CHAPTER XXV.

As Verminet swaggered down the street he had the air of a successful man, of a capitalist, in short, and the Managing Director of a highly lucrative concern. Andre had no difficulty in following his man, though detective’s business was quite new to him, which is no such easy matter, although every one thinks that he can become one. Andre kept his man in sight, and was astonished at the numerous acquaintances that Verminet seemed to have. Occasionally he said to himself, “Perhaps I am mistaken after all, for fancy is a bad pair of spectacles to see through. This man may be honest, and I have let my imagination lead me astray.”

Meanwhile, Verminet who had reached the Boulevard Poisonniere, assumed a totally different air, throwing off his old manner as he cast away his cigar. When he had reached the Rue Montorgueil he turned underneath a large archway. Verminet had gone into the office of M. B. Mascarin, and that person simply kept a Servants’ Registry Office for domestics of both sexes. In spite of his surprise, however, he determined to wait for Verminet to come out; and, not to give himself the air of loitering about the place, he crossed the road and appeared to be interested in watching three workmen who were engaged in fixing the revolving shutters to a new shop window. Luckily for the young painter he had not to wait a very long while, for in less than a quarter of an hour Verminet came out, accompanied by two men. The one was tall and thin, and wore a pair of spectacles with colored glasses, while the other was stout and ruddy, with the unmistakable air of a man of the world about him. Andre would have given the twenty thousand francs which he still had in his pocket if he could have heard a single word of their conversation. He was moving skilfully forward so as to place himself within earshot, when not two feet from him he heard a shrill whistle twice repeated. There was something so strange and curious in the sound of this whistle that Andre looked round and noticed that the three men whom he was watching had been also attracted by it. The tall man with the colored glasses glanced suspiciously around him, and then after a nod to his companions turned and re-entered the office, while Verminet and the other walked away arm in arm. Andre was undecided; should he try and discover who these two men were? Near the entrance he saw a lad selling hot chestnuts. “Ah!” said he, “the little chestnut seller will always be there; but I may lose the others if I stay here.” He followed the two men as quickly as possible. They did not go very far, and speedily entered a fine house in the Rue Montmartre. Here Andre was for a moment puzzled, as he did not know to whom they were paying a visit, but noticing an inscription on the wall of “Cashier’s Office on the first floor,” he exclaimed,—

“Ah! it is to the banker’s they have gone!”

He questioned a man coming downstairs and heard that M. Martin Rigal, the banker, had his offices and residence there.

“I have struck a vein of good luck to-day,” thought he; “and now if my little friend the chestnut seller can only tell me the names of these men, I have done a good day’s work. Idohope that he has not gone.”

The boy was still there, and he had two customers standing by the chafing-dish which contained the glowing charcoal, and a working lad in cap and blouse was arguing so hotly with the lad that they did not notice Andre’s appearance.

“You can stow that chat,” said the boy; “I have told your father the price I would take. You want my station and stock-in-trade. Hand over two hundred and fifty francs, and they are yours.”

“But my dad will only give two hundred,” returned the other.

“Then he don’t need give nothing, for he won’t get ‘em,” answered the chestnut vender sharply. “Two hundred francs for a pitch like this! Why, I have sometimes taken ten francs and more, and that ain’t a lie, on the word of Toto Chupin.”

Andre was tickled with this strange designation, and addressed himself to the lad who bore it.

“My good boy,” said he, “I think you were here an hour ago. Did you see anything of three gentlemen who came out of the house and stood talking together for a short time?”

The lad turned sharply round and examined his questioner from tip to toe with an air of the most supreme impertinence; and then, in a tone which matched his look, replied,—

“What does it signify to you who they are? Mind your own business, and be off!”

Andre had had some little experience of this delightful class of street arab, of which Toto Chupin was so favorable a specimen, and knew their habits, customs, and language.

“Come, my chicken,” said he, “spit it out, it won’t blister your tongue, to answer a man who asks a civil question.”

“Well, then, I saw ‘em, sharp enough, and what then?”

“Why, that I should like to have their names if they have such an article belonging to ‘em!”

Toto raised his cap and scratched his head, as if to stimulate his brains, and as he brushed up his thick head of dirty yellow hair, he eyed Andre cunningly.

“And suppose I know the blokes’ names and tells ‘em out to you, what will you stand?” asked he.

“Ten sous.”

The delightful youth puffed out his cheeks, then expelled the pent-up wind by a sudden slap, as a mark of his disgust at the meanness of the offer.

“Pull up your braces, my lord,” said he sarcastically, “or you’ll be losing the contents of your breeches pockets. Ten sous, indeed! Perhaps you’d like me to lend ‘em to yer?”

Andre smiled pleasantly.

“Did you think, my little man, that I was going to offer you twenty thousand shiners?” asked he.

“Won again!” cried Toto; “I laid myself a new hat that you weren’t a fool, and I have collared the stakes.”

“Why do you think I am not a fool?”

“Because a fool would have begun by offering me five francs and gone up slick to ten, while you began at a modest figure.”

