"He arrived last night; he is at home."
"He arrived last night; he is at home."
"At last!" exclaimed Sans-Cravate, crumpling the paper in his fingers; then he sprang to his feet, foldedhiscrochets, and strode away toward Albert's residence. He was intensely excited, although he exerted himself to the utmost to control his emotion. He felt that his sister's future was about to be decided, and it was for her that he trembled.
Under the porte cochère he stopped, uncertain whether he ought not to call first upon Monsieur Vermoncey. But he reflected that, if Albert's father were warned of his intention, he would have his son watched and would prevent him from giving him satisfaction; and the result of his reflections was that he ought now to deal with Albert alone.
Sans-Cravate went rapidly up to the young man's apartment. He rang, and a new servant opened the door.
"I wish to speak to Monsieur Albert," said Sans-Cravate.
"Monsieur Albert is not in," replied the servant, in an almost insolent tone.
"He must be, for me."
"But my master returned from travelling last night. He is tired, and cannot receive anyone."
"He will receive me, for I must speak to him. Go and tell him that Sans-Cravate is here, and that I won't leave the house without seeing him. He must know that we have got to have an interview, and it's better to have it now. Go, my boy. I know that there's two entrances, but I've got my eye on the courtyard; and if your master should try to skip, I'll jump through the window and land on his shoulders; that would interfere with his running."
The servant stared at Sans-Cravate in amazement, but went and told his master. He returned in a very shorttime, beckoned to Sans-Cravate to follow him, and ushered him into Albert's bedroom.
Young Vermoncey had just risen; he was dressed in a robe de chambre, and was lying back carelessly in a capacious easy-chair. His face was slightly pale when Sans-Cravate entered the room; but he seemed perfectly placid, and said, with an unembarrassed manner, and with something very like a smile:
"Is it you, Sans-Cravate? I expected a call from you. Come and sit down, and let us have a talk."
Surprised at this reception, which aroused the most cheering hopes in his heart, Sans-Cravate seated himself on the edge of the chair that the young man indicated, and stammered:
"Yes—yes, Monsieur Albert, it's me. You certainly had good reason to think I would come; for, you see, this thing's got to be settled! And I love my sister, my poor Liline, so dearly! But I hope that you still love her, too?"
Albert threw himself back in his chair and held his feet to the fire, as he replied:
"Yes, my dear Sans-Cravate; your sister is fascinating—and as gentle and sweet as an angel. I loved her dearly, and I still love her. So I mean her to be happy—that is my most earnest desire."
"Oh! then it's all right, monsieur!" cried the messenger, joyfully; "you mean to make my sister happy—that is to say, you will keep the promise you made to her when you took her away from Auvergne. Ah! you make me very happy, too, and you are an excellent young man."
"When I say that I want to see your sister happy, Sans-Cravate," rejoined Albert, balancing himself in hischair, "I mean that, to atone for my thoughtlessness, I propose to assure her comfort, her future. If I made promises, they were mere words, such as all young men say to pretty girls, which do not bind one to anything."
Sans-Cravate pushed his chair away; he turned pale, but fastened his eyes on Albert, and exclaimed, without a trace of his former hesitation:
"We have got to a point where we don't agree, but,sacrédié!we must settle on something. Monsieur Albert, didn't you seduce my sister, a simple, innocent maid, who had no idea of love? Will you deny that you abused her innocence, and that you induced her to leave her home and her patroness, only by swearing that you would marry her?"
"Mon Dieu! I won't deny anything! I have told you already that I admit all that. But, once more, every young man takes fifty such oaths; so much the worse for those who believe them!"
"Then you don't intend to marry my sister?"
Albert threw himself back in his chair again and began to laugh.
"Marry your sister!" he exclaimed. "Nonsense, Sans-Cravate! Why, you can't think of such a thing! Would such a marriage be well-assorted? Come, be reasonable; you are an excellent fellow—I have no doubt of that; but what would people say if I should make you my brother-in-law? They would say that I'd gone crazy!"
"Take care, monsieur!" said Sans-Cravate, struggling to control his anger. "Don't throw insults in my face. Messenger as I am, I'm a better man than you are at this moment!"
"But, for God's sake, Sans-Cravate, listen to me! Is it possible for a young man to marry all the women hemakes love to? Since when have your morals been so severe? Haven't you been in the habit of carrying my love letters for me? haven't you been in the secret of all my intrigues? You knew that I had three or four mistresses at once, and, far from blaming me, you were the first to laugh about it."
"True—you are right, monsieur. I did your dirty work for you. I was wrong—and there was someone who told me so at the time. And yet, that same someone deceived me."
