The Count's Millions by Emile GaboriauPart 6 out of 7
several times repeating: "Make haste!"--while Pascal ran to a street lamp near by. It was not a letter that Marguerite had sent him, but a short note, written on a scrap of crumpled paper, folded, and not sealed. It was written in pencil; and the handwriting was irregular and indistinct. Still, by the flickering light of the gas, Pascal deciphered the word "Monsieur." It made him shudder. "Monsieur!" What did this mean? In writing to him of recent times, Marguerite had always said, "My dear Pascal," or, "My friend." Nevertheless, he continued: "I have not had the courage to resist the entreaties made to me by the Count de Chalusse, my father, in his last agony. I have solemnly pledged myself to become the wife of the Marquis de Valorsay. "One cannot break a promise made to the dying. I shall keep mine, even though my heart break. I shall do my duty. God will give me strength and courage. Forget her whom you loved. She is now the betrothed of another, and honor commands her to forget your very name. Once more, and for the last time, farewell! If you love me, you will not try to see me again. It would only add to my misery. "Think as though she were dead--she who signs herself--MARGUERITE. The commonplace wording of this letter, and the mistakes in spelling that marred it, entirely escaped Pascal's notice. He only understood one thing, that Marguerite was lost to him, and that she was on the point of becoming the wife of the vile scoundrel who had planned the snare which had ruined him at the Hotel d'Argeles. Breathless, despairing, and half crazed with rage, he sprang toward Madame Leon. "Marguerite, where is she?" he demanded, in a hoarse, unnatural voice; "I must see her!" "Oh! monsieur, what do you ask? Is it possible? Allow me to explain to you----" But the housekeeper was unable to finish her sentence, for Pascal had caught her by the hands, and holding them in a vicelike grip, he repeated: "I must see Marguerite, and speak to her. I must tell her that she has been deceived; I will unmask the scoundrel who----" The frightened housekeeper struggled with all her might, trying her best to reach the little gate which was standing open. "You hurt me!" she cried. "Are you mad? Let me go or I shall call for help?" And twice indeed she shouted in a loud voice, "Help! murder!" But her cries were lost in the stillness of the night. If any one heard them, no one came; still they recalled Pascal to a sense of the situation, and he was ashamed of his violence. He released Madame Leon, and his manner suddenly became as humble as it had been threatening. "Excuse me," he said, entreatingly. "I am suffering so much that I don't know what I'm doing. I beseech you to take me to Mademoiselle Marguerite, or else run and beg her to come here. I ask but a moment." Madame Leon pretended to be listening attentively; but, in reality, she was quietly manoeuvring to gain the garden gate. Soon she succeeded in doing so, whereupon, with marvellous strength and agility, she pushed Pascal away, and sprang inside the garden, closing the gate after her, and saying as she did so, "Begone, you scoundrel!" This was the final blow; and for more than a minute Pascal stood motionless in front of the gate, stupefied with mingled rage and sorrow. His condition was not unlike that of a man who, after falling to the bottom of a precipice, is dragging himself up, all mangled and bleeding, swearing that he will yet save himself, when suddenly a heavy stone which he had loosened in his descent, falls forward and crushes him. All that he had so far endured was nothing in comparison with the thought that Valorsay would wed Marguerite. Was such a thing possible? Would God permit such a monstrous iniquity?" No, that shall never be," he muttered. "I will murder the scoundrel rather; and afterward justice may do whatever it likes with me." He experienced that implacable, merciless thirsting for vengeance which does not even recoil before the commission of a crime to secure satisfaction, and this longing inflamed him with such energy that, although he had been so utterly exhausted a few moments before--he was not half an hour in making his way back to his new home. His mother, who was waiting for him with an anxious heart, was surprised by the flush on his cheeks, and the light glittering in his eyes. "Ah, you bring good news," she exclaimed. His only answer was to hand her the letter which Madame Leon had given him, saying as he did so, "Read." Madame Ferailleur's eyes fell upon the words: "Once more, and for the last time, farewell!" She understood everything, turned very pale, and in a trembling voice exclaimed: "Don't grieve, my son; the girl did not love you." "Oh, mother! if you knew----" But she checked him with a gesture, and lifting her head proudly, she said: "I know what it is to love, Pascal--it is to have perfect faith. If the whole world had accused your father of a crime, would a single doubt of his innocence have ever entered my mind? This girl has doubted you. They have told her that you cheated at cards--and she has believed it. You have failed to see that this oath at the bedside of the dying count is only an excuse." It was true; the thought had not occurred to Pascal. "My God!" he cried in agony; "are you the only one who believes in my innocence?" "Without proofs--yes. It must be your task to obtain these proofs." "And I shall obtain them," he rejoined, in a tone of determination. "I am strong now that I have Marguerite's life to defend--for they have deceived her, mother, or she would never have given me up. Oh! don't shake your head. I love her, and so I trust her." XVII. M. Isidore Fortunat was not the man to go to sleep over a plan when it was once formed. Whenever he said to himself, "I'll do this, or that," he did it as soon as possible--that very evening, rather than the next day. Having sworn that he would find out Madame d'Argeles's son, the heir to the Count de Chalusse's millions, it did not take him long to decide which of his agents he would select to assist him in this difficult task. Thus his first care, on returning home, was to ask his bookkeeper for Victor Chupin's address. "He lives in the Faubourg Saint-Denis," replied the bookkeeper, "at No.--." "Very well," muttered M. Fortunat; "I'll go there as soon as I have eaten my dinner." And, indeed, as soon as he had swallowed his coffee, he requested Madame Dodelin to bring him his overcoat, and half an hour later he reached the door of the house where his clerk resided. The house was one of those huge, ungainly structures, large enough to shelter the population of a small village, with three or four courtyards, as many staircases as there are letters in the alphabet, and a concierge who seldom remembers the names of the tenants except on quarter-days when he goes to collect the rent, and at New Year, when he expects a gratuity. But, by one of those lucky chances made expressly for M. Fortunat, the porter did recollect Chupin, knew him and was kindly disposed toward him, and so he told the visitor exactly how and where to find him. It was very simple. He had only to cross the first courtyard, take staircase D, on the left-hand side, ascend to the sixth floor, go straight ahead, etc., etc. Thanks to this unusual civility, M. Fortunat did not lose his way more than five times before reaching the door upon which was fastened a bit of pasteboard bearing Victor Chupin's name. Noticing that a bell-rope hung beside the door, M. Fortunat pulled it, whereupon there was a tinkling, and a voice called out, "Come in!" He complied, and found himself in a small and cheaply furnished room, which was, however, radiant with the cleanliness which is in itself a luxury. The waxed floor shone like a mirror; the furniture was brilliantly polished, and the counterpane and curtains of the bed were as white as snow. What first attracted the agent's attention was the number of superfluous articles scattered about the apartment--some plaster statuettes on either side of a gilt clock, an etagere crowded with knickknacks, and five or six passable engravings. When he entered, Victor Chupin was sitting, in his shirt-sleeves, at a little table, where, by the light of a small lamp, and with a zeal that brought a flush to his cheeks, he was copying, in a very fair hand a page from a French dictionary. Near the bed, in the shade, sat a poorly but neatly clad woman about forty years of age, who was knitting industriously with some long wooden needles. "M. Victor Chupin?" inquired M. Fortunat. The sound of his voice made the young man spring to his feet. He quickly lifted the shade from his lamp, and, without attempting to conceal his astonishment, exclaimed: "M'sieur Fortunat!--at this hour! Where's the fire?" Then, in a grave manner that contrasted strangely with his accustomed levity: "Mother," said he, "this is one of my patrons, M'sieur Fortunat--you know--the gentleman whom I collect for." The knitter rose, bowed respectfully, and said: "I hope, sir, that you are pleased with my son, and that he's honest." "Certainly, madame," replied the agent; "certainly. Victor is one of my best and most reliable clerks." "Then I'm content," said the woman, reseating herself. Chupin also seemed delighted "This is my good mother, sir," said he. "She's almost blind now; but, in less than six months she will be able to stand at her window and see a pin in the middle of the street, so the physician who is treating her eyes promised me; then we shall be all right again. But take a seat, sir. May we venture to offer you anything?" Although his clerk had more than once alluded to his responsibilities, M. Fortunat was amazed. He marvelled at the perfume of honesty which exhaled from these poor people, at the dignity of this humble woman, and at the protecting and respectful affection evinced by her son--a young man, whose usual tone of voice and general behavior had seemed to indicate that he was decidedly a scapegrace. "Thanks, Victor," he replied, "I won't take any refreshment. I've just left the dinner-table. I've come to give you my instructions respecting a very important and very urgent matter." Chupin at once understood that his employer wished for a private interview. Accordingly, he took up the lamp, opened a door, and, in the pompous tone of a rich banker who is inviting some important personage to enter his private room, he said: "Will you be kind enough to step into my chamber, m'sieur?" The room which Chupin so emphatically denominated his "chamber" was a tiny nook, extraordinarily clean, it is true, but scantily furnished with a small iron bedstead, a trunk, and a chair. He offered the chair to his visitor, placed the lamp on the trunk, and seated himself on the bed, saying as he did so: "This is scarcely on so grand a scale as your establishment, m'sieur; but I am going to ask the landlord to gild the window of my snuff-box." M. Fortunat was positively touched. He held out his hand to his clerk and exclaimed: "You're a worthy fellow, Chupin." "Nonsense, m'sieur, one does what one can; but, zounds! how hard it is to make money honestly! If my good mother could only see, she would help me famously, for there is no one like her for work! But you see one can't become a millionaire by knitting!" "Doesn't your father live with you?" Chupin's eyes gleamed angrily. "Ah! don't speak of that man to me, m'sieur!" he exclaimed, "or I shall hurt somebody." And then, as if he felt it necessary to explain and excuse his vindictive exclamation, he added: "My father, Polyte Chupin, is a good-for- nothing scamp. And yet he's had his opportunities. First, he was fortunate enough to find a wife like my mother, who is honesty itself--so much so that she was called Toinon the Virtuous when she was young. She idolized him, and nearly killed herself by working to earn money for him. And yet he abused her so much, and made her weep so much, that she has become blind. But that's not all. One morning there came to him--I don't know whence or how-- enough money for him to have lived like a gentleman. I believe it was a munificent reward for some service he had rendered a great nobleman at the time when my grandmother, who is now dead, kept a dramshop called the Poivriere. Any other man would have treasured that money, but not he. What he did was to carouse day and night, and all the while my poor mother was working her fingers to the bone to earn food for me. She never saw a penny of all his money; and, indeed, once when she asked him to pay the rent, he beat her so cruelly that she was laid up in bed for a week. However, monsieur, you can very readily understand that when a man leads that kind of life, he speedily comes to the end of his banking account. So my father was soon without a penny in his purse, and then he was obliged to work in