The painter smiled.

“But you were too old a bird to be caught like that,” continued the lad; and as he spoke, he stopped, and contracted his brow as if in deep perplexity. Of course he was acquainted with the names, but ought he to give them? Instantly he scented an enemy. Harmless people did not usually ask questions of itinerant chestnut venders, and to open his mouth might be to injure Mascarin, Beaumarchef, or the guileless Tantaine.

This last thought determined the lad.

“Keep your ten sous, my pippin,” said the boy; “I’ll tell you what you want to know all gratis and for nothing, because I’ve taken a real fancy to the cut of your mug. The tall chap was Mascarin, the fat un Doctor Hortebise, and t’other—stop, let me think it out in my knowledge box; ah! I have it, he was Verminet.”

Andre was so delighted that, drawing from his pocket a five-franc piece, he tossed it to the boy.

“Thanks, my noble lord,” said Chupin, and was about to add something more in a similar vein, when he glanced down the street. His look changed in an instant, and he fixed his eyes upon the painter’s face with a very strange expression.

“What is the matter, my lad?” asked Andre, surprised at this sudden change.

“Nothing,” answered Chupin; “nothing at all; only as you seem a decentish sort of chap, I should recommend you to keep your wits about you, and to look out for squalls.”

“Eh, what do you mean?”

“I mean—why—be careful, of course. Hang me if I exactly know what I do mean. It is just an idea that came to me all of a jump. But there, be off; I ain’t going to say another word.”

With much difficulty Andre repressed his astonishment. He saw that this young scamp was the possessor of many secrets which might be of inestimable value to him; but he also saw that he was determined to hold his tongue, and that it would at present be a waste of time to try and get anything out of him; and an empty cab passing at this moment, Andre hailed it, and told the coachman to drive fast to the Champs Elysees. In obedience to the warning that he had just received from Toto, he did not give the name of thecaféwhere he was to meet De Breulh, for he made up his mind to be careful, yes, extremely careful. He recollected the two odd whistles which had seemed to make Mascarin wince, and which certainly broke off the conference of the three men, and he remembered that it was after a glance down the street that Toto had become less communicative and had given him that curt warning. “By heaven,” said he, as the recollection of a story he had read not long ago dawned on him, “I am being followed.” He lowered the front glass of the cab, and attracted the coachman’s attention by pulling him by the sleeve.

“Listen to me,” said he, as the man turned, “and do not slacken your speed. Here, take your five francs in advance.”

“But look here——”

“Listen to me. Go as sharp as you can to the Rue de Matignon; turn down it, and, as you do, go a bit slower; then drive on like lightning, and when you are in the Champs Elysees do what you like, for your cab will be empty.”

The driver chuckled.

“Aha,” said he; “I see you are being followed, and you want to give ‘em leg bail.”

“Yes, yes; you are right.”

“Then listen to me. Take care when you jump, and don’t do it on the pavement, for t’other is the safest.”

Andre succeeded in alighting safely, and turned down a narrow court before his pursuer had entered the street; but it was vain for the young painter to lurk in a doorway, for after five minutes had elapsed there was nothing to be seen, and no spy had made his appearance.

“I have been over-cautious,” muttered he.

More than a quarter of an hour had elapsed, and Andre felt that he might leave his hiding-place, and go in quest of De Breulh; and as he approached the spot chosen for their meeting-place, he saw his friend’s carriage, and near it was the owner, smoking a cigar. The two men caught sight of each other almost at the same moment. De Breulh advanced to greet the young man with extended hand.

“I have been waiting for you for the last twenty minutes,” said he.

Andre commenced to apologize, but his friend checked him.

“Never mind,” returned he; “I know that you must have had some excellent reasons; but, to tell you the honest truth, I had become rather nervous about you.”

“Nervous! and why, pray?”

“Do you not recollect what I said the other evening? De Croisenois is a double-dyed scoundrel.”

Andre remained silent, and his friend, putting his arm affectionately through his, continued,—

“Let us walk,” said he; “it is better than sitting down in thecafé. I believe De Croisenois capable of anything. He had the prospect before him of a large fortune,—that of his brother George; but this he has already anticipated. A man in a position like this is not to be trifled with.”

“I do not fear him.”

“But I do. I am, however, a little relieved by the fact that he has never seen you.”

The painter shook his head.

“Not only has he seen me, but I half believe that he suspects my designs.”

“Impossible!”

“But I am sure that I have been followed to-day. I have no actual proof, but still I am fully convinced that it was so.”

And Andre recounted all that had occurred during the day.

“You are certainly being watched,” answered De Breulh, “and every step that you take will be known to your enemies, and at this very moment perhaps eyes are upon us.”

As he spoke he glanced uneasily around; but it was quite dark, and he could see no one.

“We will give the spies a little gentle exercise,” said he, “and if we dine together they will find it hard to discover the place.”

De Breulh’s coachman was dozing on the driving-seat. His master aroused him, and whispered some order in his ear. The two young men then got in, and the carriage started at a quick pace.