"I tell you again, Sans-Cravate, that I am sorry I ever spoke to your sister, who was an innocent, virtuous girl. But still we must have mercy on all sinners. Once more, I will settle a handsome allowance on her, and——"
Sans-Cravate rose and stamped on the floor, crying:
"Ten thousand devils! Don't talk about money! You fine gentlemen think you have done everything, when you have undone the strings of your purse. I tell you that marriage, and nothing else, can undo the wrong you have done. Your father felt it, for he gave his consent to the marriage. So you see, monsieur, there's nothing to prevent it."
"Yes," said Albert, with some irritation, "I know that you have seen my father and extorted his consent; furthermore, I will not deny that, when I came home last night, after embracing me, he told me of the promise he had given you; but I told him what my intentions were, and swore that nothing would induce me to change them."
"Nothing!" muttered Sans-Cravate; "nothing! Not even if I should tell you that you are a father—that my sister is carrying a child—that she implores you to give it its father's name? and that is the truth!"
Albert lowered his eyes; he was deeply moved, and tried in vain to conceal his emotion. Sans-Cravate walked toward him.
"Well! will you cast off that innocent creature?"
Albert was silent for some moments. At last he replied, in a low voice:
"I will provide for the child as well as the mother. But I cannot—it is impossible for me to marry Adeline, for such a marriage would cover me with ridicule."
"That is your last word, monsieur?"
"Yes, Sans-Cravate."
The messenger took from his pocket the pistols Madame Baldimer had given him, and called Albert's attention to them.
"Then this is my last word," he said. "I am ready when you are."
The young man seemed more surprised than alarmed.
"What's this? do you want to fight me, Sans-Cravate?" he said, glancing at the weapons.
"That surprises you, does it? You thought that I would allow myself to be dishonored and say nothing; that I would be satisfied with your excuses? No, no, I must have something more than that. Come, I am waiting for you, monsieur."
"I am sorry, Sans-Cravate, that I cannot give you the satisfaction you ask; but it is out of the question. A young man in my position doesn't fight duels with a messenger!"
"Then a man of your position is content to be a coward and a blackguard. Then he prefers to be struck and beaten and strangled; and that's what I'll do to you, if you refuse to fight me."
As he spoke, Sans-Cravate, beside himself with rage, sprang at Albert, seized him by the collar, shook himviolently, and struck him across the face with the butt of one of his pistols. The young man turned purple, and shouted:
"I will fight you, monsieur; yes, you are right; we must fight."
"Ah! that's very lucky!" said the messenger, relaxing his grasp. "Shall it be right away? I'm in a hurry, you see!"
"One always has some arrangements to make before fighting, monsieur."
"I haven't got any."
"I will be ready in two hours. It isn't nine o'clock yet; at eleven, at the latest, be——"
"Behind Romainville Forest, on the slope from Pantin; there are some quarries near there, and we shan't be disturbed."
"Very good; I will be there. Shall you have a second?"
"What for?"
"True; between us, seconds are unnecessary. I shall come in a carriage, with my servant only."
"As you choose. I will go and wait for you, monsieur, and I hope you won't let me take cold."
Sans-Cravate left the house and started at once for the rendezvous. He walked less quickly now, knowing that he had plenty of time before him. Moreover, he was less excited; the certainty that his vengeance was near at hand appeased his anger. He reflected profoundly. At the moment one is about to risk his life he remembers the persons whom it would be most painful to him to leave forever; and, in spite of himself, Sans-Cravate found that Bastringuette's face often forced its way in among his recollections.
It was hardly half-past ten when the messenger reached the spot agreed upon. He sat on the ground and waited. He was on the slope of Romainville Forest; at his feet were plaster kilns and a brick kiln; in front of him was the village of Pantin; but the road in that direction, bordered with high hedges enclosing gardens, was silent and deserted. To the right were the low hills upon which stands the fortress that commands the whole plain; and in the hollow at the left, four rows of poplar trees, forming a rectangle, seemed to indicate a private estate or a promenade: it was the Pantin cemetery.
Sans-Cravate let his eyes wander in all directions, but frequently turned them toward Pantin, for that was the only direction from which a carriage could reach the rendezvous; so he presumed that Albert would come that way. He took his pistols from his pocket, made sure that they were properly loaded, and heaved a profound sigh.
The weather was fine, but cold. The trees were without leaves, and few people passed through the wood; now and then, a peasant went down the hill toward Pantin, a quarryman appeared at the door of his hut, or a soldier on the fortifications; but none of them paid any attention to the messenger.
