Paul could not for the life of him imagine why Tantaine had left the room in apparently so angry a mood. He had certainly spoken of Flavia in a most improper manner; for the very weakness of which she had been guilty should have caused him to treat her with tender deference and respect. He could understand the anger of Hortebise, who was Rigal’s friend; but what on earth had Tantaine in common with the wealthy banker and his daughter? Forgetful of the pain which the smallest movement upon his part produced, Paul sat up in his bed, and listened with intense eagerness, hoping to catch what was going on in the next room; but he could hear nothing through the thick walls and the closed door.
“What can they be doing?” asked he. “What fresh plot are they contriving?”
Daddy Tantaine and Hortebise passed out of the room hastily, but when they reached the staircase they stood still. The doctor wore the same smiling expression of face, and he endeavored to calm his companion, who appeared to be on the verge of desperation.
“Have courage,” whispered he; “what is the use of giving way to passion? You cannot help this; it is too late now. Besides, even if you could, you would not, as you know very well, indeed!”
The old man was moving his spectacles, not to wipe his glasses, but his eyes.
“Ah!” moaned he, “now I can enter into the feelings of M. de Mussidan when I proved to him that his daughter had a lover. I have been hard and pitiless, and I am cruelly punished.”
“My old friend, you must not attach too much importance to what you have heard. Paul is a mere boy, and, of course, a boaster.”
“Paul is a miserably cowardly dog,” answered the old man in a fierce undertone. “Paul does not love the girl as she loves him; but what he says is true, only too true, I can feel. Between her father and her lover she would not hesitate for a moment. Ah! unhappy girl, what a terrible future lies before her.”
He stopped himself abruptly.
“I cannot speak to her myself,” resumed he; “do you, doctor, strive and make her have reason.”
Hortebise shrugged his shoulders. “I will see what my powers of oratory can do,” answered he; “but you are not quite yourself to-day. Remember that a chance word will betray the secret of our lives.”
“Go at once, and I swear to you that, happen what may, I will be calm.”
The doctor went back into Paul’s room, while Tantaine sat down on the topmost stair, his face buried in his hands.
Mademoiselle Flavia was just going to Paul, when the doctor again appeared.
“What, back again?” asked she petulantly. “I thought that you had been far away by this time.”
“I want to say something to you,” answered he, “and something of a rather serious nature. You must not elevate those charming eyebrows. I see you guess what I am going to say, and you are right. I am come to tell you that this is not the proper place for Mademoiselle Rigal.”
“I know that.”
This unexpected reply, made with the calmest air in the world, utterly disconcerted the smiling doctor.
“It seems to me——” began he.
“That I ought not to be here; but then, you see, I place duty before cold, worldly dictates. Paul is very ill, and has no one to take care of him except his affianced bride; for has not my father given his consent to our union?”
“Flavia, listen to the experience of a man of the world. The nature of men is such that they never forgive a woman for compromising her reputation, even though it be in their own favor. Do you know what people will say twenty-four hours after your marriage? Why, that you had been his mistress for weeks before, and that it was only the knowledge of that fact that inclined your father to consent to the alliance.”
Flavia’s face grew crimson. “Very well,” said she, “I will obey, and never say again that I was obstinate; but let me say one word to Paul, and then I will leave him.”
The doctor retired, not guessing that this obedience arose from the sudden suspicion which had arisen in Flavia’s mind. “It is done,” said he, as he rejoined Tantaine on the stairs; “let us hasten, for she will follow us at once.”
By the time that Tantaine got into the street, he seemed to have recovered a certain amount of his self-command. “We have succeeded,” said he, “but we shall have to work hard, and this marriage must be hastened by every means in our power. It can be celebrated now without any risk, for in twelve hours the only obstacle that stands between that youth there and the colossal fortune of the Champdoce will have vanished away.”
Though he had expected something of the kind, the face of the doctor grew very pale.
“What, Andre?” faltered he.
