Ever since Mascarin’s visit, the Count de Mussidan had been in a deplorable state of mind. Forgetting the injury to his foot, he passed the night pacing up and down the library, cudgelling his brains for some means of breaking the meshes of the net in which he was entangled. He knew the necessity for immediate action, for he felt sure that this demand would only be the forerunner of numerous others of a similar character. He thought over and dismissed many schemes. Sometimes he had almost decided to go to the police authorities and make a clean breast; then the idea of placing the affair in the hands of a private detective occurred to him; but the more he deliberated, the more he realized the strength of the cord that bound him, and the scandal which exposure would cause. This long course of thought had in some measure softened the bitterness of his wrath, and he was able to receive his old friend M. de Clinchain with some degree of calmness. He was not at all surprised at the receipt of the anonymous letter,—indeed, he had expected that a blow would be struck in that direction. Still immersed in thought, M. de Mussidan hardly took heed of his wife’s presence, and he still paced the room, uttering a string of broken phrases. This excited the attention of the Countess, for her own threatened position caused her to be on the alert.
“What is annoying you, Octave?” asked she. “Surely, not M. de Clinchain’s attack of indigestion?”
For many years the Count had been accustomed to that taunting and sarcastic voice, but this feeble joke at such a moment was more than he could endure.
“Don’t address me in that manner,” said he angrily.
“What is the matter—are you not well?”
“Madame!”
“Will you have the kindness to tell me what has taken place?”
The color suffused the Count’s face, and his rage burst forth the more furiously from his having had to suppress it so long; and coming to a halt before the chair in which the Countess was lounging, his eyes blazing with hate and anger, he exclaimed,—
“All I wish to tell you is, that De Breulh-Faverlay shall not marry our daughter.”
Madame de Mussidan was secretly delighted at this reply, for it showed her that half the task required of her by Dr. Hortebise had been accomplished without her interference; but in order to act cautiously, she began at once to object, for a woman’s way is always at first to oppose what she most desires.
“You are laughing at me, Count!” said she. “Where can we hope to find so good a match again?”
“You need not be afraid,” returned the Count, with a sneer; “you shall have another son-in-law.”
These words sent a pang through the heart of the Countess. Was it an allusion to the past? or had the phrase dropped from her husband’s lips accidentally? or had he any suspicion of the influence that had been brought to bear upon her? She, however, had plenty of courage, and would rather meet misfortune face to face than await its coming in dread.
“Of what other son-in-law are you speaking?” asked she negligently. “Has any other suitor presented himself? May I ask his name? Do you intend to settle my child’s future without consulting me?”
“I do, madame.”
A contemptuous smile crossed the face of the Countess, which goaded the Count to fury.
“Am I not the master here?” exclaimed he in accents of intense rage. “Am I not driven to the exercise of my power by the menaces of a pack of villains who have wormed out the hidden secrets which have overshadowed my life from my youth upward? They can, if they desire, drag my name through the mire of infamy.”
Madame de Mussidan bounded to her feet, asking herself whether her husband’s intellect had not given way.
“You commit a crime!” gasped she.
“I, madame, I myself! Does that surprise you? Have you never had any suspicion? Perhaps you have not forgotten a fatal accident which took place out shooting, and darkened the earlier years of our married life? Well, the thing was not an accident, but a deliberate murder committed by me. Yes, I murdered him, and this fact is known, and can be proved.”
The Countess grew deadly pale, and extended her hand, as though to guard herself from some coming danger.
“You are horrified, are you?” continued the Count, with a sneer. “Perhaps I inspire you with horror; but do not fear; the blood is no longer on my hands, but it is here, and is choking me.” And as he spoke he pressed his fingers upon his heart. “For twenty-three years I have endured this hideous recollection and even now when I wake in the night I am bathed in cold sweat, for I fancy I can hear the last gasps of the unhappy man.”
“This is horrible, too horrible!” murmured Madame de Mussidan faintly.
“Ah, but you do not know why I killed him,—it was because the dead man had dared to tell me that the wife I adored with all the passion of my soul was unfaithful to me.”
Words of eager denial rose to the lips of the Countess; but her husband went on coldly, “And it was all true, for I heard all later on.
“Poor Montlouis!hewas really loved. There was a little shop-girl, who toiled hard for daily bread, but she was a thousand times more honorable than the haughty woman of noble race that I had just married.”
“Have mercy, Octave.”