But as he looked about, Sans-Cravate saw a woman come out of the wood and walk slowly down toward the cemetery. She was a long distance from him, but he could tell by her dress and her bearing that she was not a peasant. A large hat, over which a veil was thrown, made it impossible to distinguish her features; and still Sans-Cravate said to himself as he looked after her:
"It seems to me that I know that woman."
While he was trying to think who it could be, he heard the sound of carriage wheels in the direction of Pantin; and in a moment a cab appeared on the village street, and stopped as near as possible to the foot of the hill leading to the wood.
Sans-Cravate paid no further attention to the woman; he hurried down the slope and soon found himself face to face with Albert, who had left his carriage.
The young man greeted the messenger with a friendly nod, in which there was no trace of resentment or anger, and said, pointing to the cemetery:
"Let us go there; nobody but the men working in the brick kiln can see us, and they will not think of interfering with us; on the contrary, they will be grateful to us for affording them such an entertaining spectacle."
Sans-Cravate made no reply, but went with Albert; the servant walked behind, carrying a case of pistols.
When they reached the road that skirted the cemetery, Albert said:
"I see no reason why we should go any farther.—Give me my pistols, Joseph."
The servant opened the case and, trembling like a leaf, handed the pistols to his master. Meanwhile, the messenger, who had taken his from his pocket, offered them to his adversary, saying:
"Would you prefer to take one of these and give me one of yours? It shall be as you choose."
Albert glanced at Sans-Cravate's weapons, and exclaimed:
"The devil! you have some very handsome pistols there, Sans-Cravate! It's a strange thing, but the more I examine them, the more certain I feel that I know them, that I have seen them somewhere."
"It's quite possible, monsieur, for I got them from an acquaintance of yours. It was Madame Baldimer who gave them to me."
"Baldimer!" ejaculated Albert. "Ah! yes, it was in her hands that I saw them. I can remember her saying to me laughingly, more than once: 'I mean to kill you with these pistols.'—It seems that she did not say it in jest. Clearly that woman has a bitter grudge against me.—Keep your own weapons, and I will keep mine, and let us take our places."
Albert walked away some fifteen paces, then asked:
"Is this satisfactory to you?"
"Yes, monsieur," Sans-Cravate replied, in a trembling voice.
"Pull yourself together, my poor Sans-Cravate; you seem agitated."
"It's true, monsieur, I am trembling; though you may be sure that it ain't with fear. I've never fought with anything but fists, you see. A man gets hurt that way, but not killed. At all events, I never tried to fight unfair. And when I think that with this little steel tube I may kill you—— Look you, monsieur—if you would—it rests with you——"
"Enough! enough, Sans-Cravate! let's not continue our conversation of this morning. You are the insulted party—fire first."
"No, monsieur; I won't begin."
"It's your right."
"I insulted you this morning, by shaking you; it's your place to begin."
"Listen: my servant will clap his hands three times, and at the third we will fire together."
"That's all right."
Albert told his servant what he was to do. He clapped his hands, turning his head so that he could not see the combatants. At the third signal, Sans-Cravate fired; there was no second report, but Albert fell in the road.
Sans-Cravate ran to the young man, who had received the bullet in his side and was bleeding freely. He threw himself on his knees, weeping; but Albert held out his hand to him and tried to smile.
"You have done your duty—don't be cut up. If I die, you will see that I haven't forgotten your sister."
"Oh! you won't die, I hope. This wound may not be fatal——"
"Take me to the carriage, and tell them to take me back to my father."
Albert had no strength to say more; he lost consciousness. Sans-Cravate raised him from the ground, and two plasterers, attracted by the report of the pistol, helped him to carry the wounded man to the carriage. Sans-Cravate tried to stop the flow of blood by tying his handkerchief over the wound. Joseph entered the carriage, and seated himself so that he could support his master. Sans-Cravate thought of going with them, but he felt that he lacked courage to take Albert back to his father, so he allowed the carriage to drive away without him.
Two hours had passed since the duel, and Sans-Cravate was still wandering about the fields, uncertain what to do, and praying fervently that Albert would not die of his wound. At last, he decided to return to Paris. But when he reached the city, he dared not go to his sister; for he feared that when she saw him she would divine what had happened, and he did not wish to confess that he had fought with her seducer, until he had some definiteinformation as to the wounded man's condition. To go to his usual stand and remain there quietly would have been impossible to him, so he wandered through the streets at random.
When it began to grow dark, Sans-Cravate could restrain his impatience no longer; he felt that he must know in what condition Albert was, so he bent his steps toward his house.
"The doctors must have given their opinions of his wound before now," he thought; "I'll ask someone, and I won't go back to my sister till I am satisfied about his condition."
