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Title: Caught In The Net

Author: Emile Gaboriau

Release Date: March 31, 2006 [EBook #2451]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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Produced by Dagny; John Bickers; David Widger





CAUGHT IN THE NET

By Emile Gaboriau




CHAPTER I.

PUTTING ON THE SCREW.

The cold on the 8th of February, 186-, was more intense than the
Parisians had experienced during the whole of the severe winter
which had preceded it, for at twelve o'clock on that day Chevalier's
thermometer, so well known by the denizens of Paris, registered three
degrees below zero. The sky was overcast and full of threatening signs
of snow, while the moisture on the pavement and roads had frozen hard,
rendering traffic of all kinds exceedingly hazardous. The whole great
city wore an air of dreariness and desolation, for even when a thin
crust of ice covers the waters of the Seine, the mind involuntarily
turns to those who have neither food, shelter, nor fuel.

This bitterly cold day actually made the landlady of the Hotel de Perou,
though she was a hard, grasping woman of Auvergne, gave a thought to the
condition of her lodgers, and one quite different from her usual idea of
obtaining the maximum of rent for the minimum of accommodation.

"The cold," remarked she to her husband, who was busily engaged in
replenishing the stove with fuel, "is enough to frighten the wits out of
a Polar bear. In this kind of weather I always feel very anxious, for
it was during a winter like this that one of our lodgers hung himself, a
trick which cost us fifty francs, in good, honest money, besides giving
us a bad name in the neighborhood. The fact is, one never knows what
lodgers are capable of doing. You should go up to the top floor, and see
how they are getting on there."

"Pooh, pooh!" replied her husband, M. Loupins; "they will do well
enough."

"Is that really your opinion?"

"I know that I am right. Daddy Tantaine went out as soon as it was
light, and a short time afterward Paul Violaine came down. There is no
one upstairs now but little Rose, and I expect that she has been wise
enough to stick to her bed."

"Ah!" answered the landlady rather spitefully. "I have made up my mind
regarding that young lady some time ago; she is a sight too pretty for
this house, and so I tell you."

The Hotel de Perou stands in the Rue de la Hachette, not twenty steps
from the Place de Petit Pont; and no more cruelly sarcastic title could
ever have been conferred on a building. The extreme shabbiness of the
exterior of the house, the narrow, muddy street in which it stood,
the dingy windows covered with mud, and repaired with every variety of
patch,--all seemed to cry out to the passers by: "This is the chosen
abode of misery and destitution."

The observer might have fancied it a robbers' den, but he would have
been wrong; for the inhabitants were fairly honest. The Hotel de Perou
was one of those refuges, growing scarcer and more scarce every day,
where unhappy men and women, who had been worsted in the battle of life,
could find a shelter in return for the change remaining from the last
five-franc piece. They treat it as the shipwrecked mariner uses the rock
upon which he climbs from the whirl of the angry waters, and breathes
a deep sigh of relief as he collects his forces for a fresh effort.
However wretched existence may be, a protracted sojourn in such a
shelter as the Hotel de Perou would be out of the question. The chambers
in every floor of the house are divided into small slips by partitions,
covered with canvas and paper, and pleasantly termed rooms by M.
Loupins. The partitions were in a terrible condition, rickety and
unstable, and the paper with which they were covered torn and hanging
down in tatters; but the state of the attics was even more deplorable,
the ceilings of which were so low that the occupants had to stoop
continually, while the dormer windows admitted but a small amount of
light. A bedstead, with a straw mattress, a rickety table, and two
broken chairs, formed the sole furniture of these rooms. Miserable
as these dormitories were, the landlady asked and obtained twenty-two
francs for them by the month, as there was a fireplace in each, which
she always pointed out to intending tenants.

The young woman whom M. Loupins alluded to by the name of Rose was
seated in one of these dreary dens on this bitter winter's day. Rose was
an exquisitely beautiful girl about eighteen years of age. She was very
fair; her long lashes partially concealed a pair of steely blue eyes,
and to a certain extent relieved their hard expression. Her ripe, red
lips, which seemed formed for love and kisses, permitted a glimpse of
a row of pearly teeth. Her bright waving hair grew low down upon her
forehead, and such of it as had escaped from the bondage of a cheap
comb, with which it was fastened, hung in wild luxuriance over her
exquisitely shaped neck and shoulders. She had thrown over her ragged
print gown the patched coverlet of the bed, and, crouched upon
the tattered hearthrug before the hearth, upon which a few sticks
smouldered, giving out hardly a particle of heat, she was telling her
fortune with a dirty pack of cards, endeavoring to console herself for
the privations of the day by the promise of future prosperity. She had
spread those arbiters of her destiny in a half circle before her, and
divided them into threes, each of which had a peculiar meaning, and her
breast rose and fell as she turned them up and read upon their faces
good fortune or ill-luck. Absorbed in this task, she paid but little
attention to the icy chilliness of the atmosphere, which made her
fingers stiff, and dyed her white hands purple.

"One, two, three," she murmured in a low voice. "A fair man, that's
sure to be Paul. One, two, three, money to the house. One, two, three,
troubles and vexations. One, two, three, the nine of spades; ah, dear!
more hardships and misery,--always that wretched card turning up with
its sad story!"

Rose seemed utterly downcast at the sight of the little piece of painted
cardboard, as though she had received certain intelligence of a
coming misfortune. She soon, however, recovered herself, and was again
shuffling the pack,--cut it, taking care to do so with her left hand,
spread them out before her, and again commenced counting: one, two,
three. This time the cards appeared to be more propitious, and held out
promises of success for the future.

"I am loved," read she, as she gazed anxiously upon them,--"very much
loved! Here is rejoicing, and a letter from a dark man! See, here he
is,--the knave of clubs. Always the same," she continued; "I cannot
strive against fate."

Then, rising to her feet, she drew from a crack in the wall, which
formed a safe hiding-place for her secrets, a soiled and crumpled
letter, and, unfolding it, she read for perhaps the hundredth time these
words:--

"MADEMOISELLE,--

"To see you is to love you. I give you my word of honor that this is
true. The wretched hovel where your charms are hidden is no fit
abode for you. A home, worthy in every way to receive you, is at
your service--Rue de Douai. It has been taken in your name, as I am
straightforward in these matters. Think of my proposal, and make what
inquiries you like concerning me. I have not yet attained my majority,
but shall do so in five months and three days, when I shall inherit my
mother's fortune. My father is wealthy, but old and infirm. From four to
six in the afternoon of the next few days I will be in a carriage at the
corner of the Place de Petit Pont.

"GASTON DE GANDELU."


The cynical insolence of the letter, together with its entire want of
form, was a perfect example of the style affected by those loiterers
about town, known to the Parisians as "mashers;" and yet Rose did not
appear at all disgusted by the reception of such an unworthily worded
proposal, but, on the contrary, rather pleased by its contents. "If I
only dared," mused she, with a sigh,--"ah, if I only dared!" For a time
she sat deeply immersed in thought, with her face buried in her hands,
until she was aroused from her meditations by the sound of an active and
youthful step upon the creaking stairs. "He has come back," she gasped;
and with the agile movement of a cat she again concealed the letter
in its hiding-place, and she had scarcely done so, when Paul Violaine
entered the miserable room. He was a young man of twenty-three, of
slender figure, but admirably proportioned. His face was a perfect oval,
and his complexion of just that slight olive tint which betrays the
native of the south of France. A slight, silky moustache concealed his
upper lip, and gave his features that air of manliness in which they
would have otherwise been deficient. His curly chestnut hair fell
gracefully over a brow upon which an expression of pride was visible,
and enhanced the peculiar, restless glance of his large dark eyes. His
physical beauty, which was fully equal to that of Rose, was increased by
an aristocratic air, popularly believed to be only found in the scions
of noble families. The landlady, in her moments of good humor, used to
assert her belief that her lodger was a disguised prince; but if this
were the case, he was certainly one that had been overtaken by poverty.
His dress, to which the closest attention had been paid, revealed the
state of destitution in which he was,--not the destitution which openly
asks for alms, but the hidden poverty which shuns communication and
blushes at a single glance of pity. In this almost Arctic winter he wore
clothes rendered thin by the constant friction of the clothes brush,
over which was a light overcoat about as thick as the web of a spider.
His shoes were well blacked, but their condition told the piteous tale
of long walks in search of employment, or of that good luck which seems
to evade its pursuer.

Paul was holding a roll of manuscript in his hand, and as he entered
the room he threw it on the bed with a despairing gesture. "A failure
again!" exclaimed he, in accents of the utmost depression. "Nothing else
but failures!"

The young woman rose hastily to her feet; she appeared to have forgotten
the cards completely; the smile of satisfaction faded from her face and
her features, and an expression of utter weariness took its place.

"What! no success?" she cried, affecting a surprise which was evidently
assumed. "No success, after all your promises when you left me this
morning?"

"This morning, Rose, a ray of hope had penetrated my heart; but I have
been deceived, or rather I deceived myself, and I took my ardent desires
for so many promises which were certain to be fulfilled. The people that
I have been to have not even the kindness to say 'No' plain and flat;
they listen to all you have to say, and as soon as your back is turned
they forget your existence. The coin that passes around in this
infernal town is indeed nothing but idle words, and that is all that
poverty-stricken talent can expect."

A silence of some duration ensued, and Paul was too much absorbed in
his own thoughts to notice the look of contempt with which Rose was
regarding him. His helpless resignation to adverse circumstances
appeared to have turned her to stone.

"A nice position we are in!" said she at last. "What do you think will
become of us?"

"Alas! I do not know."

"Nor I. Yesterday Madame Loupins came to me and asked for the eleven
francs we owe here; and told me plainly that if within three days we did
not settle our account, she would turn us out; and I know enough of her
to be sure that she will keep her word. The detestable old hag would do
anything for the pleasure of seeing me on the streets."

"Alone and friendless in the world," muttered Paul, paying but little
attention to the young girl's words, "without a creature or a relative
to care for you, or to lend you a helping hand."

"We have not a copper in the world," continued Rose with cruel
persistency; "I have sold everything that I had, to preserve the rags
that I am wearing. Not a scrap of wood remains, and we have not tasted
food since yesterday morning."

To these words, which were uttered in a tone of the most bitter
reproach, the young man made no reply, but clasped his icily cold hands
against his forehead, as though in utter despair.

"Yes, that is a true picture of our position," resumed Rose coldly,
her accents growing more and more contemptuous. "And I tell you that
something must be done at once, some means discovered, I care not what,
to relieve us from our present miserable state."

Paul tore off his overcoat, and held it toward her.

"Take it, and pawn it," exclaimed he; but the girl made no move.

"Is that all that you have to propose?" asked she, in the same glacial
tone.

"They will lend you three francs upon it, and with that we can get bread
and fuel."

"And after that is gone?"

"After that--oh, we will think of our next step, and shall have time to
hit upon some plan. Time, a little time, is all that I require, Rose, to
break asunder the bonds which seem to fetter me. Some day success must
crown my efforts; and with success, Rose, dear, will come affluence, but
in the meantime we must learn to wait."

"And where are the means to enable us to wait?"

"No matter; they will come. Only do what I tell you, and who can say
what to-morrow----"

Paul was still too much absorbed in his own thoughts to notice the
expression upon the young girl's face; for had he done so, he would at
once have perceived that she was not in the humor to permit the matter
to be shelved in this manner.

"To-morrow!" she broke in sarcastically. "To-morrow,--always the same
pitiful cry. For months past we seem to have lived upon the word. Look
you here, Paul, you are no longer a child, and ought to be able to look
things straight in the face. What can I get on that threadbare coat of
yours? Perhaps three francs at the outside. How many days will that
last us? We will say three. And then, what then? Besides, can you not
understand that your dress is too shabby for you to make an impression
on the people you go to see? Well-dressed applicants only have
attention, and to obtain money, you must appear not to need it; and,
pray, what will people think of you if you have no overcoat? Without one
you will look ridiculous, and can hardly venture into the streets."

"Hush!" cried Paul, "for pity's sake, hush! for your words only prove to
me more plainly that you are like the rest of the world, and that want
of success is a pernicious crime in your eyes. You once had confidence
in me, and then you spoke in a very different strain."

"Once indeed! but then I did not know--"

"No, Rose, it was not what you were then ignorant of; but it was that in
those days you loved me."

"Great heavens! I ask you, have I left one stone unturned? Have I
not gone from publisher to publisher to sell those songs of my own
composing--those songs that you sing so well? I have endeavored to get
pupils. What fresh efforts can I try? What would _you_ do, were you in
my place? Tell me, I beg you."

And as Paul spoke, he grew more and more excited, while Rose still
maintained her manner of exasperating coolness.

"I know not," she replied, after a brief pause; "but if I were a man, I
do not think I would permit the woman, for whom I pretended that I had
the most sincere affection, to be in want of the actual necessities of
life. I would strain every effort to obtain them."

"I have no trade; I am no mechanic," broke in Paul passionately.

"Then I would learn one. Pray how much does a man earn who climbs the
ladder with a bricklayer's hod upon his shoulders? It may be hard work,
I know, but surely the business is not difficult to learn. You have, or
say you have, great musical talents. I say nothing about them; but had
I any vocal powers and if there was not a morsel to eat in the house,
I would go and sing in the taverns or even in the public streets, and
would earn money, and care little for the means by which I made it."

"When you say those things, you seem to forget that I am an honest man."

