The poor woman--she was a widow--sold all she
possessed, even the bed on which she slept, and when she had
succeeded in gathering together twenty thousand francs--the ransom
of her son's honor--she carried them to the banker by whom her boy
had been employed. He took them, without even asking the mother
if she had enough left to purchase her dinner that evening; and
the fine gentleman, who had won and pocketed Jules Chazel's stolen
gold, thought the banker's conduct perfectly natural and just. It
is true that Madame d'Argeles was in despair during forty-eight
hours or so; for the police had begun a sort of investigation, and
she feared this might frighten her visitors and empty her drawing-
rooms. Not at all, however; on the contrary, she had good cause
to congratulate herself upon the notoriety she gained through this
suicide. For five days she was the talk of Paris, and Alfred
d'Aunay even published her portrait in the Illustrated Chronicle.
Still, no one was able to say exactly who Madame Lia d'Argeles
was. Who was she, and whence did she come? How had she lived
until she sprang up, full grown, in the sunshine of the
fashionable world? Did the splendid mansion in the Rue de Berry
really belong to her? Was she as rich as she was supposed to be?
Where had she acquired such manners, the manners of a thorough
woman of the world, with her many accomplishments, as well as her
remarkable skill as a musician? Everything connected with her was
a subject of conjecture, even to the name inscribed upon her
visiting cards--"Lia d'Argeles.
Pages:
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102