SLAVES OF PARIS (Complete Edition). Emile Gaboriau
carefully. He is as weak as a woman, and as vain as a journalist. Besides, he is ashamed at being poor. No; I can mould him like wax into any shape I like. He will be just what we wish.”
“Are you sure,” asked Hortebise, “that Flavia will have nothing to say in this matter?”
“I had rather, with your permission, say nothing on that head,” returned Mascarin. He broke off his speech and listened eagerly. “There is some one listening,” said he. “Hark!”
The sound was repeated, and the doctor was about to seek refuge in the inner room, when Mascarin laid a detaining hand upon his arm.
“Stay,” observed he, “it is only Beaumarchef;” and as he spoke, he struck a gilded bell that stood on his desk. In another instant Beaumarchef appeared, and with an air in which familiarity was mingled with respect, he saluted in military fashion.
“Ah,” said the doctor pleasantly, “do you take your nips of brandy regularly?”
“Only occasionally, sir,” stammered the man.
“Too often, too often, my good fellow. Do you think that your nose and eyelids are not real telltales?”
“But I assure you, sir—”
“Do you not remember I told you that you had asthmatic symptoms? Why, the movement of your pectoral muscles shows that your lungs are affected.”
“But I have been running, sir.”
Mascarin broke in upon this conversation, which he considered frivolous. “If he is out of breath,” remarked he, “it is because he has been endeavoring to repair a great act of carelessness that he has committed. Well, Beaumarchef, how did you get on?”
“All right, sir,” returned he, with a look of triumph. “Good!”
“What are you talking about?” asked the doctor.
Mascarin gave his friend a meaning glance, and then, in a careless manner, replied, “Caroline Schimmel, a former servant of the Champdoce family, also patronizes our office. How did you find her, Beaumarchef?”
“Well, an idea occurred to me.”
“Pooh! do you have ideas at your time of life?”
Beaumarchef put on an air of importance. “My idea was this,” he went on: “as I left the office with Toto Chupin, I said to myself, the woman would certainly drop in at some pub before she reached the boulevard.”
“A sound argument,” remarked the doctor.
“Therefore Toto and I took a squint into every one we passed, and before we got to the Rue Carreau we saw her in one, sure enough.”
“And Toto is after her now?”
“Yes, sir; he said he would follow her like her shadow, and will bring in a report every day.”
“I am very pleased with you, Beaumarchef,” said Mascarin, rubbing his hands joyously.
Beaumarchef seemed highly flattered, but continued,—
“This is not all.”
“What else is there to tell?”
“I met La Candele on his way from the Place de Petit Pont, and he has just seen that young girl—you know whom I mean—driving off in a two-horse Victoria. He followed it, of course. She has been placed in a gorgeous apartment in the Rue Douai; and from what the porter says, she must be a rare beauty; and La Candele raved about her, and says that she has the most magnificent eyes in the world.”
“Ah,” remarked Hortebise, “then Tantaine was right in his description of her.”
“Of course he was,” answered Mascarin with a slight frown, “and this proves the justice of the objection you made a little time back. A girl possessed of such dazzling beauty may even influence the fool who has carried her off to become dangerous.”
Beaumarchef touched his master’s arm kindly. “If you wish to get rid of the masher,” said he, “I can show you a way;” and throwing himself into the position of a fencer, he made a lunge with his right arm, exclaiming, “One, two!”
“A Prussian quarrel,” remarked Mascarin. “No; a duel would do us no good. We should still have the girl on our hands, and violent measures are always to be avoided.” He took off his glasses, wiped them, and looking at the doctor intently, said, “Suppose we take an epidemic as our ally. If the girl had the smallpox, she would lose her beauty.”
Cynical and hardened as the doctor was, he drew back in horror at this proposal. “Under certain circumstances,” remarked he, “science might aid us; but Rose, even without her beauty, would be just as dangerous as she is now. It is her affection for Paul that we have to check, and not his for her; and the uglier a woman is, the more she clings to her lover.”
“All this is worthy of consideration,” returned Mascarin; “meanwhile we must take steps to guard ourselves from the impending danger. Have you finished that report on Gandelu, Beaumarchef? What is his position?”
“Head over ears in debt, sir, but not harassed by his creditors because of his future prospects.”
“Surely among these creditors there are some that we could influence?” said Mascarin. “Find this out, and report to me this evening; and farewell for the present.”
When again alone, the two confederates remained silent for some time. The decisive moment had arrived. As yet they were not compromised; but if they intended to carry out their plans, they must no longer remain inactive; and both of these men had sufficient experience to know that they must look at the position boldly, and make up their minds at once. The pleasant smile upon the doctor’s face faded away, and his fingers played nervously with his locket. Mascarin was the first to break the silence.
“Let us no longer hesitate,” said he; “let us shut our eyes to the danger and advance steadily. You heard the promises made by the Marquis de Croisenois. He will do as we wish, but under certain conditions. Mademoiselle de Mussidan must be his bride.”
“That will be impossible.”
“Not so, if we desire it: and the proof of this is, that before two o’clock the engagement between Mademoiselle Sabine and the Baron de Breulh-Faverlay will be broken off.”
The doctor heaved a deep sigh. “I can understand Catenac’s scruples. Ah! if, like him, I had a million!”
During this brief conversation Mascarin had gone into his sleeping room and was busily engaged in changing his dress.
“If you are ready,” remarked the doctor, “we will make a start.”
In reply, Mascarin opened the door leading into the office. “Get a cab, Beaumarchef,” said he.
Chapter IV.
A Trustworthy Servant
In the City of Paris it is impossible to find a more fashionable quarter than the one which is bounded on the one side by the Rue Faubourg Saint Honore and on the other by the Seine, and commences at the Place de la Concorde and ends at the Avenue de l’Imperatrice. In this favored spot millionaires seem to bloom like the rhododendron in the sunny south. There are the magnificent palaces which they have erected for their accommodation, where the turf is ever verdant, and where the flowers bloom perennially; but the most gorgeous of all these mansions was the Hotel de Mussidan, the last chef d’oeuvre of Sevair, that skilful architect who died just as the world was beginning to recognize his talents. With a spacious courtyard in front and a magnificent garden in the rear, the Hotel de Mussidan is as elegant as it is commodious. The exterior was extremely plain, and not disfigured by florid ornamentation. White marble steps, with a light and elegant railing at the