“Yes, and she fell a victim to her love for Montlouis. Had he lived, he would have made her his wife. After his death, she could no longer conceal her fault. In small towns the people are without mercy; and when she left the hospital with her baby at her breast, the women pelted her with mud. But for me,” continued the Count, “she would have died of hunger. Poor girl! I did not allow her much, but with it she managed to give her son a decent education. He has now grown up, and whatever happens, his future is safe.”
Had M. de Mussidan and his wife been less deeply engaged in this hideous recital, they would have heard the stifled sobs that came from the adjoining room.
The Count felt a certain kind of savage pleasure in venting the rage, that had for years been suppressed, upon the shrinking woman before him. “Would it not be a cruel injustice, madame, to draw a comparison between you and this unhappy girl? Have you always been deaf to the whisperings of conscience? and have you never thought of the future punishment which most certainly awaits you? for you have failed in the duties of daughter, wife, and mother.”
Generally the Countess cared little for her husband’s reproaches, well deserved as they might be, but to-day she quailed before him.
“With your entrance into my life,” continued the Count, “came shame and misfortune. When people saw you so gay and careless under the oak-trees of your ancestral home, who could have suspected that your heart contained a dark secret? When my only wish was to win you for my wife, how did I know that you were weaving a hideous conspiracy against me? Even when so young, you were a monster of dissimulation and hypocrisy. Guilt never overshadowed your brow, nor did falsehood dim the frankness of your eyes. On the day of our marriage I mentally reproached myself for any unworthiness. Wretched fool that I was, I was happy beyond all power of expression, when you, madame, completed the measure of your guilt by adding infidelity to it.”
“It is false,” murmured the Countess. “You have been deceived.”
M. de Mussidan laughed a grim and terrible laugh.
“Not so,” answered he; “I have every proof. This seems strange to you, does it? You have always looked upon me as one of those foolish husbands that may be duped without suspicion on their parts. You thought that you had placed a veil over my eyes, but I could see through it when you little suspected that I could do so. Why did I not tell you this before? Because I had not ceased to love you, and this fatal love was stronger than all honor, pride, and even self-respect.” He poured out this tirade with inconceivable rapidity, and the Countess listened to it in awe-struck silence. “I kept silence,” continued the Count, “because I knew that on the day I uttered the truth you would be entirely lost to me. I might have killed you; I had every right to do so, but I could not live apart from you. You will never know how near the shadow of death has been to you. When I have kissed you, I have fancied that your lips were soiled with the kisses of others, and I could hardly keep my hands from clutching your ivory neck until life was extinct, and failed utterly to decide whether I loved you or hated you the most.”
“Have mercy, Octave! have mercy!” pleaded the unhappy woman.
“You are surprised, I can see,” answered he, with a dark smile; “yet I could give you further food for wonder if I pleased, but I have said enough now.”
A tremor passed over the frame of the Countess. Was her husband acquainted with the existence of the letters? All hinged upon this. He could not have read them, or he would have spoken in very different terms, had he known the mystery contained in them.
“Let me speak,” began she.
“Not a word,” replied her husband.
“On my honor—”
“All is ended; but I must not forget to tell you of one of my youthful follies. You may laugh at it, but that signifies nothing. I actually believed that I could gain your affection. I said to myself that one day you would be moved by my deep passion for you. I was a fool. As if love or affection could ever penetrate the icy barriers that guarded your heart.”
“You have no pity,” wailed she.
He gazed upon her with eyes in which the pent-up anger of twenty years blazed and consumed slowly. “And you, what are you? I drained to the bottom the poisoned cup held out to a deceived husband by an unfaithful wife. Each day widened the breach between us, until at last we sank into this miserable existence which is wearing out my life. I kept no watch on you; I was not made for a jailer. What I wanted was your soul and heart. To imprison the body was easy, but your soul would still have been free to wander in imagination to the meeting-place where your lover expected you. I know not how I had the courage to remain by your side. It was not to save an honor that had already gone, but merely to keep up appearances; for as long as we were nominally together the tongue of scandal was forced to remain silent.”
Again the unhappy woman attempted to protest her innocence, and again the Count paid no heed to her. “I wished too,” resumed he, “to save some portion of our property, for your insatiable extravagance swallowed up all like a bottomless abyss. At last your trades-people, believing me to be ruined, refused you credit, and this saved me. I had my daughter to think of, and have gathered together a rich dowry for her, and yet——” he hesitated, and ceased speaking for a moment.
“And yet,” repeated Madame de Mussidan.
“I have never kissed her,” he burst forth with a fresh and terrible explosion of wrath, “without feeling a hideous doubt as to whether she was really my child.”
This was more than the Countess could endure.