“What do you think of this expedient?” asked De Breulh. “We shall go at this pace for the next hour. We will then alight at the corner of the Chaussee d’Autin, and be free for the rest of the night, and those who wish to follow us to-night must have good eyes and legs.”

All came to pass as De Breulh had arranged; but as he jumped out he saw a dark form slip from behind the carriage and mingle with the crowd on the Boulevard.

“By heavens,” said he; “that was a man. I thought that I was throwing a spy off the track, and I was in reality only treating him to a drive.”

To make sure, he took off his glove and felt the springs of the carriage.

“See,” said he, “they are still warm from the contact with a human body.”

The young painter was silent, but all was now explained: while he jumped from the cab, his tracker had been carried away upon it. This discovery saddened the dinner, and a little after ten Andre left his friend and returned home.

The Viscountess de Bois Arden had not been wrong when she told Andre in Van Klopen’s establishment that community of sorrow had brought the Count and Countess of Mussidan nearer together, and that Sabine had made up her mind to sacrifice herself for the honor of the family. Unfortunately, however, this change in the relations of husband and wife had not taken place immediately; for after her interview with Doctor Hortebise, Diana’s first impulse had not been to go to her husband, but to write to Norbert, who was as much compromised by the correspondence as she herself. Her first letter did not elicit a reply. She wrote a second, and then a third, in which, though she did not go into details, she let the Duke know that she was the victim of a dark intrigue, and that a deadly peril was hanging over her daughter’s head. This last letter was brought back to her by the messenger, without any envelope, and across it Norbert had written,—

“The weapon which you have used against me has now been turned against yourself. Heaven is just.”

These words started up in letters of fire before her eyes as the presage of coming misfortune, and telling her that the hour of retribution had now come, and that she must be prepared to suffer, as an atonement for her crimes. Then it was that she felt all was lost, and she must go to her husband for aid, unless she desired that copies of the stolen letters should be sent to him; and in a little boudoir, adjoining Sabine’s own room, she opened her heart and told her husband all. She performed it with all the skill of a woman who, without descending to falsehood, contrives to conceal the truth. But she could not hide the share that she had taken, both in the death of the late Duke of Champdoce and the disappearance of George de Croisenois.

The Count’s brain reeled. He called up to his memory what Diana had been when he first saw and loved her at Laurebourg: how pure and modest she looked! what virginal candor sat upon her brow! and yet she was even then doing her best to urge on a son to murder his father.

De Mussidan had had hideous doubts concerning the relations of Norbert and Diana, both before and after marriage; but his wife firmly denied this at the moment when she was revealing the other guilty secrets of her past life. He had believed that Sabine was not his child, and now he had to reproach himself with the indifference he had displayed towards her.

He made no answer to the terrible revelation that was poured into his ears; but when the Countess had concluded, he rose and left the room, stretching out his hands and grasping the walls for support, like a drunken man.

The Count and Countess believed that Sabine had slept through this interview, but they were mistaken, for Sabine had heard all those fatal words—“ruin, dishonor, and despair!” At first she scarcely understood. Were not these words merely the offspring of her delirium? She strove to shake it off, but too soon she knew that the whispered words were sad realities, and she lay on her bed quivering with terror. Much of the conversation escaped her, but she heard enough. Her mother’s past sins were to be exposed if the daughter did not marry a man entirely unknown to her—the Marquis de Croisenois. She knew that her torments would not be of very long duration, for to part with her love for Andre would be to part with life itself. She made up her mind to live until she had saved her parents’ honor by the sacrifice of herself, and then she would be free to accept the calm repose of the grave.

But the terrible revelation bore its fruits, for her fever came back, and a relapse was the result. But youth and a sound constitution gained the day, and when she was convalescent her will was as strong as ever.

Her first act was to write the letter to her lover which had driven him to the verge of distraction; and then, fearing lest her father might, in his agony and remorse, be driven to some rash act, she went to him and told him that she knew all.

“I never loved M. de Breulh,” said she with a pitiful smile, “and therefore the sacrifice is not so great after all.”

The Count was not for a moment the dupe of the generous-souled girl, but he did not dare to brave the scandal of the death of Montlouis, and still less the exposure of his wife’s conduct. Time was passing, however, and the miscreants in whose power they were made no signs of life. Hortebise did not appear any more, and there were moments when the miserable Diana actually ventured to hope. “Have they forgotten us?” thought she.

Alas! no; they were people who never forgot.

The Champdoce affair had been satisfactorily arranged, and every precaution had been taken to prevent the detection of Paul as an impostor, and engaged as he had been, Mascarin had no time to turn his attention to the marriage of Sabine and De Croisenois. The famous Limited Company, with the Marquis as chairman, had, too, to be started, the shares of which were to be taken up by the unhappy victims of the blackmailers; but first some decided steps must be taken with the Mussidans, and Tantaine was dispatched on this errand.