Having determined upon this course, Sans-Cravate was soon in front of Monsieur Vermoncey's house on Rue Caumartin. The porte cochère was still open; he went in, and stopped at the concierge's lodge, but found nobody there; whereupon he decided to go upstairs and question the servants. When he came to the door of Albert's apartment, it was not closed, and he saw several lights in the anteroom; but he saw no person, although the other doors were open; that solitude and confusion froze his heart, for in it all there was a something silent and depressing which seemed to denote the presence of death.
The messenger did not know what to do, but he realized that he must decide upon something. He entered the apartment, but walked very softly and carefully, as if he were afraid of waking someone. He passed through the room adjoining the anteroom, and was about to enter another room, the door of which was open, when he heard a sound as of sobbing. He put his head forward and saw Monsieur Vermoncey sitting in a chair, with his face buried in his hands, and apparently in the throes of utter despair.
Sans-Cravate had no strength either to go forward or to retreat; his legs gave way under him, he sank on a couch, and sat there, completely overwhelmed; for he divined only too readily the cause of that wretched father's grief.
At that moment another door leading into the room where Monsieur Vermoncey was, on the opposite side from Sans-Cravate, was suddenly thrown open, and a woman appeared. The messenger recognized the figure and the hat that had attracted his attention just before the duel. The woman walked up to Monsieur Vermoncey, with a haughty air, threw aside her hat and veil, and asked:
"Do you recognize me, monsieur?"
Sans-Cravate was petrified when he saw that it was Madame Baldimer. Monsieur Vermoncey raised his eyes, which were filled with tears, and seemed terror-stricken when they fell upon the person who stood before him.
"You are the woman, madame, who swore to accomplish my son's ruin, and you have come doubtless to gloat over my despair; for my poor Albert is dead! he breathed his last in my arms, only a moment after he was brought home. But what had that unhappy boy done to you that you should be so bent upon his destruction?"
"He, monsieur—he had done nothing. Indeed, I could have loved him well, if he had not been your son; but by depriving you of this last child, the remaining fruit of your marriage, I have avenged my sister—my poor Marie!"
"Marie!"
"Yes, monsieur; Marie Delbart, the young seamstress whom you seduced before your marriage. She had a sister, ten years younger than herself, whom a distant relative had taken with him to America."
"Yes—I think I remember."
"Marie must sometimes have spoken to you of that young sister, who loved her as a daughter loves her mother, and who wept bitterly when she was forced to leave her. Well, monsieur, before she died, Marie wrote me a letter in which she told me the story of her misfortunes, begging me, if I ever returned to France, to do my utmost to find her child and avenge her on her unworthy seducer. That letter was not delivered to me until I had attained my majority; that was in accordance with Marie's wish; but I was then married to a wealthy planter, Monsieur Baldimer, who was much older than I, but had raised me to a position I had never dared to hope for. I should have liked to return to France at once, to carry out my sister's wishes, but my husband was unwilling to take the journey, and I had to wait. About fifteen months ago, Monsieur Baldimer died; I turned all my property into cash and returned to France, my native land, having taken an oath to fulfil Marie's last wishes. But to find her child was almost impossible. She had remembered, however, the name of the midwife who attended her when she became a mother, and who must have aided you to carry out your shameful determination to send your son to the Foundling Hospital. By dint of careful searching, I succeeded some time ago in finding that woman, who is now very old."
Monsieur Vermoncey gazed at Madame Baldimer with an anxious expression, and faltered:
"You have found her! Ah! I have sought her in vain! Well, madame—go on—that unfortunate child?——"
"She remembered all the details of the affair. My sister was then living at Saint-Cloud. When she carried the child away, ostensibly to a nurse, but really in accordance with your orders, to Paris, to be brought upwith all those unhappy creatures who have no family, that woman, thinking that there ought to be some way of recognizing the child, if you should ever want to see him again, burned a little cross on his left forearm, and wrote on a slip of paper: 'His name is Paul de Saint-Cloud.'"
At those words, Sans-Cravate started in surprise and muttered:
"Great God! is it possible?"
But his movement and his exclamation were not heard, and Madame Baldimer continued:
"Armed with this information, I went to the asylum. After many inquiries, I found out that the child who bore that name had been taken away, ten years before, by a respectable tradesman, who had adopted him. But the tradesman's name was half effaced, and it was impossible for me to learn anything more definite.—As for you, monsieur, it was easy enough for me to learn all about you. I learned that, after having a numerous family, you had lost your wife and three of your children, and that you had only one son left, on whom all your love was lavished; and I said to myself that divine justice, which had already taken away three of your children, ought not to leave you this last one, since you had cast off the one my poor sister gave you. You see, monsieur, I was justified in relying upon divine justice."