“Andre is in great danger, doctor, and may not survive to-morrow, and a portion of the work necessary to this end will be done to-night by our young friend Toto Chupin.”
“By that young scamp? Why, only the other day you laughed when I suggested employing him.”
“I shall this time kill two birds with one stone. Once an investigation is made—let us speak plainly—into Andre’s death, there will be some inquiry made as to a certain window frame that has been sawed through, and suspicion will fall upon Toto Chupin, who will have been seen lurking about the spot. It will be proved that he purchased a saw, and that he changed just before a note for one thousand francs; he will be found hiding in a garret in the Hotel de Perou.”
The doctor looked aghast. “Are you mad?” cried he. “Toto will accuse you.”
“Very likely, but by that time poor old Tantaine will be dead and buried. Then Mascarin will disappear, our faithful Beaumarchef will be in the United States, and we can afford to laugh at the police.”
“It seems like a success,” said the doctor, “but push on for mercy’s sake; all these delays and fluctuations will make me seriously ill.”
The two worthy associates held this conversation in a doorway, anxious to be sure that Flavia had kept her promise. In a brief space of time they saw her come out of the house and move in the direction of her father’s bank.
“Now,” said Tantaine, “I can go in peace, doctor; farewell for the present;” and without waiting for a reply he was walking rapidly away when he was stopped by Beaumarchef, who came up breathless and barred his passage.
“I was looking for you,” cried he; “the Marquis de Croisenois is in the office and is swearing at me like anything.”
“Go back to the office and tell the Marquis that the master will soon be with him;” and thus speaking, Tantaine disappeared down a court by the side of Martin Rigal’s house.
The Marquis was striding up and down the office, every now and then discharging a rumbling cannonade of oaths. “Fine business people,” remarked he, “to make an appointment and then not to keep it!” He checked himself; for the door of the inner office slowly opened, and Mascarin appeared on the threshold. “Punctuality,” said he, “does not consist in comingbefore, butatthe time appointed.”
The Marquis was cowed at once, and followed Mascarin into the sanctum and watched him with curious gaze as the redoubtable head of the association seemed to be searching for something among the papers on his desk. When Mascarin had found what he was in search of, he turned and addressed the Marquis.
“I desired to see you,” said he, “with reference to the great financial enterprise which you are to launch almost immediately.”
“Yes; I understand that we must discuss it, fully understand it, and feel our way.”
Mascarin uttered a contemptuous whistle.
“Do you think,” asked he, “that I am the kind of person to stand and wait while you feel your way? Because if you do, the sooner you undeceive yourself the better. Things that I take in hand are carried out like a flash of lightning. You have been playing while I and Catenac have been working, and nothing remains to be done but to act.”
“Act! What do you mean?”
“I mean that offices have been taken in the Rue Vivienne, that the articles of association have been drawn up, the directors chosen, and the Company registered. The printer brought the prospectus here yesterday; you can begin sending them out to-morrow.”
“But——”
“Read it for yourself,” said Mascarin, handing a printed paper to him. “Read, and then, perhaps, you will be convinced.”
Croisenois, in a dazed sort of manner, accepted the paper and read it aloud.
COPPER MINES OF TAFILA, ALGERIA.
Chairman: THE MARQUIS HENRI DE CROISENOIS.
Capital: Four Million Francs.
This company does not appeal to that rash class of speculators who are willing to incur great risks for the sake of obtaining for a time heavy dividends.
The shareholders in the Tafila Copper Mining Company, Limited, must not look for a dividend of more than six, or at the utmost seven, per cent.
“Well,” interrupted Mascarin, “what do you think of this for a beginning?”
“It seems fair enough,” answered De Croisenois, “but suppose others than those whose names you have in your black list take shares, what do you say we are to do then?”
“We should simply decline to allot shares to them, that is all. See the Article XX. in the Articles of Association. ‘The Board of Directors may decline to allot shares to applicants without giving any reason for so doing.’”