This amiable individual, though he was going into such very excellent society, did not consider it necessary to make any improvement in his attire. This was the reason why the footman, upon seeing such a shabby visitor and hearing him ask for the Count or Countess, did not hesitate to reply, with a sneer, that his master and mistress had been out for some months, and were not likely to return for a week or two. This fact did not disconcert the wily man, for drawing one of Mascarin’s cards from his pocket, he begged the kind gentleman to take it upstairs, when he was sure that he would at once be sent for.

De Mussidan, when he read the name on the card, turned ghastly pale.

“Show him into the library,” said he curtly.

Florestan left the room, and the Count mutely handed the card to his wife, but she had no need to read it.

“I can tell what it is,” gasped she.

“The day for settling accounts has come,” said the Count, “and this name is the fatal sign.”

The Countess flung herself upon her knees, and taking the hand that hung placidly by his side, pressed her lips tenderly to it.

“Forgive me, Octave!” she muttered. “Will you not forgive me? I am a miserable wretch, and why did not Heaven punish me for the sins that I have committed, and not make others expiate my offences?”

The Count put her gently aside. He suffered intensely, and yet no word of reproach escaped his lips against the woman who had ruined his whole life.

“And Sabine,” she went on, “must she, a De Mussidan, marry one of these wretched scoundrels?”

Sabine was the only one in the room who preserved her calmness; she had so schooled herself that her distress of mind was not apparent to the outward eye.

“Do not make yourselves miserable,” said she, with a faint smile; “how do we know that M. de Croisenois may not make me an excellent husband after all?”

The Count gazed upon his daughter with a look of the fondest affection and gratitude.

“Dearest Sabine!” murmured he. Her fortitude had restored his self-command. “Let us be outwardly resigned,” said he, “whatever our feelings may be. Time may do much for us, and at the very church door we may find means of escape.”

Florestan had conducted Tantaine to the sumptuous library, in which the Count had received Mascarin’s visit; and, to pass away the time, the old man took a mental inventory of the contents of the room. He tried the texture of the curtains, looked at the handsome bindings of the books, and admired the magnificent bronzes on the mantelpiece.

“Aha,” muttered he, as he tried the springs of a luxurious armchair, “everything is of the best, and when matters are settled, I half think that I should like a resting-place just like this——”

He checked himself, for the door opened, and the Count made his appearance, calm and dignified, but very pale. Tantaine made a low bow, pressing his greasy hat against his breast.

“Your humble servant to command,” said he.

The Count had come to a sudden halt.

“Excuse me,” said he, “but did you send up a card asking for an interview?”

“I am not Mascarin certainly, but I used that highly respectable gentleman’s name, because I knew that my own was totally unknown to you. I am Tantaine, Adrien Tantaine.”

M. de Mussidan gazed with extreme surprise upon the squalid individual before him. His mild and benevolent face inspired confidence, and yet he doubted him.

“I have come on the same business,” pursued the old man. “I have been ordered to tell you that it must be hurried on.”

The Count hastily closed the door and locked it; the manner of this man made him feel even too plainly the ignominy of his position.

“I understand,” answered he. “But how is it that you have come, and not the other one?”

“He intended to come; but at the last moment he drew back; Mascarin, you see, has a great deal to lose, while I——” He paused, and holding up the tattered tails of his coat, turned round, as though to exhibit his shabby attire. “All my property is on my back,” continued he.

“Then I can treat with you?” asked the Count.

Tantaine nodded his head. “Yes, Count, I have the missing leaves from the Baron’s journal, and also, well—I suppose you know everything, all of your wife’s correspondence.”

“Enough,” answered the Count, unable to hide his disgust. “Sit down.”

“Now, Count, I will go to the point—are you going to put the police on us?”

“I have said that I would do nothing of the kind.”

“Then we can get to business.”

“Yes, if——”

The old man shrugged his shoulders.

“There is no ‘if’ in the case,” returned he. “We state our conditions, for acceptance or rejection.”

These words were uttered in a tone of such extreme insolence that the Count was strongly tempted to hurl the extortionate scoundrel from the window, but he contrived to restrain his passion.

“Let us hear the conditions then,” said he impatiently.

Tantaine extracted from some hidden recess of his coat a much-worn pocketbook, and drew from it a paper.

“Here are our conditions,” returned he slowly. “The Count de Mussidan promises to give the hand of his daughter to Henri Marquis de Croisenois. He will give his daughter a wedding portion of six hundred thousand francs, and promises that the marriage shall take place without delay. The Marquis de Croisenois will be formally introduced at your house, and he must be cordially received. Four days afterwards he must be asked to dinner. On the fifteenth day from that M. de Mussidan will give a grand ball in honor of the signing of the marriage contract. The leaves from the diary and the whole of the correspondence will be handed to M. de Mussidan as soon as the civil ceremony is completed.”

With firmly compressed lips and clenched hands, the Count sat listening to these conditions.

“And who can tell me,” said he, “that you will keep your engagements, and that these papers will be restored to me at all?”

Tantaine looked at him with a air of pity.

“Your own good sense,” answered he. “What more could we expect to get out of you than your daughter and your money?”

