SLAVES OF PARIS (Complete Edition). Emile Gaboriau

Klopen gave his shoulders a shrug as he answered, “She is all right. I have just sent her several most expensive costumes.”

      “How much does she owe you?”

      “Say twenty-five thousand francs. She has owed us more than that before.”

      “Really?” remarked Mascarin, “that woman has been grossly libelled; she is vain, frivolous, and fond of admiration, but nothing more. For a whole fortnight I have been prying into her life, but I can’t hit upon anything in it to give us a pull over her. The debt may help us, however. Does her husband know that she has an account with us?”

      “Of course he does not; he is most liberal to her, and if he inquired—”

      “Then we are all right; we will send in the bill to him.”

      “But, my good sir,” urged Van Klopen, “it was only last week that she paid us a heavy sum on account.”

      “The more reason to press her, for she must be hard up.”

      Van Klopen would have argued further, but an imperious sign from Mascarin reduced him to silence.

      “Listen to me,” said Mascarin, “and please do not interrupt me. Are you known to the domestics at the house of the Viscountess?”

      “Not at all.”

      “Well, then, at three o’clock sharp, the day after to-morrow, call on her. Her footman will say that Madame has a visitor with her.”

      “I will say I will wait.”

      “Not at all. You must almost force your way in, and you will find the Viscountess talking to the Marquis de Croisenois. You know him, I suppose?”

      “By sight—nothing more.”

      “That is sufficient. Take no notice of him; but at once present your bill, and violently insist upon immediate payment.”

      “What can you be thinking of? She will have me kicked out of doors.”

      “Quite likely; but you must threaten to take the bill to her husband. She will command you to leave the house, but you will sit down doggedly and declare that you will not move until you get the money.”

      “But that is most unbusinesslike behavior.”

      “I quite agree with you; but the Marquis de Croisenois will interfere; he will throw a pocketbook in your face, exclaiming, ‘There is your money, you impudent scoundrel!’”

      “Then I am to slink away?”

      “Yes, but before doing so, you will give a receipt in this form—‘Received from the Marquis de Croisenois, the sum of so many francs, in settlement of the account of the Viscountess Bois Arden.’”

      “If I could only understand the game,” muttered the puzzled Van Klopen.

      “There is no necessity for that now; only act up to your instructions.”

      “I will obey, but remember that we shall not only lose her custom, but that of all her acquaintance.”

      Again the same angry sounds were heard in the corridor.

      “It is scandalous,” cried a voice. “I have been waiting an hour; my sword and armor. What, ho, lackeys; hither, I say. Van Klopen is engaged, is he? Hie to him and say I must see him at once.”

      The two accomplices exchanged looks, as though they recognized the shrill, squeaky voice.

      “That is our man,” whispered Mascarin, as the door was violently flung open, and Gaston de Gandelu burst in. He was dressed even more extravagantly than usual, and his face was inflamed with rage.

      “Here am I,” cried he; “and an awful rage I am in. Why, I have been waiting twenty minutes. I don’t care a curse for your rules and regulations.”

      The tailor was furious at this intrusion; but as Mascarin was present, and he felt that he must respect his orders, he by a great effort controlled himself.

      “Had I known, sir,” said he sulkily, “that you were here——”

      These few words mollified the gorgeous youth, who at once broke in.

      “I accept your apologies,” cried he; “the lackeys remove our arms, the joust is over. My horses have been standing all this time, and may have taken cold. Of course you have seen my horses. Splendid animals, are they not? Zora is in the other room. Quick, fetch her here.”

      With these words he rushed into the passage and shouted out, “Zora, Mademoiselle de Chantemille, my dear one, come hither.”

      The renowned tailor was exquisitely uncomfortable at so terrible a scene in his establishment. He cast an appealing glance at Mascarin, but the face of the agent seemed carved in marble. As to Paul, he was quite prepared to accept this young gentleman as a perfect type of the glass of fashion and the mould of form, and could not forbear pitying him in his heart. He went across the room to Mascarin.

      “Is there no way,” whispered he, “of saving this poor young fellow?”

      Mascarin smiled one of those livid smiles which chilled the hearts of those who knew him thoroughly.

      “In fifteen minutes,” said he, “I will put the same question to you, leaving you to reply to it. Hush, this is the first real test that you have been subjected to; if you are not strong enough to go through it, then we had better say farewell. Be firm, for a thunderbolt is about to fall!”

      The manner in which these apparently trivial words were spoken startled Paul, who, by a strong effort, recovered his self-possession; but, prepared as he was, it was with the utmost difficulty that he stifled the expression of rage and surprise that rose to his lips at the sight of the woman who entered the room. The Madame de Chantemille, the Zora of the youthful Gandelu, was there, attired in what to his eyes seemed a most dazzling costume. Rose seemed a little timid as Gandelu almost dragged her into the room.

      “How silly you are!” said he. “What is there to be frightened at? He is only in a rage with his flunkies for having kept us waiting.”

      Zora sank negligently into an easy chair, and the gorgeously attired youth addressed the all-powerful Van Klopen.

      “Well, have you invented a costume that will be worthy of Madame’s charms?”

      For a few moments Van Klopen appeared to be buried in profound meditation.

      “Ah,” said he, raising his hand with a grandiloquent gesture, “I have it; I can see it all in my mind’s eye.”

      “What a man!” murmured Gaston in deep admiration.

      “Listen,” resumed the tailor, his eye flashing with the fire of genius. “First, a walking costume with a polonaise and a cape a la pensionnaire; bodice, sleeves, and underskirt of a brilliant chestnut——”

      He might have continued in this strain for a long time, and Zora would not have heard a word, for she had caught sight of Paul, and in spite of all her audacity, she nearly fainted. She was so ill at ease, that young Gandelu at last perceived it; but not knowing the effect that the appearance of Paul would necessarily cause, and being also rather dull of comprehension he could not understand the reason for it.

      “Hold hard, Van Klopen, hold hard! the joy has been too much for her, and I will lay you ten to one that she is going into hysterics.”

      Mascarin saw that Paul’s temper might blaze forth at any moment, and so hastened to put an end to a scene which was as absurd as it was dangerous.

      “Well, Van Klopen, I will say farewell,” said he. “Good morning, madame; good morning, sir;” and taking Paul by the arm, he led him away by a private exit which did not necessitate their passing through the great reception-room.

      It was time for him to do so, and not until they were in the street did the wily Mascarin breathe freely.

      “Well,