order to get something to eat, and this didn't suit him at all. But when he didn't know where to find a crust he remembered us; he sought us out, and found us. Once I lent him a hundred sous; the next day he came for forty more, and the next for three francs; then for five francs again. And so it was every day: 'Give me this, or give me that!' At last I said, 'Enough of this, the bank's closed!' Then, what do you think he did? He watched the house until he saw me go out; then he came in with a second-hand furniture-dealer, and tried to sell everything, pretending that he was the master. And my poor, dear mother would have allowed him to do it. Fortunately, I happened to come in again. Let him sell my furniture? Not I. I would sooner have been chopped in pieces! I went and complained to the commissary of police, who made my father leave the house, and since then we've lived in peace." Certainly this was more than sufficient to explain and excuse Victor Chupin's indignation. And yet he had prudently withheld the most serious and important cause of his dislike. What he refrained from telling was that years before, when he was still a mere child, without will or discernment, his father had taken him from his mother, and had started him down that terrible descent, which inevitably leads one to prison or the gallows, unless there be an almost miraculous interposition on one's behalf. This miracle had occurred in Chupin's case; but he did not boast of it. "Come, come!" said M. Fortunat, "don't worry too much about it. A father's a father after all, and yours will undoubtedly reform by and by." He said this as he would have said anything else, out of politeness and for the sake of testifying a friendly interest; but he really cared no more for this information concerning the Chupin family than the grand Turk. His first emotion had quickly vanished; and he was beginning to find these confidential disclosures rather wearisome. "Let us get back to business," he remarked; "that is to say, to Casimir. What did you do with the fool after my departure?" "First, monsieur, I sobered him; which was no easy task. The greedy idiot had converted himself into a wine-cask! At last, however, when he could talk as well as you and I, and walk straight, I took him back to the Hotel de Chalusse." "That was right. But didn't you have some business to transact with him?" "That's been arranged, monsieur; the agreement has been signed. The count will have the best of funerals--the finest hearse out, with six horses, twenty-four mourning coaches--a grand display, in fact. It will be worth seeing." M. Fortunat smiled graciously. "That ought to bring you a handsome commission," he said, benignly. Employed by the job, Chupin was the master of his own time, free to utilize his intelligence and industry as he chose, but M. Fortunat did not like his subordinates to make any money except through him. Hence his approval, in the present instance, was so remarkable that it awakened Chupin's suspicions. "I shall make a few sous, probably," he modestly replied, "a trifle to aid my good mother in keeping the pot boiling." "So much the better, my boy," said M. Fortunat. "I like to see money gained by those who make a good use of it. And to prove this, I'm about to employ you in an affair which will pay you handsomely if you prosecute it successfully." Chupin's eyes brightened at first but grew dark a moment afterward, for delight had been quickly followed by a feeling of distrust. He thought it exceedingly strange that an employer should take the trouble to climb to a sixth floor merely for the purpose of conferring a favor on his clerk. There must be something behind all this; and so it behove him to keep his eyes open. However, he knew how to conceal his real feelings; and it was with a joyous air that he exclaimed: "Eh! What? Money? Now? What must I do to earn it?" "Oh! a mere trifle," replied the agent; "almost nothing, indeed." And drawing his chair nearer to the bed on which his employee was seated, he added: "But first, one question, Victor. By the way in which a woman looks at a young man in the street, at the theatre or anywhere--would you know if she were watching her son?" Chupin shrugged his shoulders. "What a question!" he retorted. "Nonsense! monsieur, it would be impossible to deceive me. I should only have to remember my mother's eyes when I return home in the evening. Poor woman! although she's half blind, she sees me--and if you wish to make her happy, you've only to tell her I'm the handsomest and most amiable youth in Paris." M. Fortunat could not refrain from rubbing his hands, so delighted was he to see his idea so perfectly understood and so admirably expressed. "Good!" he declared; "very good! That's intelligence, if I am any judge. I have not been deceived in you, Victor." Victor was on fire with curiosity. "What am I to do, monsieur?" he asked eagerly. "This: you must follow a woman whom I shall point out to you, follow her everywhere without once losing sight of her, and so skilfully as not to let her suspect it. You must watch her every glance, and when her eyes tell you that she is looking at her son, your task will be nearly over. You will then only have to follow this son, and find out his name and address, what he does, and how he lives. I don't know if I explain what I mean very clearly." This doubt was awakened in M. Fortunat's mind by Chupin's features, which were expressive of lively astonishment and discontent. "Excuse me, monsieur," he said, at last, "I do not understand at all." "It's very simple, however. The lady in question has a son about twenty. I know it--I'm sure of it. But she denies it; she conceals the fact, and he doesn't even know her. She secretly watches over him, however--she provides him with money, and every day she finds some way of seeing him. Now, it is to my interest to find this son." Chupin's mobile face became actually threatening in its expression; he frowned darkly, and his lips quivered. Still this did not prevent M. Fortunat from adding, with the assurance of a man who does not even suspect the possibility of a refusal: "Now, when shall we set about our task?" "Never!" cried Chupin, violently; and, rising, he continued: "No! I wouldn't let my good mother eat bread earned in that way--it would strangle her! Turn spy! I? Thanks--some one else may have the job!" He had become as red as a turkey-cock, and such was his indignation that he forgot his accustomed reserve and the caution with which he had so far concealed his antecedents. "I know this game--I've tried it!" he went on, vehemently. "One might as well take one's ticket to prison by a direct road. I should be there now if it hadn't been for Monsieur Andre. I was thirsting for gold, and, like the brigand that I was, I should have killed the man; but in revenge he drew me from the mire and placed my feet on solid ground once more. And now, shall I go back to my vile tricks again? Why, I'd rather cut my leg off! I'm to hunt down this poor woman--I'm to discover her secret so that you may extort money from her, am I? No, not I! I should like to be rich, and I shall be rich; but I'll make my money honestly. I hope to touch my hundred-franc pieces without being obliged to wash my hands afterward. So, a very good evening to your establishment." M. Fortunat was amazed, and at the same time much annoyed, to find himself forsaken on account of such a trifle. He feared, too, that Chupin might let his tongue wag if he left his employment. So, since he had confided this project to Chupin, he was determined that Chupin alone should carry it into execution. Assuming his most severe and injured manner, he sternly exclaimed: "I think you have lost your senses." His demeanor and intonation were so perfectly cool that Chupin seemed slightly abashed. "It seems that you think me capable of urging you to commit some dangerous and dishonorable act," continued M. Fortunat. "Why--no--m'sieur--I assure you " There was such evident hesitation in the utterance of this "no" that the agent at once resumed: "Come, you are not ignorant of the fact that in addition to my business as a collector, I give my attention to the discovery of the heirs of unclaimed estates? You are aware of this? Very well then: pray tell me how I am to find them without searching for them? If I wish this lady to be watched, it is only in view of reaching a poor lad who is likely to be defrauded of the wealth that rightfully belongs to him. And when I give you a chance to make forty or fifty francs in a couple of days, you receive my proposition in this style! You are an ingrate and a fool, Victor!" Chupin's nature combined, in a remarkable degree, the vices and peculiarities of the dweller in the Paris faubourgs, who is born old, but who, when aged in years, still remains a gamin. In his youth he had seen many strange things, and acquired a knowledge of life that would have put the experience of a philosopher to shame. But he was not fit to cope with M. Fortunat, who had an immense advantage over him, by reason of his position of employer, as well as by his fortune and education. So Chupin was both bewildered and disconcerted by the cool arguments his patron brought forward; and what most effectually allayed his suspicions was the small compensation offered for the work--merely forty or fifty francs. "Small potatoes, upon my word!" he thought. "Just the price of an honest service; he would have offered more for a piece of rascality." So, after considering a moment, he said, aloud: "Very well; I'm your man, m'sieur." M. Fortunat was secretly laughing at the success of his ruse. Having come with the intention of offering his agent a handsome sum, he was agreeably surprised to find that Chupin's scruples would enable him to save his money. "If I hadn't found you engaged in study, Victor," he said, "I should have thought you had been drinking. What venomous insect stung you so suddenly? Haven't I confided similar undertakings to you twenty times since you have been in my employment? Who ransacked Paris to find certain debtors who were concealing themselves? Who discovered the Vantrassons for me? Victor Chupin. Very well. Then allow me to say that I see nothing in this case in any way differing from the others, nor can I understand why this should be wrong, if the others were not." Chupin could only have answered this remark by saying that there had been no mystery about the previous affairs, that they had not been proposed to him late at night at his own home, and that he had acted openly, as a person who represents a creditor has a recognized right to act. But, though he felt that there WAS a difference in the present case, it would have been very difficult for him to explain in what this difference consisted. Hence, in his most resolute tone: "I'm only a fool, m'sieur," he declared; "but I shall know how to make amends for my folly." "That means you have recovered your senses," said M. Fortunat, ironically. "Really, that's fortunate. But let me give you one bit of advice: watch yourself, and learn to bridle your tongue. You won't always find me in such a good humor as I am this evening." So saying, he rose, passed out into the adjoining room, bowed civilly to his clerk's mother, and went off. His last words, as he crossed the threshold, were, "So I shall rely upon you. Be at the office to-morrow a little before noon." "It's agreed m'sieur." The blind woman had risen, and had bowed respectfully; but, as soon as she was alone with her son, she asked: "What is this business he bids you undertake in such a high and mighty tone?" "Oh! an every-day matter, mother." The old woman shook her head. "Why were you talking so loud then?" she inquired. "Weren't you quarrelling? It must be something very grave when it's necessary to conceal it from me. I couldn't see your employer's face, my son; but I heard his voice, and it didn't please me. It isn't the voice of an honest, straightforward man. Take care, Toto, and don't allow yourself to be cajoled--be prudent." However, it was quite unnecessary to recommend prudence to Victor Chupin. He had promised his assistance, but not without a mental reservation. "No need to see danger till it comes," he had said to himself. "If the thing proves to be of questionable propriety after all, then good-evening; I desert." It remains to know what he meant by questionable propriety; the meaning of the expression is rather vague. He had returned in all honesty and sincerity of purpose to an honest life, and nothing in the world would have induced him, avaricious though he was, to commit an act that was positively wrong. Only the line that separates good from evil was not very clearly defined in his mind. This was due in a great measure to his education, and to the fact that it had been long before he realized that police regulations