The Greatest Works of Émile Gaboriau. Emile Gaboriau
was uttered half seriously, half banteringly—“what you promised me?”
The clown bowed with great respect, but not the slightest shade of humility.
“I remember,” he replied.
“But do not be imprudent, I beg you.”
“M. the Count need not be uneasy; he has my promise.”
“Very good. I know the value of it.”
The count walked off; but during this short colloquy the quadrille had ended, and M. de Clameran and Madeleine were lost to sight.
“I shall find them near Mme. Fauvel,” said the clown.
And he at once started in search of the banker’s wife.
Incommoded by the stifling heat of the room, Mme. Fauvel had sought a little fresh air in the grand picture-gallery, which, thanks to the talisman called gold, was now transformed into a fairy-like garden, filled with orange-trees, japonicas, laurel, and many rare exotics.
The clown saw her seated near a grove, not far from the door of the card-room. Upon her right was Madeleine, and near her stood Raoul de Lagors, dressed in a costume of Henri III.
“I must confess,” muttered the clown from his post of observation, “that the young scamp is a very handsome man.”
Madeleine appeared very sad. She had plucked a japonica from a tree near by, and was mechanically pulling it to pieces as she sat with her eyes downcast.
Raoul and Mme. Fauvel were engaged in earnest conversation. Their faces were composed, but the gestures of one and the trembling of the other betrayed a serious discussion.
In the card-room sat the doge, M. de Clameran, so placed as to have full view of Mme. Fauvel and Madeleine, although himself concealed by an angle of the room.
“It is the continuation of yesterday’s scene,” thought the clown. “If I could only get behind the oleander-tree, I might hear what they are saying.”
He pushed his way through the crowd, and, just as he had reached the desired spot, Madeleine arose, and, taking the arm of a bejewelled Persian, walked away.
At the same moment Raoul went into the card-room, and whispered a few words to De Clameran.
“There they go,” muttered the clown. “The two scoundrels certainly hold these poor women in their power; and they are determined to make them suffer before releasing them. What can be the secret of their power?”
His attention was attracted by a commotion in the picture-gallery; it was caused by the announcement of a wonderful minuet to be danced in the ball-room; the arrival of the Countess de Commarin as Aurora; and the presence of the Princess Korasoff, with her superb emeralds, which were reported to be the finest in the world.
In an instant the gallery became almost deserted. Only a few forlorn-looking people remained; mostly sulky husbands, and some melancholy youths looking awkward and unhappy in their gay fancy dresses.
The clown thought it a favorable opportunity for carrying out his project.
He abruptly left his corner, flourishing his switch, and beating his banner, and, crossing the gallery, seated himself in a chair between Mme. Fauvel and the door. As soon as the people had collected in a circle around him, he commenced to cough in an affected manner, like a stump orator about to make a speech.
Then he struck a comical attitude, standing up with his body twisted sideways, and his hat on one ear, and with great buffoonery and volubility made the following remarks:
“Ladies and gentlemen, this very morning I obtained a license from the authorities of this town. And what for? Why gentlemen, for the purpose of exhibiting to you a spectacle which has already won the admiration of the four quarters of the globe, and several universities besides. Inside of this booth, ladies, is about to commence the representation of a most remarkable drama, acted for the first time at Pekin, and translated into several languages by our most celebrated authors. Gentlemen, you can take your seats; the lamps are lighted, and the actors are changing their dress.”
Here he stopped speaking, and imitated to perfection the feats which mountebanks play upon horns and kettle-drums.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” he resumed, “you wish to know what I am doing outside, if the piece is to be performed under the tent. The fact is, gentlemen, that I wish to give you a foretaste of the agitations, sensations, emotions, palpitations, and other entertainments which you may enjoy by paying the small sum of ten sous. You see this superb picture? It represents eight of the most thrilling scenes in the drama. Ah, I see you begin to shudder already; and yet this is nothing compared to the play itself. This splendid picture gives you no more idea of the acting than a drop of water gives an idea of the sea, or a spark of fire of the sun. My picture, gentlemen, is merely to give you a foretaste of what is in the tent; as the steam oozing from a restaurant gives you a taste, or rather a smell, of what is within.”
“Do you know this clown?” asked an enormous Turk of a melancholy Punch.
“No, but he can imitate a trumpet splendidly.”
“Oh, very well indeed! But what is he driving at?”
The clown was endeavoring to attract the attention of Mme. Fauvel, who, since Raoul and Madeleine had left her, sat by herself in a mournful revery.
He succeeded in his object.
The showman’s shrill voice brought the banker’s wife back to a sense of reality; she started, and looked quickly about her, as if suddenly awakened from a troubled dream.
“Now, ladies, we are in China. The first picture on my canvas, here, in the left corner”—here he touched the top daub—“represents the celebrated Mandarin Li-Fo, in the bosom of his family. This pretty woman leaning over him is his wife; and these children playing on the carpet are the bonds of love between this happy pair. Do you not inhale the odor of sanctity and happiness emanating from this speaking picture, gentlemen?
“Mme. Li-Fo is the most virtuous of women, adoring her husband and idolizing her children. Being virtuous she is happy; for the wise Confucius says, ‘The ways of virtue are more pleasant than the ways of vice.’”
Mme. Fauvel had left her seat, and approached nearer to the clown.
“Do you see anything on the banner like what he is describing?” asked the melancholy Punch of his neighbor.
“No, not a thing. Do you?”
The fact is, that the daubs of paint on the canvas represented one thing as well as another, and the clown could call them whatever he pleased.
“Picture No. 2!” he cried, after a flourish of music. “This old lady, seated before a mirror tearing out her hair—especially the gray ones—you have seen before; do you recognize her? No, you do not. She is the fair mandarine of the first picture. I see the tears in your eyes, ladies and gentlemen. Ah! you have cause to weep; for she is no longer virtuous, and her happiness has departed with her virtue. Alas, it is a sad tale! One fatal day she met, on the streets of Pekin, a young ruffian, fiendish, but beautiful as an angel, and she loved him—the unfortunate woman loved him!”
The last words were uttered in the most tragic tone as he raised his clasped hands to heaven.
During this tirade he had whirled around, so that he found himself facing the banker’s wife, whose countenance he closely watched while he was speaking.
“You are surprised, gentlemen,” he continued; “I am not. The great Bilboquet has proved to us that the heart never grows old, and that the most vigorous wall-flowers flourish on old ruins. This unhappy woman is nearly fifty years old—fifty years old, and in love with a youth! Hence this heart-rending scene which should serve as a warning to us all.”
“Really!” grumbled a cook dressed in white satin, who had passed the evening in carrying around bills of fare, which no one read, “I thought he was going to amuse us.”
“But,”