"Enough! enough, madame!" murmured Monsieur Vermoncey, covering his face with his hands. "Ah! I am severely punished for a fault of my youth. My Albert is no more. I am alone in the world, for I shall never succeed in finding the child that Marie gave me, whom I would be only too happy now to call my son! Ah! there is nothing left for me but to die, too."
Monsieur Vermoncey's voice grew fainter, and as he finished speaking he succumbed to his grief and swooned. Madame Baldimer pulled the bellrope and called for help; several servants hurried to the spot, and passed Sans-Cravate on their way to their master.
The messenger took advantage of the confusion to leave the room where he was; and he went forth from the apartment and the house without attracting attention. He walked slowly homeward; but as he was about to enter his sister's presence, he stopped, for he realized that what he had to tell her would deal her a cruel blow. He knew that he could conceal the fact of Albert's death from her for some time, but sooner or later she must be told, and Sans-Cravate reflected that it was never well to postpone the news of a disaster; for then one always has before one the prospect of a distressing scene to come; whereas, when once the tears are shed, one can at least hope that time will dry them.
Adeline was anxious about her brother, whom she had not seen since the morning. When she heard him come in, she uttered a little cry of joy, and would have run into his arms; but when she saw his pale, distressed face, she paused and began to tremble, for she saw tears in his eyes as well.
"What has happened, in heaven's name?" she asked. "Have you seen Albert? does he still refuse to see me?"
"Yes," murmured her brother, looking at the floor. "He cast you off, he spoke contemptuously of you—and I have punished him for it."
"O mon Dieu! what do you mean?"
"That you have no one but me to support you now; but I will never fail you."
Adeline was completely crushed; sobs choked her utterance; but at last the tears came in torrents.
"That is right," said her brother; "cry, my poor Liline, shed tears for the fate of that young man who had more courage than honorable feeling; and for me too, for I was compelled to punish him, and I shall always have that terrible sight before my eyes. But remember that you are a mother, and that you must live for your child."
Despite his profound sorrow over Albert's death, Sans-Cravate's mind constantly recurred to what he had learned concerning Paul, his former comrade.
"He's the man," he thought; "there's no doubt of it—he's Monsieur Vermoncey's son, and it rests with me to give him the name and rank and fortune that belong to him. But he deceived me shamefully; he took Bastringuette away from me—the woman I loved—yes, and love still! He's with her now, for I met him leaning on the faithless hussy's arm; and if I helped him to a fortune, he'd enjoy it with her! No, no!sacrédié!that shan't be. I ain't virtuous enough to return good for evil, and I'll keep my secret!"
Monsieur Vermoncey, wholly absorbed by his grief, lived in strict retirement and saw no one; but, as he did not wish it known that his son had been killed by a messenger,—for the knowledge might have led to a disclosure of the duel, and would have reflected little credit on his son's memory,—Monsieur Vermoncey, knowing that Albert's servant was the only witness of that fatal event, had given Joseph a considerable sum and sent him back to his province, after causing him to spread the report through the neighborhood, and among his confrères, that his young master had fought with one of his friends, after a quarrel of which he did not know the subject. And no one had doubted the truth of the story, because it was much more probable than that Albert had fought a duel with a messenger.
Nearly a month had passed since the events that resulted in Albert's death, when a short, stout young man, dressed with ostentatious elegance, alighted from a cabriolet one morning in front of Monsieur Vermoncey's residence, and, having inserted his monocle in his eye to make sure that he had made no mistake, entered the house and called out to the concierge:
"I am going up to see my friend Monsieur Albert Vermoncey; I believe he has returned from his trip to Normandie, and I have a thousand things to say to him."
The concierge ran after Tobie Pigeonnier,—for it was he, transformed into a showy and self-confidentlion,—and stopped him at the foot of the stairs, saying:
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, don't go so fast; it's no use. Don't you know what has happened?"
"What do you mean?"
"Poor Monsieur Albert is dead."
"Dead! Great God!"
"Yes, monsieur; he was killed in a duel."
"Killed in a duel?"
Tobie looked at the concierge with a doubtful expression, and tried to read in the man's eyes whether he was making fun of him.
"Look you, concierge," he continued; "are you quite sure of what you say? Once before, there was a report that Albert had been killed in a duel, and I know that was a lie."
"Alas! monsieur, I am only too sure."
"How long has he been dead?"
"A month, the day after to-morrow, monsieur. I remember that fatal day perfectly well; they brought the poor fellow home in a cab, with a bullet in his side; I went for the doctor; and when he tried to take out the bullet, the wounded man shut his eyes—and it was all over."