“And suppose,” continued the Marquis, “that one of our own people dispose of his share, may we not find our new shareholder a thorn in our side?”
“Article XXI. ‘No transfer of stock is valid, unless passed by the Board of Directors, and recorded in the books of the Company,’” read out Mascarin.
“And how will the game be brought to a conclusion?”
“Easily enough. You will advertise one morning that two-thirds of the capital having been unsuccessfully sunk in the enterprise, you are compelled to apply for a winding-up of the Company under Article XVII. Six months afterwards you will announce that the liquidation of the Company has, after all expenses have been paid, left no balance whatsoever. Then you wash your hands of the whole thing, and the matter is at an end.”
Croisenois felt that he had no ground to stand upon, but he ventured on one more objection.
“It seems rather a strange thing to launch this enterprise at the present moment. May it not interfere with my marriage prospects? and may not the Count de Mussidan decline to give me his daughter and risk her dowry in this manner? One moment, I—”
The agent sneered and cut short the tergiversations of the Marquis.
“You mean, I suppose,” said he, “that when once you are safely married and have received Mademoiselle Sabine’s dowry, you will take leave of us. Not so, my dear young friend; and if this is your idea, put it aside, for it is utter nonsense. I should hold you then as I do now.”
The Marquis saw that any further struggle would be of no avail, and gave in.
That evening, when M. Martin Rigal emerged from his private office, his daughter Flavia was more than usually demonstrative in her tokens of affection. “How fondly I love you, my dearest father!” said she, as she rained kisses on his cheeks. “How good you are to me!” but on this occasion the banker was too much preoccupied to ask his daughter the reason for this extreme tenderness on her part.
The danger with which Andre was menaced was most terrible, and the importance of the game he was playing made him feel that he had everything to fear from the boldness and audacity of his enemies. He knew this, and he also knew that spies dogged all his movements. What could be wanted but a favorable opportunity to assassinate him. But even this knowledge did not make him hesitate for an instant, and all his caution was fully exercised, for he felt that should he perish, Sabine would be inevitably lost. On her account he acted with a prudence which was certainly not one of his general characteristics. He was quite aware that he might put himself under the protection of the police, but this he knew would be to imperil the honor of the Mussidan family. He was sure that with time and patience he should be able to unravel the plots of the villains who were at work. But he had not time to do so by degrees. No, he must make a bold dash at once. The hideous sacrifice of which Sabine was to be the victim was being hurried on, and it seemed to him as if his very existence was being carried away by the hours as they flitted by. He went over recent events carefully one by one, and he strove to piece them together as a child does the portions of a dissected map. He wanted to find out the one common interest that bound all these plotters together—Verminet, Van Klopen, Mascarin, Hortebise, and Martin Rigal. As he submitted all this strange combination of persons to the test, the thought of Gaston de Gandelu came across his mind.
“Is it not curious,” thought he, “that this unhappy boy should be the victim of the cruel band of miscreants who are trying to destroy us? It is strange, very strange.”
Suddenly he started to his feet, for a fresh idea had flashed across his brain—a thought that was as yet but crude and undefined, but which seemed to bear the promise of hope and deliverance. It seemed to him that the affair of young Gandelu was closely connected with his own, that they were part and parcel of the same dark plot, and that these bills with their forged acceptance had more to do with him than he had ever imagined. How it was that he and Gaston could be connected he could not for a moment guess; yet now he would have cheerfully sworn that such was the case. Who was it that had informed the father of the son’s conduct? Why, Catenac. Who had advised that proceedings should be taken against Rose,aliasZora? Why, Catenac again; and this same man, in addition to acting for Gandelu, it seems, was also the confidential solicitor of the Marquis de Croisenois and Verminet. Perhaps he had only obeyed their instructions. All this was very vague and unsatisfactory, but it might be something to go upon, and who could say what conclusion careful inquiry might not lead him to? and Andre determined to carry on his investigations, and endeavor to find the hidden links that connected this chain of rascality together. He had taken up a pencil with the view of making a few notes, when he heard a knock at his door. He glanced at the clock; it was not yet nine.