“Enough,” she cried, “enough! I have been guilty, Octave; but not so guilty as you imagine.”
“Why do you venture to defend yourself?”
“Because it is my duty to guard Sabine.”
“You should have thought of this earlier,” answered the Count with a sneer. “You should have moulded her mind—have taught her what was noble and good, and have perused the unsullied pages of the book of her young heart.”
In the deepest agitation the Countess answered,—
“Ah, Octave, why did you not speak of this sooner, if you knew all; but I will now tell you everything.”
By an inconceivable error of judgment the Count corrected her speech. “Spare us both,” said he. “If I have broken through the silence that I have maintained for many a year, it is because I knew that no word you could utter would touch my heart.”
Feeling that all hope had fled, Madame de Mussidan fell backward upon the couch, while Sabine, unable to listen to any more terrible revelations, had crept into her own chamber. The Count was about to leave the drawing-room, when a servant entered, bearing a letter on a silver salver. De Mussidan tore it open; it was from M. de Breulh-Faverlay, asking to be released from his engagement to Sabine de Mussidan. This last stroke was almost too much for the Count’s nerves, for in this act he saw the hand of the man who had come to him with such deadly threats, and terror filled his soul as he thought of the far-stretching arm of him whose bondslave he found himself to be; but before he could collect his thoughts, his daughter’s maid went into the room crying with all her might, “Help, help; my poor mistress is dying!”
Van Klopen, the man-milliner, knew Paris and its people thoroughly like all tradesmen who are in the habit of giving large credit. He knew all about the business of his customers, and never forgot an item of information when he received one. Thus, when Mascarin spoke to him about the father of the lovely Flavia, whose charms had set the susceptible heart of Paul Violaine in a blaze, the arbiter of fashion had replied,—
“Martin Rigal; yes, I know him; he is a banker.” And a banker, indeed, Martin Rigal was, dwelling in a magnificent house in the Rue Montmartre. The bank was on the ground floor, while his private rooms were in the story above. Though he did not do business in a very large way, yet he was a most respectable man, and his connection was chiefly with the smaller trades-people, who seem to live a strange kind of hand-to-mouth existence, and who might be happy were it not for the constant reappearance of that grim phantom—bills to be met. Nearly all these persons were in the banker’s hands entirely. Martin Rigal used his power despotically and permitted no arguments, and speedily quelled rebellion on the part of any new customer who ventured to object to his arbitrary rules. In the morning the banker was never to be seen, being engaged in his private office, and not a clerk would venture to knock at his door. Even had one done so, no reply would have been returned; for the experiment had been tried, and it was believed that nothing short of an alarm of fire would have brought him out.
The banker was a big man, quite bald, his face was clean shaved, and his little gray eyes twinkled incessantly. His manner was charmingly courteous, and he said the most cruel things in the most honied accents, and invariably escorted to the door the man whom he would sell up the next day. In his dress he affected a fashionable style, much used by the modern school of Shylocks. When not in business, he was a pleasant, and, as some say, a witty companion. He was not looked on as an ascetic, and did not despise those little pleasures which enable us to sustain life’s tortuous journey. He liked a good dinner, and had always a smile ready for a young and attractive face. He was a widower, and all his love was concentrated on his daughter. He did not keep a very extravagant establishment, but the report in the neighborhood was that Mademoiselle Flavia, the daughter of the eminent banker, would one day come into millions. The banker always did his business on foot, for the sake of his health, as he said; but Flavia had a sweet little Victoria, drawn by two thoroughbred horses, to drive in the Bois de Boulogne, under the protection of an old woman, half companion and half servant, who was driven half mad by her charge’s caprices. As yet her father has never denied her anything. He worked harder than all his clerks put together, for, after having spent the morning in his counting house over his papers, he received all business clients.
On the day after Flavia and Paul Violaine had met at Van Klopen’s, M. Martin Rigal was, at about half-past five, closeted with one of his female clients. She was young, very pretty, and dressed with simple elegance, but the expression of her face was profoundly melancholy. Her eyes were overflowing with tears, which she made vain efforts to restrain.
“If you refuse to renew our bill, sir, we are ruined,” said she. “I could meet it in January. I have sold all my trinkets, and we are existing on credit.”
“Poor little thing!” interrupted the banker.
Her hopes grew under these words of pity.
“And yet,” continued she, “business has never been so brisk. New customers are constantly coming in, and though our profits are small, the returns are rapid.”
As Martin Rigal heard her exposition of the state of affairs, he nodded gravely.