The Count did not answer, but paced up and down the room, eyeing the ambassador keenly, and endeavoring to detect some weak point in his manner of cynicism and audacity. Then speaking in the calm tone of a man who had made up his mind, he said,—

“You hold me as in a vice, and I admit myself vanquished. Stringent as your conditions are, I accept them.”

“That is the right style of way to talk in,” remarked Tantaine cheerfully.

“Then,” continued the Count, with a ray of hope gleaming in his face, “why should I give my daughter to De Croisenois at all?—surely this is utterly unnecessary. What you want is simply six hundred thousand francs; well, you can have them, and leave me Sabine.”

He paused and waited for the reply, believing that the day was his; but he was wrong.

“That would not be the same thing at all,” answered Tantaine. “We should not gain our ends by such means.”

“I can do more,” said the Count. “Give me six months, and I will add a million to the sum I have already offered.”

Tantaine did not appear impressed by the magnitude of this offer. “I think,” remarked he, “that it will be better to close this interview, which, I confess, is becoming a little annoying. You agreed to accept the conditions. Are you still in that mind?”

The Count bowed. He could not trust himself to speak.

“Then,” went on Tantaine, “I will take my leave. Remember, that as you fulfil your engagement, so we will keep to ours.”

He had laid his hand on the handle of the door, when the Count said,—

“Another word, if you please. I can answer for myself and Madame de Mussidan, but how about my daughter?”

Tantaine’s face changed. “What do you mean?” asked he.

“My daughter may refuse to accept M. de Croisenois.”

“Why should she? He is good-looking, pleasant, and agreeable.”

“Still she may refuse him.”

“If mademoiselle makes any objection,” said the old man in peremptory accents, “you must let me see her for a few minutes, and after that you will have no further difficulty with her.”

“Why, what could you have to say to my daughter?”

“I should say——”

“Well, what would you say?”

“I should say that if she loves any one, it is not M. de Breulh.” He endeavored to pass through the half-opened door, but the Count closed it violently.

“You shall not leave this room,” cried he, “until you have explained this insulting remark.”

“I had no intention of offending you,” answered Tantaine humbly. “I only——” He paused, and then, with an air of sarcasm which sat strangely upon a person of his appearance, went on, “I am aware that the heiress of a noble family may do many things without having her reputation compromised, when girls in a lower social grade would be forever lost by the commission of any one of them; and I am sure if the family of M. de Breulh knew that the young lady to whom he was engaged had been in the habit of passing her afternoons alone with a young man in his studio——”

He paused, and hastily drew a revolver, for it seemed to him as if the Count were about to throw himself upon him. “Softly, softly, if you please,” cried he. “Blows and insults are fatal mistakes. I have better information than yourself, that is all. I have more than ten times seen your daughter enter a house in the Rue Tour d’Auvergne, and asking for M. Andre, creep silently up the staircase.”

The Count felt that he was choking. He tore off his cravat, and cried wildly, “Proofs! Give me proofs!”

During the last five minutes Tantaine had shifted his ground so skilfully that the heavy library table now stood between himself and the Count, and he was comparatively safe behind this extemporized defence.

“Proofs?” answered he. “Do you think that I carry them about with me? In a week I could give you the lovers’ correspondence. That, you will say, is too long to wait; but you can set your doubts at rest at once. If you go to the address I will give you before eight to-morrow morning, and enter the rooms occupied by M. Andre, you will find the portrait of Mademoiselle Sabine carefully concealed from view behind a green curtain, and a very good portrait it is. I presume you will admit that it could not have been executed without a sitting.”

“Leave this,” cried the Count, “without a moment’s delay.”

Tantaine did not wait for a repetition of these words. He passed through the doorway, and as soon as he was outside he called out in cheerful accents. “Do not forget the address, Number 45, Rue Tour d’Auvergne, name of Andre, and mind and be there before eight a.m.”

The Count made a rush at him on hearing this last insult, but he was too late, for Tantaine slammed the door, and was in the hall before the infuriated master of the house could open it. Tantaine had resumed all his airs of humility, and took off his hat to the footmen as he descended the steps. “Yes,” muttered he, as he walked along, “the idea was a happy one. Andre knows that he is watched, and will be careful; and now that M. de Mussidan is aware that his sweet, pure daughter has had a lover, he will be only too happy to accept the Marquis de Croisenois as his son-in-law.” Tantaine believed that Sabine was more culpable than she really had been, for the idea of pure and honorable love had never entered his brain.

By this time Tantaine was in the Champs Elysees, and stared anxiously around. “If my Toto makes no mistake,” muttered he, “surely my order was plain enough.”

The old man got very cross as he at last perceived the missing lad conversing with the proprietor of a pie-stall, having evidently been doing a little jawing with him.

“Toto,” he called, “Toto, come here.”

Toto Chupin heard him, for he looked round, but he did not move, for he was certainly much interested in the conversation he was carrying on. Tantaine shouted again, and this time more angrily than before, and Toto, reluctantly leaving his companion, came slowly up to his patron.