“Come in,” cried he as he rose.
The door was thrown open, and the young artist started as he recognized in his early visitor the father of Sabine. It was after a sleepless night that the Count had decided to take the present step. He was terribly agitated, but had had time to prepare himself for this all-important interview.
“You will, I trust, pardon me, sir,” said he, “for making such an early call upon you, but I thought that I should be sure to find you at this hour, and much wanted to see you.”
Andre bowed.
In the space of one brief instant a thousand suppositions, each one more unlikely than the other, coursed through his brain. Why had the Count called? Who could have given him his address? And was the visit friendly or hostile?
“I am a great admirer of paintings,” began the Count, “and one of my friends upon whose taste I can rely has spoken to me in the warmest terms of your talent. This I trust will explain the liberty I have taken. Curiosity drove me to——”
He paused for a moment, and then added,—
“My name is the Marquis de Bevron.”
The concealment of the Count’s real name showed Andre that the visit was not entirely a friendly one, and Andre replied,—
“I am only too pleased to receive your visit. Unfortunately just now I have nothing ready, only a few rough sketches in short. Would you like to see them?”
The Count replied eagerly in the affirmative. He was terribly embarrassed under his fictitious name, and shrank before the honest, open gaze of the young artist, and his mental disturbance was completed by seeing in one corner of the room the picture covered with a green cloth, which Tantaine had alluded to. It was evident that the old villain had told the truth, and that his daughter’s portrait was concealed behind this wrapper. She had evidently been here—had spent hours here, and whose fault was it? She had but listened to the voice of her heart, and had sought that affection abroad which she was unable to obtain at home. As the Count gazed upon the young man before him, he was forced to admit that Mademoiselle Sabine had not fixed her affections on an unworthy object, for at the very first glance he had been struck with the manly beauty of the young artist, and the clear intelligence of his face.
“Ah,” thought Andre, “you come to me under a name that is not your own, and I will respect your wish to remain unknown, but I will take advantage of it by letting you know things which I should not dare say to your face.”
Great as was Andre’s preoccupation, he could not fail to notice that his visitor’s eyes sought the veiled picture with strange persistency. While M. de Mussidan was looking at the various sketches on the walls, Andre had time to recover all his self-command.
“Let me congratulate you, sir,” remarked the Count, as he returned to the spot where the painter was standing. “My friend’s admiration was well founded. I am sorry, however, that you have nothing finished to show me. You say that you have nothing, I believe?”
“Nothing, Marquis.”
“Not even that picture whose frame I can distinguish through the serge curtain that covers it?”
Andre blushed, though he had been expecting the question from the commencement.
“Excuse me,” answered he; “that picture is certainly finished, but it is not on view.”
The Count was now sure that Tantaine’s statement was correct.
“I suppose that it is some woman’s portrait,” remarked the false Marquis.
“You are quite correct.”
Both men were much agitated at this moment, and avoided meeting each other’s eyes.
The Count, however, had made up his mind that he would go on to the end.
“Ah, you are in love, I see!” remarked he with a forced laugh. “All great artists have depicted the charms of their mistresses on canvas.”
“Stop,” cried Andre with an angry glance in his eyes. “The picture you refer to is the portrait of the purest and most innocent girl in the world. I shall love her all my life; but, if possible, my respect for her is greater than my love. I should consider myself a most degraded wretch, had I ever whispered in her ear a word that her mother might not have listened to.”
A feeling of the most instantaneous relief thrilled through M. de Mussidan’s heart.
“You will pardon me,” suggested he blandly, “but when one sees a portrait in a studio, the inference is that a sitting or two has taken place?”
