SLAVES OF PARIS (Complete Edition). Emile Gaboriau

coming in.”

      The man, however, did not obey.

      “Pardon me, sir,” said he, “but La Candele, who is outside, will see them. I have my report to make.”

      “Very good. Sit down and go on.”

      Enchanted at this mark of condescension, Beaumarchef went on. “Yesterday there was nothing of importance, but this morning Toto Chupin came.”

      “He had not lost Caroline Schimmel, I trust?”

      “No, sir; he had even got into conversation with her.”

      “That is good. He is a cunning little devil; a pity that he is not a trifle more honest.”

      “He is sure,” continued Beaumarchef, “that the woman drinks, for she is always talking of persons following her about who menace her, and she is so afraid of being murdered that she never ventures out alone. She lives with a respectable workingman and his wife, and pays well for her board, for she seems to have plenty of money.”

      “That is a nuisance,” remarked Mascarin, evidently much annoyed. “Where does she live?”

      “At Montmartre, beyond the Chateau Rouge.”

      “Good. Tantaine will inquire and see if Toto has made no mistake, and does not let the woman slip through his fingers.”

      “He won’t do that, for he told me that he was on the right road to find out who she was, and where she got her money from. But I ought to warn you against the young scamp, for I have found out that he robs us and sells our goods far below their value.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I have long had my suspicions, and yesterday I wormed it all out from a disreputable looking fellow, who came here to ask for his friend Chupin.”

      Men accustomed to danger are over prompt in their decisions. “Very well,” returned Mascarin, “if this is the case, Master Chupin shall have a taste of prison fare.”

      Beaumarchef withdrew, but almost immediately reappeared.

      “Sir,” said he, “a servant from M. de Croisenois is here with a note.”

      “Send the man in,” said Mascarin.

      The domestic was irreproachably dressed, and looked what he was, the servant of a nobleman.

      He had something the appearance of an Englishman, with a high collar, reaching almost to his ears. His face was clean shaved, and of a ruddy hue. His coat was evidently the work of a London tailor, and his appearance was as stiff as though carved out of wood. Indeed, he looked like a very perfect piece of mechanism.

      “My master,” said he, “desired me to give this note into your own hands.”

      Under cover of breaking the seal, Mascarin viewed this model servant attentively. He was a stranger to him, for he had never supplied Croisenois with a domestic.

      “It seems, my good fellow,” said he, “that your master was up earlier than usual this morning?”

      The man frowned a little at this familiar address, and then slowly replied,—

      “When I took service with the Marquis, he agreed to give me fifteen louis over my wages for the privilege of calling me ‘a good fellow,’ but I permit no one to do so gratis. I think that my master is still asleep,” continued the man solemnly. “He wrote the note on his return from the club.”

      “Is there any reply.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Good; then wait a little.”

      And Mascarin, opening the note, read the following:

      “MY DEAR FRIEND,—

      “Baccarat has served me an ugly turn, and in addition to all my ready cash I have given an I.O.U. for three thousand francs. To save my credit I must have this by twelve to-morrow.”

      “His credit,” said Mascarin. “His credit! That is a fine joke indeed.” The servant stood up stiffly erect, as one seeming to take no notice, and the agent continued reading the letter.

      “Am I wrong in looking to you for this trifle? I do not think so. Indeed, I have an idea that you will send me a hundred and fifty louis over and above, so that I may not be left without a coin in my pocket. How goes the great affair? I await your decision on the brink of a precipice.

      “Yours devotedly,

       “HENRY DE CROISENOIS.”

      “And so,” growled Mascarin, “he has flung away five thousand francs, and asks me to find it for him in my coffers. Ah, you fool, if I did not want the grand name that you have inherited from your ancestors, a name that you daily bespatter and soil, you might whistle for your five thousand francs.”

      However, as Croisenois was absolutely necessary to him, Mascarin slowly took from his safe five notes of a thousand francs each, and handed them to the man.

      “Do you want a receipt?” asked the man.

      “No; this letter is sufficient, but wait a bit;” and Mascarin, with an eye to the future, drew a twenty franc piece from his pocket, and placing it on the table, said in his most honeyed accents,—

      “There, my friend, is something for yourself.”

      “No, sir,” returned the man; “I always ask wages enough to prevent the necessity of accepting presents.” And with this dignified reply he bowed with the stiff air of a Quaker, and walked rigidly out of the room.

      The agent was absolutely thunderstruck. In all his thirty years’ experience he had never come across anything like this.

      “I can hardly believe my senses,” muttered he; “where on earth did the Marquis pick this fellow up? Can it be that he is sharper than I fancied?”

      Suddenly a new and terrifying idea flashed across his mind. “Can it be,” said he, “that the fellow is not a real servant, after all? I have so many enemies that one day they may strive to crush me, and however skilfully I may play my cards, some one may hold a better hand.” This idea alarmed him greatly, for he was in a position in which he had nothing to fear; for when a great work is approaching completion, the anxiety of the promoter becomes stronger and stronger. “No, no,” he continued; “I am getting too full of suspicions;” and with these words he endeavored to put aside the vague terrors which were creeping into his soul.

      Suddenly Beaumarchef, evidently much excited, appeared upon the threshold.

      “What, you here again!” cried Mascarin, angrily; “am I to have no peace to-day?”

      “Sir, the young man is here.”

      “What young man? Paul Violaine?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Why, I told him not to come until twelve; something must have gone wrong.” He broke off his speech, for at the half-open door stood Paul. He was very pale, and his eyes had the expression of some hunted creature. His attire was in disorder and betokened a night spent in aimless wanderings to and fro.

      “Ah, sir!” said he, as he caught sight of Mascarin.

      “Leave us, Beaumarchef,” said the latter, with an imperious wave of his hand; “and now, my dear boy, what is it?”

      Paul sank into a chair.

      “My life is ended,” said he; “I am lost, dishonored for ever.”

      Mascarin put on a face of the most utter bewilderment, though he well knew the cause of Paul’s utter prostration; but it was with the air of a ready sympathizer that he drew his chair nearer to that of Paul, and said,—

      “Come, tell me all about it; what can possibly have happened to affect you thus?”

      In deeply tragic tones, Paul replied,—

      “Rose