"One would really suppose that I had suggested some questionable act to
you. Your reply, Paul, plainly proves to me that you are one of those
who, for want of determination, fall, helpless, by the wayside in the
journey of life. They flaunt their rags and tatters in the eyes of the
world, and with saddened hearts and empty stomachs utter the boast,
'I am an honest man.' Do you think that, in order to be rich, you must
perforce be a rogue? This is simple imbecility."

She uttered this tirade in clear and vibrant accents, and her eyes
gleamed with the fire of savage resolution. Her nature was one of those
cruel and energetic ones, which lead a woman to hurl a man from the
brink of the abyss to which she had conducted him, and to forget him
before he has ever reached the bottom.

This torrent of sarcasm brought out Paul's real nature. His face
flushed, and rage began to gain the mastery over him. "Can you not
work?" he asked. "Why do you not do something instead of talking so
much?"

"That is not at all the same thing," answered she coolly. "I was not
made for work."

Paul made a threatening gesture. "You wretch!" exclaimed he.

"You are wrong," she replied. "I am not a wretch; I am simply hungry."

There seemed every prospect of an angry scene, when a slight sound
attracted the attention of the disputants, and, turning round, they saw
an old man standing upon the threshold of their open door. He was tall,
but stooped a good deal. He had high, thick brows, and a red nose; a
long, thick, grizzly beard covered the rest of his countenance. He wore
a pair of spectacles with colored glasses, which, to a great extent,
concealed the expression of his face. His whole attire indicated extreme
poverty. He wore a greasy coat, much frayed and torn at the pockets, and
which had carried away with it marks of all the walls against which it
had been rubbed when he had indulged a little too freely in the cheerful
glass. He seemed to belong to that class who consider it a work of
supererogation to disrobe before going to bed, and who just turn in on
such spot as the fancy of the moment may dictate. Paul and Rose both
recognized the old man from having continually met him when ascending
or descending the staircase, and knew that he rented the back attic, and
was called Daddy Tantaine. In an instant the idea flashed across Paul's
mind that the dilapidated state of the partition permitted every word
spoken in one attic to be overheard in the other, and this did not tend
to soothe his exasperated feelings.

"What do you want here, sir?" asked he angrily. "And, pray, who gave you
permission to enter my room without leave?"

The old man did not seem at all put out by the threatening language of
his questioner. "I should be telling a fib," answered he calmly, "if I
were to tell you that, being in my own room and hearing you quarrelling,
I did not hear every word of what you have been saying."

"Sir!"

"Stop a bit, and don't be in such a hurry, my young friend. You seem
disposed to quarrel, and, on my faith, I am not surprised; for when
there is no corn in the manger, the best tempered horse will bite and
kick."

He uttered these words in the most soothing accents, and appeared
utterly unconscious of having committed any breach of etiquette in
entering the room.

"Well, sir," said Paul, a flush of shame passing across his face, "you
see now how poverty can drag a man down. Are you satisfied?"

"Come, come, my young friend," answered Daddy Tantaine, "you should not
get angry; and if I did step in without any notice, it was because, as a
neighbor, I find I might venture on such a liberty; for when I heard how
embarrassed you were, I said to myself, 'Tantaine, perhaps you can help
this pretty pair out of the scrape they have got into.'"

The promise of assistance from a person who had not certainly the
outward appearance of a capitalist seemed so ludicrous to Rose that she
could not restrain a smile, for she fancied that if their old neighbor
was to present them with half his fortune, it might possibly amount to
twenty centimes or thereabouts.

Paul had formed a somewhat similar idea, but he was a little touched by
this act of friendliness on the part of a man who doubtless knew that
money lent under similar circumstances was but seldom returned.

"Ah, sir!" said he, and this time he spoke in softer accents, "what can
you possibly do for us?"

"Who can say?"

"You can see how hard we are pushed. We are in want of almost
everything. Have we not reached the _acme_ of misery?"

The old man raised his hand to heaven, as if to seek for aid from above.

"You have indeed come to a terrible pass," murmured he; "but all is not
yet lost. The pearl which lies in the depths of the ocean is not lost
for ever; for may not some skillful diver bring it to the surface? A
fisherman may not be able to do much with it, but he knows something of
its value, and hands it over to the dealer in precious stones."

He intensified his speech by a little significant laugh, the meaning
of which was lost upon the two young people who, though their evil
instincts led them to be greedy and covetous, were yet unskilled in the
world's ways.

"I should," remarked Paul, "be a fool if I did not accept the offer of
your kind assistance."

"There, then, that is right; and now the first thing to do is to have a
really good feed. You must get in some wood too, for it is frightfully
cold. My old bones are half frozen; and afterward we will talk of a
fresh rig out for you both."

"Yes," remarked Rose with a faint sigh; "but to do all that, we want a
lot of money."

"Well, how do you know that I can't find it?"

Daddy Tantaine unbuttoned his great coat with grave deliberation, and
drew from an inner pocket a small scrap of paper which had been fastened
to the lining by a pin. This he unfolded with the greatest of care and
laid upon the table.

"A banknote for five hundred francs!" exclaimed Rose, with extreme
surprise. Paul did not utter a word. Had he seen the woodwork of the
chair upon which he was leaning burst into flower and leaf, he could not
have looked more surprised. Who could have expected to find such a sum
concealed beneath the old man's tatters, and how could he have obtained
so much money? The idea that some robbery had been committed at once
occurred to both the young people, and they exchanged a meaning glance,
which, however, did not escape the observation of their visitor.

"Pooh, pooh!" said he, without appearing in the slightest degree
annoyed. "You must not give way to evil thoughts or suspicions. It is
a fact that banknotes for five hundred francs don't often grow out of
a ragged pocket like mine. But I got this fellow honestly,--that I can
guarantee."

Rose paid no attention to his words; indeed, she took no interest in
them. The note was there, and that was enough for her. She took it up
and smoothed it out as though the crisp paper communicated a pleasant
sensation to her fingers.

"I must tell you," resumed Daddy Tantaine, "that I am employed by a
sheriff's officer, and that, in addition, I do a little bill collecting
for various persons. By these means I have often comparatively large
sums in my possession, and I can lend you five hundred francs for a
short time without any inconvenience to myself."

Paul's necessities and conscience were fighting a hard battle, and
he remained silent, as a person generally does before arriving at a
momentous decision.

At length he broke the silence. "No," said he, "your offer is one that I
cannot accept, for I feel--"

"This is no time, my dear Paul, to talk of feelings," interrupted Rose;
"besides, can you not see that our refusal to accept the loan annoys
this worthy gentleman?"

"The young lady is quite right," returned Daddy Tantaine. "Come, let
us say that the matter is settled. Go out and get in something to eat,
sharp, for it has struck four some time ago."

At these words, Rose started, and a scarlet flush spread over her
cheek. "Four o'clock," repeated she, thinking of her letter; but after a
moment's reflection she stepped up to the cracked mirror, and arranging
her tattered skirts, took up the banknote and left the room.

"She is a rare beauty," remarked Daddy Tantaine with the air of one who
was an authority in such matters, "and as clever as they make them.
Ah! if she had only some one to give her a hint, she might rise to any
height."

Paul's ideas were in such a wild state of confusion, that he could
make no reply; and, now that he was no longer held in thrall by Rose's
presence, he began to be terrified at what had taken place, for he
imagined that he caught a sinister expression in the old man's face
which made him very suspicious of the wisdom of the course he had been
persuaded to pursue. Was there ever such an unheard-of event as an old
man of such a poverty-stricken appearance showering banknotes upon the
heads of perfect strangers? There was certainly something mysterious
in the affair, and Paul made up his mind that he would do his utmost to
avoid being compromised.

"I have thought the matter over," said he resolutely; "and it is
impossible for me to accept the loan of a sum which it would be
difficult for me to repay."

"My dear young friend, that is not the way to talk. If you do not have a
good opinion of yourself, all the world will judge you according to your
own estimation. Your inexperience has, up to this time, been the sole
cause of your failure. Poverty soon changes a boy into a man as straw
ripens fruit; but the first thing you must do is to put all confidence
in me. You can repay the five hundred francs at your convenience, but I
must have six per cent. for my money and your note of hand."

"But really--," began Paul.

"I am looking at the matter in a purely business light, so we can drop
sentiment."

Paul had so little experience in the ways of the world, that the mere
fact of giving his acceptance for the money borrowed put him at once
at his ease, though he knew well that his name was not a very valuable
addition to the slip of paper.

Daddy Tantaine, after a short search through his pockets, discovered
a bill stamp, and, placing it on the table, said, "Write as I shall
dictate:--

'On the 8th of June, 188-, I promise to pay to M. Tantaine or order the
sum of five hundred francs for value received, such sum to bear interest
at the rate of six per cent. per annum.

'Frs. 500.

'PAUL VIOLAINE.'"


The young man had just completed his signature when Rose made her
appearance, bearing a plentiful stock of provisions in her arms. Her
eyes had a strange radiance in them, which Paul, however, did not
notice, as he was engaged in watching the old man, who, after carefully
inspecting the document, secured it in one of the pockets of his ragged
coat.

"You will, of course, understand, sir," remarked Paul, "that there is
not much chance of my being able to save sufficient to meet this bill in
four months, so that the date is a mere form."

A smile of benevolence passed over Daddy Tantaine's features. "And
suppose," said he, "that I, the lender, was to put the borrower in a
position to repay the advance before a month had passed?"

"Ah! but that is not possible."

"I do not say, my young friend, that I could do this myself; but I have
a good friend whose hand reaches a long way. If I had only listened to
his advice when I was younger, you would not have caught me to-day in
the Hotel de Perou. Shall I introduce you to him?"

"Am I a perfect fool, to throw away such a chance?"

"Good! I shall see him this evening, and will mention your name to him.
Call on him at noon to-morrow, and if he takes a fancy to you,--decides
to push you, your future is assured, and you will have no doubts as to
getting on."

He took out a card from his pocket and handed it to Paul, adding, "The
name of my friend is Mascarin."

Meanwhile Rose, with a true Parisian's handiness, had contrived to
restore order from chaos, and had arranged the table, with its one or
two pieces of broken crockery, with scraps of brown paper instead of
plates. A fresh supply of wood crackled bravely on the hearth, and two
candles, one of which was placed in a chipped bottle, and the other in a
tarnished candlestick belonging to the porter of the hotel. In the eyes
of both the young people the spectacle was a truly delightful one, and
Paul's heart swelled with triumph. The business had been satisfactorily
concluded, and all his misgivings were at an end.

"Come, let us gather round the festive board," said he joyously. "This
is breakfast and dinner in one. Rose, be seated; and you, my dear
friend, will surely share with us the repast we owe to you?"

With many protestations of regret, however, Daddy Tantaine pleaded an
important engagement at the other end of Paris. "And," added he, "it is
absolutely necessary that I should see Mascarin this evening, for I must
try my best to make him look on you with a favorable eye."

Rose was very glad when the old man took his departure, for his
ugliness, the shabbiness of his dress, and his general aspect of dirt,
drove away all the feelings of gratitude she ought to have evinced, and
inspired in her loathing and repugnance; and she fancied that his eyes,
though veiled by his colored glasses, could detect the minutest secrets
of her heart; but still this did not prevent her putting on a sweet
smile and entreating him to remain.

But Daddy Tantaine was resolute; and after impressing upon Paul the
necessity of punctuality, he went away, repeating, as he passed through
the door, "May good appetite be present at your little feast, my dears."

As soon, however, as the door was closed he bent down and listened. The
young people were as merry as larks, and their laughter filled the
bare attic of the Hotel de Perou. Why should not Paul have been in good
spirits? He had in his pocket the address of the man who was to make his
fortune, and on the chimney-piece was the balance of the banknote, which
seemed to him an inexhaustible sum. Rose, too, was delighted, and could
not refrain from jeering at their benefactor, whom she stigmatized as
"an old idiot."

"Laugh while you can, my dears!" muttered Daddy Tantaine; "for this may
be the last time you will do so."

With these words he crept down the dark staircase, which was only
lighted up on Sundays, owing to the high price of gas, and, peeping
through the glass door of the porter's lodge, saw Madame Loupins engaged
in cooking; and, with the timid knock of a man who has learned his
lesson in poverty's grammar, he entered.

"Here is my rent, madame," said he, placing on the table ten francs
and twenty centimes. Then, as the woman was scribbling a receipt, he
launched into a statement of his own affairs, and told her that he had
come into a little property which would enable him to live in comfort
during his few remaining years on earth; and--evidently fearing that
his well-known poverty might cause Madame Loupins to discredit his
assertions--drew out his pocketbook and exhibited several banknotes.
This exhibition of wealth so surprised the landlady, that when the old
man left she insisted on lighting him to the door. He turned eastward as
soon as he had left the house, and, glancing at the names of the shops,
entered a grocer's establishment at the corner of the Rue de Petit Pont.
This grocer, thanks to a certain cheap wine, manufactured for him by a
chemist at Bercy, had achieved a certain notoriety in that quarter. He
was very stout and pompous, a widower, and a sergeant in the National
Guard. His name was Melusin. In all poor districts five o'clock is a
busy hour for the shopkeepers, for the workmen are returning from their
labors, and their wives are busy in their preparations for their evening
meal. M. Melusin was so busily engaged, giving orders and seeing that
they were executed, that he did not even notice the entrance of Daddy
Tantaine; but had he done so, he would not have put himself out for so
poorly dressed a customer. But the old man had left behind him in the
Hotel de Perou every sign of humility and servility, and, making his way
to the least crowded portion of the shop, he called out in imperative
accents, "M. Melusin!"