do not constitute the highest moral law. It was due also to chance, and, since he had no decided calling, to the necessity of depending for a livelihood upon the many strange professions which impecunious and untrained individuals, both of the higher and lower classes, adopt in Paris. However, on the following morning he arrayed himself in his best apparel, and at exactly half-past eleven o'clock he rang at his employer's door. M. Fortunat had made quick work with his clients that morning, and was ready, dressed to go out. He took up his hat and said only the one word, "Come." The place where the agent conducted his clerk was the wine-shop in the Rue de Berry, where he had made inquiries respecting Madame d'Argeles the evening before; and on arriving there, he generously offered him a breakfast. Before entering, however, he pointed out Madame d'Argeles's pretty house on the opposite side of the street, and said to him: "The woman whom you are to follow, and whose son you are to discover, will emerge from that house " At that moment, after a night passed in meditating upon his mother's prophetic warnings, Chupin was again beset by the same scruples which had so greatly disturbed him on the previous evening. However, they soon vanished when he heard the wine- vendor, in reply to M. Fortunat's skilful questions, begin to relate all he knew concerning Madame Lia d'Argeles, and the scandalous doings at her house. The seeker after lost heirs and his clerk were served at a little table near the door; and while they partook of the classical beef-steak and; potatoes--M. Fortunat eating daintily, and Chupin bolting his food with the appetite of a ship-wrecked mariner--they watched the house opposite. Madame d'Argeles received on Saturdays, and, as Chupin remarked, "there was a regular procession of visitors." Standing beside M. Fortunat, and flattered by the attention which such a well-dressed gentleman paid to his chatter, the landlord of the house mentioned the names of all the visitors he knew. And he knew a good number of them, for the coachmen came to his shop for refreshments when their masters were spending the night in play at Madame d'Argeles's house. So he was able to name the Viscount de Coralth, who dashed up to the door in a two-horse phaeton, as well as Baron Trigault, who came on foot, for exercise, puffing and blowing like a seal. The wine-vendor, moreover, told his customers that Madame d'Argeles never went out before half-past two or three o'clock, and then always in a carriage--a piece of information which must have troubled Chupin; for, as soon as the landlord had left them to serve some other customers, he leant forward and said to M. Fortunat: "Did you hear that? How is it possible to track a person who's in a carriage?" "By following in another vehicle, of course." "Certainly, m'sieur; that's as clear as daylight. But that isn't the question. The point is this: How can one watch the face of a person who turns her back to you? I must see this woman's face to know whom she looks at, and how." This objection, grave as it appeared, did not seem to disturb M. Fortunat. "Don't worry about that, Victor," he replied. "Under such circumstances, a mother wouldn't try to see her son from a rapidly moving carriage. She will undoubtedly alight, and contrive some means of passing and repassing him--of touching him, if possible. Your task will only consist in following her closely enough to be on the ground as soon as she is. Confine your efforts to that; and if you fail to-day, you'll succeed to-morrow or the day after--the essential thing is to be patient." He did better than to preach patience--he practised it. The hours wore away, and yet he did not stir from his post, though nothing could have been more disagreeable to him than to remain on exhibition, as it were, at the door of a wine-shop. At last, at a little before three o'clock, the gates over the way turned upon their hinges, and a dark-blue victoria, in which a woman was seated, rolled forth into the street. "Look!" said M. Fortunat, eagerly. "There she is!" XVIII. The woman in the carriage was none other than Madame Lia d'Argeles. She was attired in one of those startling costumes which are the rage nowadays, and which impart the same bold and brazen appearance to all who wear them: so much so, that the most experienced observers are no longer able to distinguish the honest mother of a family from a notorious character. A Dutchman, named Van Klopen, who was originally a tailor at Rotterdam, rightfully ascribes the honor of this progress to himself. One can scarcely explain how it happens that this individual, who calls himself "the dressmaker of the queens of Europe," has become the arbiter of Parisian elegance; but it is an undeniable fact that he does reign over fashion. He decrees the colors that shall be worn, decides whether dresses shall be short or long, whether paniers shall be adopted or discarded, whether ruches and puffs and flowers shall be allowed, and in what form; and his subjects, the so-called elegant women of Paris, obey him implicitly. Madame d'Argeles would personally have preferred less finery, perhaps, but it would not have done for her to be out of the fashion. She wore an imperceptible hat, balanced on an immense pyramidal chignon, from which escaped a torrent of wavy hair. "What a beautiful woman!" exclaimed the dazzled Chupin, and indeed, seen from this distance, she did not look a day more than thirty-five--an age when beauty possesses all the alluring charm of the luscious fruit of autumn. She was giving orders for the drive, and her coachman, with a rose in his buttonhole, listened while he reined in the spirited horse. "The weather's superb," added Chupin. "She'll no doubt drive round the lakes in the Bois de Boulogne----" "Ah, she's off!" interrupted M. Fortunat. "Run, Victor, run! and don't be miserly as regards carriage hire; all your expenses shall be liberally refunded you." Chupin was already far away. Madame d'Argeles's horse went swiftly enough, but the agent's emissary had the limbs and the endurance of a stag, and he kept pace with the victoria without much difficulty. And as he ran along, his brain was busy. "If I don't take a cab," he said to himself, "if I follow the woman on foot, I shall have a perfect right to pocket the forty-five sous an hour--fifty, counting the gratuity--that a cab would cost." But on reaching the Champ Elysees, he discovered, to his regret, that this plan was impracticable, for on running down the Avenue de l'Imperatrice after the rapidly driven carriage, he could not fail to attract attention. Stifling a sigh of regret, and seeing a cab at a stand near by, he hastily hailed it. "Where do you want to go, sir?" inquired the driver. "Just follow that blue victoria, in which a handsome lady is seated, my good fellow." The order did not surprise the cabman, but rather the person who gave it; for in spite of his fine apparel, Chupin did not seem quite the man for such an adventure. "Excuse me," said the Jehu, in a slightly ironical tone, "I----" "I said exactly what I mean," retorted Chupin, whose pride was severely wounded. "And no more talk--hurry on, or we shall miss the track." This last remark was correct, for if Madame d'Argeles's coachman had not slackened his horse's speed on passing round the Arc de Triomphe, the woman would have escaped Chupin, for that day at least. However, this circumstance gave the cabman an opportunity to overtake the victoria; and after that the two vehicles kept close together as they proceeded down the Avenue de l'Imperatrice. But at the entrance of the Bois de Boulogne Chupin ordered his driver to stop. "Halt!" he exclaimed; "I shall get out. Pay the extra cab charges for passing beyond the limits of Paris!--never! I'll crawl on my hands and knees first. Here are forty sous for your fare--and good-evening to you." And, as the blue victoria was already some distance in advance, he started off at the top of his speed to overtake it. This manoeuvre was the result of his meditations while riding along. "What will this fine lady do when she gets to the Bois?" he asked himself. "Why, her coachman will take his place in the procession, and drive her slowly round and round the lakes. Meantime I can trot along beside her without attracting attention-- and it will be good for my health." His expectations were realized in every respect. The victoria soon turned to the left, and took its place in the long line of equipages which were slowly winding round the lake. Having gained the foot-path which borders the sheet of water, Chupin followed the carriage easily enough, with his hands in his pockets, and his heart jubilant at the thought that he would gain the sum supposed to have been spent in cab hire, in addition to the compensation which had been promised him. "This is a strange way of enjoying one's self," he muttered, as he trotted along. "There can't be much pleasure in going round and round this lake. If ever I'm rich, I'll find some other way of amusing myself." Poor Chupin did not know that people do not go to the Bois to enjoy themselves, but rather to torment others. This broad drive is in reality only a field for the airing of vanity--a sort of open-air bazaar for the display of dresses and equipages. People come here to see and to be seen; and, moreover, this is neutral ground, where so-called honest women can meet those notorious characters from whom they are elsewhere separated by an impassable abyss. What exquisite pleasure it must be to the dames of society to find themselves beside Jenny Fancy or Ninette Simplon, or any other of those young ladies whom they habitually call "creatures," but whom they are continually talking of, and whose toilettes, make-up, and jargon, they assiduously copy! However, Chupin indulged in none of these reflections. He was engaged in noting Madame d'Argeles's evident anxiety and restlessness. She looked eagerly on all sides, sometimes half leaning out of her carriage, and immediately turning her head whenever she heard the gallop of a horseman behind her. She was evidently looking or waiting for some one, but the person did not make his appearance, and so, growing weary of waiting, after driving three times round the lake, she made a sign to her coachman, who at once drew out of line, and turned his horse into a side-path. Chupin hastened after the victoria, keeping it in sight until he was fortunate enough to meet an empty cab, which he at once hired. Madame d'Argeles's coachman, who had received his orders, now drove down the Champs Elysees, again crossed the Place de la Concorde, turned into the boulevards, and stopped short at the corner of the Chaussee d'Antin, where, having tied a thick veil over her face, Madame Lia abruptly alighted and walked away. This was done so quickly that Chupin barely had time to fling two francs to his driver and rush after her. She had already turned round the corner of the Rue du Helder, and was walking rapidly up the street. It was a little after five o'clock, and dusk was setting in. Madame d'Argeles had taken the side of the street allotted to the uneven numbers. After she had passed the Hotel de Homburg, she slackened her pace, and eagerly scrutinized one of the houses opposite--No. 48. Her examination lasted but a moment, and seemed to be satisfactory. She then turned, and rapidly retraced her steps as far as the boulevard, when, crossing the street to the side of the even numbers, she walked up it again very slowly, stopping before every shop-window. Convinced that he had almost reached the goal, Chupin also crossed, and followed closely at her heels. He soon saw her start and resume her rapid gait. A young man was coming toward her so quickly indeed that she had not time to avoid him, and a collision ensued, whereupon the young man gave vent to an oath, and hurling an opprobrious epithet in her face, passed on. Chupin shuddered. "What if that should be her son?" he thought. And while he pretended to be gazing into a shop window, he stealthily watched the poor woman. She had paused, and he was so near that he could almost have touched her. He saw her raise her veil and follow her insulter with a look which it was impossible to misunderstand. "Oh! oh! It was her son that called her that----" said Chupin to himself, quite horrified. And without more ado, he hastened after the young man. He was between two and four-and-twenty years of age, rather above the medium height, with very light hair and an extremely pale complexion. His slight mustache would have been almost imperceptible if it had not been dyed several shades darker than his hair. He was attired with that studied carelessness which many consider to be the height of elegance, but which is just the reverse. And his bearing, his mustache, and his low hat, tipped rakishly over one