“That is all very well,” said he at last, “but this does not make the security you offer me of any more value. I have more confidence in you.”
“But remember, sir, that we have thirty thousand francs’ worth of stock.”
“That is not what I was alluding to,” and the banker accompanied these words with so meaning a look, that the poor woman blushed scarlet and almost lost her nerve. “Your stock,” said he, “is of no more value in my eyes than the bill you offer me. Suppose, for instance, you were to become bankrupt, the landlord might come down upon everything, for he has great power.”
He broke off abruptly, for Flavia’s maid, as a privileged person, entered the room without knocking.
“Sir,” said she, “my mistress wishes to see you at once.”
The banker got up directly. “I am coming,” said he; then, taking the hand of his client, he led her to the door, repeating: “Do not worry yourself; all the difficulties shall be got through. Come again, and we will talk them over;” and before she could thank him he was half way to his daughter’s apartment. Flavia had summoned her father to show him a new costume which had just been sent home by Van Klopen, and which pleased her greatly. Flavia’s costume was a masterpiece of fashionable bad taste, which makes women look all alike and destroys all appearance of individuality. It was a mass of frills, furbelows, fringes, and flutings of rare hue and form, making a series of wonderful contrasts. Standing in the middle of the room, with every available candle alight, for the day was fading away, she was so dainty and pretty that even thebizarredress of Van Klopen’s was unable to spoil her appearance. As she turned round, she caught sight of her father in a mirror, panting with the haste he had made in running upstairs.
“What a time you have been!” said she pettishly.
“I was with a client,” returned he apologetically.
“You ought to have got rid of him at once. But never mind that; look at me and tell me plainly what you think of me.”
She had no need to put the question, for the most intense admiration beamed in his face.
“Exquisite, delicious, heavenly!” answered he.
Flavia, accustomed as she was to her father’s compliments, was highly delighted. “Then you think that he will like me?” asked she.
She alluded to Paul Violaine, and the banker heaved a deep sigh as he replied,—
“Is it possible that any human being exists that you cannot please?”
“Ah!” mused she, “if it were any one but he, I should have no doubts or misgivings.”
Martin Rigal took a seat near the fire, and, drawing his daughter to him, pressed a fond kiss upon her brow, while she with the grace and activity of a cat, nestled upon his knee. “Suppose, after all, that he should not like me,” murmured she; “I should die of grief.”
The banker turned away his face to hide the gloom that overspread it. “Do you love him, then, even now?” asked he.
She paused for a moment, and he added, “More than you do me?”
Flavia pressed her father’s hand between both her palms and answered with a musical laugh, “How silly you are, papa! Why, of course I love you. Are you not my father? I love you too because you are kind and do all I wish, and because you are always telling me that you love me. Because you are like the cupids in the fairy stories—dear old people who give their children all their heart’s desire; I love you for my carriage, my horses, and my lovely dresses; for my purse filled with gold, for my beautiful jewelry, and for all the lovely presents you make me.”
Every word she spoke betrayed the utter selfishness of her soul, and yet her father listened with a fixed smile of delight on his face.
“And why do you love him?” asked he.
“Because—because,” stammered the girl, “first, because he is himself; and then,—well, I can’t say, but Idolove him.”
Her accents betrayed such depth of passion that the father uttered a groan of anguish.
Flavia caught the expression of his features, and burst into a fit of laughter.
“I really believe that you are jealous,” said she, as if she were speaking to a spoiled child. “That is very naughty of you; you ought to be ashamed of yourself. I tell you that the first time I set eyes upon him at Van Klopen’s, I felt a thrill of love pierce through my heart, such love as I never felt for a human being before. Since then, I have known no rest. I cannot sleep, and instead of blood, liquid fire seems to come through my veins.”
Martin Rigal raised his eyes to the ceiling in mute surprise at this outburst of feeling.
“You do not understand me,” went on Flavia. “You are the best of fathers, but, after all, you are but a man. Had I a mother, she would comprehend me better.”
“What could your mother have done for you more than I? Have I neglected anything for your happiness?” asked the banker, with a sigh.
“Perhaps nothing; for there are times when I hardly understand my own feelings.”
In gloomy silence the banker listened to the narrative of his daughter’s state of mind; then he said,—
“All shall be as you desire, and the man you love shall be your husband.”
The girl was almost beside herself with joy, and, throwing her arms around his neck, pressed kiss upon kiss on his cheeks and forehead.
“Darling,” said she, “I love you for this more than for anything that you have given me in my life.”