Very much surprised, the grocer ceased his avocation and hastened to
obey the summons. "How the deuce does the man know me?" muttered he,
forgetting that his name was over the door in gilt letters fully six
inches long.

"Sir," said Daddy Tantaine, without giving the grocer time to speak,
"did not a young woman come here about half an hour ago and change a
note for five hundred francs?"

"Most certainly," answered M. Melusin; "but how did you know that? Ah,
I have it!" he added, striking his forehead; "there has been a robbery,
and you are in pursuit of the criminal. I must confess that the girl
looked so poor, that I guessed there was something wrong. I saw her
fingers tremble."

"Pardon me," returned Daddy Tantaine. "I have said nothing about a
robbery. I only wished to ask you if you would know the girl again?"

"Perfectly--a really splendid girl, with hair that you do not see every
day. I have reason to believe that she lives in the Rue Hachette. The
police are not very popular with the shopkeeping class; but the latter,
desirous of keeping down crime, generally afford plenty of information,
and in the interests of virtue will even risk losing customers, who go
off in a huff at not being attended to while they are talking to the
officers of justice. Shall I," continued the grocer, "send one of the
errand boys to the nearest police station?"

"No, thank you," replied Daddy Tantaine. "I should prefer your keeping
the matter quiet until I communicate with you once more."

"Yes, yes, I see; a false step just now would put them on their guard."

"Just so. Now, will you let me have the number of the note, if you
still have it? I wish you also to make a note of the date as well as the
number."

"Yes, yes, I see," returned the grocer. "You may require my books as
corroborative evidence; that is often the way. Excuse me; I will be back
directly."

All that Daddy Tantaine had desired was executed with the greatest
rapidity, and he and the grocer parted on the best terms, and the
tradesman watched his visitor's departure, perfectly satisfied that he
had been assisting a police officer who had deemed it fit to assume a
disguise. Daddy Tantaine cared little what he thought, and, gaining the
Place de Petit Pont, stopped and gazed around as if he was waiting for
some one. Twice he walked round it in vain; but in his third circuit he
came to a halt with an exclamation of satisfaction, for he had seen the
person of whom he had been in search, who was a detestable looking
youth of about eighteen years of age, though so thin and stunted that he
hardly appeared to be fifteen.

The lad was leaning against the wall of the Quay St. Michel, openly
asking alms, but keeping a sharp lookout for the police. At the first
glance it was easy to detect in him the hideous outgrowth of the great
city, the regular young rough of Paris, who, at eight years of age,
smokes the butt ends of cigars picked up at the tavern doors and
gets tipsy on coarse spirits. He had a thin crop of sandy hair, his
complexion was dull and colorless, and a sneer curled the corners of
his mouth, which had a thick, hanging underlip, and his eyes had an
expression in them of revolting cynicism. His dress was tattered and
dirty, and he had rolled up the sleeve of his right arm, exhibiting a
deformed limb, sufficiently repulsive to excite the pity of the passers
by. He was repeating a monotonous whine, in which the words "poor
workman, arm destroyed by machinery, aged mother to support," occurred
continually.

Daddy Tantaine walked straight up to the youth, and with a sound cuff
sent his hat flying.

The lad turned sharply round, evidently in a terrible rage; but,
recognizing his assailant, shrank back, and muttered to himself,
"Landed!" In an instant he restored his arm to its originally healthy
condition, and, picking up his cap, replaced it on his head, and humbly
waited for fresh orders.

"Is this the way you execute your errands?" asked Daddy Tantaine,
snarling.

"What errands? I have heard of none!"

"Never you mind that. Did not M. Mascarin, on my recommendation, put you
in the way of earning your livelihood? and did you not promise to give
up begging?"

"Beg pardon, guv'nor, I meant to be on the square, but I didn't like to
waste time while I was a-waiting. I don't like a-being idle and I have
copped seven browns."

"Toto Chupin," said the old man, with great severity, "you will
certainly come to a bad end. But come, give your report. What have you
seen?"

During this conversation they were walking slowly along the quay, and
had passed the Hotel Dieu.

"Well, guv'nor," replied the young rogue, "I just saw what you said I
should. At four sharp, a carriage drove into the Place, and pulled
up bang opposite the wigmaker's. Dash me, if it weren't a swell
turnout!--horse, coachman, and all, in real slap-up style. It waited so
long that I thought it had taken root there."

"Come, get on! Was there any one inside?"

"I should think there was! I twigged him at once, by the description
you gave me. I never see a cove togged out as he was,--tall hat, light
sit-down-upons, and a short coat--wasn't it cut short! but in really
bang-up style. To be certain, I went right up to him, for it was getting
dark, and had a good look at him. He had got out of the trap, and was
marching up and down the pavement, with an unlighted cigar stuck in his
mouth. I took a match, and said, 'Have a light, my noble swell?' and
hanged if he didn't give me ten centimes! My! ain't he ugly!--short,
shrivelled up, and knock-kneed, with a glass in his eye, and altogether
precious like a monkey."

Daddy Tantaine began to grow impatient with all this rigmarole. "Come,
tell me what took place," said he angrily.

"Precious little. The young swell didn't seem to care about dirtying his
trotter-cases; he kept slashing about with his cane, and staring at
all the gals. What an ass that masher is! Wouldn't I have liked to have
punched his head! If you ever want to hide him, daddy, please think of
yours truly. He wouldn't stand up to me for five minutes."

"Go on, my lad; go on."

"Well, we had waited half an hour, when all at once a woman came sharp
round the corner, and stops before the masher. Wasn't she a fine gal!
and hadn't she a pair of sparklers! but she had awfully seedy togs on.
But they spoke in whispers."

"So you did not hear what they said?"

"Do you take me for a flat? The gal said, 'Do you
understand?--to-morrow.' Then the swell chap, says he, 'Do you promise?'
and the gal, she answers back, 'Yes, at noon.' Then they parted. She
went off to the Rue Hachette, and the masher tumbled into his wheelbox.
The jarvey cracked his whip, and off they went in a brace of shakes. Now
hand over them five francs."

Daddy Tantaine did not seem surprised at this request, and he gave over
the money to the young loafer, with the words, "When I promise, I pay
down on the nail; but remember Toto Chupin, you'll come to grief one
day. Good-night. Our ways lie in different directions."

The old man, however, lingered until he had seen the lad go off toward
the Jardin des Plantes, and then, turning round, went back by the way
he had come. "I have not lost my day," murmured he. "All the
improbabilities have turned out certainties, and matters are going
straight. Won't Flavia be awfully pleased?"



CHAPTER II.

A REGISTRY OFFICE.

The establishment of the influential friend of Daddy Tantaine was
situated in the Rue Montorgeuil, not far from the Passage de la Reine
Hortense. M. B. Mascarin has a registry office for the engagement of
both male and female servants. Two boards fastened upon each side of the
door announce the hours of opening and closing, and give a list of those
whose names are on the books; they further inform the public that the
establishment was founded in 1844, and is still in the same hands. It
was the long existence of M. Mascarin in a business which is usually
very short-lived that had obtained for him a great amount of confidence,
not only in the quarter in which he resided, but throughout the whole
of Paris. Employers say that he sends them the best of servants, and
the domestics in their turn assert that he only despatches them to good
places. But M. Mascarin has still further claims on the public esteem;
for it was he who, in 1845, founded and carried out a project which had
for its aim and end the securing of a shelter for servants out of place.
The better to carry out this, Mascarin took a partner, and gave him
the charge of a furnished house close to the office. Worthy as these
projects were, Mascarin contrived to draw considerable profit from them,
and was the owner of the house before which, in the noon of the day
following the events we have described, Paul Violaine might have been
seen standing. The five hundred francs of old Tantaine, or at any rate a
portion of them, had been well spent, and his clothes did credit to his
own taste and the skill of his tailor. Indeed, in his fine feathers he
looked so handsome, that many women turned to gaze after him. He however
took but little notice of this, for he was too full of anxiety, having
grave doubts as to the power of the man whom Tantaine had asserted
could, if he liked, make his fortune. "A registry office!" muttered he
scornfully. "Is he going to propose a berth of a hundred francs a month
to me?" He was much agitated at the thoughts of the impending interview,
and, before entering the house, gazed upon its exterior with great
interest. The house much resembled its neighbors. The entrances to the
Registry Office and the Servants' Home were in the courtyard, at the
arched entrance to which stood a vendor of roast chestnuts.

"There is no use in remaining here," said Paul. Summoning, therefore,
all his resolution, he crossed the courtyard, and, ascending a flight of
stairs, paused before a door upon which "OFFICE" was written. "Come in!"
responded at once to his knock. He pushed open the door, and entered
a room, which closely resembled all other similar offices. There were
seats all round the room, polished by frequent use. At the end was a
sort of compartment shut in by a green baize curtain, jestingly termed
"the Confessional" by the frequenters of the office. Between the windows
was a tin plate, with the words, "All fees to be paid in advance," in
large letters upon it. In one corner a gentleman was seated at a writing
table, who, as he made entries in a ledger, was talking to a woman who
stood beside him.

"M. Mascarin?" asked Paul hesitatingly.

"What do you want with him?" asked the man, without looking up from his
work. "Do you wish to enter your name? We have now vacancies for three
bookkeepers, a cashier, a confidential clerk--six other good situations.
Can you give good references?"

These words seemed to be uttered by rote.

"I beg your pardon," returned Paul; "but I should like to see M.
Mascarin. One of his friends sent me here."

This statement evidently impressed the official, and he replied almost
politely, "M. Mascarin is much occupied at present, sir; but he will
soon be disengaged. Pray be seated."

Paul sat down on a bench, and examined the man who had just spoken
with some curiosity. M. Mascarin's partner was a tall and athletic man,
evidently enjoying the best of health, and wearing a large moustache
elaborately waxed and pointed. His whole appearance betokened the old
soldier. He had, so he asserted, served in the cavalry, and it was
there that he had acquired the _soubriquet_ by which he was
known--Beaumarchef, his original name being David. He was about
forty-five, but was still considered a very good-looking fellow. The
entries that he was making in the ledger did not prevent him from
keeping up a conversation with the woman standing by him. The woman,
who seemed to be a cross between a cook and a market-woman, might be
described as a thoroughly jovial soul. She seasoned her conversation
with pinches of snuff, and spoke with a strong Alsatian brogue.

"Now, look here," said Beaumarchef; "do you really mean to say that you
want a place?"

"I do that."

"You said that six months ago. We got you a splendid one, and three days
afterward you chucked up the whole concern."

"And why shouldn't I? There was no need to work then; but now it is
another pair of shoes, for I have spent nearly all I had saved."

Beaumarchef laid down his pen, and eyed her curiously for a second or
two; then he said,--

"You've been making a fool of yourself somehow, I expect."

She half turned away her head, and began to complain of the hardness
of the terms and of the meanness of the mistresses, who, instead of
allowing their cooks to do the marketing, did it themselves, and so
cheated their servants out of their commissions.

Beaumarchef nodded, just as he had done half an hour before to a lady
who had complained bitterly of the misconduct of her servants. He was
compelled by his position to sympathize with both sides.

The woman had now finished her tirade, and drawing the amount of the fee
from a well-filled purse, placed it on the table, saying,--

"Please, M. Beaumarchef, register my name as Caroline Scheumal, and get
me a real good place. It must be a cook, you understand, and I want to
do the marketing without the missus dodging around."

"Well, I'll do my best."

"Try and find me a wealthy widower, or a young woman married to a very
old fellow. Now, do look round; I'll drop in again to-morrow;" and with
a farewell pinch of snuff, she left the office.

Paul listened to this conversation with feelings of anger and
humiliation, and in his heart cursed old Tantaine for having introduced
him into such company. He was seeking for some plausible excuse for
withdrawal, when the door at the end of the room was thrown open, and
two men came in, talking as they did so. The one was young and well
dressed, with an easy, swaggering manner, which ignorant people mistake
for good breeding. He had a many-colored rosette at his buttonhole,
showing that he was the knight of more than one foreign order. The other
was an elderly man, with an unmistakable legal air about him. He was
dressed in a quilted dressing-gown, fur-lined shoes, and had on his head
an embroidered cap, most likely the work of the hands of some one dear
to him. He wore a white cravat, and his sight compelled him to use
colored glasses.

"Then, my dear sir," said the younger man, "I may venture to entertain
hopes?"

"Remember, Marquis," returned the other, "that if I were acting alone,
what you require would be at once at your disposal. Unfortunately, I
have others to consult."

"I place myself entirely in your hands," replied the Marquis.

The appearance of the fashionably dressed young man reconciled Paul to
the place in which he was.

"A Marquis!" he murmured; "and the other swell-looking fellow must be M.
Mascarin."

Paul was about to step forward, when Beaumarchef respectfully accosted
the last comer,--

"Who do you think, sir," said he, "I have just seen?"

"Tell me quickly," was the impatient reply.

"Caroline Schimmel; you know who I mean."

"What! the woman who was in the service of the Duchess of Champdoce?"

"Exactly so."

M. Mascarin uttered an exclamation of delight.

"Where is she living now?"

Beaumarchef was utterly overwhelmed by this simple question. For the
first time in his life he had omitted to take a client's address. This
omission made Mascarin so angry that he forgot all his good manners, and
broke out with an oath that would have shamed a London cabman,--

"How could you be such an infernal fool? We have been hunting for this
woman for five months. You knew this as well as I did, and yet, when
chance brings her to you, you let her slip through your fingers and
vanish again."