“You have been a nice time getting here,” said the lad sulkily. “I was just going to cut it. Ain’t you well that you make such a row? If you ain’t, I’d better go for a doctor.

“I am in a tremendous hurry, Toto.”

“Yes, and so is the postman when he is behind time. I’m busy too.”

“What, with the man you have just left?”

“Yes; he is a sharper chap than I am. How much do you earn every day, Daddy Tantaine? Well, that chap makes his thirty or forty francs every night, and does precious little for it. I should like a business like that, and I think that I shall secure one soon.”

“Have patience. I thought that you were going into business with those two young men you were drinking beer with at the Grand Turk?”

Toto uttered a shrill cry of anger at these words. “Business with them?” shrieked he; “they are regular clever night thieves.”

“Have they done you any harm, my poor lad?”

“Yes; they have utterly ruined me. Luckily, I saw Mascarin yesterday, and he set me up in the hot-chestnut line. He ain’t a bad one, is Mascarin.”

Tantaine curled his lip disdainfully. “Not a bad fellow, I dare say, as long as you don’t ask him for anything.”

Toto was so surprised at hearing Tantaine abuse Mascarin, that he was unable to utter a word.

“Ah, you may look surprised,” continued the old man, “but when a man is rolling in riches, and leaves an old friend to starve, then he is not what I call a real good fellow. Now, Toto, you are a bright lad, and so I don’t mind letting you know that I am only waiting for a good chance to drop Mascarin, and set up on my own account. Work for yourself, my boy.”

“I know that; but it is a good deal easier to say than to do.”

“You have tried then?”

“Yes, I have; but I came to grief over it. You know all about it as well as I do, for don’t tell me you didn’t hear every word I said that night you were hunting up Caroline Schimmel. However, I’ll tell you. One day when I saw a lady who looked rather nervous get out of a cab, I followed her. I was decently togged out, so I rang at the door. I was so sure that I was going to make a haul that I would not have taken ninety-nine francs for the hundred that I expected to make. Well, I rang, a girl opened the door, and in I went. What an ass I made of myself! I found a great brute of a man there, who thrashed me within an inch of my life, and then kicked me downstairs. See, he made his mark rather more plainly than I liked.” And removing his cap, the boy showed several bruises about his forehead.

During this conversation Tantaine and the lad had been walking slowly up the Champs Elysees, and had by this time arrived just opposite M. Gandelu’s house, where Andre was at work. Tantaine sat down on a bench.

“Let us rest a bit,” said he; “I am tired out; and now let me tell you, my lad, that your tale only shows me that it is experience you want. Now, I have any amount of that, and I was really the prime mover in most of Mascarin’s schemes. If I were to start on my own account, I should be driving in my carriage in twelve months. The only thing against my success is my age, for I am getting to be an old man. Why, even now I have a matter in my hands that is simply splendid. I have had half the money down, but I want a smart young fellow to pull it through.”

“Why couldn’t I be the smart young fellow?” asked Toto.

Tantaine shook his head. “You are as much too young as I am too old,” answered he. “At your age you are too apt to be frightened, and would shrink back at the critical time. Besides, I have a conscience.”

“And so have I,” exclaimed Toto; “and it’s grown like your own, old man; it can be stretched for miles and folded up into nothing.”

“Well, we may be able to do something,” returned Tantaine, as, drawing out a ragged check pocket-handkerchief, he wiped his glasses.

“Listen to me, my lad; I’ll put what we call a supposititious case to you. You hate those two fellows who have robbed you, for I suppose that is what you meant; well, suppose you knew that they were at work all day on a high scaffold like that one opposite to us, what would you do?”

Toto scratched his head, and remarked after a pause,—

“If that crack-jawed idea you talk of was true,” answered he, “those gay lads might as well make their wills, for I’d step up the scaffolding at night and just saw the planks that they are in the habit of clapping their toes on, half through, and when one of the mates stepped on it, why, there would be a bit of a smash, eh, Daddy Tantaine?”

“Not so bad, not so bad for a lad of your years,” said the old man with an approving smile.

Toto’s bosom swelled with pride.

“Besides,” he continued, “I would arrange matters so well that not a soul would think that I had done the trick.”

“The more I hear you speak, Chupin,” answered Tantaine, “the more I believe you are the lad I want, and I am sure that we shall make heaps of money together.”

“I am cock sure of that too.”

“You can use carpenters’ tools, I think you once told me?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” continued Tantaine, “let me tell you then that I know an old man with any amount of money, and there is a fellow whom he hates and detests, a young chap who ran off with the girl he loved.”

“The old bloke must have been jolly wild.”

“Well, to tell the truth, he wasn’t a bit pleased. Now it so happens that this gay young dog spends ten hours a day at least on that very scaffolding opposite to us. The old fellow, who has his head screwed on the right way, had the very same idea as yours, but he is too old and too stout to do the trick for himself; and, to cut the matter short, he would give five thousand francs to the persons who would carry out his idea. Just think, two thousand francs for a few cuts of a saw!”