"Albert had returned to Paris, then?"
"Yes, monsieur; he came back first after he'd been gone quite a long while, but he only stayed about a week and then went off again. When he fought this duel, he'd only come home the night before."
"Whom did he fight with? what was it about?"
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, nobody knows; the poor young man died so soon; he wasn't able to say anything; he didn't take anybody with him for a second but Joseph,his servant, who told us that his master fought a duel with pistols near Pantin, with a young man he, Joseph, didn't know, and who didn't have any second. You see, he hadn't been in Monsieur Albert's service long. As to the cause of the quarrel, he didn't know anything about it. I remember seeing a messenger go up to Monsieur Albert's rooms that day; I suppose he came to bring the challenge. That's all I know."
"It's all very obscure. Where is this Joseph? I should like to talk with him."
"He's gone back to his province. As Monsieur Albert was dead, Monsieur Vermoncey didn't keep him. Ah! that poor man—he's terribly broken up; he don't go out, nor see anyone. But, if you'd like to try to see him, monsieur——"
"No, no, it's not necessary; I have no desire to disturb his grief.—Well, as poor Albert is dead, there's nothing for me to do but go away."
Tobie Pigeonnier returned to his cabriolet, reflecting profoundly on what he had learned. He alighted on Boulevard des Italiens, and stalked proudly into Tortoni's, where he found Mouillot and Balivan, the two loyal habitués.
The young men exclaimed in surprise when they saw Tobie smilingly draw near, take a seat at their table, and order chocolate, rolls and butter, with the air of a man who is not afraid to spend his money.
"Oh, heaven! oh, heaven! can I believe my eyes?" sang Mouillot; "'tis he! 'tis he in very truth! he has not gone to Russia or the Marquesas, as we supposed!"
"And he is dressed like several milords," observed Balivan.
"And he has come to withdraw his olive from circulation."
"Yes, messieurs," rejoined Tobie; "I am rich—very rich; my aunt is dead—that respectable lady of whom I have often spoken to you, and with whom I expected to go into partnership. She is dead, and I am her heir; she left me a magnificent business."
"In what line?"
"In all lines. I may go on with the business; I have not decided yet. As for that unlucky olive, it isn't my fault that I haven't redeemed it sooner; I don't know Monsieur Varinet's address."
"You ought to have asked us."
"I never meet you anywhere."
"Bah! what a flimsy excuse! we are at this café every morning. But, never mind; if you are anxious to pay Varinet, he is to join us here soon."
"Oh! then I'll wait for him."
"And do you know that poor Albert——"
"Is dead; yes, I know it."
"Killed in a duel—and no one knows by whom! Isn't it a most extraordinary thing?"
Tobie pursed his lips, frowned, and gazed at the ceiling, murmuring:
"Ah! things happen sometimes in the world that one can't talk about; but people always end by discovering the truth! You surely can understand that the man who killed Albert is not likely to go about boasting of it, because he is probably much affected himself."
And Tobie took out his handkerchief and blew his nose several times, trying to make them think that he was weeping.
Mouillot and Balivan stared at each other in amazement; and the former muttered, under his breath:
"Nonsense! it isn't possible!"
Tobie was only at his fifth roll, when Monsieur Varinet arrived with Dupétrain. The first bowed very coolly to Pigeonnier, but that gentleman made haste to say to him:
"I owe you no end of apologies, monsieur, for remaining in your debt so long; but chance seemed to have determined to keep us apart; however, as I have found you at last, I will, with your permission, settle my account with you."
Varinet lost no time in taking out his purse, overjoyed to be rid of the olive stone, which he produced and handed to Tobie, saying:
"Here is your fetich, monsieur."
"I don't recognize it," said Tobie, scrutinizing the olive.
"You have left it in my hands so long, monsieur," retorted the young man with the white eyelashes, with some asperity, "that it has had ample time to change. If you had redeemed it the next day, as the custom is with gambling debts, it wouldn't have shrunk to its present size."
Tobie had nothing to say; he took out his wallet, and opened it in such a way that they could all see a number of banknotes, one of which he handed to Varinet, saying:
"One more or less doesn't make much show when you have plenty."
"That wallet of yours would put Célestin to rights just now," said Mouillot.
"Why so?"
"Because he's in prison for debt—yes, been there two months."
"No, really? in prison for debt! poor Célestin! I'll go and see him; and I'll see that he's released."