"She'll be back again, sir; never fear. She won't fling away the money
that she had paid for fees."

"And what do you think that she cares for ten sous or ten francs? She'll
be back when she thinks she will; but a woman who drinks and is off her
head nearly all the year round----"

Inspired by a sudden thought, Beaumarchef made a clutch at his hat.

"She has only just gone," said he; "I can easily overtake her."

But Mascarin arrested his progress.

"You are not a good bloodhound. Take Toto Chupin with you; he is outside
with his chestnuts, and is as fly as they make them. If you catch her
up, don't say a word, but follow her up, and see where she goes. I want
to know her whole daily life. Remember that no item, however unimportant
it may seem, is not of consequence."

Beaumarchef disappeared in an instant, and Mascarin continued to
grumble.

"What a fool!" he murmured. "If I could only do everything myself. I
worried my life out for months, trying to find the clue to the mystery
which this woman holds, and now she has again escaped me."

Paul, who saw that his presence was not remarked, coughed to draw
attention to it. In an instant Mascarin turned quickly round.

"Excuse me," said Paul; but the set smile had already resumed its place
upon Mascarin's countenance.

"You are," remarked he, civilly, "Paul Violaine, are you not?"

The young man bowed in assent.

"Forgive my absence for an instant. I will be back directly," said
Mascarin.

He passed through the door, and in another instant Paul heard his name
called.

Compared to the outer chamber, Mascarin's office was quite a luxurious
apartment, for the windows were bright, the paper on the walls fresh,
and the floor carpeted. But few of the visitors to the office could
boast of having been admitted into this sanctum; for generally business
was conducted at Beaumarchef's table in the outer room. Paul, however,
who was unacquainted with the prevailing rule, was not aware of the
distinction with which he had been received. Mascarin, on his visitor's
entrance, was comfortably seated in an armchair before the fire, with
his elbow on his desk--and what a spectacle did that desk present! It
was a perfect world in itself, and indicated that its proprietor was a
man of many trades. It was piled with books and documents, while a great
deal of the space was occupied by square pieces of cardboard, upon each
of which was a name in large letters, while underneath was writing in
very minute characters.

With a benevolent gesture, Mascarin pointed to an armchair, and in
encouraging tones said, "And now let us talk."

It was plain to Paul that Mascarin was not acting, but that the kind and
patriarchal expression upon his face was natural to it, and the young
man felt that he could safely intrust his whole future to him.

"I have heard," commenced Mascarin, "that your means of livelihood are
very precarious, or rather that you have none, and are ready to take
the first one that offers you a means of subsistence. That, at least, is
what I hear from my poor friend Tantaine."

"He has explained my case exactly."

"Good; only before proceeding to the future, let us speak of the past."

Paul gave a start, which Mascarin noticed, for he added,--

"You will excuse the freedom I am taking; but it is absolutely necessary
that I should know to what I am binding myself. Tantaine tells me that
you are a charming young man, strictly honest, and well educated; and
now that I have had the pleasure of meeting you, I am sure that he is
right; but I can only deal with proofs, and must be quite certain before
I act on your behalf with third parties."

"I have nothing to conceal, sir, and am ready to answer any questions,"
responded Paul.

A slight smile, which Paul did not detect, played round the corners of
Mascarin's mouth, and, with a gesture, with which all who knew him were
familiar, he pushed back his glasses on his nose.

"I thank you," answered he; "it is not so easy as you may suppose to
hide anything from me." He took one of the packets of pasteboard slips
form his desk, and shuffling them like a pack of cards, continued, "Your
name is Marie Paul Violaine. You were born at Poitiers, in the Rue
des Vignes, on the 5th of January, 1843, and are therefore in your
twenty-fourth year."

"That is quite correct, sir."

"You are an illegitimate child?"

The first question had surprised Paul; the second absolutely astounded
him.

"Quite true, sir," replied he, not attempting to hide his surprise; "but
I had no idea that M. Tantaine was so well informed; the partition which
divided our rooms must have been thinner than I thought."

Mascarin took no notice of this remark, but continued to shuffle and
examine his pieces of cardboard. Had Paul caught a clear glimpse of
these, he would have seen his initials in the corner of each.

"Your mother," went on Mascarin, "kept, for the last fifteen years of
her life, a little haberdasher's shop."

"Just so."

"But a business of that description in a town like Poitiers, does not
bring in very remunerative results, and luckily she received for your
support and education a sum of one thousand francs per year."

This time Paul started from his seat, for he was sure that Tantaine
could not have learned this secret at the Hotel de Perou.

"Merciful powers, sir!" cried he; "who could have told you a thing that
has never passed my lips since my arrival in Paris, and of which even
Rose is entirely ignorant?"

Mascarin raised his shoulders.

"You can easily comprehend," remarked he, "that a man in my line of
business has to learn many things. If I did not take the greatest
precautions, I should be deceived daily, and so lead others into error."

Paul had not been more than an hour in the office, but the directions
given to Beaumarchef had already taught him how many of these events
were arranged.

"Though I may be curious," went on Mascarin, "I am the symbol of
discretion; so answer me frankly: How did your mother receive this
annuity?"

"Through a Parisian solicitor."

"Do you know him?"

"Not at all," answered Paul, who had begun to grow uneasy under this
questioning, for a kind of vague apprehension was aroused in his mind,
and he could not see the utility of any of these interrogations. There
was, however, nothing in Mascarin's manner to justify the misgivings
of the young man, for he appeared to ask all these questions in quite a
matter-of-course way, as if they were purely affairs of business.

After a protracted silence, Mascarin resumed,--

"I am half inclined to believe that the solicitor sent the money on his
own account."

"No, sir," answered Paul. "I am sure you are mistaken."

"Why are you so certain?"

"Because my mother, who was the incarnation of truth, often assured me
that my father died before my birth. Poor mother! I loved and respected
her too much to question her on these matters. One day, however,
impelled by an unworthy feeling of curiosity, I dared to ask her the
name of our protector. She burst into tears, and then I felt how mean
and cruel I had been. I never learned his name but I know that he was
not my father."

Mascarin affected not to notice the emotion of his young client.

"Did the allowance cease at your mother's death?" continued he.

"No; it was stopped when I came of age. My mother told me that this
would be the case; but it seems only yesterday that she spoke to me of
it. It was on my birthday, and she had prepared a little treat for my
supper; for in spite of the affliction my birth had caused her, she
loved me fondly. Poor mother! 'Paul,' said she, 'at your birth a genuine
friend promised to help me to bring up and educate you, and he kept his
word. But you are now twenty-one, and must expect nothing more from him.
My son, you are a man now, and I have only you to look to. Work and earn
an honest livelihood----'"

Paul could proceed no farther, for his emotions choked him.

"My mother died suddenly some ten months after this
conversation--without time to communicate anything to me, and I was left
perfectly alone in the world; and were I to die to-morrow, there would
not be a soul to follow me to my grave."

Mascarin put on a sympathetic look.

"Not quite so bad as that, my young friend; I trust that you have one
now."

Mascarin rose from his seat, and for a few minutes paced up and down the
room, and then halted, with his arms folded, before the young man.

"You have heard me," said he, "and I will not put any further questions
which it will but pain you to reply to, for I only wished to take your
measure, and to judge of your truth from your replies. You will ask why?
Ah, that is a question I cannot answer to-day, but you shall know later
on. Be assured, however, that I know everything about you, but I cannot
tell you by what means. Say it has all happened by chance. Chance has
broad shoulders, and can bear a great deal."

This ambiguous speech caused a thrill of terror to pass through Paul,
which was plainly visible on his expressive features.

"Are you alarmed?" asked Mascarin, readjusting his spectacles.

"I am much surprised, sir," stammered Paul.

"Come, come! what can a man in your circumstances have to fear? There
is no use racking your brain; you will find out all you want quickly
enough, and had best make up your mind to place yourself in my hands
without reserve, for my sole desire is to be of service to you."

These words were uttered in the most benevolent manner; and as he
resumed his seat, he added,--

"Now let us talk of myself. Your mother, whom you justly say was a
thoroughly good woman, pinched herself in order to keep you at college
at Poitiers. You entered a solicitor's office at eighteen, I think?"

"Yes, sir."

"But your mother's desire was to see you established at Loudon or
Cevray. Perhaps she hoped that her wealthy friend would aid you still
further. Unluckily, however, you had no inclination for the law."

Paul smiled, but Mascarin went on with some little severity.

"I repeat, unfortunately; and I think that by this time you have gone
through enough to be of my opinion. What did you do instead of studying
law? You did--what? You wasted your time over music, and composed songs,
and, I know, an opera, and thought yourself a perfect genius."

Paul had listened up to this time with patience, but at this sarcasm
he endeavored to protest; but it was in vain, for Mascarin went on
pitilessly,--

"One day you abandoned the study of the law, and told your mother
that until you had made your name as a musical composer you would give
lessons on the piano; but you could obtain no pupils, and--well, just
look in the glass yourself, and say if you think that your age and
appearance would justify parents in intrusting their daughters to your
tuition?"

Mascarin stopped for a moment and consulted his notes afresh.

"Your departure from Poitiers," he went on, "was your last act of folly.
The very day after your poor mother's death you collected together all
her scanty savings, and took the train to Paris."

"Then, sir, I had hoped----"

"What, to arrive at fortune by the road of talent? Foolish boy! Every
year a thousand poor wretches have been thus intoxicated by their
provincial celebrity, and have started for Paris, buoyed up by similar
hopes. Do you know the end of them? At the end of ten years--I give them
no longer--nine out of ten die of starvation and disappointment, and the
other joins the criminal army."

Paul had often repeated this to himself, and could, therefore, make no
reply.

"But," went on Mascarin, "you did not leave Poitiers alone; you carried
off with you a young girl named Rose Pigoreau."

"Pray, let me explain."

"It would be useless. The fact speaks for itself. In six months your
little store had disappeared; then came poverty and starvation, and at
last, in the Hotel de Perou, your thoughts turned to suicide, and you
were only saved by my old friend Tantaine."

Paul felt his temper rising, for these plain truths were hard to bear;
but fear lest he should lose his protector kept him silent.

"I admit everything, sir," said he calmly. "I was a fool, and almost
mad, but experience has taught me a bitter lesson. I am here to-day,
and this fact should tell you that I have given up all my vain
hallucinations."

"Will you give up Rose Pigoreau?"

As this abrupt question was put to him, Paul turned pale with anger.

"I love Rose," answered he coldly; "she believes in me, and has shared
my troubles with courage, and one day she shall be my wife."

Raising his velvet cap from his head, Mascarin bowed with an ironical
air, saying, "Is that so? Then I beg a thousand pardons. It is urgent
that you should have immediate employment. Pray, what can you do? Not
much of anything, I fancy;--like most college bred boys, you can do a
little of everything, and nothing well. Had I a son, and an enormous
income, I would have him taught a trade."

Paul bit his lip; but he knew the portrait was a true one.

"And now," continued Mascarin, "I have come to your aid, and what do you
say to a situation with a salary of twelve thousand francs?"

This sum was so much greater than Paul had dared to hope, that he
believed Mascarin was amusing himself at his expense.

"It is not kind of you to laugh at me, under the present circumstances,"
remarked he.

Mascarin was not laughing at him; but it was fully half an hour before
he could prove this to Paul.

"You would like more proof of what I say," said he, after a long
conversation. "Very well, then; shall I advance your first month's
salary?" And as he spoke, he took a thousand-franc note from his desk,
and offered it to Paul. The young man rejected the note; but the force
of the argument struck him; and he asked if he was capable of carrying
out the duties which such a salary doubtless demanded.

"Were I not certain of your abilities, I should not offer it to you,"
replied Mascarin. "I am in a hurry now, or I would explain the whole
affair; but I must defer doing so until to-morrow, when please come at
the same hour as you did to-day."

Even in his state of surprise and stupefaction, Paul felt that this was
a signal for him to depart.

"A moment more," said Mascarin. "You understand that you can no longer
remain at the Hotel de Perou? Try and find a room in this neighborhood;
and when you have done so, leave the address at the office. Good-bye, my
young friend, until to-morrow, and learn to bear good fortune."

For a few minutes Mascarin stood at the door of the office watching
Paul, who departed almost staggering beneath the burden of so many
conflicting emotions; and when he saw him disappear round the corner, he
ran to a glazed door which led to his bed chamber, and in a loud whisper
called, "Come in, Hortebise. He has gone."

A man obeyed the summons at once, and hurriedly drew up a chair to the
fire. "My feet are almost frozen," exclaimed he; "I should not know
it if any one was to chop them off. Your room, my dear Baptiste, is a
perfect refrigerator. Another time, please, have a fire lighted in it."

This speech, however, did not disturb Mascarin's line of thought. "Did
you hear all?" asked he.

"I saw and heard all that you did."

"And what do you think of the lad?"

"I think that Daddy Tantaine is a man of observation and powerful will,
and that he will mould this child between his fingers like wax."



CHAPTER III.

THE OPINION OF DR. HORTEBISE.