The boy was violently agitated, but Tantaine pretended not to notice it.

“First, my lad,” said he, “I must explain to you in what measure the old gentleman’s plans are different from yours. If we did not take care, some other poor devil might break his neck, but I have hit on a dodge to avoid all this.”

“I ain’t curious, but I should like to hear it.”

Tantaine smiled blandly.

“Listen! Do you see high up; that little shed built of planks? That is used by the carvers and stone-cutters. Well, this little house, a couple of hundred feet above us, has a kind of a window; well, if this window and the planks below it were cut nearly through, any one leaning against it would be very likely to fall into the street and perhaps to hurt himself.”

Chupin nodded.

“Now, suppose,” went on Tantaine, “that the enemy of our old gentleman was in that little shed, all at once he hears a woman shriek, ‘Help! It is I you love; help me!’ what would this young fellow do? Why, he would recognize the voice, rush to the window, lean out, and as the woodwork and supports had been cut away, he would——Well, do you see now?”

Chupin hesitated for a moment.

“I don’t say I won’t,” muttered he; “but, look here, will the old chap pay down smart?”

“Yes, and besides, did I not tell you that he had given half down?”

The boy’s eyes glistened as the old man unpinned the tattered lining of his pocket, and holding the pin between his teeth, pulled out the banknotes, each one for a thousand francs. Chupin’s heart rose at the sight of this wealth.

“Is one of those for me?” asked he. Tantaine held the note towards the boy, who shuddered at the touch of the crisp paper and kissed the precious object in a paroxysm of pleasure. He then started from his seat, and regardless of the astonishment of the passers-by, executed a wild dance of triumph.

All was soon settled. Toto was to creep into the unfinished building by night, and not to leave it until he had completed his work. Tantaine, who had a thought for everything, told the boy what sort of a saw to employ, and gave him the address of a man who supplied the best class instruments.

“You must remember, my dear lad,” said he, “not to leave behind you any traces of your work which may cause suspicion. One grain of sawdust on the floor might spoil the whole game. Take a dark lantern with you, grease your saw, and rasp out the tooth-nicks of the saw when you have finished your work.”

Toto listened to the old man in surprise; he had never thought that he was of so practical a turn. He promised that he would be careful, and imagining that he had received all his directions, rose to leave; but the old man still detained him.

“Here,” said he, “suppose you tell me a little about Caroline Schimmel. You told Beaumarchef that she said I had made her scream, and that when she caught me, I should have a bad time of it, eh?”

“You weren’t my partner then,” returned the lad with an impudent laugh; “and I wanted to give you a bit of a fright. The truth is, that you made the poor old girl so drunk that she has had to go to the hospital.”

Tantaine was overjoyed at this news, and, rising from his seat, said, “Where are you living now?”

“Nowhere in particular. Yesterday I slept in a stable, but there isn’t room for all my furniture there, so I must shift.”

“Would you like to have my room for a day or two?” asked Tantaine, chuckling at the boy’s jest. “I have moved from there, but the attic is mine for another fortnight yet.”

“I’m gone; where is it?”

“You know well enough, in the Hotel de Perou, Rue de la Hachette. Then I will send a line to the landlady;” and tearing a leaf from his pocketbook, he scrawled on it a few words, saying that young relative of his, M. Chupin, was to have his room.

This letter, together with his banknote, Toto carefully tied up in the corner of his neckerchief, and as he crossed the street the old man watched him for a moment, and then stood gazing at the workmen on the scaffolding. Just then Gandelu and his son came out, and the contractor paused to give a few instructions. For a few seconds Gaston and Chupin stood side by side, and a strange smile flitted across Tantaine’s face as he noted this. “Both children of Paris,” muttered he, “and both striking examples of the boasted civilization. The dandy struts along the pavement, while the street arab plays in the gutter.”

But he had no time to spend in philosophical speculations, as the omnibus that he required appeared, and entering it, in another half-hour he entered Paul Violaine’s lodgings in the Rue Montmartre.

The portress, Mother Brigaut, was at her post as Tantaine entered the courtyard and asked,—

“And how is our young gentleman to-day?”

“Better, sir, ever so much better; I made him a lovely bowl of soup yesterday, and he drank up every drop of it. He looks like a real king this morning, and the doctor sent in a dozen of wine to-day, which will, I am sure, effect a perfect cure.”

With a smile and a nod Tantaine was making his way to the stairs, when Mother Brigaut prevented his progress.

“Some one was here yesterday,” remarked she, “asking about M. Paul.”

“What sort of a looking person was it?”

“Oh, a man like any other, nothing in particular about him, but he wasn’t a gentleman, for after keeping me for fully fifteen minutes talking and talking, he only gave me a five-franc piece.”

The description was not one that would lead to a recognition of the person, and Tantaine asked in tones of extreme annoyance,—

“Did you not notice anything particular about the man?”

“Yes, he had on gold spectacles with the mountings as fine as a hair, and a watch chain as thick and heavy as I have ever seen.”