The banker sighed again; and Flavia, shaking her pretty little fist at him, exclaimed, “What is the meaning of that sigh, sir? Do you by any chance regret your promise? But never mind that. How do you mean to bring him here without causing any suspicion?”
A benevolent smile passed over her father’s face, as he answered,—
“That, my pet, is my secret.”
“Very well, keep it; I do not care what means you use, as long as I see him soon, very soon,—to-night perhaps, in an hour, or even in a few minutes. You say Dr. Hortebise will bring him here; he will sit at our table. I can look at him without trouble, I shall hear his voice—”
“Silly little puss!” broke in the banker; “or, rather, I should say, unhappy child.”
“Silly, perhaps; but why should you say unhappy?”
“You love him too fondly, and he will take advantage of your feeling for him.”
“Never; I do not believe it,” answered the girl.
“I hope to heaven, darling, that my fears may never be realized. But he is not the sort of husband that I intended for you; he is a composer.”
“And is that anything against him!” exclaimed Flavia in angry tones; “one would think from your sneers that this was a crime. Not only is he a composer, but he is a genius. I can read that in his face. He may be poor, but I am rich enough for both, and he will owe all to me; so much the better, for then he will not be compelled to give lessons for his livelihood, and he will have leisure to compose an opera more beautiful than any that Gounod has ever written, and I shall share all his glory. Why, perhaps, he may even sing his own songs to me alone.”
Her father noticed her state of feverish excitement and gazed upon her sadly. Flavia’s mother had been removed from this world at the early age of twenty-four by that insidious malady, consumption, which defies modern medical science, and in a brief space changes a beautiful girl into a livid corpse, and the father viewed her excited manner, flushed cheeks, and sparkling eyes with tears and dismay.
“By heavens!” cried he, bursting into a sudden fit of passion; “if ever he ill treats you, he is a dead man.”
The girl was startled at the sudden ferocity of his manner.
“What have I done to make you angry?” asked she; “and why do you have such evil thoughts of him?”
“I tremble for you, in whom my whole soul is wrapped up,” answered the banker. “This man has robbed me of my child’s heart, and you will be happier with him than you are with your poor old father. I tremble because of your inexperience and his weakness, which may prove a source of trouble to you.”
“If he is weak, all the better; my will can guide him.”
“You are wrong,” replied her father, “as many other women have been before you. You believe that weak and vacillating dispositions are easily controlled, but I tell you that this is an error. Only determined characters can be influenced, and it is on substantial foundations that we find support.”
Flavia made no reply, and her father drew her closer to him.
“Listen to me, my child,” said he. “You will never have a better friend than I am. You know that I would shed every drop of blood in my veins for you. He is coming, so search your heart to discover if this is not some mere passing fancy.”
“Father!” cried she.
“Remember that your happiness is in your own hands now, so be careful and conceal your feelings, and do not let him discover how deep your love is for him. Men’s minds are so formed that while they blame a woman for duplicity, they complain far more if she acts openly and allows her feelings to be seen——”
He paused, for the door-bell rang. Flavia’s heart gave a bound of intense joy.
“He has come!” gasped she, and, with a strong effort to retain her composure, she added, “I will obey you, my dear father; I will not come here again until I have entirely regained my composure. Do not fear, and I will show you that your daughter can act a part as well as any other woman.”
She fled from the room as the door opened, but it was not Paul who made his appearance, but some other guests—a stout manufacturer and his wife, the latter gorgeously dressed, but with scarcely a word to say for herself. For this evening the banker had issued invitations to twenty of his friends, and among this number Paul would scarcely be noticed. He in due time made his appearance with Dr. Hortebise, who had volunteered to introduce him into good society. Paul felt ill at ease; he had just come from the hands of a fashionable tailor, who, thanks to Mascarin’s influence, had in forty-eight hours prepared an evening suit of such superior cut that the young man hardly knew himself in it. Paul had suffered a good deal from conflicting emotions after the visit to Van Klopen’s, and more than once regretted the adhesion that he had given to Mascarin’s scheme; but a visit the next day from Hortebise, and the knowledge that the fashionable physician was one of the confederates, had reconciled him to the position he had promised to assume.
He was moreover struck with Flavia’s charms, and dazzled with the accounts of her vast prospective fortune. To him, Hortebise, gay, rich, and careless, seemed the incarnation of happiness, and contributed greatly to stifle the voice of Paul’s conscience. He would, however, perhaps have hesitated had he known what the locket contained that dangled so ostentatiously from the doctor’s chain.
Before they reached the banker’s door, driven in the doctor’s elegant brougham, a similar one to which Paul mentally declared he would have, as soon as circumstances would permit, the young man’s mentor spoke.
