SLAVES OF PARIS (Complete Edition). Emile Gaboriau

His admirers said that he was witty.

      It was to this man’s establishment that Mascarin conducted Paul after a sumptuous breakfast at Philipe’s.

      It is necessary to give a slight description of Van Klopen’s establishment. Carpets of the most expensive description covered the stairs to his door on the first floor, at which stood the liveried menials resplendent in gold lace and scarlet. As soon as Mascarin made his appearance, one of these gorgeous creatures hastened to him and said, “M. Van Klopen is just now engaged with the Princess Korasoff, but as soon as he hears of your arrival he will manage to get rid of her. Will you wait for him in his private room?”

      But Mascarin answered,—

      “We are in no hurry, and may as well wait in the public room with the other customers. Are there many of them?”

      “There are about a dozen ladies, sir.”

      “Good; I am sure that they will amuse me.”

      And, without wasting any more words, Mascarin opened a door which led into a magnificent drawing-room, decorated in very florid style. The paper on the walls almost disappeared beneath a variety of watercolor sketches, representing ladies in every possible style of costume. Each picture had an explanatory note beneath it, such as “Costume of Mde. de C—- for a dinner at the Russian Ambassador’s,” “Ball costume of the Marchioness de V—- for a ball at the Hotel de Ville,” etc.

      Paul, who was a little nervous at finding himself among such splendor, hesitated in the doorway; but Mascarin seized his young friend by the arm, and, as he drew him to a settee, whispered in his ear,—

      “Keep your eyes about you; the heiress is here.”

      The ladies were at first a little surprised at this invasion of the room by the male element, but Paul’s extreme beauty soon attracted their attention. The hum of conversation ceased, and Paul’s embarrassment increased as he found a battery of twelve pairs of eyes directed full upon him.

      Mascarin, however, was quite at his ease, and upon his entrance had made a graceful though rather old-fashioned bow to the fair inmates of the room. His coolness was partly due to the contempt he felt for the human race in general, and also to his colored glasses, which hid the expression of his countenance. When he saw that Paul still kept his eyes on the ground, he tapped him gently on the arm.

      “Is this the first time you ever saw well-dressed women? Surely you are not afraid of them. Look to the right,” continued Mascarin, “and you will see the heiress.”

      A young girl, not more than eighteen, was seated near one of the windows. She was not perhaps so beautiful as Mascarin had described, but her face was a very striking one nevertheless. She was slight and good-looking, with the clear complexion of a brunette. Her features were not perhaps very regular, but her glossy black hair was a beauty in itself. She had a pair of dark, melting eyes, and her wide, high forehead showed that she was gifted with great intelligence. There was an air of restrained voluptuousness about her, and she seemed the very embodiment of passion.

      Paul felt insensibly attracted toward her. Their eyes met, and both started at the same moment. Paul was fascinated in an instant, and the girl’s emotion was so evident that she turned aside her head to conceal it.

      The babel had now commenced again, and general attention was being paid to a lady who was enthusiastically describing the last new costume which had made its appearance in the Bois de Boulogue.

      “It was simply miraculous,” said she; “a real triumph of Van Klopen’s art. The ladies of a certain class are furious, and Henry de Croisenois tells me that Jenny Fancy absolutely shed tears of rage. Imagine three green skirts of different shades, each draped——”

      Mascarin, however, only paid attention to Paul and the young girl, and a sarcastic smile curled his lips.

      “What do you think of her?” asked he.

      “She is adorable!” answered Paul, enthusiastically.

      “And immensely wealthy.”

      “I should fall at her feet if she had not a sou.”

      Mascarin gave a little cough, and adjusted his glasses.

      “Should you, my lad?” said he to himself; “whether your admiration is for the girl or her money, you are in my grip.”

      Then he added, aloud,—

      “Would you not like to know her name?”

      “Tell me, I entreat you.”

      “Flavia.”

      Paul was in the seventh heaven, and now boldly turned his eyes on the girl, forgetting that owing to the numerous mirrors, she could see his every movement.

      The door was at this moment opened quietly, and Van Klopen appeared on the threshold. He was about forty-four, and too stout for his height. His red, pimply face had an expression upon it of extreme insolence, and his accent was thoroughly Dutch. He was dressed in a ruby velvet dressing-gown, with a cravat with lace ends. A huge cluster-diamond ring blazed on his coarse, red hand.

      “Who is the next one?” asked he, rudely.

      The lady who had been talking so volubly rose to her feet, but the tailor cut her short, for catching sight of Mascarin, he crossed the room, and greeted him with the utmost cordiality.

      “What!” said he; “is it you that I have been keeping waiting? Pray pardon me. Pray go into my private room; and this gentleman is with you? Do me the favor, sir, to come with us.”

      He was about to follow his guests, when one of the ladies started forward.

      “One word with you, sir, for goodness sake!” cried she.

      Van Klopen turned sharply upon her.

      “What is the matter?” asked he.

      “My bill for three thousand francs falls due to-morrow.”

      “Very likely.”

      “But I can’t meet it.”

      “That is not my affair.”

      “I have come to beg you will renew it for two months, or say one month, on whatever terms you like.”

      “In two months,” answered the man brutally, “you will be no more able to pay than you are to-day. If you can’t pay it, it will be noted.”

      “Merciful powers! then my husband will learn all.”

      “Just so; that will be what I want; for he will then have to pay me.”

      The wretched woman grew deadly pale.

      “My husband will pay you,” said she; “but I shall be lost.”

      “That is not my lookout. I have partners whose interests I have to consult.”

      “Do not say that, sir! He has paid my debts once, and if he should be angry and take my children from me—Dear M. Van Klopen, be merciful!”

      She wrung her hands, and the tears coursed down her cheeks; but the tailor was perfectly unmoved.

      “When a woman has a family of children, one ought to have in a needlewoman by the hour.”

      She did not desist from her efforts to soften him, and, seizing his hand, strove to carry it to her lips.

      “Ah! I shall never dare to go home,” wailed she; “never have the courage to tell my husband.”

      “If you are afraid of your own husband, go to some one else’s,” said he roughly; and tearing himself from her, he followed Mascarin and Paul.

      “Did you hear that?” asked he, as soon as he had closed the door of his room with an angry slam. “These things occasionally occur, and are not particularly pleasant.”

      Paul looked on in disgust. If he had possessed three thousand francs, he would have given them