SLAVES OF PARIS (Complete Edition). Emile Gaboriau

somehow, I expect.”

      She half turned away her head, and began to complain of the hardness of the terms and of the meanness of the mistresses, who, instead of allowing their cooks to do the marketing, did it themselves, and so cheated their servants out of their commissions.

      Beaumarchef nodded, just as he had done half an hour before to a lady who had complained bitterly of the misconduct of her servants. He was compelled by his position to sympathize with both sides.

      The woman had now finished her tirade, and drawing the amount of the fee from a well-filled purse, placed it on the table, saying,—

      “Please, M. Beaumarchef, register my name as Caroline Scheumal, and get me a real good place. It must be a cook, you understand, and I want to do the marketing without the missus dodging around.”

      “Well, I’ll do my best.”

      “Try and find me a wealthy widower, or a young woman married to a very old fellow. Now, do look round; I’ll drop in again to-morrow;” and with a farewell pinch of snuff, she left the office.

      Paul listened to this conversation with feelings of anger and humiliation, and in his heart cursed old Tantaine for having introduced him into such company. He was seeking for some plausible excuse for withdrawal, when the door at the end of the room was thrown open, and two men came in, talking as they did so. The one was young and well dressed, with an easy, swaggering manner, which ignorant people mistake for good breeding. He had a many-colored rosette at his buttonhole, showing that he was the knight of more than one foreign order. The other was an elderly man, with an unmistakable legal air about him. He was dressed in a quilted dressing-gown, fur-lined shoes, and had on his head an embroidered cap, most likely the work of the hands of some one dear to him. He wore a white cravat, and his sight compelled him to use colored glasses.

      “Then, my dear sir,” said the younger man, “I may venture to entertain hopes?”

      “Remember, Marquis,” returned the other, “that if I were acting alone, what you require would be at once at your disposal. Unfortunately, I have others to consult.”

      “I place myself entirely in your hands,” replied the Marquis.

      The appearance of the fashionably dressed young man reconciled Paul to the place in which he was.

      “A Marquis!” he murmured; “and the other swell-looking fellow must be M. Mascarin.”

      Paul was about to step forward, when Beaumarchef respectfully accosted the last comer,—

      “Who do you think, sir,” said he, “I have just seen?”

      “Tell me quickly,” was the impatient reply.

      “Caroline Schimmel; you know who I mean.”

      “What! the woman who was in the service of the Duchess of Champdoce?”

      “Exactly so.”

      M. Mascarin uttered an exclamation of delight.

      “Where is she living now?”

      Beaumarchef was utterly overwhelmed by this simple question. For the first time in his life he had omitted to take a client’s address. This omission made Mascarin so angry that he forgot all his good manners, and broke out with an oath that would have shamed a London cabman,—

      “How could you be such an infernal fool? We have been hunting for this woman for five months. You knew this as well as I did, and yet, when chance brings her to you, you let her slip through your fingers and vanish again.”

      “She’ll be back again, sir; never fear. She won’t fling away the money that she had paid for fees.”

      “And what do you think that she cares for ten sous or ten francs? She’ll be back when she thinks she will; but a woman who drinks and is off her head nearly all the year round——”

      Inspired by a sudden thought, Beaumarchef made a clutch at his hat.

      “She has only just gone,” said he; “I can easily overtake her.”

      But Mascarin arrested his progress.

      “You are not a good bloodhound. Take Toto Chupin with you; he is outside with his chestnuts, and is as fly as they make them. If you catch her up, don’t say a word, but follow her up, and see where she goes. I want to know her whole daily life. Remember that no item, however unimportant it may seem, is not of consequence.”

      Beaumarchef disappeared in an instant, and Mascarin continued to grumble.

      “What a fool!” he murmured. “If I could only do everything myself. I worried my life out for months, trying to find the clue to the mystery which this woman holds, and now she has again escaped me.”

      Paul, who saw that his presence was not remarked, coughed to draw attention to it. In an instant Mascarin turned quickly round.

      “Excuse me,” said Paul; but the set smile had already resumed its place upon Mascarin’s countenance.

      “You are,” remarked he, civilly, “Paul Violaine, are you not?”

      The young man bowed in assent.

      “Forgive my absence for an instant. I will be back directly,” said Mascarin.

      He passed through the door, and in another instant Paul heard his name called.

      Compared to the outer chamber, Mascarin’s office was quite a luxurious apartment, for the windows were bright, the paper on the walls fresh, and the floor carpeted. But few of the visitors to the office could boast of having been admitted into this sanctum; for generally business was conducted at Beaumarchef’s table in the outer room. Paul, however, who was unacquainted with the prevailing rule, was not aware of the distinction with which he had been received. Mascarin, on his visitor’s entrance, was comfortably seated in an armchair before the fire, with his elbow on his desk—and what a spectacle did that desk present! It was a perfect world in itself, and indicated that its proprietor was a man of many trades. It was piled with books and documents, while a great deal of the space was occupied by square pieces of cardboard, upon each of which was a name in large letters, while underneath was writing in very minute characters.

      With a benevolent gesture, Mascarin pointed to an armchair, and in encouraging tones said, “And now let us talk.”

      It was plain to Paul that Mascarin was not acting, but that the kind and patriarchal expression upon his face was natural to it, and the young man felt that he could safely intrust his whole future to him.

      “I have heard,” commenced Mascarin, “that your means of livelihood are very precarious, or rather that you have none, and are ready to take the first one that offers you a means of subsistence. That, at least, is what I hear from my poor friend Tantaine.”

      “He has explained my case exactly.”

      “Good; only before proceeding to the future, let us speak of the past.”

      Paul gave a start, which Mascarin noticed, for he added,—

      “You will excuse the freedom I am taking; but it is absolutely necessary that I should know to what I am binding myself. Tantaine tells me that you are a charming young man, strictly honest, and well educated; and now that I have had the pleasure of meeting you, I am sure that he is right; but I can only deal with proofs, and must be quite certain before I act on your behalf with third parties.”

      “I have nothing to conceal, sir, and am ready to answer any questions,” responded Paul.

      A slight smile, which Paul did not detect, played round the corners of Mascarin’s mouth, and, with a gesture, with which all who knew him were familiar, he pushed back his glasses on his nose.

      “I thank you,” answered he; “it is not so easy as you may suppose to hide anything from me.” He took one of the packets of pasteboard slips form his desk, and shuffling them like a pack of cards, continued, “Your name is Marie Paul Violaine. You were born at Poitiers,