“You are right. She came here secretly, and without the knowledge of her family, at the risk of her honor and reputation, thus affording me the strongest proof of her love. It was cruel of me,” continued the young artist, “to accept this proof of her entire devotion, and yet not only did I accept it, but I pleaded for it on my bended knee, for how else was I to hear the music of her voice, or gladden my eyes with her beauty? We love each other, but a gulf wider than the stormy sea divides us. She is an heiress, come of a proud and haughty line of nobles, while I——”
Andre paused, waiting for some words wither of encouragement or censure; but the Count remained silent, and the young man continued,—
“Do you know who I am? A poor foundling, placed in the Hospital of Vendome, the illicit offspring of some poor betrayed girl. I started in the world with twenty francs in my pocket, and found my way to Paris; since then I have earned my bread by my daily work. You only see here the more brilliant side of my life; for an artist here—I am a common work-man elsewhere.”
If M. de Mussidan remained silent, it was from extreme admiration of the noble character, which was so unexpectedly revealed to him, and he was endeavoring to conceal it.
“She knows all this,” pursued Andre, “and yet she loves me. It was here, in this very room, that she vowed that she could never be the wife of another. Not a month ago, a gentleman, well born, wealthy, and fascinating, with every characteristic that a woman could love, was a suitor for her hand. She went boldly to him, told him the story of our love, and, like a noble-hearted gentleman, he withdrew at once, and to-day is my best and kindest friend. Now, Marquis, would you like to see this young girl’s picture?”
“Yes,” answered the Count, “and I shall feel deeply grateful to you for such a mark of confidence.”
Andre went to the picture, but as he touched the curtain he turned quickly towards his visitor.
“No,” said he, “I can no longer continue this farce; it is unworthy of me.”
M. de Mussidan turned pale.
“I am about to see Sabine de Mussidan’s portrait. Draw the curtain.”
Andre obeyed, and for a moment the Count stood entranced before the work of genius that met his eyes.
“It is she!” said the father. “Her very smile; the same soft light in her eyes. It is exquisite!”
Misfortune is a harsh teacher; some weeks ago he would have smiled superciliously at the mere idea of granting his daughter’s hand to a struggling artist, for then he thought only of M. de Breulh, but now he would have esteemed it a precious boon had he been allowed to choose Andre as Sabine’s husband. But Henri de Croisenois stood in the way, and as this idea flashed across the Count’s mind he gave a perceptible start. He was sure from the excessive calmness of the young man that he must be well acquainted with all recent events. He asked the question, and Andre, in the most open manner, told him all he knew. The generosity of M. de Breulh, the kindness of Madame Bois Arden, his suspicions, his inquiries, his projects, and his hopes. M. de Mussidan gazed once more upon his daughter’s portrait, and then taking the hand of the young painter, said,—
“M. Andre, if ever we can free ourselves from those miscreants, whose daggers are pointed at our hearts, Sabine shall be your wife.”
Yes, Sabine might yet be his, but between the lovers stood the forms of Croisenois and his associates. But now he felt strong enough to contend with them all.
“To work!” said he, “to work!”
Just then, however, he heard a sound of ringing laughter outside his door. He could distinguish a woman’s voice, and also a man’s, speaking in high, shrill tones. All at once his door burst open, and a hurricane of silks, velvets, feathers, and lace whirled in. With extreme surprise, the young artist recognized the beautiful features of Rose,aliasZora de Chantemille. Gaston de Gandelu followed her, and at once began,—
“Here we are,” said he, “all right again. Did you expect to see us?”
“Not in the least.”
“Ah! well, it is a little surprise of the governor’s. On my word, I really will be a dutiful son for the future. To-day, the good old boy came into my room, and said, ‘This morning I took the necessary steps to release the person in whom you are interested. Go and meet her.’ What do you think of that? So off I ran to find Zora, and here we are.”
Andre did not pay much attention to Gaston, but was engaged in watching Zora, who was looking round the studio. She went up to Sabine’s portrait, and was about to draw the curtain, when Andre exclaimed,—
“Excuse me,” said he; “I must put this picture to dry.” And as the portrait stood on a moveable easel, he wheeled it into the adjoining room.