Having said this with a swagger of importance, Tobie bade his friends adieu and left the café; but he had not walked thirty yards on the boulevard, when he wasovertaken by Monsieur Dupétrain, who passed his arm through his, saying:
"My dear Monsieur Pigeonnier, I have something very important to tell you—a warning—in fact, something that it is well you should know, so that you may be on your guard."
"What does this mean?" cried Tobie, taking alarm at once; "does anyone think of robbing me? Somebody has found out that I have come into my aunt's property, and means to rob me, I suppose?"
"It isn't that at all; in the first place, it's hardly probable that anyone who meant to rob you would have taken me into his confidence."
"No, that is true; but you tell me to be on my guard."
"You see, I take an interest in you, Monsieur Pigeonnier, for you believe in magnetism, and I remember that, the last time we dined together, I was going to tell you a very interesting anecdote concerning the extraordinary effects of somnambulism; it was this: A lady, whose husband was travelling, desired to know whether——"
Tobie abruptly dropped Monsieur Dupétrain's arm, and exclaimed impatiently:
"Was it because you proposed to tell me that, that you warned me to be on my guard?"
"Oh! I beg your pardon—I didn't tell you, did I? This is what it is: I met Monsieur Plays not long ago, at an evening party; you know Monsieur Plays, Madame Plays's husband?"
"Yes," Tobie replied, with a fatuous air, "an excellent sort of man; but I know his wife much better. Well! what did our dear Plays say to you?"
"Our dear Plays—as it pleases you to call him so—asked me, in the course of conversation, if I knew you;and, on my replying in the affirmative, urged me, if I should happen to see you, to beg you to avoid him, inasmuch as his wife has ordered him to kill you, because, it seems, you insulted and deceived her shamefully; that is all Plays chose to tell me."
Tobie roared with laughter.
"Gad! that is charming! delicious! Ah! she employs her husband to kill me, now! I can guess why. Poor husband! luckily, he is good enough to warn me. I thank you for your warning, my dear Monsieur Dupétrain, but I assure you that Monsieur Plays doesn't worry me at all; he's no duellist, and, besides, I shall only have to say a single word to him to—— Alas! I would to God I had no duel to reproach myself for!"
Again Tobie drew his handkerchief, as if deeply moved.
"I am delighted that this affair doesn't worry you," rejoined Dupétrain; "in that case, we can return to that anecdote that I didn't have time to finish: A young lady, whose husband——"
"Excuse me, Monsieur Dupétrain, but I have an important appointment; I will listen to it some other time, by your leave."
Two days after this conversation, Tobie, who had become a constant attendant at balls, receptions, concerts, and the theatre, since he had inherited his Aunt Abraham's property, found himself face to face with Monsieur Plays and his wife in the foyer of the Opéra.
Madame Plays stopped, cast a withering glance at Tobie, and nudged her husband.
"There he is," she said.
"Who?" queried Monsieur Plays.
"The insolent wretch who amused himself at my expense, and whom you must punish!"
Monsieur Plays turned pale as death, and clung to his wife's arm, muttering:
"My corns hurt me terribly! the weather will change to-morrow; it's a sure sign of rain!"
"I'm not talking about your corns, monsieur; there's the young man who was responsible for my carrying a cigar in my bosom two months, and I must have satisfaction, monsieur. I will sit here on this bench, and I shan't lose sight of you. Go and challenge Monsieur Pigeonnier; if you don't, never hope to enter my boudoir again! you understand, monsieur; now, go!"
The superb Herminie seated herself at one end of the foyer, sustaining with much self-possession the glances bestowed upon her by the men who were walking back and forth there during the entr'acte. As for Monsieur Plays, who was compelled to go and pick a quarrel with a fellow creature—he would have preferred, at that moment, to be at Algiers, or on the railroad.
Tobie had recognized the happy couple; and he continued to stroll about the foyer, looking at himself in the mirrors, and trying to keep his monocle in his eye. Suddenly a timid voice addressed him; he turned, and saw Monsieur Plays, whose manner was anything but provocative, and who saluted him very courteously, saying:
"Have I the honor of speaking to Monsieur Tobie Pigeonnier?"
"Why, it's Monsieur Plays! Delighted to meet you! How's your health, Monsieur Plays?"
"Very good, thanks; but I am suffering a good deal with my corns. My boots hurt me. Have you any?"
"Boots?"
"No, corns."
"That species of discomfort is entirely unknown to me."
"Ah! you are very lucky!"