“Let me say a few words to you. You have before you a chance which is seldom afforded to any young man, whatever his rank and social standing. Mind that you profit by it.”
“You may be sure I will,” said Paul, with a smile of self-complacency.
“Good, dear boy; but let me fortify your courage with a little of my experience. Do you know what an heiress really is?”
“Well, really——”
“Permit me to continue. An heiress and more so if she is an only child, is generally a very disagreeable person, headstrong, capricious, and puffed up with her own importance. She is utterly spoiled by the flattery to which she has been accustomed from her earliest years, and thinks that all the world is made to bend before her.”
“Ah!” answered Paul, a little discomfited. “I hope it is not Mademoiselle Flavia’s portrait that you have been sketching?”
“Not exactly,” answered the doctor, with a laugh. “But I must warn you that even she has certain whims and fancies. For instance, I am quite sure that she would give a suitor every encouragement, and then repulse him without rhyme or reason.”
Paul, who up to this time had only seen the bright side of affairs, was a good deal disconcerted.
“Buy why should you introduce me to her then?”
“In order that you may win her. Have you not everything to insure success? She will most likely receive you with the utmost cordiality; but beware of being too sanguine. Even if she makes desperate love to you, I say, take care; it may be only a trap; for, between ourselves, a girl who has a million stitched to her petticoats is to be excused if she endeavors to find out whether the suitor is after her or her money.”
Just then the brougham stopped, and Dr. Hortebise and his young friend entered the house in the Rue Montmartre, where they were cordially greeted by the banker.
Paul glanced round, but there were no signs of Flavia, nor did she make her appearance until five minutes before the dinner hour, when the guests flocked round her. She had subdued all her emotions, and not a quiver of the eyelids disclosed the excitement under which she was laboring. Her eye rested on Paul, and he bowed ceremoniously. The banker was delighted, for he had not believed much in her self-command. But Flavia had taken his advice to heart, and when seated at table abstained from casting a glance in Paul’s direction. When dinner was over and many of the guests had sat down to whist; Flavia ventured to approach Paul, and in a low voice, which shook a little in spite of her efforts, said,—
“Will you not play me one of your own compositions, M. Violaine?”
Paul was but a medium performer, but Flavia seemed in the seventh heaven, while her father and Dr. Hortebise, who had taken their seats not far away, watched the young couple with much anxiety.
“How she adores him!” whispered the banker. “And yet I cannot judge of the effect that she has produced upon him.”
“Surely Mascarin will worm it all out of him to-morrow,” returned the doctor. “To-morrow the poor fellow will have his hands full, for there is to be a general meeting, when we shall hear all about Catenac’s ideas, and I shall be glad to know what Croisenois’s conduct will be when he knows what he is wanted for.”
It was growing late, and the guests began to drop off. Dr. Hortebise signalled to Paul, and they left the house together. According to the promise to her father, Flavia had acted her part so well, that Paul did not know whether he had made an impression or not.
Beaumarchef, when Mascarin called a general meeting of his associates, was in the habit of assuming his very best attire; for as he was often called into the inner office to answer questions, he was much impressed with the importance of the occasion. This time, however, the subordinate, although he had received due notice of the meeting, was still in his every-day dress. This discomposed him a good deal, though he kept muttering to himself that he meant no disrespect by it. Early in the morning he had been compelled to make up the accounts of two cooks, who, having obtained situations, were leaving the servants’ lodging-house. When this matter was completed, he had hoped for half an hour’s leisure. As he was crossing the courtyard, however, he fell in with Toto Chupin bringing in his daily report, which Beaumarchef thought would be what it usually was—a mere matter of form. He was, however, much mistaken; for though outwardly Toto was the same, yet his ideas had taken an entirely new direction; and when Beaumarchef urged him to look sharp, the request was received with a great deal of sullenness.
“I ain’t lost no time,” said he, “and have fished up a thing or two fresh; but before saying a word—”
He stopped, and seemed a little confused.
“Well, go on.”
“I want a fresh arrangement.”
Beaumarchef was staggered.
“Arrangement!” he echoed.
“Of course you can lump it if yer don’t like it,” said the boy. “Do you think as how I’m going to work like a horse, and not get a wink of sleep, just for a ‘thank ye, Chupin?’ No fear. I’m worth a sight more nor that.”
Beaumarchef flew into a rage.
“Then you are not worth a pinch of salt,” said he.
“All right, my cove.”
“And you are an ungrateful young villain to talk like this after all the kindness your master has shown you.”