Dr. Hortebise, who had addressed Mascarin so familiarly by his Christian
name of Baptiste, was about fifty-six years of age, but he carried his
years so well, that he always passed for forty-nine. He had a heavy pair
of red, sensual-looking lips, his hair was untinted by gray, and his
eyes still lustrous. A man who moved in the best society, eloquent in
manner, a brilliant conversationalist, and vivid in his perceptions, he
concealed under the veil of good-humored sarcasm the utmost cynicism of
mind. He was very popular and much sought after. He had but few faults,
but quite a catalogue of appalling vices. Under this Epicurean exterior
lurked, it was reported, the man of talent and the celebrated physician.
He was not a hard-working man, simply because he achieved the same
results without toil or labor. He had recently taken to homoeopathy, and
started a medical journal, which he named _The Globule_, which died at
its fifth number. His conversation made all society laugh, and he joined
in the ridicule, thus showing the sincerity of his views, for he
was never able to take the round of life seriously. To-day, however,
Mascarin, well as he knew his friend, seemed piqued at his air of
levity.

"When I asked you to come here to-day," said he, "and when I begged you
to conceal yourself in my bedroom--"

"Where I was half frozen," broke in Hortebise.

"It was," went on Mascarin, "because I desired your advice. We have
started on a serious undertaking,--an undertaking full of peril both to
you and to myself."

"Pooh! I have perfect confidence in you,--whatever you do is done well,
and you are not the man to fling away your trump cards."

"True; but I may lose the game, after all, and then----"

The doctor merely shook a large gold locket that depended from his watch
chain.

This movement seemed to annoy Mascarin a great deal. "Why do you flash
that trinket at me?" asked he. "We have known each other for five and
twenty years,--what do you mean to imply? Do you mean that the locket
contains the likeness of some one that you intend to make use of later
on? I think that you might render such a step unnecessary by giving me
your present advice and attention."

Hortebise threw himself back in his chair with an expression of
resignation. "If you want advice," remarked he, "why not apply to our
worthy friend Catenac?--he knows something of business, as he is a
lawyer."

The name of Catenac seemed to irritate Mascarin so much, that calm, and
self-contained as he usually was, he pulled off his cap and dashed it on
his desk.

"Are you speaking seriously?" said he angrily.

"Why should I not be in earnest?"

Mascarin removed his glasses, as though without them he could the more
easily peer into the depths of the soul of the man before him.

"Because," replied he slowly, "both you and I distrust Catenac. When did
you see him last?"

"More than three months ago."

"True, and I allow that he seems to be acting fairly toward his old
associates; but you will admit that, in keeping away thus, his conduct
is without excuse, for he has made his fortune; and though he pretends
to be poor, he is certainly a man of wealth."

"Do you really think so?"

"Were he here, I would force him to acknowledge that he is worth a
million, at least."

"A million!" exclaimed the doctor, with sudden animation.

"Yes, certainly. You and I, Hortebise, have indulged our every whim, and
have spent gold like water, while our friend garnered his harvest and
stored it away. But poor Catenac has no expensive tastes, nor does he
care for women or the pleasures of the table. While we indulged in every
pleasure, he lent out his money at usurious interest. But, stop,--how
much do you spend per annum?"

"That is a hard question to answer; but, say, forty thousand francs."

"More, a great deal more; but calculate what a capital sum that would
amount to during the twenty years we have done business together."

The doctor was not clever at figures; he made several vain attempts to
solve the problem, and at last gave it up in despair. "Forty and forty,"
muttered he, tapping the tips of his fingers, "are eighty, then forty--"

"Call it eight hundred thousand francs," broke in Mascarin. "Say I drew
the same amount as you did. We have spent ours, and Catenac has saved
his, and grown rich; hence my distrust. Our interests are no longer
identical. He certainly comes here every month, but it is only to claim
his share; he consents to take his share of the profits, but shirks the
risks. It is fully ten years since he brought in any business. I don't
trust him at all. He always declines to join in any scheme that we
propose, and sees danger in everything."

"He would not betray us, however."

Mascarin took a few moments for reflection. "I think," said he, "that
Catenac is afraid of us. He knows that the ruin of me would entail the
destruction of the other two. This is our only safeguard; but if he
dare not injure us openly, he is quite capable of working against us in
secret. Do you remember what he said the last time he was here? That we
ought to close our business and retire. How should _we_ live? for he is
rich and we are poor. What on earth are you doing, Hortebise?" he added,
for the physician, who had the reputation of being worth an enormous
amount, had taken out his purse, and was going over the contents.

"I have scarcely three hundred and twenty-seven francs!" answered he
with a laugh. "What is the state of your finances?"

Mascarin made a grimace. "I am not so well off as you; and besides," he
continued in a low voice, as though speaking to himself, "I have certain
ties which you do not possess."

For the first time during this interview a cloud spread over the
doctor's countenance.

"Great Heavens!" said he, "and I was depending on you for three thousand
francs, which I require urgently."

Mascarin smiled slyly at the doctor's uneasiness. "Don't worry," he
answered. "You can have that; there ought to be some six or eight
thousand francs in the safe. But that is all, and that is the last
of our common capital,--this after twenty years of toil, danger, and
anxiety, and we have not twenty years before us to make a fresh fortune
in."

"Yes," continued Mascarin, "we are getting old, and therefore have the
greater reason for making one grand stroke to assure our fortune. Were I
to fall ill to-morrow, all would go to smash."

"Quite true," returned the doctor, with a slight shudder.

"We must, and that is certain, venture on a bold stroke. I have said
this for years, and woven a web of gigantic proportions. Do you now
know why at this last moment I appeal to you, and not to Catenac
for assistance? If only one out of two operations that I have fully
explained to you succeeds, our fortune is made."

"I follow you exactly."

"The question now is whether the chance of success is sufficiently great
to warrant our going on with these undertakings. Think it over and let
me have your opinion."

An acute observer could easily have seen that the doctor was a man of
resource, and a thoroughly competent adviser, for the reason that his
coolness never deserted him. Compelled to choose between the use of the
contents of his locket, or the continuance of a life of luxurious ease,
the smile vanished from the doctor's face, and he began to reflect
profoundly. Leaning back in his chair, with his feet resting on the
fender, he carefully studied every combination in the undertaking, as
a general inspects the position taken up by the enemy, when a battle
is impending, upon which the fate of an empire may hinge. That this
analysis took a favorable turn, was evident, for Mascarin soon saw a
smile appear upon the doctor's lips. "We must make the attack at
once," said he; "but make no mistake; the projects you propose are most
dangerous, and a single error upon our side would entail destruction;
but we must take some risk. The odds are against us, but still we may
win. Under these circumstances, and as necessity cheers us on, I say,
_Forward!_" As he said this, he rose to his feet, and extending his hand
toward his friend, exclaimed, "I am entirely at your disposal."

Mascarin seemed relieved by the doctor's decision, for he was in
that frame of mind when, however self-reliant a man may be, he has a
disinclination to be left alone, and the aid of a stout ally is of the
utmost service.

"Have you considered every point carefully?" asked he. "You know that
we can only act at present upon one of the undertakings, and that is the
one of which the Marquis de Croisenois----"

"I know that."

"With reference to the affair of the Duke de Champdoce, I have still to
gather together certain things necessary for the ultimate success of
the scheme. There is a mystery in the lives of the Duke and Duchess,--of
this there is no doubt,--but what is this secret? I would lay my life
that I have hit upon the correct solution; but I want no suspicions,
no probabilities; I want absolute certainties. And now," continued he,
"this brings us back to the first question. What do you think of Paul
Violaine?"

Hortebise walked up and down the room two or three times, and finally
stopped opposite to his friend. "I think," said he, "that the lad has
many of the qualities we want, and we might find it hard to discover one
better suited for our purpose. Besides, he is a bastard, knows nothing
of his father, and therefore leaves a wide field for conjecture; for
every natural son has the right to consider himself, if he likes, the
offspring of a monarch. He has no family or any one to look after him,
which assures us that whatever may happen, there is no one to call us to
account. He is not overwise, but has a certain amount of talent, and any
quantity of ridiculous self-conceit. He is wonderfully handsome, which
will make matters easier, but--"

"Ah, there is a 'but' then?"

"More than one," answered the doctor, "for there are three for certain.
First, there is Rose Pigoreau, whose beauty has so captivated our old
friend Tantaine,--she certainly appears to be a danger in the future."

"Be easy," returned Mascarin; "we will quickly remove this young woman
from our road."

"Good; but do not be too confident," answered Hortebise, in his usual
tone. "The danger from her is not the one you think, and which you are
trying to avoid. You think Paul loves her. You are wrong. He would drop
her to-morrow, so that he could please his self-indulgence. But the
woman who thinks that she hates her lover often deceives herself; and
Rose is simply tired of poverty. Give her a little amount of comfort,
good living, and luxury, and you will see her give them all up to come
back to Paul. Yes, I tell you, she will harass and annoy him, as women
of her class who have nothing to love always do. She will even go to
Flavia to claim him."

"She had better not," retorted Mascarin, in threatening accents.

"Why, how could you prevent it? She has known Paul from his infancy. She
knew his mother; she was perhaps brought up by her, perhaps even lived
in the same street. Look out, I say, for danger from that quarter."

"You may be right, and I will take my precautions."

It was sufficient for Mascarin to be assured of a danger to find means
of warding it off.

"My second 'but,'" continued Hortebise, "is the idea of the mysterious
protector of whom the young man spoke. His mother, he says, has reason
to know that his father is dead, and I believe in the truth of the
statement. In this case, what has become of the person who paid Madame
Violaine her allowance?"

"You are right, quite right; these are the crevices in our armor; but I
keep my eyes open, and nothing escapes me."

The doctor was growing rather weary, but he still went on courageously.
"My third 'but'" said he, "is perhaps the strongest. We must see the
young fellow at once. It may be to-morrow, without even having prepared
him or taught him his part. Suppose we found that he was honest!
Imagine--if he returned a firm negative to all your dazzling offers!"

Mascarin rose to his feet in his turn. "I do not think that there is any
chance of that," said he.

"Why not, pray?"

"Because when Tantaine brought him to me, he had studied him carefully.
He is as weak as a woman, and as vain as a journalist. Besides, he is
ashamed at being poor. No; I can mould him like wax into any shape I
like. He will be just what we wish."

"Are you sure," asked Hortebise, "that Flavia will have nothing to say
in this matter?"

"I had rather, with your permission, say nothing on that head," returned
Mascarin. He broke off his speech and listened eagerly. "There is some
one listening," said he. "Hark!"

The sound was repeated, and the doctor was about to seek refuge in the
inner room, when Mascarin laid a detaining hand upon his arm.

"Stay," observed he, "it is only Beaumarchef;" and as he spoke,
he struck a gilded bell that stood on his desk. In another instant
Beaumarchef appeared, and with an air in which familiarity was mingled
with respect, he saluted in military fashion.

"Ah," said the doctor pleasantly, "do you take your nips of brandy
regularly?"

"Only occasionally, sir," stammered the man.

"Too often, too often, my good fellow. Do you think that your nose and
eyelids are not real telltales?"

"But I assure you, sir--"

"Do you not remember I told you that you had asthmatic symptoms?
Why, the movement of your pectoral muscles shows that your lungs are
affected."

"But I have been running, sir."

Mascarin broke in upon this conversation, which he considered frivolous.
"If he is out of breath," remarked he, "it is because he has been
endeavoring to repair a great act of carelessness that he has committed.
Well, Beaumarchef, how did you get on?"

"All right, sir," returned he, with a look of triumph. "Good!"

"What are you talking about?" asked the doctor.

Mascarin gave his friend a meaning glance, and then, in a careless
manner, replied, "Caroline Schimmel, a former servant of the Champdoce
family, also patronizes our office. How did you find her, Beaumarchef?"

"Well, an idea occurred to me."

"Pooh! do you have ideas at your time of life?"

Beaumarchef put on an air of importance. "My idea was this," he went
on: "as I left the office with Toto Chupin, I said to myself, the woman
would certainly drop in at some pub before she reached the boulevard."

"A sound argument," remarked the doctor.

"Therefore Toto and I took a squint into every one we passed, and before
we got to the Rue Carreau we saw her in one, sure enough."

"And Toto is after her now?"

"Yes, sir; he said he would follow her like her shadow, and will bring
in a report every day."

"I am very pleased with you, Beaumarchef," said Mascarin, rubbing his
hands joyously.

Beaumarchef seemed highly flattered, but continued,--

"This is not all."

"What else is there to tell?"

"I met La Candele on his way from the Place de Petit Pont, and he
has just seen that young girl--you know whom I mean--driving off in a
two-horse Victoria. He followed it, of course. She has been placed in a
gorgeous apartment in the Rue Douai; and from what the porter says, she
must be a rare beauty; and La Candele raved about her, and says that she
has the most magnificent eyes in the world."

"Ah," remarked Hortebise, "then Tantaine was right in his description of
her."

"Of course he was," answered Mascarin with a slight frown, "and this
proves the justice of the objection you made a little time back. A girl
possessed of such dazzling beauty may even influence the fool who has
carried her off to become dangerous."

Beaumarchef touched his master's arm kindly. "If you wish to get rid of
the masher," said he, "I can show you a way;" and throwing himself
into the position of a fencer, he made a lunge with his right arm,
exclaiming, "One, two!"

"A Prussian quarrel," remarked Mascarin. "No; a duel would do us no
good. We should still have the girl on our hands, and violent measures
are always to be avoided." He took off his glasses, wiped them, and
looking at the doctor intently, said, "Suppose we take an epidemic as
our ally. If the girl had the smallpox, she would lose her beauty."

Cynical and hardened as the doctor was, he drew back in horror at this
proposal. "Under certain circumstances," remarked he, "science might aid
us; but Rose, even without her beauty, would be just as dangerous as she
is now. It is _her_ affection for Paul that we have to check, and not
_his_ for her; and the uglier a woman is, the more she clings to her
lover."