“And is that all?”

“Yes,” answered she. “Oh! there was one thing more—the person knows that you come here.”

“Does he? Why do you think so?”

“Because all the time he was talking to me he was in a rare fidget, and always kept his eyes on the door.”

“Thanks, Mother Brigaut; mind and keep a sharp lookout,” returned Tantaine, as he slowly ascended the stairs.

Every now and then he paused to think. “Who upon earth can this fellow be?” asked he of himself. He reviewed the whole question—chances, probabilities, and risks, not one was neglected, but all in vain.

“A thousand devils!” growled he; “are the police at my heels?”

His nerves were terribly shaken, and he strove in vain to regain his customary audacity. By this time he had reached the door of Paul’s room, and, on his ringing, the door was at once opened; but at the sight of this woman he started back, with a cry of angry surprise; for it was a female figure that stood before him, a young girl—Flavia, the daughter of Martin Rigal, the banker.

The keen eyes of Tantaine showed him that Flavia’s visit had not been of long duration. She had removed her hat and jacket, and was holding in her hand a piece of fancy work.

“Whom do you wish to see, sir?” asked she.

The old man strove to speak, but his lips would not frame a single sentence. A band of steel seemed to be compressing his throat, and he appeared like a man about to be seized with an apoplectic fit.

Flavia gazed upon the shabby-looking visitor with an expression of intense disgust. It seemed to her that she had seen him somewhere; in fact, there was an inexplicable manner about him which entirely puzzled her.

“I want to speak to M. Paul,” said the old man in a low, hoarse whisper; “he is expecting me.”

“Then come in; but just now his doctor is with him.”

She threw open the door more widely, and stepped back, so that the greasy garments of the visitor might not touch her dress. He passed her with an abject bow, and crossed the little sitting-room with the air of a man who perfectly understands his way. He did not knock at the door of the bedroom, but went straight in; there a singular spectacle at once arrested his attention. Paul, with a very pale face, was seated on the bed, while Hortebise was attentively examining his bare shoulder. The whole of Paul’s right arm and shoulder was a large open wound, which seemed to have been caused by a burn or scald, and must have been extremely painful. The doctor was bending over him, applying a cooling lotion to the injured place with a small piece of sponge. He turned sharply round on Daddy Tantaine’s entrance; and so accustomed were these men to read each other’s faces at a glance that Hortebise saw at once what had happened; for Tantaine’s expression plainly said, “Is Flavia mad to be here?” while the eyes of Hortebise answered, “She may be, but I could not help it.”

Paul turned, too, and greeted the old man with an exclamation of delight.

“Come here,” said he merrily, “and just see to what a wretched state I have been reduced between the doctor and M. Mascarin.”

Tantaine examined the wound carefully. “Are you quite sure,” asked he, “that not only will it deceive the Duke, who will see but with our eyes, but also those of his wife, and perhaps of his medical man?”

“We will hoodwink the lot of them.”

“And how long must we wait,” asked the old man, “until the place skins over, and assumes the appearance of having been there from childhood?”

“In a month’s time Paul can be introduced to the Duke de Champdoce.”

“Are you speaking seriously?”

“Listen to me. The scar will not be quite natural then, but I intend to subject it to various other modes of treatment.”

The dressing was now over, and Paul’s shirt being readjusted, he was permitted to lie down again.

“I am quite willing to remain here forever,” said he, “as long as I am allowed to retain the services of the nurse that I have in the next room, and who, I am sure, is waiting with the greatest eagerness for your departure.”

Hortebise fumed, and cast a glance at Paul which seemed to say, “Be silent;” but the conceited young man paid no heed to it.

“How long has this charming nurse been with you?” asked Tantaine in an unnatural voice.

“Ever since I have been in bed,” returned Paul with the air of a gay young fellow. “I wrote a note that I was unable to go over to her, so she came to me. I sent my letter at nine o’clock, and at ten minutes past she was with me.”

The diplomatic doctor slipped behind Tantaine, and made violent gestures to endeavor to persuade Paul to keep silence, but all was in vain.

“M. Martin Rigal,” continued the vain young fool, “passes the greater part of his life in his private office. As soon as he gets up he goes there, and is not seen for the rest of the day. Flavia can therefore do entirely as she likes. As soon as she knows that her worthy father is deep in his ledgers, she puts on her hat and runs round to me, and no one could have a kinder and a prettier visitor than she is.”

The doctor was hard at work at his danger signals, but it was useless. Paul saw them, but did not comprehend their meaning; and Tantaine rubbed his glasses savagely.

“You are perhaps deceiving yourself a little,” said he at last.

“And why? You know that Flavia loves me, poor girl. I ought to marry her, and of course I shall; but still, if I do not do so—well, you know, I need say no more.”

“You wretched scoundrel!” exclaimed the usually placid Tantaine. His manner was so fierce and threatening that Paul shifted his position to one nearer the wall.

It was impossible for Tantaine to say another word, for Hortebise placed his hand upon his lips, and dragged him from the room.

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