ear, gave him an arrogant, pretentious, rowdyish appearance. "Zounds! that fellow doesn't suit my fancy," growled Chupin, as he trotted along. For he was almost running in his efforts to keep pace with Madame d'Argeles's insulter. The latter's haste was soon explained. He was carrying a letter which he wished to have delivered, and no doubt he feared he would not be able to find a commissionaire. Having discovered one at last, he called him, gave him the missive, and then pursued his way more leisurely. He had reached the boulevard, when a florid-faced youth, remarkably short and stout, rushed toward him with both hands amicably extended, at the same time crying, loud enough to attract the attention of the passers-by: "Is it possible that this is my dear Wilkie?" "Yes--alive and in the flesh," replied the young man. "Well, and what the devil have you been doing with yourself? Last Sunday, at the races, I looked for you everywhere, and not a vestige of Wilkie was to be found. However, you were wise not to go. I am three hundred louis out of pocket. I staked everything on Domingo, the Marquis de Valorsay's horse. I thought I was sure to win--yes, sure. Well, Domingo came in third. Can you understand that? If every one didn't know that Valorsay was a millionaire, it might be supposed there had been some foul play-- yes, upon my word--that he had bet against his own horse, and forbidden his jockey to win the race." But the speaker did not really believe this, so he continued, more gayly: "Fortunately, I shall retrieve my losses to-morrow, at Vincennes. Shall we see you there?" "Probably." "Then good-by, until to-morrow." "Until to-morrow." Thereupon they shook hands, and each departed on his way. Chupin had not lost a word of this conversation. "Valorsay a millionaire!" he said to himself. "That's good! Ah, well! now I know my little gamecock's name, and I also know that he goes to the races. Wilkie that must be an English name; I like the name of d'Argeles better. But where the devil is he going now?" M. Wilkie had simply paused to replenish his cigar-case at the tobacco office of the Grand Hotel; and, after lighting a cigar, he came out again, and walked up the boulevard in the direction of the Faubourg Montmartre. He was no longer in a hurry now; he strolled along in view of killing time, displaying his charms, and staring impudently at every woman who passed. With his shoulders drawn up on a level with his ears, and his chest thrown back, he dragged his feet after him as if his limbs were half paralyzed; he was indeed doing his best to create the impression that he was used up, exhausted, broken down by excesses and dissipation. For that is the fashion--the latest fancy--chic! "Will you never have done?" growled Chupin. "You shall pay for this, you little wretch!" He was so indignant that the gamin element in his nature stirred again under his fine broadcloth, and he had a wild longing to throw stones at M. Wilkie. He would certainly have trodden on his heels, and have picked a quarrel with him, had it not been for a fear of failing in his mission, and thereby losing his promised reward. He followed his man closely, for the crowd was very great. Light was coming on, and the gas was lit on all sides. The weather was very mild, and there was not an unoccupied table in front of the cafes, for it was now the absinthe hour. How does it happen that every evening, between five and seven o'clock, every one in Paris who is known--who is somebody or something--can be found between the Passage de l'Opera and the Passage Jouffroy? Hereabout you may hear all the latest news and gossip of the fashionable world, the last political canards--all the incidents of Parisian life which will be recorded by the papers on the following morning. You may learn the price of stocks, and obtain tips for to-morrow's Bourse; ascertain how much Mademoiselle A's necklace cost, and who gave it to her; with the latest news from Prussia; and the name of the bank chairman or cashier who has absconded during the day, and the amount he has taken with him. The crowd became more dense as the Faubourg Montmartre was approached, but Wilkie made his way through the throng with the ease of an old boulevardier. He must have had a large circle of acquaintances, for he distributed bows right and left, and was spoken to by five or six promenaders. He did not pass the Terrasse Jouffroy, but, pausing there, he purchased an evening paper, retraced his steps, and about seven o'clock reached the Cafe Riche, which he entered triumphantly. He did not even touch the rim of his hat on going in--that would have been excessively BAD form; but he called a waiter, in a very loud voice, and imperiously ordered him to serve dinner on a table near the window, where he could see the boulevard--and be seen. "And now my little fighting-cock is going to feed," thought Chupin. He, too, was hungry; and he was trying to think of some modest restaurant in the neighborhood, when two young men passed near him and glanced into the cafe. "Look, there's Wilkie!" observed one of them. "That's so, upon my word!" responded the other. "And he has money, too; fortune has smiled upon him." "How do you know that?" "Why, by watching the fellow; one can tell the condition of his purse as correctly as he could himself. If his funds are low, he has his meals brought to his room from a cook-shop where he has credit; his mustache droops despondingly; he is humble even to servility with his friends, and he brushes his hair over his forehead. When he is in average circumstances, he dines at Launay's, waxes his mustache, and brushes his hair back from his face. But when he dines at the Cafe Riche, my boy, when he has dyed his mustache, and tips his hat over his ear, and deports himself in that arrogant fashion, why, he has at least five or six thousand francs in his pocket, and all is well with him." "Where does he get his money from?" "Who can tell?" "Is he rich?" "He must have plenty of money--I lent him ten louis once, and he paid me back." "Zounds! He's a very honorable fellow, then." Thereupon the two young men laughed, and passed on. Chupin had been greatly edified. "Now I know you as well as if I were your concierge," he muttered, addressing the unconscious Wilkie; "and when I've followed you home, and learned your number, I shall have richly earned the fifty francs M. Fortunat promised me." As well as he could judge through the windowpane, M. Wilkie was eating his dinner with an excellent appetite. "Ah!" he exclaimed, not without envy, "these fighting-cocks take good care of their stomachs. He's there for an hour at least, and I shall have time to run and swallow a mouthful myself." So saying, Chupin hastened to a small restaurant in a neighboring street, and magnificently disbursed the sum of thirty-nine sous. Such extravagance was unusual on his part, for he had lived very frugally since he had taken a vow to become rich. Formerly, when he lived from hand to mouth--to use his own expression--he indulged in cigars and in absinthe; but now he contented himself with the fare of an anchorite, drank nothing but water, and only smoked when some one gave him a cigar. Nor was this any great privation to him, since he gained a penny by it--and a penny was another grain of sand added to the foundation of his future wealth. However, this evening he indulged in the extravagance of a glass of wine, deciding in his own mind that he had fairly earned it. When he returned to his post in front of the Cafe Riche, M. Wilkie was no longer alone at his table. He was finishing his coffee in the company of a man of his own age, who was remarkably good- looking--almost too good-looking, in fact--and a glance at whom caused Chupin to exclaim: "What! what! I've seen that face somewhere before--". But he racked his brain in vain in trying to remember who this newcomer was, in trying to set a name on this face, which was positively annoying in its classical beauty, and which he felt convinced had occupied a place among the phantoms of his past. Irritated beyond endurance by what he termed his stupidity, he was trying to decide whether he should enter the cafe or not, when he saw M. Wilkie take his bill from the hands of a waiter, glance at it, and throw a louis on the table. His companion had drawn out his pocketbook for the ostensible purpose of paying for the coffee he had taken; but Wilkie, with a cordial gesture, forbade it, and made that magnificent, imperious sign to the waiter, which so clearly implies: "Take nothing! All is paid! Keep the change." Thereupon the servant gravely retired, more than ever convinced of the fact that vanity increases the fabulous total of Parisian gratuities by more than a million francs a year. "My gallant youths are coming out," thought Chupin. "I must keep my ears open." And approaching the door, he dropped on one knee, and pretended to be engaged in tying his shoestrings. This is one of the thousand expedients adopted by spies and inquisitive people. And when a man is foolish enough to tell his secrets in the street, he should at least be wise enough to distrust the people near him who pretend to be absorbed in something else; for in nine cases out of ten these persons are listening to him, possibly for pay, or possibly from curiosity. However, the young men whom Chupin was watching were far from suspecting that they were under surveillance. M. Wilkie came out first, talking very loud, as often happens when a man has just partaken of a good dinner, and is blessed with an excellent digestion. "Come, Coralth, my good fellow, you won't desert me in this way? I have a box for the Varietes, and you must go with me. We'll see if Silly imitates Theresa as perfectly as they say." "But I have an appointment." "Oh, well, let it wait. Come, viscount, is it agreed?" "Ah, you do with me just as you like." "Good! But, first of all let us take a glass of beer to finish our cigars. And do you know whom you will find in my box?" At this moment they passed, and Chupin rose to his feet. "Coralth," he muttered, "Viscount de Coralth. He's not one of our clients. Let me see, Coralth. This is certainly the first time I have ever heard the name. Can it be that I'm mistaken? Impossible!" The more he reflected, the more thoroughly he became convinced of the accuracy of his first impression, consoling himself with the thought that a name has but a slight significance after all. His preoccupation had at least the advantage of shortening the time which he spent in promenading to and fro, while the friends sat outside a cafe smoking and drinking. It was still M. Wilkie who monopolized the conversation, while his companion listened with his elbow resting on the table, occasionally nodding his head in token of approbation. One thing that incensed Chupin was that they loitered there, when one of them had a ticket for a box at the theatre in his pocket. "Idiots!" he growled; "they'll wait till the play's half over before they go in. And then they'll let the doors slam behind them for the express purpose of disturbing everybody. Fools, go!" As if they had heard the command, they rose suddenly, and an instant after they entered the Varietes. They entered, but Chupin remained on the pavement, scratching his head furiously, in accordance with his habit whenever he wished to develop his powers of imagination. He was trying to think how he might procure admission to the theatre without paying for it. For several years he had seen every play put upon the stage in Paris, without spending a sou, and he felt that it would be actually degrading to purchase a ticket at the office now. "Pay to see a farce!" he thought. "Not I. I must know some one here--I'll wait for the entr'acte." The wisdom of this course became apparent when among those who left the theatre at the close of the first act he recognized an old acquaintance, who was now working on the claque,* and who at once procured him a ticket of admission for nothing. "Well, it is a good thing to have friends everywhere," he muttered, as he took the seat assigned him. * The body of hired applauders who are employed at most Parisian theatres to stimulate the enthusiasm of the audience.