"All this is worthy of consideration," returned Mascarin; "meanwhile we
must take steps to guard ourselves from the impending danger. Have you
finished that report on Gandelu, Beaumarchef? What is his position?"

"Head over ears in debt, sir, but not harassed by his creditors because
of his future prospects."

"Surely among these creditors there are some that we could influence?"
said Mascarin. "Find this out, and report to me this evening; and
farewell for the present."

When again alone, the two confederates remained silent for some time.
The decisive moment had arrived. As yet they were not compromised; but
if they intended to carry out their plans, they must no longer remain
inactive; and both of these men had sufficient experience to know that
they must look at the position boldly, and make up their minds at once.
The pleasant smile upon the doctor's face faded away, and his fingers
played nervously with his locket. Mascarin was the first to break the
silence.

"Let us no longer hesitate," said he; "let us shut our eyes to the
danger and advance steadily. You heard the promises made by the Marquis
de Croisenois. He will do as we wish, but under certain conditions.
Mademoiselle de Mussidan must be his bride."

"That will be impossible."

"Not so, if we desire it: and the proof of this is, that before two
o'clock the engagement between Mademoiselle Sabine and the Baron de
Breulh-Faverlay will be broken off."

The doctor heaved a deep sigh. "I can understand Catenac's scruples. Ah!
if, like him, I had a million!"

During this brief conversation Mascarin had gone into his sleeping room
and was busily engaged in changing his dress.

"If you are ready," remarked the doctor, "we will make a start."

In reply, Mascarin opened the door leading into the office. "Get a cab,
Beaumarchef," said he.



CHAPTER IV.

A TRUSTWORTHY SERVANT.

In the city of Paris it is impossible to find a more fashionable quarter
than the one which is bounded on the one side by the Rue Faubourg Saint
Honore and on the other by the Seine, and commences at the Place de la
Concorde and ends at the Avenue de l'Imperatrice. In this favored spot
millionaires seem to bloom like the rhododendron in the sunny south.
There are the magnificent palaces which they have erected for their
accommodation, where the turf is ever verdant, and where the flowers
bloom perennially; but the most gorgeous of all these mansions was the
Hotel de Mussidan, the last _chef d'oeuvre_ of Sevair, that skilful
architect who died just as the world was beginning to recognize his
talents. With a spacious courtyard in front and a magnificent garden in
the rear, the Hotel de Mussidan is as elegant as it is commodious.
The exterior was extremely plain, and not disfigured by florid
ornamentation. White marble steps, with a light and elegant railing at
the sides, lead to the wide doors which open into the hall. The busy hum
of the servants at work at an early hour in the yard tells that an ample
establishment is kept up. There can be seen luxurious carriages, for
occasions of ceremony, and the park phaeton, and the simple brougham
which the Countess uses when she goes out shopping; and that carefully
groomed thoroughbred is Mirette, the favorite riding horse of
Mademoiselle Sabine. Mascarin and his confederate descended from their
cab a little distance at the corner of the Avenue Matignon. Mascarin, in
his dark suit, with his spotless white cravat and glittering spectacles,
looked like some highly respectable functionary of State. Hortebise wore
his usual smile, though his cheek was pale.

"Now," remarked Mascarin, "let me see,--on what footing do you stand
with the Mussidans? Do they look upon you as a friend?"

"No, no; a poor doctor, whose ancestors were not among the Crusades,
could not be the intimate friend of such haughty nobles as the
Mussidans."

"But the Countess knows you, and will not refuse to receive you, nor
have you turned out as soon as you begin to speak; for, taking shelter
behind some rogue without a name, you can shelter your own reputation. I
will see the Count."

"Take care of him," said Hortebise thoughtfully. "He has a reputation
for being a man of ungovernable temper, and, at the first word from you
that he objects to, would throw you out of the window as soon as look at
you."

Mascarin shrugged his shoulders. "I can bring him to reason," answered
he.

The two confederates walked a little past the Hotel de Mussidan, and the
doctor explained the interior arrangements of the house.

"I," continued Mascarin, "will insist upon the Count's breaking off his
daughter's engagement with M. de Breulh-Faverlay, but shall not say
a word about the Marquis de Croisenois, while you will take the
opportunity of putting his pretensions before the Countess, and will not
say a word of M. de Breulh-Faverlay."

"I have learned my lesson, and shall not forget it."

"You see, doctor, the beauty of the whole affair is, that the Countess
will wonder how her husband will take her interference, while he will be
at a loss how to break the news to his wife. How surprised they will be
when they find that they have both the same end in view!"

There was something so droll in the whole affair, that the doctor burst
into a loud laugh.

"We go by such different roads," said he, "that they will never suspect
that we are working together. Faith! my dear Baptiste, you are much more
clever than I thought."

"Don't praise me until you see that I am successful."

Mascarin stopped opposite to a _café_ in the Faubourg Saint Honore.

"Wait here for me, doctor," said he, "while I make a little call. If all
is all right; I will come for you again; then I will see the Count, and
twenty minutes later do you go to the house and ask for the Countess."

The clock struck four as the worthy confederates parted, and Mascarin
continued his way along the Faubourg Saint Honore, and again stopped
before a public house, which he entered, the master of which, Father
Canon, was so well known in the neighborhood that he had not thought it
worth while to have his name painted over the door. He did not profess
to serve his best wine to casual customers, but for regular frequenters
of his house, chiefly the servants of noble families, he kept a better
brand of wine. Mascarin's respectable appearance inclined the landlord
to step forward. Among Frenchmen, who are always full of gayety, a
serious exterior is ever an excellent passport.

"What can I do for you, sir?" asked he with great politeness.

"Can I see Florestan?"

"In Count de Mussidan's service, I believe?"

"Just so; I have an appointment with him here."

"He is downstairs in the band-room," replied the landlord. "I will send
for him."

"Don't trouble; I will go down," and, without waiting for permission,
Mascarin descended some steps that apparently led to a cellar.

"It appears to me," murmured Father Canon, "that I have seen this cove's
face before."

Mascarin pushed open a door at the bottom of the flight of stairs, and
a strange and appalling noise issued from within (but this neither
surprised nor alarmed him), and entered a vaulted room arranged like a
_café_, with seats and tables, filled with customers. In the centre, two
men, in their shirt sleeves, with crimson faces, were performing upon
horns; while an old man, with leather gaiters, buttoning to the knee,
and a broad leather belt, was whistling the air the hornplayers were
executing. As Mascarin politely took off his hat, the performers ceased,
and the old man discontinued his whistling, while a well-built young
fellow, with pumps and stockings, and wearing a fashionable mustache,
exclaimed,--

"Aha, it is that good old Mascarin. I was expecting you; will you
drink?"

Without waiting for further invitation Mascarin helped himself from a
bottle that stood near.

"Did Father Canon tell you that I was here?" asked the young man, who
was the Florestan Mascarin had been inquiring for. "You see," continued
he, "that the police will not permit us to practise the horn; so, you
observe, Father Canon has arranged this underground studio, from whence
no sound reaches the upper world."

The hornplayers had now resumed their lessons, and Florestan was
compelled to place both hands to the side of his mouth, in order to
render himself audible, and to shout with all his might.

"That old fellow there is a huntsman in the service of the Duke de
Champdoce, and is the finest hornplayer going. I have only had twenty
lessons from him, and am getting on wonderfully."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mascarin, "when I have more time I must hear your
performance; but to-day I am in a hurry, and want to say a few words to
you in private."

"Certainly, but suppose we go upstairs and ask for a private room."

The rooms he referred to were not very luxuriously furnished, but were
admirably suited for confidential communications; and had the walls been
able to speak, they could have told many a strange tale.

Florestan and Mascarin seated themselves in one of these before a small
table, upon which Father Canon placed a bottle of wine and two glasses.

"I asked you to meet me here, Florestan," began Mascarin, "because you
can do me a little favor."

"Anything that is in my power I will do," said the young man.

"First, a few words regarding yourself. How do you get on with Count de
Mussidan?"

Mascarin had adopted an air of familiarity which he knew would please
his companion.

"I don't care about the place," replied Florestan, "and I am going to
ask Beaumarchef to look out another one for me."

"I am surprised at that; all your predecessors said that the Count was a
perfect gentleman--"

"Just try him yourself," broke in the valet. "In the first place he is
as fickle as the wind, and awfully suspicious. He never leaves anything
about,--no letters, no cigars, and no money. He spends half his time in
locking things up, and goes to bed with his keys under his pillow."

"I allow that such suspicion on his part is most unpleasant."

"It is indeed, and besides he is awfully violent. He gets in a rage
about nothing, and half a dozen times in the day he looks ready to
murder you. On my word, I am really frightened at him."

This account, coupled with what he had heard from Hortebise seemed to
render Mascarin very thoughtful.

"Is he always like this, or only at intervals?"

"He is always a beast, but he is worse after drink or losing at cards.
He is never home until after four in the morning."

"And what does his wife say?"

The query made Florestan laugh.

"Madame does not bother herself about her lord and master, I can assure
you. Sometimes they don't meet for weeks. All she wants is plenty of
money. And ain't we just dunned!"

"But the Mussidans are wealthy?"

"Tremendously so, but at times there is not the value of a franc in the
house. Then Madame is like a tigress, and would sent to borrow from all
her friends."

"But she must feel much humiliated?"

"Not a bit; when she wants a heavy amount, she sends off to the Duke de
Champdoce, and he always parts; but she doesn't mince matters with him."

"It would seem as if you had known the contents of your mistress's
letters?" remarked Mascarin with a smile.

"Of course I have; I like to know what is in the letters I carry about.
She only says, 'My good friend, I want so much,' and back comes the
money without a word. Of course it is easy to see that there has been
something between them."

"Yes, evidently."

"And when master and missus do meet they only have rows, and such rows!
When the working man has had a drop too much, he beats his wife, she
screams, then they kiss and make it up; but the Mussidans say things to
each other in cold blood that neither can ever forgive."

From the air with which Mascarin listened to these details, it almost
seemed as if he had been aware of them before.

"Then," said he, "Mademoiselle Sabine is the only nice one in the
house?"

"Yes, she is always gentle and considerate."

"Then you think that M. de Breulh-Faverlay will be a happy man?"

"Oh, yes; but perhaps this marriage will----" but here Florestan
interrupted himself and assumed an air of extreme caution. After looking
carefully round, he lowered his voice, and continued, "Mademoiselle
Sabine has been left so much to herself that she acts just as she thinks
fit."

"Do you mean," asked Mascarin, "that the young lady has a lover?"

"Just so."

"But that must be wrong; and let me tell you that you ought not to
repeat such a story."

The man grew quite excited.

"Story," repeated he; "I know what I know. If I spoke of a lover, it is
because I have seen him with my own eyes, not once, but twice."

From the manner in which Mascarin received this intelligence, Florestan
saw that he was interested in the highest degree.

"I'll tell you all about it," continued he. "The first time was when she
went to mass; it came on to rain suddenly, and Modeste, her maid, begged
me to go for an umbrella. As soon as I came back I went in and saw
Mademoiselle Sabine standing by the receptacle for holy water, talking
to a young fellow. Of course I dodged behind a pillar, and kept a watch
on the pair--"

"But you don't found all your story on this?"

"I think you would, had you seen the way they looked into each other's
eyes."

"What was he like?"

"Very good looking, about my height, with an aristocratic air."

"How about the second time?"

"Ah, that is a longer story. I went one day with Mademoiselle when she
was going to see a friend in the Rue Marboeuf. She waited at a corner of
the street, and beckoned me to her. 'Florestan,' said she, 'I forgot to
post this letter; go and do so; I will wait here for you.'"

"Of course you read it?"

"No. I thought there was something wrong. She wants to get rid of you,
so, instead of posting it, I slunk behind a tree and waited. I had
hardly done so, when the young fellow I had seen at the chapel came
round the corner; but I scarcely knew him. He was dressed just like a
working man, in a blouse all over plaster. They talked for about
ten minutes, and Mademoiselle Sabine gave him what looked like a
photograph."

By this time the bottle was empty, and Florestan was about to call for
another, when Mascarin checked him, saying--

"Not to-day; it is growing late, and I must tell you what I want you to
do for me. Is the Count at home now?"

"Of course he is; he has not left his room for two days, owing to having
slipped going downstairs."

"Well, my lad, I must see your master; and if I sent up my card, the
odds are he would not see me, so I rely upon you to show me up without
announcing me."

Florestan remained silent for a few minutes.

"It is no easy job," he muttered, "for the Count does not like
unexpected visitors, and the Countess is with him just now. However, as
I am not going to stay, I'll chance it."

Mascarin rose from his seat.

"We must not be seen together," said he; "I'll settle the score; do you
go on, and I will follow in five minutes. Remember we don't know each
other."

"I am fly; and mind you look out a good place for me."

Mascarin paid the bill, and then looked into the _café_ to inform the
doctor of his movements, and a few minutes later, Florestan in his
most sonorous voice, threw open the door of his master's room and
announced,--

"M. Mascarin."



CHAPTER V.

A FORGOTTEN CRIME.