Chupin gave a sarcastic laugh.
“Goodness!” cried he. “To hear you go on, one would think that the boss had ruined himself for my sake.”
“He took you out of the streets, and has given you a room ever since.”
“A room, do you say? I call it a dog kennel.”
“You have your breakfast and dinner every day regularly.”
“I know that, and half a bottle of wine at each meal, which has so much water in it that it cannot even stain the tablecloth.”
“You are an ungrateful young hound,” exclaimed Beaumarchef, “and forget that, in addition to this, he has set you up in business as a hot chestnut seller.”
“Good old business! I am allowed to stand all day under the gateway, roasted on one side, and frozen on the other, and gain, perhaps twenty sous.”
“You know that in summer he has promised to set you up in the fried potato line.”
“Thank ye for nothing; I don’t like the smell of grease.”
“What is it you want, then?”
“Nothing. I feels that I ought to be a gentleman at large.”
Beaumarchef cast a furious glance at the shameless youth, and told him that he would report everything to his master. The boy, however, did not seem to care a pin.
“I intends to see Master Mascarin myself presently,” remarked Chupin.
“You are an idiot.”
“Why so? Do you think I didn’t live better before I had anything to do with this blooming old cove? I never worked then. I used to sing in front of the pubs, and easily made my three francs a day. My pal and I soon check ‘em though, and then off we went to the theatre. Sometimes we’d make tracks for Ivry, and take our doss in a deserted factory, into which the crushers never put their noses. In the winter we used to go to the glass houses and sleep in the warm ashes. All these were good times, while now—”
“Well, what have you to grumble at now? Don’t I hand you a five-franc piece every day that you are at work?”
“But that ain’t good enough. Come, don’t get shirty; all I asks is a rise of salary. Only say either Yes or No; and if you say No, why, I sends in my resignation.”
Beaumarchef would have given a five-franc piece out of his own pocket for Mascarin to have heard the boy’s impertinence.
“You are a young rascal!” said he, “and keep the worst of company. There is no use in denying it, for a hang-dog fellow, calling himself Polyte, has been here asking after you.”
“My company ain’t any business of yours.”
“Well, I give you warning, you will come to grief.”
“How?” returned Toto Chupin sulkily. “How can I come to grief? If old Mascarin interferes, I’ll shut up his mouth pretty sharp. I wish you and your master wouldn’t poke their noses into my affairs. I’m sick of you both. Don’t you think I’m up to you? When you make me follow some one for a week at a time, it isn’t to do ‘em a kindness, I reckon. If things turn out badly, I’ve only to go before a beak and speak up; I should get off easily enough then; and if I do so, you will be sorry for not having given me more than my five francs a day.”
Beaumarchef was an old soldier and a bold man, but he was easily upset, for the lad’s insolence made him believe that he was uttering words that had been put in his mouth by some wily adviser; and not knowing how to act, the ex-soldier thought it best to adopt a more conciliating demeanor.
“How much do you want?” asked he.
“Well, seven francs to start with.”
“The deuce you do! Seven francs a day is a sum. Well, I’ll give it you myself to-day and will speak about you to the master.”
“You won’t get me to loosen my tongue for that amount to-day; you may bet your boots on that,” answered the lad insolently. “I wants one hundred francs down on the nail.”
“One hundred francs,” echoed Beaumarchef, scandalized at such a demand.
“Yes, my cove, that and no less.”
“And what will you give in return? No, no, my lad; your demand is a preposterous one; besides, you wouldn’t know how to spend such a sum.”
“Don’t you flurry yourself about that; but of one thing you may be sure, I sha’n’t spend my wages as you do—in wax for your mustache.”
Beaumarchef could not endure an insult to his mustache, and Chupin was about to receive the kick he had so richly earned, when Daddy Tantaine suddenly made his appearance, looking exactly as he did when he visited Paul in his garret.
“Tut, tut; never quarrel with the door open.”
Beaumarchef thanked Providence for sending this sudden reinforcement to his aid, and began in a tone of indignation,—
“Toto Chupin—”
“Stop! I have heard every word,” broke in Tantaine.
On hearing this, Toto felt that he had better make himself scarce; for though he hardly knew Mascarin, and utterly despised Beaumarchef, he trembled before the oily Tantaine, for in him he recognized a being who would stand no nonsense. He therefore began in an apologetic tone,—
“Just let me speak, sir; I only wanted—”
“Money, of course, and very natural too. Come, Beaumarchef, hand this worthy lad the hundred francs that he has so politely asked for.”
