SLAVES OF PARIS (Complete Edition). Emile Gaboriau

      “But the Mussidans are wealthy?”

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

      “But she must feel much humiliated?”

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

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

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

      “Yes, evidently.”

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

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

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

      “Yes, she is always gentle and considerate.”

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

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

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

      “Just so.”

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

      The man grew quite excited.

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

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

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

      “But you don’t found all your story on this?”

      “I think you would, had you seen the way they looked into each other’s eyes.”

      “What was he like?”

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

      “How about the second time?”

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

      “Of course you read it?”

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

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

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

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

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

      Florestan remained silent for a few minutes.

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

      Mascarin rose from his seat.

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

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

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

      “M. Mascarin.”

      Chapter V.

       A Forgotten Crime

       Table of Contents

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

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

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

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

      “I assure your lordship,” began the man.

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

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

      The Count Octave de Mussidan in no way resembled the man sketched by Florestan. Since the time of Montaigne, a servant’s portrait of his employer should always be distrusted. The Count looked fully sixty, though he was but fifty years of age; he was undersized, and he looked shrunk and shrivelled; he was nearly bald, and his long whiskers were perfectly white. The cares of life had imprinted deep furrows on his