Baptiste Mascarin had been in so many strange situations, from which he
had extricated himself with safety and credit, that he had the fullest
self-confidence, but as he ascended the wide staircase of the Hotel de
Mussidan, he felt his heart beat quicker in anticipation of the struggle
that was before him. It was twilight out of doors, but all within was
a blaze of light. The library into which he was ushered was a vast
apartment, furnished in severe taste. At the sound of the unaristocratic
name of Mascarin, which seemed as much out of place as a drunkard's oath
in the chamber of sleeping innocence, M. de Mussidan raised his head
in sudden surprise. The Count was seated at the other end of the room,
reading by the light of four candles placed in a magnificently wrought
candelabra. He threw down his paper, and raising his glasses, gazed with
astonishment at Mascarin, who, with his hat in his hand and his heart
in his mouth, slowly crossed the room, muttering a few unintelligible
apologies. He could make nothing, however, of his visitor, and said,
"Whom do you wish to see, sir?"

"The Count de Mussidan," stuttered Mascarin; "and I hope that you will
forgive this intrusion."

The Count cut his excuse short with a haughty wave of his hand. "Wait,"
said he imperiously. He then with evident pain rose from his seat, and
crossing the room, rang the bell violently, and then reseated himself.
Mascarin, who still remained in the centre of the room, inwardly
wondered if after all he was to be turned out of the house. In another
second the door opened, and the figure of the faithful Florestan
appeared.

"Florestan," said the Count, angrily, "this is the first time that you
have permitted any one to enter this room without my permission; if this
occurs again, you leave my service."

"I assure your lordship," began the man.

"Enough! I have spoken; you know what to expect."

During this brief colloquy, Mascarin studied the Count with the deepest
attention.

The Count Octave de Mussidan in no way resembled the man sketched by
Florestan. Since the time of Montaigne, a servant's portrait of his
employer should always be distrusted. The Count looked fully sixty,
though he was but fifty years of age; he was undersized, and he looked
shrunk and shrivelled; he was nearly bald, and his long whiskers were
perfectly white. The cares of life had imprinted deep furrows on his
brow, and told too plainly the story of a man who, having drained the
chalice of life to the bottom, was now ready to shiver the goblet. As
Florestan left the room the Count turned to Mascarin, and in the same
glacial tone observed, "And now, sir, explain this intrusion."

Mascarin had often been rebuffed, but never so cruelly as this. His
vanity was sorely wounded, for he was vain, as all are who think that
they possess some hidden influence, and he felt his temper giving way.

"Pompous idiot!" thought he; "we will see how he looks in a short time;"
but his face did not betray this, and his manner remained cringing
and obsequious. "You have heard my name, my lord, and I am a general
business agent."

The Count was deceived by the honest accents which long practice
had taught Mascarin to use, and he had neither a suspicion nor a
presentiment.

"Ah!" said he majestically, "a business agent, are you? I presume you
come on behalf of one of my creditors. Well, sir, as I have before told
these people, your errand is a futile one. Why do they worry me when I
unhesitatingly pay the extravagant interest they are pleased to demand?
They know that they are all knaves. They are aware that I am rich, for I
have inherited a great fortune, which is certainly without encumbrance;
for though I could raise a million to-morrow upon my estates in
Poitiers, I have up to this time not chosen to do so."

Mascarin had at length so recovered his self-command that he listened to
this speech without a word, hoping to gain some information from it.

"You may tell this," continued the Count, "to those by whom you are
employed."

"Excuse me, my lord--"

"But what?"

"I cannot allow--"

"I have nothing more to say; all will be settled as I promised, when I
pay my daughter's dowry. You are aware that she will shortly be united
to M. de Breulh-Faverlay."

There was no mistaking the order to go, contained in these words,
but Mascarin did not offer to do so, but readjusting his spectacles,
remarked in a perfectly calm voice,--

"It is this marriage that has brought me here."

The Count thought that his ears had deceived him. "What are you saying?"
said he.

"I say," repeated the agent, "that I am sent to you in connection with
this same marriage."

Neither the doctor nor Florestan had exaggerated the violence of the
Count's temper. Upon hearing his daughter's name and marriage mentioned
by this man, his face grew crimson and his eyes gleamed with a lurid
fire.

"Get out of this!" cried he, angrily.

But this was an order that Mascarin had no intention of obeying.

"I assure you that what I have to say is of the utmost importance," said
he.

This speech put the finishing touch to the Count's fury.

"You won't go, won't you?" said he; and in spite of the pain that at the
moment evidently oppressed him, he stepped to the bell, but was arrested
by Mascarin, uttering in a warning voice the words,--

"Take care; if you ring that bell, you will regret it to the last day of
your life."

This was too much for the Count's patience, and letting go the bell
rope, he snatched up a walking cane that was leaning against the
chimneypiece, and made a rush toward his visitor. But Mascarin did not
move or lift his hand in self-defence, contenting himself with saying
calmly,--

"No violence, Count; remember Montlouis."

At this name the Count grew livid, and dropping the cane from his
nerveless hand staggered back a pace or two. Had a spectre suddenly
stood up before him with threatening hand, he could not have been more
horrified.

"Montlouis!" he murmured; "Montlouis!"

But now Mascarin, thoroughly assured of the value of his weapon, had
resumed all his humbleness of demeanor.

"Believe me, my lord," said he, "that I only mentioned this name on
account of the immediate danger that threatens you."

The Count hardly seemed to pay attention to his visitor's words.

"It was not I," continued Mascarin, "who devised the project of bringing
against you an act which was perhaps a mere accident. I am only a
plenipotentiary from persons I despise, to you, for whom I entertain the
very highest respect."

By this time the Count had somewhat recovered himself.

"I really do not understand you," said he, in a tone he vainly
endeavored to render calm. "My sudden emotion is only too easily
explained. I had a sad misfortune. I accidentally shot my secretary, and
the poor young man bore the name you just now mentioned; but the court
acquitted me of all blame in the matter."

The smile upon Mascarin's face was so full of sarcasm that the Count
broke off.

"Those who sent me here," remarked the agent, slowly, "are well
acquainted with the evidence produced in court; but unfortunately, they
know the real facts, which certain honorable gentlemen had sense to
conceal at any risk."

Again the Count started, but Mascarin went on implacably,--

"But reassure yourself, your friend did not betray you voluntarily.
Providence, in her inscrutable decrees----"

The Count shuddered.

"In short, sir, in short----"

Up to this time Mascarin had remained standing, but now that he saw that
his position was fully established, he drew up a chair and sat down.
The Count grew more livid at this insolent act, but made no comment, and
this entirely removed any doubts from the agent's mind.

"The event to which I have alluded has two eye-witnesses, the Baron de
Clinchain, and a servant, named Ludovic Trofin, now in the employ of the
Count du Commarin."

"I did not know what had become of Trofin."

"Perhaps not, but my people do. When he swore to keep the matter secret,
he was unmarried, but a few years later, having entered the bonds of
matrimony, he told all to his young wife. This woman turned out badly;
she had several lovers, and through one of them the matter came to my
employer's ears."

"And it was on the word of a lackey, and the gossip of a dissolute
woman, that they have dared to accuse me."

No word of direct accusation had passed, and yet the Count sought to
defend himself.

Mascarin saw all this, and smiled inwardly, as he replied, "We have
other evidence than that of Ludovic."

"But," said the Count, who was sure of the fidelity of his friend, "you
do not, I suppose, pretend that the Baron de Clinchain has deceived me?"

The state of mental anxiety and perturbation into which this man of the
world had been thrown must have been very intense for him not to
have perceived that every word he uttered put a fresh weapon in his
adversary's hands.

"He has not denounced you by word of mouth," replied the agent. "He has
done far more; he has written his testimony."

"It is a lie," exclaimed the Count.

Mascarin was not disturbed by this insult.

"The Baron has written," repeated he, "though he never thought that any
eye save his own would read what he had penned. As you are aware,
the Baron de Clinchain is a most methodical man, and punctilious to a
degree."

"I allow that; continue."

"Consequently you will not be surprised to learn that from his earliest
years he has kept a diary, and each day he puts down in the most minute
manner everything that has occurred, even to the different conditions of
his bodily health."

The Count knew of his friend's foible, and remembered that when they
were young many a practical joke had been played upon his friend on this
account, and now he began to perceive the dangerous ground upon which he
stood.

"On hearing the facts of the case from Ludovic's wife's lover,"
continued Mascarin, "my employers decided that if the tale was a true
one, some mention of it would be found in the Baron's diary; and thanks
to the ingenuity and skill of certain parties, they have had in their
possession for twenty-four hours the volume for the year 1842."

"Scoundrels!" muttered the Count.

"They find not only one, but three distinct statements relating to the
affair in question."

The Count started again to his feet with so menacing a look, that the
worthy Mascarin pushed back his chair in anticipation of an immediate
assault.

"Proofs!" gasped the Count. "Give me proofs."

"Everything has been provided for, and the three leaves by which you are
so deeply compromised have been cut from the book."

"Where are these pages?"

Mascarin at once put on an air of injured innocence.

"I have not seen them, but the leaves have been photographed, and a
print has been entrusted to me, in order to enable you to recognize the
writing."

As he spoke he produced three specimens of the photographic art,
wonderfully clear and full of fidelity. The Count examined them with the
utmost attention, and then in a voice which trembled with emotion, he
said, "True enough, it is his handwriting."

Not a line upon Mascarin's face indicated the delight with which he
received this admission.

"Before continuing the subject," he observed placidly, "I consider it
necessary for you to understand the position taken up by the Baron de
Clinchain. Do you wish, my lord, to read these extracts, or shall I do
so for you?"

"Read," answered the Count, adding in a lower voice, "I cannot see to do
so."

Mascarin drew his chair nearer to the lights on the table. "I perceive,"
said he, "that the first entry was made on the evening after the--well,
the accident. This is it: 'October 26, 1842. Early this morning went
out shooting with Octave de Mussidan. We were accompanied by Ludovic, a
groom, and by a young man named Montlouis, whom Octave intends one day
to make his steward. It was a splendid day, and by twelve o'clock I had
killed a leash of hares. Octave was in excellent spirits, and by one
o'clock we were in a thick cover not far from Bevron. I and Ludovic were
a few yards in front of the others, when angry voices behind attracted
our attention. Octave and Montlouis were arguing violently, and all
at once the Count struck his future steward a violent blow. In another
moment Montlouis came up to me. 'What is the matter?' cried I. Instead
of replying to my question, the unhappy young man turned back to
his master, uttering a series of threats. Octave had evidently been
reproaching him for some low intrigue he had been engaged in, and
was reflecting upon the character of the woman. 'At any rate,' cried
Montlouis, 'she is quite as virtuous as Madame de Mussidan was before
her marriage.'"

"'As Octave heard these words, he raised the loaded gun he held in his
hand and fired. Montlouis fell to the ground, bathed in blood. We
all ran up to him, but he was quite dead, for the charge of shot had
penetrated his heart. I was almost beside myself, but Octave's despair
was terrible to witness. Tearing his hair, he knelt beside the dead man.
Ludovic, however, maintained his calmness. "We must say that it was an
accident," observed he quickly. "Thinking that Montlouis was not near,
my master fired into cover."

"'This was agreed to, and we carefully arranged what we should say. It
was I who went before the magistrate and made a deposition, which was
unhesitatingly received. But, oh, what a fearful day! My pulse is at
eighty, and I feel I shall not sleep all night. Octave is half mad, and
Heaven knows what will become of him.'"

The Count, from the depths of his armchair, listened without apparent
emotion to this terrible revelation. He was quite crushed, and was
searching for some means to exorcise the green spectre of the past,
which had so suddenly confronted him. Mascarin never took his eyes off
him. All at once the Count roused himself from his prostration, as a man
awakes from a hideous dream. "This is sheer folly," cried he.

"It is folly," answered Mascarin, "that would carry much weight with
it."

"And suppose I were to show you," returned the Count, "that all these
entries are the offspring of a diseased mind?"

Mascarin shook his head with an air of affected grief. "There is no
use, my lord, in indulging in vain hopes. We," he continued, wishing
to associate himself with the Count, "we might of course admit that
the Baron de Clinchain had made this entry in his diary in a moment of
temporary insanity, were it not for the painful fact that there were
others. Le me read them."

"Go on; I am all attention."

"We find the following, three days later: 'Oct. 29th, 1842. I am most
uneasy about my health. I feel shooting pains in all my joints. The
derangement of my system arises entirely from this business of Octave's.
I had to run the gauntlet of a second court, and the judge's eyes seemed
to look me through and through. I also saw with much alarm that my
second statement differs somewhat from the first one, so I have
now learned it by heart. Ludovic is a sharp fellow, and quite
self-possessed. I would like to have him in my household. I keep myself
shut up in my house for fear of meeting friends who want to hear all the
details of the accident. I believe I may say that I have repeated the
story more than a couple of dozen times.' Now, my lord," added Mascarin,
"what do you say to this?"

"Continue the reading of the extracts."

"The third allusion, though it is short, is still very important:
'November 3rd, 1842. Thank Heaven! all is over. I have just returned
from the court. Octave has been acquitted. Ludovic had behaved
wonderfully. He explained the reason of the misadventure in a way that
was really surprising in an uneducated man, and there was not an atom
of suspicion among judge, jury, or spectators. I have changed my mind;
I would not have a fellow like Ludovic in my service; he is much too
sharp. When I had been duly sworn, I gave my evidence. Though I was much
agitated, I went through it all right; but when I got home I felt
very ill, and discovered that my pulse was down to fifty. Ah, me! what
terrible misfortunes are wrought by a momentary burst of anger. I now
write this sentence in my diary: _"Never give way to first impulses."_'
These words," continued Mascarin, "were inscribed on every one of the
pages following,--at least so those who examined the entries informed
me."

Mascarin persisted in representing himself as the agent of others, but
still the Count made no allusion to the persons in the background.