“And now,” said Gaston, “I want you to come and breakfast with us to celebrate Zora’s happy release.”
“I am much obliged to you, but it is impossible. I must get on with my work.”
“Yes, yes; work is an excellent thing, but just now you must go and dress.”
“I assure you that it is quite out of the question. I cannot leave the studio yet.”
Gaston paused for a moment in deep thought.
“I have it,” said he triumphantly. “You will not come to breakfast; then breakfast shall come to you. I am off to order it.”
Andre ran after him, but Gaston was too quick, and he returned to the studio in anything but an amiable temper. Zora noticed his evident annoyance.
“He always goes on in this absurd way,” said she, with a shrug of her pretty shoulders, “and thinks himself so clever and witty, bah!”
Her tone disclosed such contempt for Gaston that Andre looked at her in perplexed surprise.
“What do you look so astonished at? It is easy to see you do not know much of him. All his friends are just like him; if you listen to them for half an hour at a stretch, you get regularly sick. When I think of the terrible evenings that I have spent in their company, I feel ready to die with yawning;” and as she spoke, she suited the action to the word. “Ah! if he really loved me!” added she.
“Love you! Why, he adores you.”
Zora made a little gesture of contempt which Toto Chupin might have envied.
“Do you think so?” said she. “Do you know what it is he loves in me? When people pass me they cry out, ‘Isn’t she good style?’ and then the idiot is as pleased as Punch; but if I had on a cotton gown, he would think nothing of me.”
Rose had evidently learned a good ideal, as her beauty had never been so radiant. She was one glow of health and strength.
“Then my name was not good enough for him,” she went on. “His aristocratic lips could not bring themselves to utter such a common name as Rose, so he christened me Zora, a regular puppy dog’s name. He has plenty of money, but money is not everything after all. Paul had no money, and yet I loved him a thousand times better. On my word, I have almost forgotten how to laugh, and yet I used to be as merry as the day was long.”
“Why did you leave Paul then?”
“Well, you see, I wanted to experience what a woman feels when she has a Cashmere shawl on, so one fine morning I took wing. But there, who knows? Paul would very likely have left me one day. There was some one who was doing his best to separate us, an old blackguard called Tantaine, who lived in the same house.”
“Ah!” answered he cautiously. “What interest could he have had in separating you?”
“I don’t know,” answered the girl, assuming a serious air; “but I am sure he was trying it on. A fellow doesn’t hand over banknotes for nothing, and I saw him give one for five hundred francs to Paul; and more than that, he promised him that he should make a great fortune through a friend of his called Mascarin.”
Andre started. He remembered the visit that Paul had made him, on the pretext of restoring the twenty francs he had borrowed, and at which he had boasted that he had an income of a thousand francs a month, and might make more, though he had not said how this was to be done. “I think that Paul has forgotten me. I saw him once at Van Klopen’s, and he never attempted to say a word to me. He was certainly with that Mascarin at the time.”
Andre could only draw one conclusion from this, either that Paul was protected by the band of conspirators, or else that he formed one of it. In that case he was useful to them; while Rose, who was in their way, was persecuted by them. Andre’s mind came to this conclusion in an instant. It seemed to him that if Catenac had been desirous of imprisoning Rose, it was because she was in the way, and her presence disturbed certain combinations. Before, however, he could work out his line of deduction, Gaston’s shrill voice was heard upon the stairs, and in another moment he made his appearance.
“Place for the banquet,” said he; “make way for the lordly feast.”
Two waiters followed him, bearing a number of covered dishes on trays. At another time Andre would have been very angry at this invasion, and at the prospect of a breakfast that would last two or three hours and utterly change everything; but now he was inclined to bless Gaston for his happy idea, and, with the assistance of Rose, he speedily cleared a large table for the reception of the viands.
Gaston did nothing, but talked continually.