--[Trans.] It was a very good place they had given him--a seat in the second gallery commanding an excellent view of the house. The first glance around told him that his "customers," as he styled them, were in a box exactly opposite. They were now in the company of two damsels in startling toilettes, with exceedingly dishevelled yellow hair, who moved restlessly about, and giggled and stared, and tried in every possible way to attract attention. And their stratagem succeeded. However, this did not seem to please the Viscount de Coralth, who kept himself as far back in the shade as he possibly could. But young Wilkie was evidently delighted, and seemed manifestly proud of the attention which the public was compelled to bestow upon his box. He offered himself as much as possible to the gaze of the audience; moved about, leaned forward, and made himself fully as conspicuous as his fair companions. Less than ever did Chupin now forgive Wilkie for the insult he had cast in the face of Madame Lia d'Argeles, who was probably his mother. As for the play, M. Fortunat's emissary did not hear twenty words of it. He was so overcome with fatigue that he soon fell asleep. The noise and bustle of each entr'acte aroused him a little, but he did not thoroughly wake up until the close of the performance. His "customers" were still in their box, and M. Wilkie was gallantly wrapping the ladies in their cloaks and shawls. In the vestibule, he and M. de Coralth were joined by several other young men, and the whole party adjourned to a neighboring cafe. "These people are certainly afflicted with an unquenchable thirst," growled Chupin. "I wonder if this is their everyday life?" He, too, was thirsty after his hastily eaten dinner; and necessity prevailing over economy, he seated himself at a table outside the cafe, and called for a glass of beer, in which he moistened his parched lips with a sigh of intense satisfaction. He sipped the beverage slowly, in order to make it last the longer, but this did not prevent his glass from becoming dry long before M. Wilkie and his friends were ready to leave. "It seems to me we are going to stay here all night," he thought, angrily. His ill-humor was not strange under the circumstances, for it was one o'clock in the morning; and after carrying all the tables and chairs round about, inside, a waiter came to ask Chupin to go away. All the other cafes were closing too, and the fastening of bolts or the clanking of shutter chains could be heard on every side. On the pavement stood groups of waiters in their shirt- sleeves, stretching and yawning, and inhaling the fresh night air with delight. The boulevard was fast becoming deserted--the men were going off in little groups, and female forms could be seen gliding along in the dark shadow cast by the houses. The police were watching everywhere, with a word of menace ever ready on their lips; and soon the only means of egress from the cafes were the narrow, low doorways cut in the shutters through which the last customers--the insatiable, who are always ordering one thimbleful more to finish--passed out. It was through a portal of this sort that M. Wilkie and his companions at last emerged, and on perceiving them, Chupin gave a grunt of satisfaction. "At last," he thought, "I can follow the man to his door, take his number, and go home." But his joy was short-lived, for M. Wilkie proposed that the whole party should go and take supper. M. de Coralth demurred to the idea, but the others over-ruled his objections, and dragged him away with them. XIX. "Ah! this is a bad job!" growled Chupin. "Go, go, and never stop!" What exasperated him even more than his want of sleep was the thought that his good mother must be waiting for him at home in an agony of anxiety; for since his reformation he had become remarkably regular in his habits. What should he do? "Go home," said Reason; "it will be easy enough to find this Wilkie again. There can be little doubt that he lives at No. 48, in the Rue du Helder." "Remain," whispered Avarice; "and, since you have accomplished so much, finish your work. M. Fortunat won't pay for conjectures, but for a certainty." Love of money carried the day; so, weaving an interminable chaplet of oaths, he followed the party until they entered Brebant's restaurant, one of the best known establishments which remain open at night-time. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning now; the boulevard was silent and deserted, and yet this restaurant was brilliantly lighted from top to bottom, and snatches of song and shouts of laughter, with the clatter of knives and forks and the clink of glasses, could be heard through the half opened windows. "Eight dozen Marennes for No. 6," shouted a waiter to the man who opened oysters near the restaurant door. On hearing this order, Chupin shook his clenched fist at the stars. "The wretches!" he muttered through his set teeth; "bad luck to them! Those oysters are for their mouths, plainly enough, for there are eight of them in all, counting those yellow-haired women. They will, no doubt, remain at table until six o'clock in the morning. And they call this enjoying themselves. And meanwhile, poor little Chupin must wear out his shoe-leather on the pavement. Ah! they shall pay for this!" It ought to have been some consolation to him to see that he was not alone in his misery, for in front of the restaurant stood a dozen cabs with sleepy drivers, who were waiting for chance to send them one of those half-intoxicated passengers who refuse to pay more than fifteen sous for their fare, but give their Jehu a gratuity of a louis. All these vehicles belonged to the peculiar category known as "night cabs"--dilapidated conveyances with soiled, ragged linings, and drawn by half-starved, jaded horses. However, Chupin neither thought of these vehicles, nor of the poor horses, nor, indeed, of the drivers themselves. His wrath had been succeeded by philosophical resignation; he accepted with good grace what he could not avoid. As the night air had become very cool, he turned up the collar of his overcoat, and began to pace to and fro on the pavement in front of the restaurant. He had made a hundred turns perhaps, passing the events of the day in review, when suddenly such a strange and startling idea flashed across his mind that he stood motionless, lost in astonishment. Reflecting on the manner in which M. Wilkie and the Viscount de Coralth had behaved during the evening, a singular suspicion assailed him. While M. Wilkie gradually lost his wits, M. de Coralth had become remarkably cold and reserved. He had seemed to oppose all M. Wilkie's propositions; but he had agreed to them at last, so that his objections had produced much the same effect as a stimulant. It seemed then as if M. de Coralth had some strange interest in wishing to gain ascendency over his friend. At least such was Chupin's opinion. "Oh, oh!" he murmured. "What if HE should be working up the same little scheme? What if he were acquainted with Madame Lia d'Argeles? What if he knew that there's a fortune waiting for a claimant? I shouldn't at all be surprised if I found that he wanted to cook his bread in our oven. But father Fortunat wouldn't be pleased with the news. Ah! no--he wouldn't even smile----" While carrying on this little conversation with himself, he stood just in front of the restaurant, looking up into the air, when all of a sudden a window was thrown noisily open, and the figures of two men became plainly visible. They were engaged in a friendly struggle; one of them seemed to be trying to seize hold of something which the other had in his hand, and which he refused to part with. One of these men was M. Wilkie as Chupin at once perceived. "Good!" he said to himself; "this is the beginning of the end!" As he spoke, M. Wilkie's hat fell on the window-sill, slipped off, and dropped on to the pavement below. With a natural impulse Chupin picked it up, and he was turning it over and over in his hands, when M. Wilkie leant out of the window and shouted in a voice that was thick with wine: "Halloo! Eh, there! Who picked up my hat? Honesty shall be rewarded. A glass of champagne and a cigar for the fellow who'll bring it me in room No. 6." Chupin hesitated. By going up, he might, perhaps, compromise the success of his mission. But on the other hand his curiosity was aroused, and he very much wished to see, with his own eyes, how these young men were amusing themselves. Besides, he would have an opportunity of examining this handsome viscount, whom he was certain he had met before, though he could not tell when or where. In the meantime, M. Wilkie had perceived him. "Come, you simpleton!" he cried; "make haste. You can't be very thirsty." The thought of the viscount decided Chupin. Entering the restaurant and climbing the staircase, he had just reached the landing when a pale-looking man, who had a smoothly-shaven face and was dressed in black, barred his way and asked: "What do you want?" "M'sieur, here's a hat which fell from one of your windows and----" "All right, hand it here." But Chupin did not seem to hear this order. He was beginning a long explanation, when a curtain near by was pushed aside, and M. Wilkie called out: "Philippe! eh, Philippe!--bring me the man who picked up my hat." "Ah!" said Chupin, "you see, m'sieur, that he asks for me." "Very well," said Philippe. "Go on, then." And raising the portiere he pushed Chupin into room No. 6. It was a small, square apartment, with a very low ceiling. The temperature was like that of a furnace, and the glare of the gaslights almost blinded one. The supper was over, but the table had not yet been cleared, and plates full of leavings showed that the guests had fairly exhausted their appetites. Still, with the exception of M. Wilkie, every one present seemed to be terribly bored. In one corner, with her head resting on a piano, sat one of the yellow-haired damsels, fast asleep, while, beside the window, M. de Coralth was smoking with his elbows propped upon the table. The four other young men were looking on phlegmatically. "Ah! here's my hat," exclaimed M. Wilkie, as soon as Chupin appeared. "Wait and receive your promised reward." And thereupon he rang the bell, crying at the top of his voice: "Henry, you sleepy-head--a clean glass and some more of the widow Cliquot's champagne!" Several bottles were standing upon the table, only half empty, and one of M. Wilkie's friends called his attention to this fact, but he shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. "You must take me for a fool," he said, contemptuously. "A man doesn't drink stale wine when he has the prospect of such an inheritance as is coming to me" "Wilkie!" interrupted M. de Coralth, quickly; "Wilkie!" But he was too late; Chupin had heard and understood everything. His conjectures had proved correct. M. Wilkie knew his right to the estate; M. Fortunat had been forestalled by the viscount, and would merely have his labor for his pains. "No chance for the guv'nor!" thought the agent's emissary. "And what a blow after the De Valorsay affair! It's enough to give him the jaundice!" For a youth of his age, Chupin controlled his feelings admirably; but the revelation came so suddenly that he had started despite himself, and changed color a trifle. M. de Coralth saw this; and, though he was far from suspecting the truth, his long repressed anger burst forth. He rose abruptly, took up a bottle, and filling the nearest glass, he rudely exclaimed: "Come, drink that-- make haste--and clear out!" Victor Chupin must have become very sensitive since his conversion. In former times he was not wont to be so susceptible as to lose his temper when some one chanced to address him in a rather peremptory manner, or to offer him wine out of the first available glass. But M. de Coralth inspired him with one of those inexplicable aversions which cannot be restrained "Eh! tell me if it's because we've drank champagne together before that you talk to me like that?" the young fellow retorted, savagely. It was only a random shot, but it reached home. The viscount seemed touched to the quick. "You hear that, Wilkie," said he. "This will teach you that the time of your compatriot, Lord Seymour, has passed by. The good-humored race of plebeians who respectfully submitted to the blows with which noblemen honored them after drinking, has died out. This ought to cure you of your unfortunate habit of placing yourself on terms of equality with all the vagabonds you meet." Chupin's hair fairly bristled with anger. "What! what!" he exclaimed; "I'll teach you to call me a vagabond, you scoundrel!" His gesture, his attitude, and his eyes were so expressive of defiance and menace that two of the guests sprang up and caught him by the arm. "Go, go," they said. But he freed himself from their grasp. "Go!" he replied. "Never! He called me a vagabond. Am I to pocket the insult quietly and walk off with it? You can scarcely expect that. First, I demand an apology." This was asking too much of the Viscount de Coralth. "Let the fool alone," he remarked, with affected coolness, "and ring for the waiters to kick him out." It did not require this new insult to put Chupin in a furious passion. "Come on!" he exclaimed. "Ah, ha! Where's the fellow who'll turn me out? Let him come. I'll teach him a lesson!" And as he spoke he squared his shoulders, inflated his chest, and threw the weight of his entire body on his left leg, after the most approved method of sparring-masters. "Go, go!" insisted Wilkie's friends. "Yes, I'll go with pleasure, but your friend must go, too. Is he a man? Then let him come, and we'll settle this outside." And seeing that they were again trying to seize him: "Hands off!" he thundered, "or I'll strike. You were not obliged to invite me here. It isn't my business to furnish amusement to parties who've drunk too much wine. And why should you despise me? It's true I haven't any money while you have plenty--that I work and you carouse. Still that's no reason why you should scorn me. Besides, those who are poor in the morning are sometimes rich in the evening. Every dog has his day. I have an idea that I shall have some coin when yours is all gone. Then it will be my turn to laugh; and as I'm a good-natured fellow, I will give you my half- smoked cigars." M. Wilkie seemed delighted. He had climbed on to the piano and seated himself, with his feet on the keyboard; and there, as on a judgment seat, he listened and applauded, alternately taking Chupin's part, and then the viscount's. "Bravo, gamin!" or, "Give it to him, Coralth!" he shouted in turn. This irritated the viscount exceedingly. "I see that we shall be obliged to call in the police to settle the affair," he said, sneeringly. "The police!" roared Chupin. "Ah! that won't do, you scamp--" But his voice died away in his throat, and he stood motionless, speechless, with his arm raised as if he were about to strike, and his eyes dilated with astonishment. For a change of expression in M. de Coralth's face had enlightened him; and he suddenly recollected when and under what circumstances he had known this so-called viscount. He remembered, too, the name he had borne when he first met him. "Oh!" he stammered; "oh! oh!" However, the effect of this discovery was to dispel his anger, or rather to restore his calmness, and, addressing M. de Coralth, he exclaimed: "Don't be angry at what I've said, m'sieur; it was only a jest--I know that there's a wide difference between a poor devil like me and a viscount like you--I haven't a sou, you see, and that maddens me. But I'm not so very bad-looking, fortunately, and I'm always hoping that the daughter of some rich banker will fall in love with me and marry me. Some people have such luck, you know. If I meet with any you may be sure I shall pass myself off as the lost child of some great personage--of a duke, for instance--and if the real son exists, and troubles me, why I'll quietly put him out of the way, if possible." With but one exception the persons present did not understand a single word of this apparent nonsense; and indeed the yellow- haired damsels stared at the speaker in amazement. Still it was evident that each of these words had a meaning, and a terrible meaning for M. de Coralth. Accustomed for years to control his features, he remained apparently unmoved--he even smiled; but a close observer could have detected anguish in his eyes, and he had become very pale. At last, unable to endure the scene any longer, he drew a hundred-franc bank-note from his pocketbook, crumpled it in his hand and threw it at Chupin, saying: "That's a very pretty story you are telling, my boy; but we've had enough of it. Take your pay and leave us." Unfortunately, the note struck Chupin full in the face. He uttered a hoarse cry of rage, and, by the way in which he seized and brandished an empty bottle, it might have been imagined that M. de Coralth was about to have his head broken. But no. Thanks to a supreme effort of will, Chupin conquered this mad fury; and, dropping the bottle, he remarked to the young women who were uttering panic-stricken shrieks: "Be quiet; don't you see that I was only in fun." But even M. Wilkie had found the fun a little rough, and even dangerous. Several of the young fellows present sprang up, with the evident intention of pushing Chupin out of the room, but he checked them with a gesture. "Don't disturb yourselves, gentlemen," he said. "I'm going, only let me find the bank-note which this gentleman threw at me." "That's quite proper," replied M. Wilkie, approvingly; "look for it." Chupin did so, and at last found it lying almost under the piano. "Now," he remarked, "I should like a cigar." A score or so were lying in a dish. He gravely selected one of them and coolly cut off the end of it before placing it in his mouth. Those around watched him with an air of profound astonishment, not understanding this ironical calmness following so closely upon such a storm of passion. Then he, Victor Chupin, who had, it seems to me, but one aim in life--to become rich-- Victor Chupin, who loved money above anything else, and had stifled all other passions in his soul--he who often worked two whole days to earn five francs--he who did not disdain to claim his five sous when he went to hire a cab for his employer--he, Chupin, twisted the bank-note in his fingers, lit it at the gas, and used it to light his cigar. "Ah! he's crazy!" murmured the yellow-haired damsels, with despair in their voices. But M. Wilkie was enthusiastic. "There's form!" said he. "Fine form and no mistake!" But Chupin did not even deign to turn his head. He opened the door, and standing on the threshold, he bowed to M. de Coralth with an ironical smile. "Until we meet again, Monsieur Paul," said he. "And kindly remember me to Madame Paul, if you please." If the others had been less astonished, they would have no doubt have remarked the prodigious effect of this name upon their brilliant friend. He became ghastly pale and fell back in his chair. Then, suddenly, he bounded up as if he wished to attack his enemy. But pursuit seemed likely to yield no result, for Chupin was already on the boulevard. It was daybreak. Paris was waking up; the bakers were standing at their doors, and boys in their shirt-sleeves, with their eyes swollen with sleep, were taking down the shutters of the wine- shops. A cloud of dust, raised by the street-sweepers, hung in the distance; the rag-pickers wandered about, peering among the rubbish; the noisy milk-carts jolted along at a gallop, and workmen were proceeding to their daily toil, with hunches of bread in their hands. The morning air was very chilly; nevertheless, Chupin seated himself on a bench across the boulevard, at a spot where he could watch the entrance of the restaurant without being seen. He had just experienced one of those sudden shocks which so disturb the mind, that one becomes insensible to outward circumstances, whatever they may be. He had recognized in the so- called Viscount de Coralth, the man whom he had hated above all others in the world, or, rather, the only man whom he hated, for his was not a bad heart. Impressionable to excess like a true child of the faubourgs, he had the Parisian's strange mobility of feeling. If his anger was kindled by a trifle, the merest nothing usually sufficed to extinguish it. But matters were different respecting this handsome viscount! God! how I hate him!" he hissed through his set teeth. "God! how I hate him!" For once, years before, as he had confessed to M. Fortunat, Chupin had been guilty of a cowardly and abominable act, which had nearly cost a man his life. And this crime, if it had been successful, would have benefited the very fellow who concealed his sinful, shameful past under the high-sounding name of Coralth. How was it that Chupin had not recognized him at once? Because he had worked for this fellow without knowing him, receiving his orders through the miserable wretches who pandered to his vices. He had only seen him personally once or twice, and had never spoken to him. Later--too late--he discovered what vile intrigue it was that he had served. And when he became sincerely repentant he loathed this Coralth who had caused his crime. Nor was this all. The recognition of Coralth had inspired him with remorse. It had aroused in the recesses of his conscience a threatening voice which cried: "What are you doing here? You are acting as a spy for a man you distrust, and whose real designs you are ignorant of. It was in this way you began before. Have you forgotten what it led to? Have you not sin enough already upon your conscience? Blood enough upon your hands? It is folly to pretend that one may serve as a tool for villains, and still remain an honest man!" It was this voice which had given Chupin the courage to light his cigar with the bank-note. And this voice still tortured him, as seated on the bench he now tried to review the situation. Where, indeed, was he? With rare good luck he had discovered the son whom Madame Lia d'Argeles had so long and successfully concealed. But contrary to all expectations, this young fellow already knew of the inheritance which he was entitled to. M. de Coralth had already achieved what M. Fortunat had meant to do; and so the plan was a failure, and it was useless to persist in it. This would have ended the matter if Chupin had not chanced to know the Viscount de Coralth's shameful past. And this knowledge changed everything, for it gave him the power to interfere in a most effectual manner. Armed with this secret, he could bestow the victory on M. Fortunat, and force M. de Coralth to capitulate. And he could do this all the more easily, as he was sure that Coralth had not recognized him, and that he was perhaps ignorant of his very existence. Chupin had allowed himself to be carried away by a sudden impulse of anger which he regretted; he had made an ironical illusion to his enemy's past life, but after all this had done no particular harm. So nothing prevented him from lending M. Fortunat his assistance, and thus killing two birds with one stone. He could have his revenge on Coralth, and at the same time insure his patron a large fee, of which he could claim a considerable share for himself. But no! The idea of deriving any profit whatever from this affair inspired him with a feeling of disgust--honor triumphed over his naturally crafty and avaricious nature. It seemed to him that any money made in this way would soil his fingers; for he realized there must be some deep villainy under all this plotting and planning; he was sure of it, since Coralth was mixed up in the affair. "I will serve my guv'nor for nothing," he decided. "When a man is avenged, he's well paid." Chupin decided upon this course because he could think of no better plan. Still, if he had been master of events he would have acted otherwise. He would have quietly presented the government with this inheritance which he found M. Wilkie so unworthy of. "The devil only knows what he'll do with it," he thought. "He'll squander it as my father squandered the fortune that was given him. It is only fools who meet with such luck as that." However, his meditations did not prevent him from keeping a close watch over the restaurant, for it was of the utmost importance that M. Wilkie should not escape him. It was now broad daylight, and customers were leaving the establishment; for, after passing what is generally conceded to be a joyous night, they felt the need of returning home to rest and sleep. Chupin watched them as they emerged. There were some who came out with drooping heads, mumbling incoherent phrases; while others who were equally intoxicated, but more nervous, evinced considerable animation, and sang snatches of songs, or jested loudly with the street-sweepers as they passed on. The more sober, surprised by the sunlight, and blushing at themselves, slunk hastily and quietly away. There was one man, moreover, whom the waiters were obliged to carry to his cab, for he could no longer stand on his feet. At last Chupin saw the individual clad in black whom Wilkie had addressed as Philippe, and who had endeavored to prevent him from entering the restaurant, come out, and walk rapidly away. He was warmly clad in a thick overcoat, but he shivered, and his pale, wan face betrayed the man who is a martyr to the pleasures of others--the man who is condemned to be up all night and sleep only in the daytime--the man who can tell you how much folly and beastliness lurk in the depths of the wine-cup, and who knows exactly how many yawns are expressed by the verb "to amuse one's self." Chupin was beginning to feel uneasy. "Can M. Wilkie and his friends have made their escape?" he wondered. But at that very moment they made their appearance. They lingered awhile on the pavement to chat, and Chupin had an opportunity of observing the effect of their night's dissipation on their faces. The brilliant sunlight made their eyes blink, and the cold sent purple blotches to their bloated cheeks. As for the young women with yellow hair, they appeared as they really were--hideous. They entered the only cab that remained, the most dilapidated one of all, and the driver of which had no little difficulty in setting his horse in motion; whereupon the gentlemen went off on foot. Many persons would have been vexed and even humiliated by the necessity of appearing at this hour on the boulevard in disorderly attire, which plainly indicated that they had spent the night in debauchery. But with the exception of the Viscount de Coralth, who was evidently out of humor, the party seemed delighted with themselves, as it was easy to see by the way they met the glances of the passers-by. They considered themselves first-class form-- they were producing an effect--they were astonishing people. And what more could they desire? One thing is certain--they were irritating Chupin terribly. He was following them on the opposite side of the boulevard, at some little distance in the rear, for he was afraid of being recognized. "The wretches!" he growled. "One couldn't draw a pint of manly blood from the veins of all six of them. Ah, if they knew how I hate them!" But he had not long to nurse his wrath. On reaching the Rue Drouot, two of the gentlemen left the party, and two more went down the Rue Lepelletier. M. Wilkie and the viscount were left to walk down the boulevard alone. They linked their arms and carried on an animated conversation until they reached the Rue du Helder, where they shook hands and separated. What had they said at parting? What agreement had been made between them? Chupin would willingly have given a hundred sous from his private purse to have known. He would have given as much more to have been able to double himself, in order to pursue the viscount, who had started off in the direction of the Madeleine, without having to give up watching and following his friend. But the days of miracles are over. So Chupin sighed, and, following Wilkie, he soon saw him enter No. 48 of the Rue du Helder. The concierge, who was at the door busily engaged in polishing the bell-handle, bowed respectfully. "So there it is!" grumbled Chupin. "I knew he lived there--I knew it by the way that Madame d'Argeles looked at the windows yesterday evening. Poor woman! Ah! her son's a fine fellow and no mistake!" His compassion for the unhappy mother seemed to recall him to a sense of duty. "Scoundrel that I am!" he exclaimed, striking his forehead with his clenched fist. "Why, I'm forgetting my own good mother!" And as his task was now ended, he started off on the run, taking the shortest cut to the Faubourg Saint-Denis. "Poor mother!" he said to himself as he tore along, "what a night she must have had! She must have cried her eyes out!" He spoke the truth. The poor woman had passed a night of agony-- counting the hours, and trembling each time the door of the house opened, announcing some tenant's return. And as morning approached, her anxiety increased. "For her son would not have allowed her to remain in such suspense," she said to herself, "unless he had met with some accident or encountered some of his former friends--those detestable scamps who had tried to make him as vile as themselves." Perhaps he had met his father, Polyte Chupin, the man whom she still loved in spite of everything, because he was her husband, but whom she judged, and whom indeed she knew, to be capable of any crime. And of all misfortunes, it was an accident, even a fatal accident, that she dreaded least. In her heroic soul the voice of honor spoke even more loudly than the imperious instinct of maternity; and she would rather have found her son lying dead on the marble slabs of the Morgue than seated in the dock at the Assize Court. Her poor eyes were weary of weeping when she at last recognized Victor's familiar step approaching down the passage. She hastily opened the door, and as soon as she FELT that he was near her, for she could not see him, she asked: "Where have you spent the night? Where have you come from? What has happened?" His only answer was to fling his arms round her neck, following alike the impulse of his heart and the advice of experience, which told him that this would be the best explanation he could give. Still it did not prevent him from trying to justify himself, although he was careful not to confess the truth, for he dreaded his mother's censure, knowing well enough that she would be less indulgent than his own conscience. "I believe you, my son," said the good woman, gravely; "you wouldn't deceive me, I'm sure." And she added: "What reassured me, when you kissed me, was that you hadn't been drinking." Chupin did not speak a word; this confidence made him strangely uneasy. "May I be hung," he thought, "if after this I ever do anything that I can't confess to this poor good woman!" But he hadn't time for sentimental reflections. He had gone too far to draw back, and it was necessary for him to report the result of his researches as soon as possible. Accordingly, he hastily ate a morsel, for he was faint with hunger, and started out again, promising to return to dinner. He was in all the greater haste as it was Sunday. M. Fortunat was in the habit of passing these days in the country, and Chupin feared he might fail to see him if he was not expeditious in his movements. And while running to the Place de la Bourse, he carefully prepared the story he meant to relate, deeply impressed by the wisdom of the popular maxim which says: "It is not always well to tell the whole truth." Ought he to describe the scene at the restaurant, mention Coralth, and say that there was nothing more to be done respecting M. Wilkie? After mature deliberation he decided in the negative. If he revealed everything, M. Fortunat might become discouraged and abandon the affair. It would be better to let him discover the truth himself, and profit by his anger to indicate a means of vengeance. It happened that M. Fortunat had decided not to go to the country that Sunday. He had slept later than usual, and was still in his dressing-gown when Chupin made his appearance. He uttered a joyful cry on seeing his emissary, feeling assured that he must be the bearer of good news, since he came so early. "You have succeeded, then?" he exclaimed. "Yes, monsieur." "You have discovered Madame d'Argeles's son?" "I have him." "Ah! I knew that you were a clever fellow. Quick, tell me everything. But no, wait a moment." He rang the bell, and Madame Dodelin at once made her appearance. "Put another plate on the table," said the agent. "M. Chupin will breakfast with me--and serve us at once. You agree, don't you, Victor? It's ten o'clock; I'm hungry; and we can talk better over a bottle of wine." This was a great honor; and it gave Chupin a fitting idea of the value of the service he had rendered. He was not too much elated, however; though he felt very sorry that he had eaten before he came. On his side, M. Fortunat by no means regretted having conferred this favor on his clerk, for the story which the latter related, caused him intense delight. "Very good!--well done," he exclaimed every other minute. "I could not have done better myself. You shall be abundantly rewarded, Victor, if this affair is successful." And at this thought his satisfaction overflowed in a complacent monologue: "Why shouldn't it succeed?" he asked himself. "Could anything be more simple and certain? I can make any demand I please--one, two, three hundred thousand francs. Ah, it was a good thing that the Count de Chalusse died! Now, I can forgive Valorsay. Let him keep my forty thousand francs; he's quite welcome to them! Let him marry Mademoiselle Marguerite; I wish them a large and flourishing family! And Madame d'Argeles, too, has my benediction!" He was so confident his fortune was made that at noon he could restrain himself no longer. He hired a cab and accompanied by Chupin he set out for M. Wilkie's abode, declaring that he would wake that young gentleman up if needs be, but at all events he must see him without delay. When he reached the Rue du Helder, he told Chupin to wait in the cab, and then entering the house, he asked: "Monsieur Wilkie?" "On the second floor, the door to the right," replied the concierge. M. Fortunat ascended the stairs very slowly, for he felt the necessity of regaining all his composure, and it was not until he had brought himself to a proper frame of mind that he rang the bell. A small servant, M. Wilkie's fag, who took his revenge in robbing his employer most outrageously, came to the door, and began by declaring that his master was out of town. But M. Fortunat understood how to force doors open, and his manoeuvres succeeded so well that he was finally allowed to enter a small sitting-room, while the servant went off, saying: "I will go and inform monsieur." Instead of wasting time in congratulating himself on this first achievement the agent began to inspect the room in which he found himself, as well as another apartment, the door of which stood open. For he was of the opinion that a dwelling-place indicates the character of its inmate, as surely as a shell indicates the form of the creature that inhabits it. M. Wilkie was comfortably lodged; but his rooms were most pretentiously ornamented. They were indeed decorated in more than doubtful taste. There were very few books lying about, but costly riding-whips, spurs, rifles, cartridge-boxes, and all the paraphernalia of a fashionable sporting man, were here in abundance. The only pictures on the wall were a few portraits of celebrated horses, which foreshadowed the fact that M. Wilkie must have, at least, an eighth share in some well-known racer. After this inspection, M. Fortunat smiled complacently. "This young fellow has expensive tastes," he thought. "It will be very easy to manage him." However his reflections were interrupted by the return of the servant, who exclaimed: "My master is in the dining-room, and if monsieur will enter----" The heir-hunter did enter, and found himself face to face with M. Wilkie, who was partaking of a cup of chocolate. He was not only up, but he was dressed to go out--dressed in such a style that he would have been taken for a respectable groom. A couple of hours' sleep had made him himself again; and he had regained the arrogance of manner which was the distinguishing trait of his character, and a sure sign that he was in prosperous circumstances. As his unknown visitor entered he looked up, and bruskly asked: "What do you want?" "I called on business, monsieur." "Ah, well! this isn't a favorable moment. I must be at Vincennes for the races. I'm interested in a horse. So, you understand----" M. Fortunat was secretly amused by M. Wilkie's nonchalance. "The young fellow won't be in so much of a hurry when he learns my business," he thought. And he replied aloud: "I can explain what brings me in a few words, monsieur." "Proceed, then." M. Fortunat began by closing the door which had been intentionally left open by the servant; and then, returning to M. Wilkie's side, he began with an air of the greatest mystery: "What would you give a shrewd man if he suddenly placed you in undisputed possession of an immense fortune--of a million--two millions, perhaps?" He had prepared this little effect most carefully, and he fully expected to see Wilkie fall on his knees before him. But not at all; the young gentleman's face never moved a muscle; and it was in the calmest possible tone, and with his mouth half full that he replied: "I know the rest. You come, don't you, to sell me the secret of an unclaimed inheritance, which belongs to me? Very well, you have come too late." If the ceiling had fallen and crushed M. Fortunat there and then he would, mentally at least, have not been in a more pitiable condition. He stood silent, motionless, utterly confounded, with his mouth wide open, and such an expression of consternation in his eyes that M. Wilkie burst into a hearty laugh. Still the agent struggled against fate, and ultimately faltered: "Let me explain--permit me----" "Oh, it would be useless. I know my rights. I have already arranged with a party to prosecute my claims; the agreement will be signed on the day after to-morrow." "With whom?" "Ah, excuse me; that's my affair." He had finished his chocolate, and he now poured out a glass of ice-water, drank it, wiped his mouth, and rose from the table. "You will excuse me, my dear sir, if I leave you," he remarked. "As I said before, I am going to Vincennes. I have staked a thousand louis on 'Pompier de Nanterre,' my horse, and my friends have ventured ten times as much. Who knows what may happen if I'm not there at the start?" And then, ignoring M. Fortunat as completely as if he had not existed, M. Wilkie exclaimed: "Toby, you fool! where are you? Is my carriage below? Quick, bring me my cane, my gloves, and my glasses. Take down that basket of champagne. Run and put on your new livery. Make haste, you little beast, I shall be too late." M. Fortunat left the room. The frightful anger that had followed his idiotic stupor sent his blood rushing madly to his brain. A purple mist swam before his eyes; there was a loud ringing in his ears, and with each pulsation of his heart his head seemed to receive a blow from a heavy hammer. His feelings were so terrible that he was really frightened. "Am I about to have an attack of apoplexy?" he wondered. And, as every surrounding object seemed to whirl around him, the very floor itself apparently rising and falling under his feet, he remained on the landing waiting for this horrible vertigo to subside and doing his best to reason with himself. It was fully five minutes before he dared to risk the descent; and even when he reached the street, his features were so frightfully distorted that Chupin trembled. He sprang out, assisted his employer into the cab, and bade the driver return to the Place de la Bourse. It was really pitiful to see the despair which had succeeded M. Fortunat's joyful confidence. "This is the end of everything," he groaned. "I'm robbed, despoiled, ruined! And such a sure thing as it seemed. These misfortunes happen to no one but me! Some one in advance of me! Some one else will capture the prize! Oh, if I knew the wretch, if I only knew him!" "One moment," interrupted Chupin; "I think know the man." M. Fortunat gave a violent start. "Impossible!" he exclaimed. "Excuse me, monsieur--it must be a vile rascal named Coralth." It was a bellow rather than a cry of rage that escaped M. Fortunat's lips. To a man of his experience, only a glimmer of light was required to reveal the whole situation. "Ah! I understand!