Beaumarchef was utterly stupefied, and was about to make some objection when he was struck by a signal which Toto did not perceive, and, drawing out his pocketbook, extracted a note which he offered to the lad. Toto glanced at the note, then at the faces of the two men, but was evidently afraid to take the money.
“Take the money,” said Tantaine. “If your information is not worth the money, I will have it back from you; come into the office, where we shall not be disturbed.”
Tantaine took a chair, and glancing at Toto, who stood before him twirling his cap leisurely, said,—
“I heard you.”
The lad had by this time recovered his customary audacity.
“Five days ago,” he began, “I was put on to Caroline Schimmel; I have found out all about her by this time. She is as regular as clockwork in her duties at least. She wakes at ten and takes her absinthe. Then she goes to a little restaurant she knows, and has her breakfast and a game at cards with any one that will play with her. At six in the evening she goes to the Grand Turk, a restaurant and dancing-shop in the Rue des Poisonnieres. Ain’t it a swell ken just! You can eat; drink, dance, or sing, just as you like; but you must have decent togs on, or they won’t let you in.”
“Wouldn’t they let you through then?”
Toto pointed significantly to his rags as he replied,—
“This rig out wouldn’t pass muster, but I have a scheme in hand.”
Tantaine took down the address of the dancing-saloon, and then, addressing Toto with the utmost severity,—
“Do you think,” said he, “that this report is worth a hundred francs?”
Toto made a quaint grimace.
“Do you think,” asked he, “that Caroline can lead the life she does without money? No fear. Well, I have found out where the coin comes from.”
The dim light in the office enabled Tantaine to hide the pleasure he felt on hearing these words.
“Ah,” answered he carelessly, as if it was a matter of but little moment, “and so you have found out all that, have you?
“Yes, and a heap besides. Just you listen. After her breakfast, my sweet Carry began to play cards with some chaps who had been grubbing at the next table. ‘Regular right down card sharpers and macemen,’ said I to myself, as I watched the way in which they faked the pasteboards. ‘They’ll get everything out of you, old gal.’ I was in the right, for in less than an hour she had to go up to the counter and leave one of her rings as security for the breakfast. He said he knew her, and would give her credit. ‘You are a trump,’ said she. ‘I’ll just trot off to my own crib and get the money.’”
“Did she go home?”
“Not she; she went to a real swell house in a bang up part of Paris, the Rue de Varennes. She knocked at the door, and in she went, while I lounged about outside.”
“Do you know who lives there?”
“Of course I do. The grocer round the corner told me that it was inhabited by the Duke—what was his blessed name? Oh, the Duke——”
“Was it the Duke de Champdoce?”
“That is the right one, a chap they say as has his cellars chock full of gold and silver.”
“You are rather slow, my lad,” said Tantaine, with his assumed air of indifference. “Get on a bit, do.”
Toto was much put out; for he had expected that his intelligence would have created an immense sensation.
“Give a cove time to breathe in. Well, in half an hour out comes my Carry as lively as a flea. She got into a passing cab and away she went. Fortunately I can run a bit, and reached the Palais Royal in time to see Caroline change two notes of two hundred francs each at the money-changers.”
“How did you find out that?”
“By looking at ‘em. The paper was yellow.”
Tantaine smiled kindly. “You know a banknote then?”
“Yes, but I have precious few chances of handling them. Once I went into a money-changer’s shop and asked them just to let me feel one, and they said, ‘Get out sharp.’”
“Is that all?” demanded Tantaine.
“No; I have kept the best bit for a finish. I want to tell you that there are others on the lookout after Caroline.”
Toto had no reason this time to grumble at the effect he had produced, for the old man gave such a jump that his hat fell off.
“What are you saying?” said he.
“Simply that for the last three days a big chap with a harp on his back has been keeping her in view. I twigged him at once, and he too saw her go into the swell crib that you say belongs to that Duke.”
Tantaine pondered a little.
“A street musician,” muttered he. “I must find out all about this. Now, Toto, listen to me; chuck Caroline over, and stick to the fellow with the harp; be off with you, for you have earned your money well.”
As Chupin went off, the old man shook his head.
“Too sharp by a good bit,” said he; “he won’t have a long lease of life.”
Beaumarchef was about to ask Tantaine to remain in the office while he went off to put on his best clothes, but the old man stopped this request by saying,—
“As M. Mascarin does not like to be disturbed, I will just go in without knocking. When the other gentlemen arrive, show them in; for look you here, my good friend, the pear is so ripe that if it is not plucked, it will fall to the ground.”