“And now I must tell you the joke of the day. Henri de Croisenois, one of my dearest friends, has absolutely launched a Company.”
Andre nearly let fall a bottle, which he was about to place upon the table.
“Who told you this?” asked he quickly.
“Who told me? Why, a great big flaming poster. Tafila Copper Mines; capital, four millions. And my esteemed friend, Henri, has not a five-franc piece to keep the devil out of his pocket.”
The face of the young artist expressed such blank surprise that Gaston burst into a loud laugh.
“You look just as I did when I read it. Henri de Croisenois, the chairman of a Company! Why, if you had been elected Pope, I should not have been more surprised. Tafila Copper Mines! What a joke! The shares are five hundred francs.”
The waiters had now retired, and Gaston urged his friends to take their places at the table, and all seemed merry as a marriage bell; but many a gay commencement has a stormy ending.
Gaston, whose shallow brain could not stand the copious draughts of wine with which he washed down his repast, began all at once to overwhelm Zora with bitter reproaches at her not being able to comprehend how a man like him, who was destined to play a serious part in society, could have been led away, as he had been, by a person like her.
Gaston had a tongue which was never at a loss either to praise or blame, and Zora was equally ready to retort, and defended herself with such acrimony that the lad, knowing himself to be in fault, entirely lost the small remnant of temper which he still possessed, and dashed out of the room, declaring that he never wished to set eyes upon Zora again, and that she might keep all the presents that he had lavished upon her for all he cared.
His departure was hailed with delight by Andre, who, now that he was left alone with Zora, hoped to derive some further information from her, and especially a distinct description of Paul, whom he felt that he must now reckon among his adversaries. But his hopes were destined to be frustrated, for Zora was so filled with anger and excitement that she refused to listen to another word; and putting on her hat and mantle, with scarcely a glance at the mirror, rushed out of the studio with the utmost speed, declaring that she would seek out Paul, and make him revenge the insults that Gaston had put on her.
All this passed so rapidly that the young painter felt as if a tornado had passed through his humble dwelling; but as peace and calm returned, he began to see that Providence had directly interposed in his favor, and had sent Rose and Gaston to his place to furnish him with fresh and important facts. All that Rose had said, incomplete as her statement was, had thrown a ray of light upon an intrigue which, up till now, had been shaded in the thickest gloom. The relations of Paul with Mascarin explained why Catenac had been so anxious to have Rose imprisoned, and also seemed to hint vaguely at the reason for the extraction of the forged signatures from the simple Gaston. What could be the meaning of the Company started by De Croisenois at the very moment when he was about to celebrate his union with Sabine?
Andre desired to see the advertisement of the Company for himself; and without stopping to change his blouse, ran downstairs to the corner of the street, where Gaston had told him that the announcement of the Company was placarded up. He found it there, in a most conspicuous position, with all its advantages most temptingly set forth. Nothing was wanting; and there was even a woodcut of Tafila, in Algiers, which represented the copper mines in full working operation; while at the top, the name of the chairman, the Marquis de Croisenois, stood out in letters some six inches in height.
Andre stood gazing at this wonderful production for fully five minutes, when all at once a gleam of prudence flashed across his mind.
“I am a fool,” said he to himself. “How do I know how many watchful eyes are now fixed on me, reading on my countenance my designs regarding this matter and its leading spirit?”
Upon his return to his room, he sat for more than an hour, turning over the whole affair in his mind, and at length he flattered himself that he had hit upon an expedient. Behind the house in which he lodged was a large garden, belonging to some public institution, the front of which was in the Rue Laval. A wall of about seven feet in height divided these grounds from the premises in the Rue de la Tour d’Auvergne. Why should he not go out by the way of these ornamental grounds and so elude the vigilance of the spies who might be in waiting at the front of the house?
“I can,” thought he, “alter my appearance so much that I shall not be recognized. I need not return here to sleep. I can ask a bed from Vignol, who will help me in every possible way.”