--I see!" he exclaimed. "Yes, you are right, Victor; it's he--Coralth--Valorsay's tool! Coralth was the traitor who, in obedience to Valorsay's orders, ruined the man who loved Mademoiselle Marguerite. The deed was done at Madame d'Argeles's house. So Coralth knows her, and knows her secret. It's he who has outwitted me." He reflected for a moment, and then, in a very different tone, he said: "I shall never see a penny of the count's millions, and my forty thousand francs are gone forever; but, as Heaven hears me, I will have some satisfaction for my money. Ah!-- so Coralth and Valorsay combine to ruin me! Very well!--since this is the case, I shall espouse the cause of Mademoiselle Marguerite and of the unfortunate man they've ruined. Ah, my cherubs, you don't know Fortunat yet! Now well see if the innocent don't get the best of you, and if they don't unmask you. I shall do my best, since you have forced me to do it--and gratis too!" Chupin was radiant; his vengeance was assured. "And I, monsieur," said he, "will give you some information about this Coralth. First of all, the scoundrel's married and his wife keeps a tobacco-shop somewhere near the Route d'Asnieres. I'll find her for you--see if I don't" The sudden stopping of the vehicle which had reached the Place de la Bourse, cut his words short. M. Fortunat ordered him to pay the driver, while he himself rushed upstairs, eager to arrange his plan of campaign--to use his own expression. In his absence a commissionaire had brought a letter for him which Madame Dodelin now produced. He broke the seal, and read to his intense surprise: "Monsieur--I am the ward of the late Count de Chalusse. I must speak to you. Will you grant me an interview on Wednesday next, at a quarter-past three o'clock? Yours respectfully, "MARGUERITE." XX. When Mademoiselle Marguerite left the dead count's bedside at ten o'clock at night to repair to Pascal Ferailleur's house, she did not yet despair of the future. Father, friend, rank, security, fortune--she had lost all these in a single moment--but she could still see a promise of happiness in the distance. She suffered undoubtedly, and yet she experienced a sort of bitter pleasure at the thought of uniting her life to the man who was as unfortunate as herself, who was slandered as she herself had been slandered, branded with the most cruel and unjust imputations, and had neither fortune nor friends. Others might scorn them; but what did they care for the world's disdain so long as they had the approval of their consciences? Would not their mutual esteem suffice since they loved each other? It seemed to Marguerite that their very misfortunes would bind them more closely to each other, and cement the bonds of their love more strongly. And if it were absolutely necessary for them to leave France--ah, well! they would leave it. To them Fatherland would always be the spot where they lived together. As the cab approached the Rue d'Ulm she pictured Pascal's sorrow, and the joy and surprise he would feel when she suddenly appeared before him, and faltered: "They accuse you--here I am! I know that you are innocent, and I love you!" But the brutal voice of the concierge, informing her of Pascal's secret departure, in the most insulting terms, abruptly dispelled her dreams. If Pascal had failed her, everything had failed her. If she had lost him, she had lost her all. The world seemed empty--struggling would be folly--happiness was only an empty name. She indeed longed for death! Madame Leon who had a set of formulas adapted to all circumstances, undertook to console her. "Weep, my dear young lady, weep; it will do you good. Ah! this is certainly a horrible catastrophe. You are young, fortunately, and Time is a great consoler. M. Ferailleur isn't the only man on earth. Others will love you. There are others who love you already!" "Silence!" interrupted Marguerite, more revolted than if she had heard a libertine whispering shameful proposals in her ear. "Silence! I forbid you to add another word." To speak of another-- what sacrilege! Poor girl. She was one of those whose life is bound up in one love alone, and if that fails them--it is death! The thought that she was utterly alone added to the horror of her situation. Whom could she depend upon? Not on Madame Leon. She distrusted her; she had no confidence whatever in her. Should she ask for the advice of either of her suitors? The Marquis de Valorsay inspired her with unconquerable aversion, and she despised the so-called General de Fondege. So her only friend, her only protector was a stranger, the old justice of the peace who had taken her defence, by crushing the slander of the servants, and whom she had opened her heart to. But he would soon forget her, she thought; and the future, such as it was presented to her imagination, seemed a terrible one. However, she was too courageous to remain for long in despair--she struggled against her sorrow; and the thought that she might, perhaps, reach Pascal through M. Fortunat at last occurred to her mind. This hope was her sole chance of salvation. She clung to it as a shipwrecked mariner clings to the plank which is his only hope of life. When she returned to the mansion her mind was made up, and she had regained her usual composure. For ten minutes or so she had been praying by the count's bedside, when M. Bourigeau, the concierge, appeared and handed her a letter which had just been brought to the house. It was addressed to "Mademoiselle Marguerite de Durtal de Chalusse, at the Hotel de Chalusse, Rue de Courcelles." Mademoiselle Marguerite blushed. Who was it that addressed her by this name which she no longer had the right to bear? She studied the handwriting for a moment, but she did not remember ever having seen it before. At last, however, she opened the letter and read: " My dear, dear child." "Dear child!" indeed. What could this mean? Was there any one in the world sufficiently interested in her welfare, or loving her enough, to address her in this style? She quickly turned the sheet to see the signature; and when her eyes fell on it she turned pale. "Ah!" she exclaimed, involuntarily, "ah! ah!" The letter was signed: "Athenais de Fondege." It had been written by the General's wife. She resumed her perusal of it, and this is what she read: "I this instant hear of the cruel loss you have sustained, and also learn that, for want of testamentary provisions, the poor Count de Chalusse leaves you, his idolized daughter, almost without resources. I will not attempt to offer you consolation, God alone can assuage certain sorrows. I should come and weep with you if I were not kept in bed by illness. But to-morrow, whatever happens, I shall be with you before breakfast. It is at such a time as this, my poor dear afflicted child, that one can tell one's true friends; and we are yours as I hope to prove. The General feels that he should be insulting and betraying the memory of a man who was his dearest friend for thirty years, if he did not take the count's place, if he did not become your second father. He has offered you our modest home; you have refused. Why? With the authority conferred upon me by my age and my position as the mother of a family, I tell you that you ought to accept. What other course can you possibly think of? Where would you go, my poor, dear child? But we will discuss this matter to-morrow. I shall find a way to persuade you to love us, and to allow yourself to be loved. In MY heart you will fill the place of the beloved and lamented daughter I have lost--my beautiful and gentle Bathilde. Once more I say farewell until to- morrow--trusting that you will accept the sympathy and affection of your best friend, "ATHENAIS DE FONDEGE." Mademoiselle Marguerite was thunderstruck, for the writer of this epistle was a lady whom she had only met five or six times, who had never visited her, and with whom she had scarcely exchanged twenty words. Moreover, she well remembered certain glances with which Madame de Fondege had, on one occasion, tried to crush her-- glances so full of cruel contempt that they had drawn bitter tears of sorrow, shame, and anger, from the poor girl. The count himself had said to her at the time: "Don't be so childish, Marguerite, as to trouble yourself about this foolish and impudent woman." And now this same woman sent her a letter overflowing with sympathy, and claimed her affection and confidence in the tone of an old and tried friend. Was such a change natural? Not being what is called a credulous person, Mademoiselle Marguerite was unable to believe it. She divined that Madame de Fondege must have had some hidden motive in writing such a letter--but what motive was it? Alas! she divined this also only too well. The General, suspecting that she had stolen the missing money, had imparted his suspicions to his wife; and she, being as avaricious and as unscrupulous as himself, was doing her best to secure the booty for her son. Such a calculation is a common one nowadays. Steal yourself? Fie. never! You would not dare. Besides, you are honest. But it is quite a different thing to profit by other people's rascality. Besides, there are no risks to be encountered. On perusing the letter a second time, it seemed to Mademoiselle Marguerite that she could hear the General and his wife discussing the means of obtaining a share of the two millions. She could hear Madame de Fondege saying to her husband: "You are a block- head! You frightened the girl by your precipitancy and roughness. But fortunately, I'm here. Let me manage the affair; and I'll prove that women are far more clever than men." And, thereupon, she had seized her pen, and commenced this letter. In Mademoiselle Marguerite's opinion, the epistle betrayed the joint efforts of the pair. She could have sworn that the husband had dictated the sentence: "The General feels that he should be insulting and betraying the memory of a man who was his dearest friend for thirty years, if he did not become your second father." On the other hand, the phrase, "I shall find a way to persuade you to love us, and to allow yourself to be loved," was unmistakably the wife's work. The writer's insincerity was fully revealed by one passage of the letter. "You will fill the place of the beloved daughter I have lost," wrote Madame de Fondege. It is true that she had once had a daughter; but the child had died of croup when only six months old, and more than twenty-five years previously. It was strange, moreover, that this letter had not been sent until ten o'clock in the evening; but, on reflection, Mademoiselle Marguerite was able to explain this circumstance satisfactorily to herself. Before taking any decided step, M. and Madame de Fondege had wished to consult their son; and they had been unable to see him until late in the evening. However, as soon as the brilliant hussar had approved the noble scheme concocted by his parents, a servant had been dispatched with the letter. All these surmises were surely very plausible; but it was difficult to reconcile them with the opinion advanced by the magistrate--that M. de Fondege must know what had become of the missing millions. Mademoiselle Marguerite did not think of this, however. She was losing her presence of mind at thought of the odious suspicions
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