was bringing a gentleman
here--you must know him. He's outside, in my vehicle----"

Without pausing to listen any longer, the servants rushed out, and
the driver's incoherent explanation at once became intelligible. 
At the bottom of the cab, a roomy four-wheeler, a man was lying
all of a heap, speechless and motionless.  He must have fallen
forward, face downward, and owing to the jolting of the vehicle
his head had slipped under the front seat.

"Poor devil!" muttered M. Casimir, "he must have had a stroke of
apoplexy." The valet was peering into the vehicle as he spoke, and
his comrades were approaching, when suddenly he drew back,
uttering a cry of horror.  "Ah, my God! it is the count!"

Whenever there is an accident in Paris, a throng of inquisitive
spectators seems to spring up from the very pavement, and indeed
more than fifty persons had already congregated round about the
vehicle.  This circumstance restored M. Casimir's composure; or,
at least, some portion of it.  "You must drive into the
courtyard," he said, addressing the cabman.  "M. Bourigeau, open
the gate, if you please." And then, turning to another servant, he
added:

"And you must make haste and fetch a physician--no matter who. 
Run to the nearest doctor, and don't return until you bring one
with you."

The concierge had opened the gate, but the driver had disappeared;
they called him, and on receiving no reply the valet seized the
reins and skilfully guided the cab through the gateway.

Having escaped the scrutiny of the crowd, it now remained to
remove the count from the vehicle, and this was a difficult task,
on account of the singular position of his body; still, they
succeeded at last, by opening both doors of the cab, the three
strongest men uniting in their efforts.  Then they placed him in a
large arm-chair, carried him to his own room, and speedily had him
undressed and in bed.

He had so far given no sign of life; and as he lay there with his
head weighing heavily on the pillow, you might have thought that
all was over.  His most intimate friend would scarcely have
recognized him. His features were swollen and discolored; his eyes
were closed, and a dark purple circle, looking almost like a
terrible bruise, extended round them. A spasm had twisted his
lips, and his distorted mouth, which was drawn on one side and
hung half open imparted a most sinister expression to his face. 
In spite of every precaution, he had been wounded as he was
removed from the cab.  His forehead had been grazed by a piece of
iron, and a tiny stream of blood was trickling down upon his face. 
However, he still breathed; and by listening attentively, one
could distinguish a faint rattling in his throat.

The servants, who had been so garrulous a few moments before, were
silent now.  They lingered in the room, exchanging glances of mute
consternation.  Their faces were pale and sad, and there were
tears in the eyes of some of them. What was passing in their
minds?  Perhaps they were overcome by that unconquerable fear
which sudden and unexpected death always provokes.  Perhaps they
unconsciously loved this master, whose bread they ate.  Perhaps
their grief was only selfishness, and they were merely wondering
what would become of them, where they should find another
situation, and if it would prove a good one.  Not knowing what to
do, they talked together in subdued voices, each suggesting some
remedy he had heard spoken of for such cases.  The more sensible
among them were proposing to go and inform mademoiselle or Madame
Leon, whose rooms were on the floor above, when the rustling of a
skirt against the door suddenly made them turn.  The person whom
they called "mademoiselle" was standing on the threshold.

Mademoiselle Marguerite was a beautiful young girl, about twenty
years of age.  She was a brunette of medium height, with big
gloomy eyes shaded by thick eyebrows.  Heavy masses of jet-black
hair wreathed her lofty but rather sad and thoughtful forehead. 
There was something peculiar in her face--an expression of
concentrated suffering, and a sort of proud resignation, mingled
with timidity.

"What has happened?" she asked, gently.  "What is the cause of all
the noise I have heard?  I have rung three times and the bell was
not answered."

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