This Vignol was the friend to whom, at Andre’s request, M. Gandelu had given the superintendence of the works at his new house in the Champs Elysees.
“I shall,” continued he, “by this means escape entirely from De Croisenois and his emissaries, and can watch their game without their having any suspicion of my doing so. For the time being, of course, I must give up seeing those who have been helping me,—De Breulh, Gandelu, Madame de Bois Arden, and M. de Mussidan; that, however, cannot be avoided. I can use the post, and by it will inform them all of the step that I have taken.”
It was dark before he had finished his letters, and, of course, it was too late to try anything that day; consequently he went out, posted his letters, and dined at the nearest restaurant.
On his return home, he proceeded to arrange his disguise. He had it ready, among his clothes: a blue blouse, a pair of check trousers, well-worn shoes, and a shabby cap, were all that he required, and he then applied himself to the task of altering his face. He first shaved off his beard. Then he twisted down two locks of hair, which he managed to make rest on his forehead. Then he commenced applying some coloring to his face with a paint-brush; but this he found to be an extremely difficult business, and it was not for a long while that he was satisfied with the results that he had produced. He then knotted an old handkerchief round his neck, and clapped his cap on one side, with the peak slanting over one eye. Then he took a last glance in the glass, and felt that he had rendered himself absolutely unrecognizable. He was about to impart a few finishing touches, when a knock came at his door. He was not expecting any one at such an hour, nine o’clock; for the waiters from the restaurant had already removed the remains of the feast.
“Who is there?” cried he.
“It is I,” replied a weak voice; “I, Gaston de Gandelu.”
Andre decided that he had no cause to distrust the lad, and so he opened his door.
“Has M. Andre gone out?” asked the poor boy faintly. “I though I heard his voice.”
Gaston had not penetrated his disguise, and this was Andre’s first triumph; but he saw now that he must alter his voice, as well as his face.
“Don’t you know me?” asked he.
It was evident that young Gaston had received some terrible shock; for it could not have been the quarrel in the morning that had reduced him to this abject state of prostration.
“What has gone wrong with you?” asked Andre kindly.
“I have come to bid you farewell; I am going to shoot myself in half an hour.”
“Have you gone mad?”
“Not in the least,” answered Gaston, passing his hand across his forehead in a distracted manner; “but those infernal bills have turned up. I was just leaving the dining-room, after having treated the governor to my company, when the butler whispered in my ear that there was a man outside who wanted to see me. I went out and found a dirty-looking old scamp, with his coat collar turned up round the nape of his neck.”
“Did he say that his name was Tantaine?” exclaimed Andre.
“Ah! was that his name? Well, it doesn’t matter. He told me in the most friendly manner that the holder of my bills had determined to place them in the hands of the police to-morrow at twelve o’clock, but that there was still a way for me to escape.”
“And this was to take Rose out of France with you,” said Andre quickly.
Gaston was overwhelmed with surprise.
“Who the deuce told you that?” asked he.
“No one; I guessed it; for it was only the conclusion of the plan which they had initiated when you were induced to forge Martin Rigal’s signature. Well, what did you say?”
“That the idea was a ridiculous one, and that I would not stir a yard. They shall find out that I can be obstinate, too; besides, I can see their little game. As soon as I am out of the way they will go to the governor and bleed him.”
But Andre was not listening to him. What was best to be done? To advise Gaston to go and take Rose with him was to deprive himself of a great element of success; and to permit him to kill himself was, of course, out of the question.
“Just attend to me,” said he at last; “I have an idea which I will tell you as soon as we are out of this house; but for reasons which are too long to go into at present it is necessary for me to get into the street without going through the door. You will, therefore, go away, and as the clock strikes twelve you will ring at the gateway of 29, Rue de Laval. When it is opened, ask some trivial question of the porter; and when you leave, take care that you do not close the gate. I shall be in the garden of the house and will slip out and join you.”
The plan succeeded admirably, and in ten minutes Gaston and Andre were walking along the boulevards.