After a few moments the Count rose and limped up and down, as though he
hoped by this means to collect his ideas, or perhaps in order to prevent
his visitor from scanning his face too closely.

"Have you done?" asked he, all at once.

"Yes, my lord."

"Have you thought what an impartial judge would say?"

"I think I have."

"He would say," broke in the Count, "that no sane man would have written
such things down, for there are certain secrets which we do not whisper
even to ourselves, and it is hardly likely that any man would make such
compromising entries in a diary which might be lost or stolen, and which
would certainly be read by his heir. Do you think that a man of high
position would record his perjury, which is a crime that would send him
to penal servitude?"

Mascarin gazed upon the Count with an air of pity.

"You are not going the right way, my lord, to get out of your trouble.
No lawyer would adopt your theory. If the remaining volumes of M. de
Clinchain's diaries were produced in court, I imagine that other equally
startling entries would be found in them."

The Count now appeared to have arrived at some decision, and to continue
the conversation simply for the purpose of gaining time.

"Well," said he, "I will give up this idea; but how do I know that
these documents are not forgeries? Nowadays, handwritings are easily
facsimilied, when even bankers find it hard to distinguish between their
own notes and counterfeit ones."

"That can be settled by seeing if certain leaves are missing from the
Baron's diary."

"That does not prove much."

"Pardon me, it proves a great deal. This new line of argument, I assure
you, will avail you as little as the other. I am perfectly aware that
the Baron de Clinchain will utter whatever words you may place in his
mouth. Let us suppose that the leaves which have been torn out should
fit into the book exactly. Would not that be a strong point?"

The Count smiled ironically, as though he had a crushing reply in
reserve.

"And so this is your opinion, is it?" said he.

"It is indeed."

"Then all I have to do is to plead guilty. I did kill Montlouis, just
as Clinchain describes, but----" and as he spoke he took a heavy volume
from a shelf, and opening it at a certain place laid it before Mascarin,
remarking,--"this is the criminal code; read. 'All proceedings in
criminal law shall be cancelled after a lapse of ten years.'"

The Count de Mussidan evidently thought that he had crushed his
adversary by this shattering blow; but it was not so, for instead of
exhibiting any surprise, Mascarin's smile was as bland as ever.

"I, too, know a little of the law," said he. "The very first day this
matter was brought to me, I turned to this page and read what you have
just shown me to my employers."

"And what did they say?"

"That they knew all this, but that you would be glad to compromise the
affair, even at the expense of half your fortune."

The agent's manner was so confident that the Count felt they had
discovered some means of turning this crime of his early days to
advantage; but he was still sufficiently master of himself to show no
emotion.

"No," replied he, "it is not such an easy matter as you think to get
hold of half my fortune. I fancy that your friends' demands will assume
a more modest tone, the more so when I repeat that these morsels of
paper, stolen from my friend's diary, are absolutely worthless."

"Do you think so?"

"Certainly, for the law on this matter speaks plainly enough."

Mascarin readjusted his glasses, a sure indication that he was going to
make an important reply.

"You are quite right, my lord," said he, slowly. "There is no intention
of taking you before any court, for there is no penalty now for a crime
committed twenty-three years ago; but the miserable wretches whom I
blush to act for have arranged a plan which will be disagreeable in the
highest degree both for you and the Baron."

"Pray tell me what this clever plan is."

"Most certainly. I came here to-day for this very purpose. Let us first
conclude that you have rejected the request with which I approached
you."

"Do you call this style of thing a request?"

"What is the use of quarrelling over words. Well, to-morrow, my
clients--though I am ashamed to speak of them as such--will send to
a well known morning paper a tale, with the title, 'Story of a Day's
Shooting.' Of course only initials will be used for the names, but no
doubt will exist as to the identity of the actors in the tragedy."

"You forget that in actions for libel proofs are not admitted."

Mascarin shrugged his shoulders.

"My employers forget nothing," remarked he; "and it is upon this very
point that they have based their plans For this reason they introduce
into the matter a fifth party, of course an accomplice, whose name is
introduced into the story in the paper. Upon the day of its appearance,
this man lodges a complaint against the journal, and insists on proving
in a court of justice, that he did not form one of the shooting-party."

"Well, what happens then?"

"Then, my lord, this man insists that the journal should give a
retraction of the injurious statement and summons as witnesses both
yourself and the Baron de Clinchain, and as a conclusion, Ludovic;
and as he claims damages, he employs a lawyer, who is one of the
confederates and behind the scenes. The lawyer will speak something to
this effect: 'That the Count de Mussidan is clearly a murderer; that
the Baron de Clinchain is a perjurer, as proved by his own handwriting;
Ludovic has been tampered with, but my client, an honorable man, must
not be classed with these, etc., etc.' Have I made myself understood?"

Indeed, he had, and with such cold and merciless logic that it seemed
hopeless to expect to escape from the net that had been spread.

As these thoughts passed through the Count's brain, he saw at a glance
the whole terrible notoriety that the case would cause, and society
gloating over the details. Yet such was the obstinacy of his
disposition, and so impatient was he of control, that the more desperate
his position seemed, the fiercer was his resistance. He knew the world
well, and he also knew that the cutthroats who demanded his money with
threats had every reason to dread the lynx eye of the law. If he refused
to listen to them, as his heart urged him, perhaps they would not dare
to carry out their threats. Had he alone been concerned in the matter,
he would have resisted to the last, and fought it out to the last drop
of his blood, and as a preliminary, would have beaten the sneering rogue
before him to a jelly; but how dared he expose his friend Clinchain, who
had already braved so much for him? As he paced up and down the library,
these and many other thoughts swept across his brain, and he was
undecided whether to submit to these extortions or throw the agent out
of the window. His excited demeanor and the occasional interjections
that burst from his lips showed Mascarin that the account of him was
not exaggerated, and that when led by passion he would as soon shoot
a fellow-creature as a rabbit. And yet, though he knew not whether he
should make his exit by the door or the window, he sat twirling his
fingers with the most unconcerned air imaginable. At last the Count gave
ear to prudence. He stopped in front of the agent, and, taking no pains
to hide his contempt, said,--

"Come, let us make an end of this. How much do you want for these
papers?"

"Oh, my lord!" exclaimed Mascarin; "surely you do not think that I could
be guilty----?"

M. de Mussidan shrugged his shoulders. "Pray, do not take me for a
fool," said he, "but name your sum."

Mascarin seemed a little embarrassed, and hesitated. "We don't want
money," answered he at length.

"Not money!" replied the Count.

"We want something that is of no importance to you, but of the utmost
value to those who despatched me here. I am commissioned to inform you
that my clients desire that you should break off the engagement between
your daughter and M. de Breulh-Faverlay, and that the missing paper will
be handed to you on the completion of her marriage with any else whom
you may deem worthy of such an honor."

This demand, which was utterly unexpected, so astonished the Count that
he could only exclaim, "Why, this is absolute madness!"

"No; it is plain, good sense, and a _bona fide_ offer."

An idea suddenly flashed across the Count's mind. "Is it your
intention," asked he, "to furnish me with a son-in-law too?"

"I am sure, my lord," answered Mascarin, looking the picture of
disinterested honesty, "that, even to save yourself, you would never
sacrifice your daughter."

"But--"

"You are entirely mistaken; it is M. de Breulh-Faverlay whom my clients
wish to strike at, for they have taken an oath that he shall never wed a
lady with a million for her dowry."

So surprised was the Count, that the whole aspect of the interview
seemed to have changed, and he now combated his own objections instead
of those of his unwelcome visitor. "M. de Breulh-Faverlay has my
promise," remarked he; "but of course it is easy to find a pretext. The
Countess, however, is in favor of the match, and the chief opposition to
any change will come from her."

Mascarin did not think it wise to make any reply, and the Count
continued, "My daughter also may not view this rupture with
satisfaction."

Thanks to the information he had received from Florestan, Mascarin knew
how much importance to attach to this. "Mademoiselle, at her age and
with her tastes, is not likely to have her heart seriously engaged." For
fully a quarter of an hour the Count still hesitated. He knew that he
was entirely at the mercy of those miscreants, and his pride revolted at
the idea of submission; but at length he yielded.

"I agree," said he. "My daughter shall not marry M. de Breulh-Faverlay."

Even in his hour of triumph, Mascarin's face did not change. He bowed
profoundly, and left the room; but as he descended the stairs, he rubbed
his hands, exclaiming, "If the doctor has made as good a job of it as I
have, success is certain."



CHAPTER VI.

A MEDICAL ADVISER.

Doctor Hortebise did not find it necessary to resort to any of those
expedients which Mascarin had found it advisable to use in order to
reach Madame de Mussidan. As soon as he presented himself--that is,
after a brief interval of five minutes--he was introduced into the
presence of the Countess. He rather wondered at this, for Madame de
Mussidan was one of those restless spirits that are seldom found at
home, but are to be met with at exhibitions, on race-courses, at the
_salons_, restaurants, shops, or theatres; or at the studio of some
famous artist; or at the rooms of some musical professor who had
discovered a new tenor; anywhere and everywhere, in fact, except at
home. Hers was one of those restless natures constantly craving for
excitement; and husband, home, and child were mere secondary objects in
her eyes. She had many avocations; she was a patroness of half a dozen
charitable institutions, but the chief thing that she did was to spend
money. Gold seemed to melt in her grasp like so much snow, and she never
knew what became of the sums she lavished so profusely. Husband and
wife had long been almost totally estranged, and led almost separate
existences. Dr. Hortebise was well aware of this, in common with others
who moved in society. Upon the appearance of the doctor, the Countess
dropped the book she had been perusing, and gave vent to an exclamation
of delight. "Ah, doctor, this is really very kind of you;" and at the
same time signed to the servant to place a chair for the visitor.

The Countess was tall and slender, and at forty-five had the figure of
a girl. She had an abundance of fair hair, the color of which concealed
the silver threads which plentifully interspersed it. A subtle perfume
hung about her, and her pale blue eyes were full of pride and cold
disdain.

"You know how to time your visits so well, doctor!" said she. "I am
thoroughly bored, and am utterly weary of books, for it always seems to
me, when I read, that I had perused the same thing before somewhere or
other. You have arrived at so opportune a moment, that you appear to be
a favorite of timely chance."

The doctor was indeed a favorite of chance; but the name of the chance
was Baptiste Mascarin.

"I see so few visitors," continued Madame de Mussidan, "that hardly any
one comes to see me. I must really set aside one day in the week for my
at home; for when I do happen to stay at home, I feel fearfully dull
and lonely. For two mortal hours I have been in this room. I have been
nursing the Count."

The doctor knew better than this; but he smiled pleasantly, and said,
"Perfectly so," exactly at the right moment.

"Yes," continued the Countess, "my husband slipped on the stairs, and
hurt himself very much. Our doctor says it is nothing; but then I put
little faith in what doctors say."

"I know that by experience, madame," replied Hortebise.

"Present company of course always excepted; but, do you know, I once
really believed in you; but your sudden conversion to homeopathy quite
frightened me."

The doctor smiled. "It is as safe a mode of practice as any other."

"Do you really think so?"

"I am perfectly sure of it."

"Well, now that you _are_ here, I am half inclined to ask your advice."

"I trust that you are not suffering."

"No, thank heaven; I have never any cause to complain of my health; but
I am very anxious about Sabine's state."

Her affection of maternal solicitude was a charming pendant to her
display of conjugal affection, and again the doctor's expression of
assent came in in the right place.

"Yes, for a month, doctor, I have hardly seen Sabine, I have been so
much engaged; but yesterday I met her, and was quite shocked at the
change in her appearance."

"Did you ask her what ailed her?"

"Of course, and she said, 'Nothing,' adding that she was perfectly
well."

"Perhaps something had vexed her?"

"She,--why, don't you know that every one likes her, and that she is one
of the happiest girls in Paris; but I want you to see her in spite of
that." She rang the bell as she spoke, and as soon as the footman made
his appearance, said, "Lubin, ask Mademoiselle to have the goodness to
step downstairs."

"Mademoiselle has gone out, madame."

"Indeed! how long ago?"

"About three o'clock, madame."

"Who went with her?"

"Her maid, Modeste."

"Did Mademoiselle say where she was going to?"

"No, madame."

"Very well, you can go."

Even the imperturbable doctor was rather surprised at a girl of eighteen
being permitted so much freedom.

"It is most annoying," said the Countess. "However, let us hope that the
trifling indisposition, regarding which I wished to consult you, will
not prevent her marriage."

Here was the opening that Hortebise desired.

"Is Mademoiselle going to be married?" asked he with an air of
respectful curiosity.

"Hush!" replied Madame de Mussidan, placing her finger on her lips;
"this is a profound secret, and there is nothing definitely arranged;
but you, as a doctor, are a perfect father confessor, and I feel that
I can trust you. Let me whisper to you that it is quite possible that
Sabine will be Madame de Breulh-Faverlay before the close of the year."

Hortebise had not Mascarin's courage; indeed, he was frequently
terrified at his confederate's projects; but having once given in his
adherence, he was to be relied on, and did not hesitate for a moment.
"I confess, madame, that I heard that mentioned before;" returned he
cautiously.

"And, pray, who was your informant?"

"Oh, I have had it from many sources; and let me say at once that it was
this marriage, and no mere chance, that brought me here to-day."

Madame de Mussidan liked the doctor and his pleasant and witty
conversation very much, and was always charmed to see him; but it
was intolerable that he should venture to interfere in he