At this point, Monsieur Plays turned, and saw his wife looking daggers at him; he remembered what she demanded of him, and continued in an undertone:
"My dear Monsieur Pigeonnier, I must tell you that my wife has sent me to you, because she thinks you—you made sport of her when you told her that you had killed Monsieur Albert Vermoncey in a duel. Women take offence at trifles, you know; and Herminie is very sensitive. You gave her a cigar, too. In short, she's furious with you. So far as I am concerned, I am sure that you had no intention to be disrespectful to her, but she insists that I shall demand satisfaction. It's perfect nonsense; we must arrange it somehow——"
Tobie assumed a most solemn air, and interrupted Monsieur Plays.
"Your excellent wife is right, perfectly right, and I am not surprised that she has told you to kill me. Indeed, I agree with her."
Monsieur Plays shifted from one leg to the other, and looked uneasily at the little man, faltering:
"What! you—you want—to fight?"
"Hush, and listen to me! I tell you again that I should deserve all her anger and yours, if I had acted as she thinks. But it is not so; and now she is only too thoroughly revenged on poor Albert! In our first affair, I thought I had killed him, but I was mistaken. Later, I had my revenge. When I learned of Albert's return to Paris, a month ago, I instantly sent him a challenge by a messenger, and he accepted it. Ah! he was a man of the nicest honor. We fought with pistols, near Pantin. I wounded Albert in the side, and he breathed his lastthe same day. Tell me, monsieur, if your good wife has any reason now to complain of me, when I have fought twice for her, when to avenge her I have killed one of my most intimate friends?"
"You are a brave fellow!" said Monsieur Plays, shaking Tobie's hand; "I never doubted it. So poor Albert is really dead this time?"
"Yes, unfortunately; for I will confess to you that it grieves me deeply."
"I believe it, oh! I believe it. Adieu, Monsieur Pigeonnier! It is my turn now to apologize to you."
"Your obedient servant, Monsieur Plays!"
Tobie sauntered away, and Herminie's spouse returned to his better half and repeated all that the young man had just told him. Madame Plays listened impatiently, then exclaimed:
"It isn't true. He has made a fool of you again. Albert isn't dead."
"But, my dear love, he seemed to be deeply moved, and then he gave me all those details."
"Lies! However, we will soon know the truth; and woe to you, monsieur, if you have allowed yourself to be hoodwinked! Come! Come!"
"Where, madame?"
"To Monsieur Vermoncey's house. Oh! I won't be deceived this time."
Herminie seized her husband's arm, dragged him away from the Opéra, made him take a cab with her, and soon arrived at the house in which Albert formerly lived. There she questioned the concierge and learned that young Vermoncey had, in fact, been killed in a duel a month before; and all the details of the melancholy event that were given her agreed perfectly with what Tobie had said.
Thereupon Madame Plays made a great outcry, sobbed, wept, tore her handkerchief, had an attack of hysteria, writhed on the floor of the concierge's lodge, and called Tobie a monster and an assassin.
Monsieur Plays succeeded, not without difficulty, in taking his wife home, and all the way she kept asking him if he knew what she had done with the piece of a cigar that had belonged to Albert; she declared that she would give a thousand francs to anybody who would find it for her.
During the next few days, Madame Plays told everybody she saw that it was Monsieur Tobie Pigeonnier who had killed young Albert Vermoncey in a duel; and as nobody contradicted the story, and as he who was reported to be the victor was the first to confirm it, it soon came to be regarded as authentic; and in society little Tobie was looked upon as a duellist whom it was not prudent to provoke.
Adeline was still as melancholy as ever, but she had ceased to weep, before her brother at all events, for she realized that it added to his sorrow and regret that, for her sake, he had been obliged to do something which filled his heart with remorse, even while he told himself that he could not have acted differently.
Sans-Cravate worked with the greatest zeal and courage; he was not the same man as before. Since his duelhe had become as gentle as a child, and, far from seeking a quarrel with anyone, he was always the first to try to compose the disputes that arose in his presence. Instead of getting tipsy, as he used frequently to do, he avoided the temptation to drink, never entered a wine shop, and ate all his meals with his sister, to whom he carried faithfully each day all the money he had earned.
In accordance with her brother's advice, Adeline had written to her father, confessing her fault and telling him frankly the whole story of her conduct, as well as the events that had resulted from it. She had not long to wait for a reply; old Père Renaud wrote his daughter that he forgave her, and that his arms would always be open to her whenever she chose to come back to him.
"When your child is born," said Sans-Cravate, "and you are strong enough to stand the journey, we will go back to the province; I will settle down there, too; I won't leave you any more, for a strong man with plenty of courage can work anywhere, and I've had quite enough of Paris! When you no longer have a friend or a woman you care for in a place, you leave it without regret."
A few days after Albert's death, a messenger from Monsieur Vermoncey came to the humble apartment occupied by the brother and sister. He brought a letter addressed to Adeline, which contained these words: