LOS,


SIT
ISCO
TAIN
* NISNO
General Library System
University of Wisconsin - Madison
728 State Street
Madison, WI 53706-1494
U.S.A.
T. D. WEBSTER.
ANTIQUARIAN & EXPORT BOOK SELLER,
MERE MANOR Diss NORFOLK





THE SLAVES OF PARIS.


THESE, the only English translations of GABORIAU'S SENSATIONAL
Novels, which have met with such remarkable success in France, are
issued uniform in size and style with POPULAR FRENCH Novels, but
form a distinct series of themselves. The following are the titles
of the earlier volumes :
IN PERIL OF HIS LIFE.
THE LEROUGE CASE.
OTHER PEOPLE'S MONEY.
LEOOQ THE DETECTIVE. (2 Vols.)
THE MYSTERY OF ORCIVAL.
THE GILDED CLIQUE.
DOSSIER No. 113.
THE LITTLE OLD MAN OF BATIGNOLLES.
THE SLAVES OF PARIS. (2 Vols.)
INTRIGUES OF A POISONER.
THE CATASTROPHE. (2 Vols.)
THE OLD COUNT'S MILLIONS. (2 Vols.)


GABORIAU’S SENSATIONAL NOVELS.
IX.
THE
SLAVES OF PARIS.
By EMILE GABORIAU.
IN TWO VOLS.- VOL. II.
SECOND EDITION
LONDON:
VIZETELLY & CO., 42 CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.
1881.


S. Cowan & Co., Strathmore Prin!ing Works, Perth,
General Library System
University of Wisconsin - Madison
728 State Street
Madison, WI 53706-1494
U.S.A.


MEM
905143
PQ
2252
G2
E813
n
r.2
CR THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
XXVI.
Yes, he was in a hurry, this dear, good Tantaine, in such a hurry indeed,
that although he was usually almost as perpetual a pedestrian as the Wan.
dering Jew, he now hailed a cab, engaged it by the hour, and promised the
driver five francs gratuity providing he drove fast. The first direction he
gave was in the Rue de Douai, at the corner of the Rue Blanche, where he
alighted, and bidding the cabby wait for him, walked towards the house
where young Gaston de Gandelu had rented such a sumptuous apartment
for Rose. Father Tantaine seemed to know the whereabouts of the place,
for he asked no questions of the concierge, but went straight upstairs and
rang at the door of the “Viscountess de Chantemille's" abode. It was
some time before his ring elicited any reply, but at last the door was
opened by a stout girl, with a red face, whose cap was all askew. This
was Marie, Zora's cook, the girl who on a previous occasion had acquainted
Mascarot with everything that transpired at Madame de Chantemille's
house-warming. On recognizing the old clerk, she received him right
cordially. “What, is it you, Father Tantaine ?" she cried. “You're as wel.
come as flowers in May.”
“Hush ! hush !” said he with an anxious air.
“ Eh? why hush?"
“Your mistress might hear you."
The girl burst out laughing. “No fear of that," she answered ;
madame's in a certain place it isn't so easy to escape from. The more
precious the jewel, the more carefully you lock it up."
This remark,' which implied that Rose had been arrested, seemed to
astonish the old man prodigiously. “Impossible !” he cried."
"It is so, though. “But come in and we'll tell you the whole story, while
you drink a glass with us !”
In the dining-room, whither Tantaine was now conducted, six guests,
seated round a table covered with bottles, were finishing a meal begun
several hours previously. Four of them were women whom Tantaine re-
cognised as clients of the agency, the two others being men of highly ques.
tionable appearance. “We are amusing ourselves as you see,” said the
cook, after pouring out a glass of wine for Tantaine. “Ah ! what a funny
affair it was yesterday! I had just started my dinner, when two military
looking men called and asked to see madame. They were shown in, and at
once said they had come to take her to prison. When she heard this she


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
shrieked so loud that you might have heard her as far as the Rue Fon-
taine. She wouldn't budge an inch, but clung to the furniture. So they
caught hold of her, one by the heels and the other by the head, carried her
down-stairs, and bundled her into a vehicle waiting at the door! That's
the fourth inistress of mine I've seen carried off like that-But, Father
Tantaine, come, you're not drinking anything !”
Tantaine by this time, however, had discovered all he wished to know,
and so he retired from the festivity, which seemed likely to terminate only
with the last bottle in the cellar.
“ All goes well here,” he muttered to himself, as he entered the cab
again. «Now for the next!”
They drove to the Champs Elysées, and Tantaine bade the driver
stop not far from the house the elder Gandelu was building. Here he
accosted an alert little fellow who was driving back the foot passengers
with a lath, bidding them beware of the debris that was constantly falling
from the scaffolding above. “Anything new, La Candele ?” asked the old
clerk.
“No, Monsieur Tantaine, nothing; but please tell the master that I am
keeping my eyes open.”
The old clerk then hurried on his way, interviewing in quick succession
one of De Breulh's footmen, and a woman in the employment of Madame
de Bois d'Ardon. Then dismissing his cab, he started on foot for the es-
tablishment of Father Canon, in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, where he
found Florestan, who, humble enough in the presence of Mascarot, was
haughty and supercilious to a degree with poor Tantaine. To air his
superiority he insisted on entertaining the old clerk at dinner, but he could
tell him nothing new, except that Mademoiselle Sabine was frightfully
sad.
It was nearly eight o'clock when Tantaine got rid of Florestan, and
jumping into a fresh cab, ordered the Jehu to drive to the “Grand Turc,”
that fainous establishment, the object of Toto-Chupin's convivial aspira-
tions. It is in the Rue des Poissonniers at Montmartre that the sign
of the “Grand Turc” swings to the wind, inviting passers-by to walk in.
side and enjoy themselves. The pleasures provided are of an edible,
potable, and saltatory nature. After a good table d'hôte at six p.m., one
may indulge in coffee, beer, or other beverages, and then comes a dance by
way of aiding digestion. There are two entrances, one conducting straight
to the ball-room, and the other to the table d'hôte, which is extensively
patronized by clerks, artists starting in life, and old bachelors living on
their incomes. The repast is barely over before dishes and plates and
glasses and tablecloths disappear, the restaurant becomes a café, beer flows
freely on all sides, and in lieu of the clatter of knives and forks one may
hear the rattle of dominos. Then all of a sudden a pair of large folding
doors are thrown open and harmony pervades the entire establishment. The
orchestra in the neighbouring ball-room has struck up the first waltz. One
peculiarity of this ball-room is, that quadrilles are never danced there.
The programme is a long succession of polkas, mazurkas, and waltzes, the
latter being predominant. The rotunda forming the centre of the hall is
edged round with benches dispersed in circular fashion, The dome above,
on which a number of amorous doves are depicted disporting themselves in
an azure sky, would be none the worse for a little cleaning, but the floor is
kept marvellously shiny and smooth. Germany is always largely to the
fore in the dancing hall of the “Grand Turc,” and the gallant cavalier who


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
wishes a partner for the mazy waltz, must at least be acquainted with the
pleasing dialect of Strasbourg. Here, indeed, behold Alsatian maids and
cooks, turning for hours round and round, stiffly erect, with lips just parted,
and eyes half closed, displaying, in fact, the same automatic grace as the
little wooden figures one sometimes sees on barrel organs.
When worthy Father Tantaine entered the ball-room, having duly paid
his fee, the master of the ceremonies had just called “take your places for
the waltz,” for the tenth time that evening. The scene was animated,
and the atmosphere impregnated with strange emanations and perfumes.
Many a new comer would have felt suffocated, but the old clerk, like
Alcibiades, was always at his ease no matter where his profession called
him. He had never before set foot inside the “Grand Turc," and yet you
would have sworn he was an habitué, so thoroughly at home did he look as
he roamed among the tables reserved for refreshments, both on the ground
floor and on a circular gallery overhead. But in vain did he wipe his
spectacles, dimmed by the vapour and dust of the ball-room-he could see
nothing of either Toto-Chupin or Caroline Schimmel, the cook. “Have I
come on a useless errand ?" he grumbled, “or am I simply too early?”
Finding a vacant table near the counter of the lady-cashier, he sat himself
down, ordered some beer, and so as to while away the time, began to study
a huge symbolical picture on the wall before him. This brightly coloured
transplendent work of art, if such it may be called, represented a black
bearded and exceedingly portly man, wearing a white turban and a blue
robe, seated in a red chair near a green curtain, having a mauve border,
with his feet on a yellow carpet.
With one hand he was apparently rubbing his stomach, but with the
other he held out a glass so that it might be filled with tipple. Plainly
enough, he was the "Grand Turc” in person, for on one side of him figured
an enormous pipe, and on the other a crouching lion, whilst there was also
a sultana who most graciously filled his glass with fuaming beer. This
sultana, a most bewitching fair-haired woman of massive build, had evidently
been born in Alsace; the painter thus paying a delicate and merited com.
pliment to the ladies who mainly frequented the establishment. Tantaine
was looking at this work of art with considerable wonder, when all at once
he heard a high-keyed voice behind him. “That's certainly Toto-Chupin,”
he said ; “ the young scamp! Where on earth can he have got to-for me
not to have seen him?”
He turned round, and two tables off, in a dark corner, he perceived the
object of his quest. It was not, after all, so surprising that he had passed
Toto without recognising him, for the young rascal was transformed. He
had planned out a new life for himself on the day he extorted a hundred
francs from Tantaine, resolving to madden all his friends with envy. He
had apparently succeeded, for he was now gorgeous to behold. He had
laughed at young Gaston de Gandelu and called him a monkey, but he now
imitated him even to exaggeration, so that of the two, Toto himself now
looked the more genuine ape. His light coloured jacket was wonderfully
short and tight, his waistcoat was of a most surprising pattern, and his
trousers had such little width, that it was a wonder he had ever been able
to get into them, Formerly he had despised shirts, but now his neck was
imprisoned in a stiff stand-up collar, and as a finishing touch a hairdresser
had curled his lank tow-like locks. Several empty jugs of beer stood on his
table, and in front of him sat a couple of “pals,” who with their “Newgate
knockers," high caps and loosely knotted neck.cloths, looked as thorough


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
a pair of reprobates as could be found. Toto-Chupin's haughty air and
condescending smile told that he was standing treat-enjoying the superior
position which belongs to those who pay over those who accept.
Tantaine was rising to go and pull the young monkey's ears, when a fresh
thought crossed his mind, and he hesitated. Slowly and cautiously, mind.
ful not to attract attention, he climbed over a couple of benches and hid
himself behind one of the columns which supported the overhanging gallery.
By this stratagem, the performance of which occupied at least five minutes,
he found himself at last so near Toto's table, that he could hear every word
the young reprobate and his associates exchanged. “You needn't call me a
boaster," said Toto to his friends, “nor a dandy either; as you see me now
you'll see me always, at least I hope so. A man must be properly dressed
to work on a grand scale as I mean to do." His companions laughed until
tears stood in their eyes. “I know what you mean," continued Toto.
“You think I look queer in my new togs. That's because I ain't used to
'em. But just give me a little time, and, besides, I mean to take lessons in
deportment.”
is Well, well !” said one of his friends ; “wonders will never cease. I
say, Chupin, when you drive about in your carriage, will you give me a
lift?"
“Why not? What's wanted to have a carriage? Coin of course.
Well, and who are those that make coin? Why, the fellows that have a
dodge.' Now, I know a 'dodge' that has filled the pockets of those who
taught it me, so why shouldn't it fill mine?"
Tantaine was quite terrified on noticing that Toto was tipsy. What did
the young rascal really know, and what was he going to say? The old man
made ready to fly at the boy's throat and choke down the first compromising
word. Toto's guests also knew that he had drank too much. But as he
seemed disposed to tell them a secret, they became very attentive, and ex-
changed a knowing look. They were ready to believe that this precocious
scamp had, as he asserted, some special way of obtaining money ; for his
new clothes and his liberality were in their eyes highly suspicious. How
had he got hold of so much coin ? That was the question ; and to induce
him to talk, they freely filled his glass, each of them, moreover, offering
remarks suited to hasten his revelations. The younger of the two shook
his head laughingly. “I don't believe you've any dodge at all,” said he.
“Yes, I have.
“And why not, after all," quoth the elder “loafer,” soothingly,
“Let's hear what it is, then," interposed the other. “You can't expect
us to believe it unless we know something about it.”
“It's as simple as “how do you do,'” answered Toto. “Suppose I saw
Polyte there steal a couple of pair of boots from a shop front>"
At this Polyte protested with so much energy that Tantaine, who had not
lost a word of the conversation, was convinced that the individual in ques-
tion had some peccadillo of the kind on his conscience.
“You needn't make such a fuss about it,” said Toto. “I'm only sup.
posing a case. Let's say you did it, and that I found it out. Do you know
what I should do? I should go and find Polyte, and say to him: “Go
halves, my dear fellow, or I shall peach.'"
“ Perhaps you would, but I should knock you down.”
Forgetting that he was desirous of seeming a regular swell, Toto made a
mocking gesture familiar to Parisian gamins. “You wouldn't do anything
of the kind,” he cried, “ for you are not a fool. You'd say to yourself :


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
'If I hurt this boy, he'd make a row, and then I should be arrested, and
with his evidence be sent to prison.' No, indeed, you wouldn't knock me
down. On the contrary, you'd speak very gently, and end by doing just
what I asked."
“And is that what you call your 'dodge ?'”
“ Yes, indeed, and a good one it is too? Fools run all the risks, and the
wise men reap the profits."
“But there's nothing new in all this. It's simply blackmailing.”
“I never said it wasn't. On the contrary, I'm proud to say that it's
blackmailing reduced to a system.” And, thereupon, Toto took up an
empty jug, and calling a waiter, haughtily bade him replenish it.
In the meantime his two friends looked at each other with manifest dis.
appointment. Toto's “ dodge” was in no way new to them, nor did it
strike them as especially practicable. Blackmailing is a speculation of primi-
tive simplicity, which almost every one is acquainted with. The difficulty
is to find a mine to work, and be sure it will pay for working. “Of course, "
said Polyte, “every now and then a good stroke of business may be done
in that line ; but a man isn't woke up every morning by some one shouting
down the chimney: “Come and see how I steal boots.""
“Of course, not,” answered Toto, scornfully. “The calling's like all
others, a man must be active if he wants to earn his living. Instead of
customers coming to you, you must search for 'em, and you find 'em too-"
" And where, pray ?”
“Ah! that's the point."
There came a long pause, of which Tantaine was tempted to avail him.
self, so as to prevent any further revelations on Master Toto's part; but on
the other hand, he deemed it wise to learn exactly what the young scamp
could, and was inclined to do. So he cautiously crept still nearer to the
party. Toto was reflecting. “Ah !” said he, at last,“ and why not after
all ?” Then leaning forward, he whispered mysteriously : “I suppose I
can trust you ?”
“Of course you can."
“Well, then, it's in the Champs Elysées that I make my money, and I'm
sure of a stroke of business not once, but twice a day.”
“But there are no bootmakers' shops there?"
Chupin shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “Do you think,” he said,
" that I address myself to thieves ? Not at all. That would be a wretched
business. No, I watch honest people-people who are supposed to be
honest-people who consider themselves honest. They are the ones that
can be made to pay, they're the most liberal.”
Tantaine shuddered. He remembered that he had heard B. Mascarot
use almost the same words. Toto must have listened at the door.
“But honest people have no need to pay up,'” cried Polyte.
Toto cracked his glass, so heavily did he bang it down on the table.
“Let me speak, will you ?” he cried impatiently. “When I'm in want of
funds I go to the Champs Elysées, and sit down on a bench in one of the
avenues, between the main one and the quays. Then I watch the cabs, and
as soon as one stops, I take a squint to see who gets out of it. If it's a re-
spectable woman I haven't lost my time.”
“And you think you know a respectable woman, do you ? "
“I should say I did. When a respectable woman gets out of a cab she
oughtn't to be in, she looks in an awful state of mind. She squints out of
the window right and left, pulls down her veil, and when she fancies no


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
11
for the price of his silence. For the luckless victim life thenceforward be.
comes one long agony. Good-bye to happiness, serenity, and peace of mind.
At each ring at the door bell, the victim starts and turns pale. “Who is
coming ?” she asks herself with a shudder. Is it he, that execrable scoun.
drel, about to make some fresh claim, some fresh demand, after the style
suggested by Toto-Chupin. “Madame will not refuse a little help to the
poor young man who was unfortunate enough to lose his purse in the cab,
which madame took just after him.”
It is only right to add, that when blackmailing in this or any other form
comes under the eyes of justice, it is most severely dealt with. There are
no halfway measures ; but retributive vengeance falls right heavily on the
guilty parties. But then how few there are who dare apply to the law for
redress-who dare reveal their faults, their sins, their frailty ? Despite
their disdainful airs, Toto-Chupin's companions had been greatly interested
by what he had told them. They had heard of blackmailing of course,
their remarks proved it; but although they had plied many a shameful
calling they had never thought of resorting to this one, which, as explained
by Toto, struck them as being of fascinating simplicity. Hence they ad-
visedly “ran it down," trusting that these tactics would fire Toto and make
him more explicit. “All that's very fine,” said Polyte. “Things like
that are talked about, but they're never done,”
“Yes they are," answered Toto stoutly.
“Come now, you're romancing. I bet you've never done as you've told
us."
At any other moment the young rascal's conceit would probably have
prompted him to answer, “Yes I have," but he was fuddled, and so may
be excused for speaking the truth. “Well,” said he, “if I've not done it
myself, I've seen it done often enough-on a large scale, too_and a fellow
can always imitate a big thing in a milder way with a better chance of
success."
“You've seen it done, do you say?"
"Of course I have !”.
“Did you lend a hand, then?” .
“Yes, I did. Ah! bless my eyes, how many cabs I've followed, how
many ladies and gents, real swells, all of the tip-top class ! Only I wasn't
working for myself ! I was like the dog that catches the gaine and never
eats it. It was hard lines, I can tell you. If I'd had a bone thrown me
occasionally, even ! But no, it was dry bread, and kicks and cuffs for
dessert. I'm not going to stand it any longer. I've made up my mind
now to go into business for myself.”
“And who have you been working for like that?”
Chupin drew himself up in the most haughty fashion. Far from intend.
ing to do Mascarot the smallest harm, he thought only of extolling his
merits and extraordinary ability, as if, indeed, the “guv'nor's " glory shed
soine lustre on himself. “The folks I've worked for," said he,“ haven't
their equal in Paris. They don't stick at trifles, either, you may be certain
of that-and they are so rich, it would frighten you to try and count their
money! They can do anything and everything in the world they please ;
and if I told you "
He stopped short, with his mouth open and his eyes dilated with terror,
for in front of him stood the old clerk, that dear, good, genial Tantaine.
Chupin's terror had no apparent ground, for never had the old man's face
worn such a benign, good-natured look. “Ah! Toto, my boy, so here you


12
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
are !” he exclaimed in a bland, paternal voice. “Why, I've been looking
for you everywhere. Mercy on me! how fine you are! Any one would
take you for a young prince !"
Tantaine's kind looks and cheery voice seemed quite to disconcert poor
Toto. The mere sight of the old clerk had dispelled the alcoholic fumes
with which his brain had been burdened, and as he regained full conscious.
ness he remembered how indiscreetly he had been talking. He was con-
scious of his folly, and had a vague presentiment of some impending mis-
fortune, which was none the less fearful although as yet veiled in mystery.
Artlessness was by no means a distinguishing characteristic of this child of
Paris. His mental ability had been sharpened by stern necessity, and his
intelligence was far beyond his years. Thus he at once doubted the sincerity
of Tantaine's genial smile, and realised that perhaps his very life depended
on the promptness of his decision at the present emergency. Had the old
fellow heard anything of the conversation ? Yes, or no. Everything de-
pended on that. "If the old rascal has been listening," tbought Toto,
* I'm lost!” And the lad watched Tantaine with the keenest attention,
as if determined to decipher this living mystery. He was skilful enough
to conceal his anxiety. Silence would have betrayed his suspense, and so
with affectedly boisterous gaiety he answered, “I was waiting for you, sir ;
and it was in honour of you that I put on my best clothes. I didn't wish
you to blush for me.”
“ That was very good of you, I'm sure, and I'm really very much obliged.”
“And now will you allow me to offer you something—a glass of beer, or
a drop of brandy, perhaps ?”
Toto must have been rapidly regaining his courage, for to patronise Tan-
taine in this way amounted almost to a piece of iinpertinence. But he would
have done even more to exalt himself in the opinion of the two friends whom
he wished to crush with his superiority. He half expected that his invita-
tion would be most peremptorily refused. However, the old clerk graciously
replied that he was much obliged, but must decline the offer, having re-
freshed himself only a moment before. “You haven't my thirsty disposi-
tion, sir," rejoined Chupin. And pointing with an air of pride at the empty
jugs and bottles on the table, he added, “We have drank all these, my
friends and I, since dinner.”
This was an introduction, or intended as such, and Tantaine slightly
lifted his shabby hat, while Toto's friends bowed most profoundly. These
gentlemen were not altogether pleased with the appearance of the new-
comer, and concluded that this would be a good time for them to make
their escape, particularly as they were not without fears that Toto might
repent of his generosity. At the “Grand Turc,” as elsewhere, it is some-
times the invited guest who pays the score. A waltz had just struck up,
and the master of the ceremonies was shouting his everlasting, “Take your
places, ladies and gentlemen! take your places !” So Toto's friends
shook hands with him, and bowing respectfully to Tantaine, disappeared
in the crowd. “Good fellows !” muttered Toto, looking after them.
“Capital fellows !” The young scamp never blushed for his compan-
ions.
Tantaine, however, whistled most contemptuously. "Ah! my boy!
he said, “you keep very bad company, I fear. And you'll be sorry for it
one of these days."
“I can look out for myself, sir, I fancy!”
“Go your own way, my lad. Of course it is no business of mine ; but


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
13
you'll come to grief one of these days—be sure of it. I've told you so, as
you may remember, more than once !”
This prediction, to which he had been so long accustomed, eased Toto of
his last anxiety. “If the old rascal suspected anything," thought he,
“I'm sure he wouldn't talk like that."
Unfortunate Toto! Little did he realise that at this very moment, when
his spirits were going up like an india-rubber ball, his danger was most
imminent. “This lad's altogether too clever !” Tantaine was at that in.
stant saying to himself. “Too clever by far. Ah! if I were going on
with our business and could make it worth his while, I should find him
wonderfully useful. But just now, when we are thinking of winding up
affairs, to leave such a smart lad who knows so much wandering about at
his own sweet will, would be the height of imprudence on the part of
people who know the importance of a stolen secret.”
Meanwhile, Toto had summoned a waiter, and now threw a ten-franc
piece on the table, haughtily exclaiming, “Pay yourself !”
But Tantaine pushed the money back, and handed the waiter another
ten-franc piece from his own pocket. This generosity put the lad into the
best possible humour. “So much the better for me!” he cried gaily.
“And now, let's find Caroline Schimmel."
“But is she here? I couldn't discover her," said Tantaine.
“Because you didn't know where to look for her, then. She's playing
cards in the café. Come on, sir !"
But Tantaine detained the lad for a moment. “One instant,” he said.
"Tell me, did you say precisely what I bade you to this woman ?
“ Word for word, sir,"
“Repeat to me what you said.”
Chupin, who was standing, reseated himself. “For five days,” he began,
solemnly, “I've literally dogged your Caroline. We've played cards until
all was blue, and I took care she should rise from table—a winner. I con:
fided to her that I had a good uncle, fifty years old or thereabouts, still
fresh and alert, perhaps a little bit foolish, but awfully amiable-in short,
a widower without children, who was dreadfully anxious to marry again-
with a woman she knew-in fact, herself ; for having seen her he had fallen
head over heels in love with her.”
“ Well done, Toto, well done! And what did she say in return?”
“Bless my soul ! she grinned like a hyena. Only, she's a suspicious sort
of a cat, and I saw very well she fancied one was after her money. I didn't
look as if I guessed her thoughts ; but I just mentioned that my uncle had
a house of his own and made some four thousand francs a year.'
“ And did you mention me by name?”
“ Yes, at the very last I did. I knew she must have often seen you at
the agency, and said to myself, 'Father Tantaine's a worthy old gent, but-'
dash it all, you'll excuse me, won't you?_ he isn't particularly handsome,
nor over well dressed as a rule?' To say the truth, I thought she might cut
up rusty, and so I kept the name back as long as I could. But as soon as
I mentioned it she looked more pleased than ever. 'I know him !' she
exclaimed, 'I know him well.' So you see, M. Tantaine, that you've nothing
to do now but to fix the wedding-day. Now, come on; she expects to see
you to-night.”
Tantaine settled his glasses with a decided gesture. “I am ready!” he
said.
Toto was not mistaken. The Duke de Champdoce's former servant was


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
15
in fact, waiting for Catenac, Hortebize and Paul, to reveal to them his plan
in its fullest details.
As usual, the first to appear was Hortebize. “I received your instruc-
tions, Baptistin,” he said, as he entered, “and I have carried them out. I
have just come from the Hôtel de Mussidan.”
“How do they seem there?”.
“Sad, but resigned. Mademoiselle Sabine was never particularly viva-
cious ; she is graver and paler than before her illness ; that's all the differ.
ence that I can detect.”
“ Were you alone with the countess ?"
“Yes ; and I told her that I was so harassed by the people who held her
letters that she must be very guarded in her actions. She answered with a
mournful smile, that she was in despair, but she was certain of her hus-
band's consent, and could rely on her daughter's readiness to marry
Croisenois.”
Tantaine would have received this statement with enthusiasm, but Mas.
carot remained unmoved. However much he may have been pleased, it
was coldly enough that he replied ; “I saw Croisenois this morning, and
if he obeys me, which I am sure he will, we shall get ahead of André, and
M. de Breulh. The marquis will be Sabine's husband before they discover
that the banns have been published. The marriage solemnized, we can
afford to laugh at them; and, in regard to our grand idea, I have matured
my plan of the company, and in a week the prospectus will be published.
But to-day we have another subject for discussion, the Champdoce
matter,"
At this point, he was interrupted by the arrival of Paul, who came in
rather timidly, being a little uncertain of his reception after Tantaine's
singular good-bye the day before. Contrary to his expectations, he was
warmly welcomed. Either Tantaine had not repeated what had taken
place, or Mascarot regarded it with different eyes. “Accept my congratu-
ſations,” he said, “as regards your success with Monsieur Martin Rigal.
You have'nt merely pleased the daughter, but you've fascinated the father
as well.”
“I'm glad to hear it. Last evening, however, he was away."
“ Yes, I'm aware of that. He dined with one of our friends, who
sounded him with regard to you. If Hortebize went to-morrow in your
name to ask Mademoiselle Flavia's hand, M. Rigal wouldn't refuse it."
Paul closed his eyes, dazzled by the glare of Flavia's millions.
“Hark!” interrupted Hortebize; “I hear Catenac bustling along the
passage.”
The worthy doctor's ears had not deceived him ; it was indeed the law.
yer, who came late, as usual. He did not apologise for his lack of punctu-
ality, but tried to win forgiveness by the smiles and honeyed words he
lavished on everyone in the room.
However, Mascarot hastily rose and confronted him with such a threaten-
ing mien that Catenac started back. “What the deuce do you mean?”
he asked.
“Can't you guess ?” rejoined the agent, in a tone that was more appal-
ling even than his manner. “I have measured the depth of your infamy.
I was certain the other day that you meant to betray us. But you gave me
your word to the contrary, and you,"
“I swear to you, Baptistin--"
“No oaths, they are needless. One word alone from Perpignan en-


16
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
lightened us. Were you ignorant of the fact that the Duke de Champdoce
had unfailing means of recognizing his child-that there are ineffaceable
scars-”
“I had forgotten-" The words died away on his lips, for even his
usually marvellous self-possession deserted him under Mascarot's contemp.
tuous glance.
“Let me tell you what I think of you,” continued the agent. “You are
a coward and a traitor! Even convicts keep their word to each other. I
knew you to be vile, but not to this degree-"
“Then why do you employ me, against my wish ?"
The impudence of this reply exasperated B. Mascarot to such a degree,
that he caught Catenac by the collar, and shook him as if he would have
strangled him. “I use you, viper,” he cried, “ because I so hold you that
you cannot harm us. And you will serve me well when I prove to you that
your reputation, your money, your liberty, and even your life all depend
on our success. Fortunately, I know where that body is ! The proofs-
the most absolute proofs of your crime-are in the hands of a person who
knows precisely what to do. When I give the signal he will move, and in
another hour you are a lost man.” A terrible pause followed. “And it
would be as well,” resumed Mascarot at last, “ for you to pray that no acci.
dent may ever happen to Paul, Hortebize, and myself. If one of us should
happen to die suddenly, your fate is sealed. You are warned ; so now look
out!”
Catenac stood with his head bowed, motionless and rooted to the ground
as it were. There was a gleam of fury in his eyes, but what did the others
care ? He was so bound and gagged that he conld move neither hand nor
foot against them. No more tergiversation, no hope of vengeance was
possible. He owed his position to blackmail, and it was now blackmail
that threatened him!
Mascarot turned away, swallowed some of his tisane, and tranquilly, as
if nothing unusual had occurred, took his seat again by the fire and calmly
adjusted his spectacles, which had been deranged by the violence of his
movements. I ought to tell you, Catenac,” said he, “ that with the ex-
ception of this one detail, I know far more about the Champdoce matter
than you do. In fact, what do you know? Nothing in the world except
what the duke has seen fit to confide to you and Perpignan, and you imagine
that you are in possession of the truth, do you? You were never more mis-
taken. Fortunately I know the truth, and my knowledge won't surprise
you when you learn that for years I have been investigating this inatter."
"! Yes, for many years." interrupted the doctor.
"And perhaps it would interest you to know how I first got on the track
of this affair. Do you remember that scrivener who had his room near the
Palais de Justice, and who tried blackmailing on a large scale? Well,
through an unfortunate speculation he came to grief, and was lodged in
prison for two years.” -
* “I think I remember him."
“He was intelligent and ingenious. He bought old manuscripts and letters,
invoices, and so on, papers written upon of all sorts and kinds by weight,
and he carefully sorted and read them all. It is, of course, impossible to
say what treasures he found in these papers, abandoned to the rag pickers
and dust-carts, but I believe he came across several. Do you think there
was ever a man who hadn't reason to regret, at least once in his life, having
had pen and ink within reach at some given time! Was there ever a cause


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
17
célèbre in which letters did not play an important part? These facts have
struck me so often and so forcibly that I ask myself why prudent people
do not invariably use those inks which, after a few days, fade away and
leave the paper without a mark. To be brief, I decided to follow the
scrivener's example. I bought old papers, and, among other curious things,
I found this." So saying he took from his desk a bit of paper, fumbled,
torn, and dirty, and handed it to Hortebize, adding, “Look at it well."
Some one had inscribed on this paper, with a trembling hand, the follow-
ing enigmatical assemblage of letters: “dlihcruoevahemtelemnoytipevahtnec
onnimaiycrem,” while beneath ran the one intelligible word, “Never !”
“It was clear to me," continued Mascarot, “ that I had before me a
cryptogram, that is to say, a letter composed according to particular rules
and intended to place a compromising correspondence beyond all risk of
exposure. Of course, it was equally clear that such a precaution was not
employed in ordinary correspondence. I concluded, consequently, that
this scrap of paper contained some tremendous secret.” .
Catenac listened to this explanation with a lofty and supercilious air.
He belonged to that class of combatants who never know when their
shoulders touch the ground, and who, even when exhausted and panting,
persist in denying their defeat. “The conclusion seems to me evident,"
he said patronisingly. .
“Thank you," answered Mascarot coldly. “At all events, it had to be
found. I became deeply interested in deciphering this enigma—the more
so, as I have the honour of presiding over an association, each individual
member of which owes not only his daily bread, but even the esteem in
which he is held by the world at large, to the manipulation of other people's
secrets.”
Hortebize smiled a wicked little smile, and with a glance at Catenac,
murmured, “Take that to yourself !”
Mascarot thanked his friend with a gesture. "One morning,” he con-
tinued, “I closed my door, and swore not to leave my room until I had
deciphered the meaning of these letters.”
In turn, Paul, the doctor, and Catenac now attentively examined the
paper handed them by Mascarot. The letters seemed to them to be placed
quite at random on the paper, and conveyed no sense or meaning to their
minds. “No," said the doctor impatiently, “it's no use ; I can make
nothing out of it."
Mascarot smiled complacently. He had never been over modest, and he
had, moreover, his reasons for prolonging his companions' astonishment as
much as possible. “You can detect nothing?” he asked, as he took the
letter from Paul's hands.
“Nothing whatever,” answered Catenac sulkily.
“I assure you,” resumed Mascarot, “ that at the outset I was quite as
much at sea as yourselves ; and yet I carefully preserved this scrap of
paper, soiled and old as it was—the age is evident from its hue and the
faintness of the ink. A secret instinct bade me guard it closely, a presenti-
ment seemed to tell me it meant fortune, wealth for myself and all of you.
All human minds have a certain dose of curiosity, inquisitiveness, and seek
to learn hidden things. Riddles, rebuses, and charades are successful
simply for that reason. It inight be that, on deciphering these letters, I
should only arrive at some insignificant, childish phrase-or I might, of
course, make some startling discovery. The chances were equal, and this,
of course, I fully realised. At the outset I had detected that there were two
VOL. II.


18
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
distinct handwritings. If it were a woman who had composed the rebus,
a man had added the word “Never!' Was that never' a reply to the
previous letters? If this surmise were correct, then the woman asked some
lavour and the man refused it. But then, why had two different languages,
go to say, been employed ? Why those mysterious letters, followed by this
ordinary word? On reflection this is what I thought : The woman's request
was of a dangerous nature, and might reveal something it was her interest
to conceal, while this laconic 'never' was in no degree compromising. But
how happened it, you ask, that the request and the refusal were written
on the same paper ? This question, also, I soon solved to my own satis-
faction. This letter was never intended for the post, and never went into
a letter-box. It was exchanged betwecn two neighbouring houses, perhaps
between two floors in the same house, and perhaps, who could say, between
two rooms in the same apartment. In a moment of intense excitement a
woman penned these mysterious letters, and sent them by a servant to a
man whose help or whose pity and mercy she implored. He, in a fit of
rage, snatched up a pen, wrote that one word 'never,' and then handed the
paper to the servant, saying, “Take that to your mistress.' Having settled
these points in my own mind, I next attacked the enigma. I was unac-
customed to this sort of work, and I found, as you may iinagine, consider-
able difficulty in the task ; in fact, I worked fourteen hours without success.
It was the merest chance that gave me the clue I was vainly seeking.
While I was studying the letters, I happened to hold the paper between
myself and the light, the back of it turned towards me, and to my utter
surprise I read it at once. It was the simplest, most childish cryptograph
in the world. The letters, instead of going from left to right, went from
right to left, and to obtain the sense, it was only necessary to replace them
in their proper order. I took a pencil and copied each letter in turn, be-
ginning at the last one. •M. e. r. C. y. i. a.,' etc. I next divided the
letters into words, and obtained this significant result: "Mercy, I am
innocent. Have pity on me. Let me have our child.""
Dr. Hortebize snatched the paper from the desk.
“ You are right,” he said ; “it is the infancy of art.”
B. Mascarot smiled. "I had succeeded in reading it,” said he ; "but
that was only the beginning. This scrap had been found among five or six
hundred pounds of paper, bought at the sale of a château near Vendôme.
How was it to be traced back to its possessors ? I should have despaired if,
in one corner-see there-I hadn't noticed the faint trace of a crest and
motto, originally stamped on the paper. I knew literally nothing about
heraldry, but one of my friends knew a great deal. He examined the crest
with a magnifying glass, and at once pronounced it to be that of the noble
house of Champdoce.” At this point B. Mascarot rose, stationed himself
erect, with his back to the fire, and then resumed : “That was how I
started, gentlemen. Faint was the light that guided me, wavering and un-
certain. Another man would probably have been discouraged ; but I rarely
give up an idea. I am patient, and I wake each morning with the same
idea in my mind that was there when I went to sleep. Six months later, I
knew that these appealing words had been addressed by the Duchess of
Champdoce to her husband ; and I knew under what circumstances they
had been written. Since then I have fully investigated the secret first sug.
gested to me by this scrap of paper. If I have not achieved my task earlier,
it was because one single link was wanting. But I have it now ; I obtained
it yesterday.'


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
"Ah!" said the doctor ; “so Caroline Schimmel has spoken?”
“Yes. The secret she kept for twenty-three years dropped last night
from her tongue, which had been loosened by wine." As he spoke, 'B.
Mascarot opened a drawer of his desk and drew out a voluminous manu-
script, which he brandished with an air of triumph. “This is my master-
piece!” he cried, “and the explanation of my maneuvres for the last
fortnight. After you have read this you will understand how it happens
that I hold the Duke and Duchess of Champdoce and Diane de Sauvebourg,
Countess de Mussidan, all in the same noose. Listen, doctor, you who
have the blindest and most unquestioning confidence in me. Listen,
Catenac, you who wished to betray me, and then tell me if I am in error
when I affirm that I hold every element of success in my hand." He held
the manuscript out to Paul. And you, my dear child,” he added, "read
this aloud-I have written it more especially for you. Read it carefully,
weigh every syllable, give it all the attention you are capable of ; it is the
history of a great and noble family. And remember that there is not one
detail, however trivial it may seem, that is not fraught with importance as
regards your future.”
Paul opened the manuscript, and in a voice which trembled at first, but
which gathered strength as he went on, he perused the heart-stirring
narrative prepared by Mascarot under the title of “THE CHAMPDOCE
SECRET.”
END OF PART I.


22
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
have had to be paid for. Although frequently invited to the entertain-
ments of the neighbouring nobility, who looked upon him as their senior
representative, the duke regularly declined the compliment, declaring that
no nobleman, with any feelings of self respect, could accept hospitality
without returning it; and in this instance, returning it implied a pecuniary
outlay.
It was certainly not poverty that compelled the Duke de Champdoce to
practise such rigid economy. His estates in Poitou, in the Angouinois and
Saintonge, were worth more than twelve hundred thousand francs, and this
without counting the forest of Champdoce, which, skilfully managed,
yielded some ten thousand silver crowns a year in timber. It was said,
moreover, that his personality in ready coin and invested money was yet
more considerable ; and the report was by no means a false one. People,
of course, looked upon him as a miser ; and yet he was not one, at least,
as the terın is usually understood. The fact is, this obstinate nobleman
was simply following out a scheme, planned after long reflection, and exe-
cuted with great perseverance and energy. His past life might in some
degree explain his conduct. César-Guillaume de Champdoce had, as
we have already stated, emigrated from France at the outset of the Revolu-
tion. For a time he had served in Condé's army, and then, when the
Empire dawned upon Europe and Legitimists were reduced to wait and
hope, he had journeyed to England, taken refuge in London, and earned a
scanty livelihood by giving fencing lessons. At the restoration of the
Bourbons he had returned to France, and by a very great piece of good
luck he had obtained possession of a part of the old family estates. But
what was that part to him? He thought of the princely opulence of his
ancestors, and, contrasting it with his present belongings, pictured himself
in a state of miserable- poverty. As an additional pang he saw a new,
young aristocracy spring out of the ranks of commerce and industry, active,
proud of its wealth, and ambitious to win the influence and prestige of the
listless, enervated old nobility. Then it was that M. de Chainpdoce,
whose family pride was almost a form of monomania, conceived the plan to
which he afterwards devoted his whole life. He considered he had dis-
covered a means of restoring all the past power and splendour of his house ;
three or four generations must sacrifice themselves for the benefit of their
descendants. “By living like a peasant,” said he, “by denying myself
every luxury, I can triple my capital in thirty years. My son must imitate
me, and in a hundred years, thanks to a colossal fortune, the Dukes of
Champdoce will have regained the rank to which their birth entitles them.”
In 1820, following out this scheme, he espoused, as a matter of business,
a young girl who was as ugly as she was noble, but who possessed a magni-
ficent dowry. The marriage was far from being a happy one ; and folks
even accuse: the duke of brutality towards his poor young wife, who failed
to understand how a man, whom she had enriched with a portion of half a
million francs, could possibly refuse her a dress she needed. However,
after a year's matrimony, she gave birth to a son, christened by the names
of Louis-Norbert; and six months later, worn out, no doubt, with the hard
life she was compelled to lead, she died, somewhat suddenly. In his heart,
her egotistical husband rejoiced rather than otherwise. He had a sturdy
young heir, and the mother's fortune now belonged to him. What else did
he care for? Henceforth unhindered, he might carry his mania for economy
to the farthest limits. Rising before daybreak, he accompanied his labourers
to the fields and toiled beside them. He attended all the fairs and markets


24
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
but he was far too simple to notice it. After mass, he accompanied his
father on an inspection of the week's work, or else obtained permission to
set snares for birds. He had no notion of real life, of the world, society,
men's relations with each other, and the value of money. Somewbat
alarmed by his natural intelligence, his father had purposely kept him in
the dark on all these points. Such, indeed, was Norbert, when one even-
ing the duke bade him hold himself in readiness to accompany him to
Poitiers on the morrow.
The Duke de Champdoce had just received the rents of several of his ten-
ants, as well as the price of a large stock of timber, and it was necessary
he should invest this money, for he never let capital lie idle. If he took
his son with him, it was because he began to feel that he must initiate him
into the management of the large fortune he would one day inherit; so,
soon after daybreak, they both set off in a light cart, with forty thousand
francs in silver, in stout bags, under their feet. Norbert was radiant. For
more than a year he had been longing to see Poitiers, which he had never
visited, although it is only some five leagues distant from Champdoce.
Poitiers, be it mentioned, is not precisely the gayest city in France, and
many of the students there naturally sigh for Paris and the Quartier
Latin. The streets are narrow tortuous and extremely ill paved. The
tall black houses seem to date from half forgotten centuries. No matter,
Norbert was fairly dazzled. As the horse was walked through the town,
to prevent any mishap, he perceived the most beautiful, most astonishing
things in the shop windows. It happened, moreover, to be market day,
and such, to the lad's mind, was the stir and bustle, that he felt almost
dizzy. He had perhaps never imagined that the earth contained so many
inhabitants ; and he was, indeed, so preoccupied that he did not notice that
the horse had stopped of its own accord in front of a stylish house, having
a notary's name inscribed on a bright brass plate.
“Come, come, Norbert,” cried the Duke. “Here we are !”
The lad at once alighted, but his mind still wandered through the town.
He helped, in purely mechanical fashion, to carry the bags of silver in-
doors. He did not notice the obsequious manner in which the notary re-
ceived his father, he did not hear a word of the interminable conversation
respecting investments that followed. His brain was busy with the mar-
vels of Poitiers-to him an earthly paradise.
At last the duke left the notary's office, taking his son with him. They
stabled the horse and cart at a large inn, on the market-place, and break.
fasted off a bit of bacon, washed down with a glass of sour wine, on the
comer of the common table where peasants and herdsmen were haggling
and tippling. However, M. de Champdoce had not come to Poitiers merely
ou account of his investment. He intended, as it was market day, to avail
himself of the opportunity to ferret out a miller, who had owed him a small
sum for more than a year. Accordingly as soon as the frugal meal was
over, he bade his son wait for him, and hurried off. Norbert was standing
in front of the inn, somewhat perplexed at finding himself abandoned in the
midst of so many strangers, when suddenly he felt some one touch him on
the shoulder. He turned at once, and found himself face to face with a
young fellow of his own age, who exclaimed with a laugh : “What! have
you forgotten your old friends ?”
It was a moment before Norbert recognized this young fellow; but sud.
denly remembering him, he responded : “Why, Montlouis, is it you ?”
This Montlouis, the son of one of the Duke de Champdoce's farmers, ha d


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
25
formerly been Norbert's comrade. In earlier days they had ofttimes
driven their cows to the same pasture lands, had spent long afternoons
playing together, fishing and bird-nesting; but for five years they had not
met each other. Norbert's hesitation on recognizing his old playmate, was
in some measure due to the latter's costume—a tall hat and a long black
coat with metal buttons. This was the uniform of the college where Mont-
louis was completing his studies ; for whilst his grace the duke was making
a peasant of his son, the humble farmer strove to turn his lad into a gentle-
man. Norbert was in fact so struck by the difference of Montlouis' attire
to his own, that beyond a few words of recognition he could find nothing to
say, “What are you doing here?” asked Montlouis, at last.
« Waiting for my father.”
"Just as I am for mine. However, we've still time to take a cup of
coffee together.” And without waiting for his old mate's acceptance of
the offer, Montlouis drew him into a little café at a few yards from the
inn. The young collegian's superiority was evident, and he seemed dis-
posed to make it yet all the more apparent. “If the billiard table were
free,” said he, “I should have proposed a game. To be sure it costs money,
and I don't suppose your father allows you much.” Norbert had never held
in his hand a fi penny bit he could call his own, and he felt cruelly mortified
on hearing his friend talk like this. “My father,” resumed Montlouis,
“never refuses me anything. But to say the truth, I work hard, and I'm
certain of two prizes this terin. When I've taken my degree, M. de Mussi-
dan will engage me as secretary-he has promised it—and I shall go to
Paris, and amuse myself. And you-what do you mean to do ?”
“I? I don't know."
“Don't know? Then I know for you. Why, you'll dig and toil in the
fields like your father. Does it amuse you? To think you're the son of a
great noble, of the richest man in Poitou, and yet you're not so happy as
I, a mere farmer's son. Well, well, I suppose there's no help for it."
They parted ; and when the Duke de Champdoce returned to the inn, he
found his son on the spot where he had left him, and noticed nothing
unusual in his manner. " Come," said the duke, “let's harness." The drive
home was a silent one. Montlouis' remarks had fallen into Norbert's mind
like subtle poison into pure water. Twenty careless words from an incon-
siderate boy were about to destroy the result of sixteen years' patience and
obstinacy. From that day, indeed, Norbert was transformed, though no
one suspected it.
It is in secluded rural districts that dipiomatists should go and study
dissimulation. This young fellow, ignorant as he was, at least knew how
to control his temper. His smiling face never revealed the storm raging
in his heart; and it was with all his usual alacrity that he started each
morning to perform his daily task, once pleasant enough, but now held by
him in horror. To gain some inkling of his thoughts, it would have been
necessary to follow and watch him. Often when he thought himself alone,
he would remain motionless for hours, leaning on his spade, with contracted
brows, and absorbed in dismal reflections-he, who formerly had known no
more of care than the bird warbling in the bushes. His intellect, aroused
by Montlouis, was now on the qui vive, and many circumstances which he
had never before heeded, at present seemed to him so many revelations.
For instance, noting his father's relations with the surrounding peasantry,
he realised, that despite apparent familiarity, they were separated by a
perfect chasm. He divined that he must seek for his equals among the


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
great landowners of the district, who lived on their estates in the summer
time, and repaired on Sundays to the Church at Bivron. The old Count de
Mussidan, so imposing with his snow white locks, the proud Marquis de
Sauvebourg, to whom the peasants bowed so humbly, were always eager to
shake hands with the Duke de Champdoce and his son. And, moreover,
the most beautiful and most disdainful of the ladies of the nobility, who
bore themselves like queens when they crossed the market-place, sweeping
the dust with the trains of their gorgeous dresses, ay, the most imposing
amongst them, seemed flattered and delighted when his grace, who, despite
his coarse garments, retained the manners of the old regime, gallantly
kissed their hands.
All this was calculated to enlighten Norbert. He felt that he was the
equal of these haughty folks ; and yet, what a difference there was between
them and him! Whilst he and his father walked to mass in their heavy
hob-nailed shoes, the others drove up in superb carriages, drawn by valu-
able horses, and were surrounded by footmen obedient to their bidding.
What could be the cause of this difference? It certainly did not consist in
the poverty of the Champdoces, for Norbert was sufficiently well acquainted
with the value of lands and crops to realise that his father was as wealthy,
if not even wealthier than these people. Thus everything he had heard
whispered since his transformation must be true. The Champdoce labourers
declared that the duke was an old miser, and that rather than spend his
gold or give it to the poor, he buried it in the vaults of his castle, rising
from bed in the dead of night to go and worship his treasures. “Our
young master, Norbert's badly off,” they said to each other. “He might
have every pleasure in life, but he's treated even more severely than our
own youngsters." Thereupon others would rejoin in a threatening tone,
“Ah, I wouldn't stand it, if I were in his place.”
The labourers were not the only ones who pitied him. He remembered
very well that on one occasion, whilst his father was talking to the Marquis
de Sauvebourg, an old lady who accompanied the latter, probably the
marchioness in person, had looked at him most compassionately, and,
carried away by her feelings, perhaps, had murmured, "Poor lad ! what a
pity he lost his mother so early.”
What did all this mean? Did it not signify that folks pitied him, be-
cause he had to submit to his father's despotic will ? To crown everything,
these gay, grand nobles had sons of their own, young fellows of Norbert's
age or thereabouts. He wept with jealousy when he compared himself
with them. Sometimes as he trudged along, bringing a pair of oxen home
after ploughing a field, he met some of these young aristocrats riding dainty
thoroughbreds. If they knew him they just exclaimed, “Good day, Norbert,"
and galloped on. The greeting seemed almost an insult to him; these
young fellows were as insolent as happiness itself and he hated them. What
life did they lead in Paris, whither they invariably returned as soon as the
cold weather set in ? He had to sow his crops, but how did they find
occupation for their hours of idleness? This was a point he could not solve,
and his absolute ignorance led him to make the most absurd conjectures.
He in no degree envied such “ pleasures," as he had hitherto heard of.
The peasantry shut themselves up in a tap-room, emptied countless
flagons of wine, shouted, disputed, and finally fought together. That was
what they called “ainusement;" but, to Norbert it seemed just the con-
trary. However, the young scions of the nobility, whom he knew by sight,
must have more refined enjoyments, a different gaiety to that of the tippler


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
27
stumbling home. But then came the question as to what these superior
pleasures really were. Across the desert with which the paternal will had
encompassed him, he divined there must be another marvellous, unknown
world. Who could describe it to him? Whom could he talk to, ask for
information, make his friend? He felt indignant at having been kept so
frightfully ignorant, whilst Montlouis, the farmer's son, went to college.
Hitherto he had yawned at the sight of a printed page, but now, although
obliged to spell almost every third word, he devoted all his spare time to
reading. However, this could not possibly please his father; and one evening
the duke imperatively declared there was nothing he disliked so much as a
bookworm. Still Norbert did not relinquish his new pursuit. Opposition
only strengthened his resolution. He read in secret. He had heard that one
of the upper rooms of the château was full of books, and so, picking the
door lock, he entered and found a library of fully three thousand volumes,
including some five hundred novels which his mother had perused in tlie
weary, lovely hours of her married life. Norbert fell on these books like a
starving man on bread. He read everything indiscriminately, without dis-
cernment or reason, jumbling the past with the present, and history with
romance. Still two ideas rapidly evolved from the confusion which filled
his mind. He considered himself the most wretched being on earth, and
he began to hate his father. Yes, he hated him with a cold bitter hatred,
with all the violence of the covetous longings that consumed him ; and if
he had dared-But he did not dare. The duke inspired him with invin-
cible terror.
Such had been the situation for eighteen months, when M. de Champdoce
considered it was time he should acquaint his son with his schemes, so that
the lad might, in his turn, fittingly labour for the restoration of the family
fortunes. It was one Sunday, after supper in the common hall, and when
all the servants had retired. Never had Norbert seen his father look so
solemn. Usually somewhat bowed, like all who have toiled long years in
the fields, the duke had now drawn himself up to his full height. All the
pride of birth, generally so skilfully concealed. glittered in his eyes. He
related to his son the history of the house of Champdoce, the origin of
which is lost in the legends of medieval times. He related the lives of all
the heroes who had made the name illustrious. He recapitulated the
honours conferred upon them, the sovereign alliances they had formed, and
told what was the wealth and power of the family in the days when the
Dompairs of Champdoce raised taxes like princes, possessing their strong-
holds and their army, and tiring out the strongest horse ere they had crossed
their domains. “That is what we were,” he cried in a ringing voice ; “but
what is left to us of all that splendour ? A house in Paris, in the Rue de
Varennes ; this castle ; a few patches of ground; a few stocks and shares ;
at the utmost, an income of three hundred thousand francs-barely eight
millions of capital !”
Norbert knew that his father was wealthy, but not to this degree. He
was stupified on hearing these figures—eight millions ! and then a thousand
conflicting thoughts flashed like lightning through his mind. Eight millions !
And he had to toil like a labourer who earned thirty sous a day! An in-
come of three hundred thousand francs! And this room where he now sat
listening to his father looked like some pauper's dwelling! His ancestors
had had an army of retainers, and yet all the clodhoppers of the district
treated him with patronising familiarity! How could he accept such
humiliation and such poverty, being so wealthy and so nobly born ? A first


28
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
impulse of rage almost overcame his usual timidity, and he half rose to re-
proach his father for his avarice and cruelty ; but his strength was not in
keeping with his audacity. Overwhelmed with emotion, he sank on to his
stool again, unable to speak a word, choked by the sobs that rose from his
heart.
The duke had not noticed this explosion of feeling. Prostration seemed to
have followed the excitement with which he had recorded the glories of his
house, and now he was walking heavily up and down the room, his head
bowed upon his breast. “Barely eight millions,” he repeated; "'tis little,
very little.”
Little indeed! And yet Norbert knew that not one of the so-called
wealthy families of the neighbourhood possessed a third of this large
capital. The Mussidans certainly did not enjoy an income of more than
eighty thousand francs. The Sauvebourgs, at the very most, had half as
much again. There was certainly a so-called M. de Puymandour, who was
said to be over and over again a millionaire ; but he was by no means of
authentic nobility, and, according to popular report, the origin of his wealth
would not bear anything like close inspection. Thinking of all this,
Norbert looked hatefully at his father, as the latter paced to and fro mutter-
ing unintelligible words; and the lad needed all his reason, all the energy
of his honest conscience, to repell the frightful ideas that assailed his mind.
At last the Duke de Champdoce paused in front of his son. “My fortune
is nothing,” he said bitterly ; “no, nothing, in these days when vain and
insolent upstarts of the middle classes carry all before them. Because they
have bought our estates and affixed the names of their château to their own
ridiculous cognomens, they fancy they belong to the nobility, and copy,
not our qualities, but our vices. The real aristocracy has not understood
the times; it leads a wretched, beggarly life, and will soon die of hunger.
Money is everything now-a-days; and for a Champdoce to fight against all
these parvenus, all these financial princes whose escutcheon is stolen coin,
he must, at the very least, have an income of a million francs. Do you
hear me, my son, a million.” Norbert looked at his father in astonish-
ment; despite all his attention, he could not understand the drift of these
explanations. “Neither you nor I, my son,” proceeded the duke, “will
ever have the capital of such an income in our coffers ; but, please God, our
descendants will find it in theirs. Our ancestors established the power of
our house by valour and the sword; we must show ourselves worthy of
them, and consolidate what they have bequeathed to us by dint of labour
and privations." The old nobleman paused, and for some moments his
emotion prevented him from proceeding. “Well, I have done my duty,"
he resumed at length, growing somewhat calmer. “It is for you to do
your's. When I set about the task, I hadn't fifteen hundred thousand
francs I could call my own. I have just told you what I now possess. You
must imitate me. You shall marry some wealthy young girl who will bear
you a son. He must be brought up like I have brought you up. By living
in the same style as myself, and even if you are unlucky in crops, you will
at the very least be able to bequeath your son some fifteen millions. Let him
imitate us, and then, in his turn, he will leave his descendants a regal
fortune! This is what must and shall be, for so have I decided.”
Now, indeed, Norbert fully understood. Still he remained silent, utterly
overcome with wonder and surprise.
“It is no doubt a painful task,” resumed his father, “but it is by no
means unknown to illustrious families. In seeking to establish a great


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
house a man must live entirely in the future, and forget himself to think
of his posterity. There are certainly moments when a man's frivolous or
evil instincts try to gain the upper hand, but they may be crushed and
stifled if you always keep your great and noble object in view. Follow my
example. I only live for my descendants, and picture to myself the splen-
did existence they will owe to our exertions." As Norbert listened, he half
fancied he was dreaming. “You have seen me," continued M. de Champ-
doce, “haggle for hours over a paltry twenty-franc piece. I did so, saying
to myself that some day one of our descendants would nobly throw it to a
beggar from his carriage window. Everything I amass is intended for
them. Next year I will take you to Paris and you shall see the house we
possess there. You will find it full of tapestry, such as other people cannot
obtain for love or money, full of furniture of marvellous workmanship, and
masterpieces of painting and sculpture. I preserve, and embellish this
house as a lover embellishes the home he means for his bride ; for I intend,
Norbert, that it shall belong to our children, to the Dompairs de Champ-
doce of the future.” The duke spoke in a tone of triumph, he seemingly
divined the future and pictured his descendants in the proud position he
had described. “If I have spoken to you in this fashion,” he resumed,
imperatively, “it is because you are old enough to know the truth. What
I have told you must be your rule through life. You are now a man, and
of your own free will you must do what you have done, hitherto, merely
out of obedience. That is everything. To-morrow, you will have to load
twenty-five sacks of wheat, and take them to the bakery at Bivron. You
may now retire.”
Norbert staggered from the room. Like all despots, unused to contra-
diction, the terrible old nobleman did not admit the possibility of his son
hesitating, He foresaw no obstacles to his pet scheme, and yet at this very
moment Norbert was swearing to himself that he would never obey his
father. His rage, which fear had restrained whilst he was in the duke's
presence, now burst freely forth. He had gained the broad walk, lined
with old walnut trees, behind the château; and rushing along, he thun-
dered out his despair. He pictured himself condemned, condemned beyond
appeal. As long as he had imagined that his father was simply a miser, he
had indulged in hope-all passions have their fluctuations ; but now,
despite his inexperience, he understood that such a mania as the duke's could
never be shaken off. “My father's mad,” he repeated, “my father's mad."
Everything he had heard seemed to him monstrous and absurd, and he
longed to free himself from such atrocious tyranny. But then how could
he hope to gain freedom? What could he possibly do?
Alas! Evil counsellers are only too easily found, and on the very
morrow, Norbert was fated to meet one at Bivron, in the person of a man
named Dauman, who bore the Duke de Champdoce no good will.
THIS man Dauman did not belong to the district, and, indeed, folks were
quite ignorant of his antecedents. He asserted that he had formerly been
à huissier at Barbezieux ; and after all this was quite possible, nobody
having made inquiries. One thing is certain, he had long lived in Paris,
for he spoke of the capital like a man well acquainted with its ins-and-outs
and the ups and downs of life there. He was a scraggy little fellow, some


30
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
fifty years of age, with the face or rather the snout of a weasel. With his
long pointed nose, his cunning restless eyes, and his thin lips, he hardly looked
the sort of a man to be trusted. He had arrived at Bivron some fifteen
years previously, looking inexpressibly seedy and with little or no worldly
possessions. However, he showed himself remarkably eager to make
money, and was ready for anything. He had, indeed, prospered during his
sojourn in Poitou, and owned fields and vineyards and even a house at the
Croix-du-Pâtre, where the highway and the cross road to Bivron meet. In
addition, he was rumoured to have a nice round sum in cash put by. He
had no real profession, but he dabbled in everything and had a finger in
every pie. He had something to do with everything that was estimated or
sold. He bought standing crops of the farmers who were “hard up,”
and gave himself out as a clever surveyor. Those who needed money or
grain for seed purposes applied to him, and providing they produced
suitable guarantees, he willingly accommodated them at the rate of fifty
per cent. In one word, he was the confidential adviser of all the folks
with tarnished reputations, and the evil genius of all the madcaps for five
leagues round. He was said to be exceedingly skilful, able to rescue
anyone from a false situation. Was he really such a master of the law as
he pretended ? At all events, he could not speak for a minute without
quoting some clause of the code. He pretended that his one great desire
in the world was to improve the lot of the peasantry, and thus, whilst
squeezing heavy interest out of them, he tried to stir them up against the
nobility, the merchant classes and the priests. Owing to his facile verbiage,
his legal knowledge, and his long frock coat, the farmers had nicknamed
him the “lawyer" or the “judge." His enmity towards M. de Champdoce,
dated from an occasion when he had almost come to grief. He had found
himself on the threshold of the assize court, and would have been severely
sentenced had he not managed to bring forward four or five false witnesses
to swear in his favour. However, the duke having openly declared against
him, and endeavoured to persuade the peasantry not to let him dabble in
their affairs, Dauman had sworn he would have his revenge, and for the last
five years he had been watching for a favourable opportunity. Such,
physically and morally, was the man whom Norbert met at the mills of
Bivron on the morrow of the foregoing interview with his father.
In accordance with the instructions he had received, the young fellow
brought his five-and-twenty sacks of wheat from Champdoce, and unassisted
he had removed them from the waggon and carried them on his shoulders
up to the mill loft. He had just put on his jacket again, and was preparing
to return home, when Dauman approached him, and bowing to the ground
begged him to give him a lift as far as his house. “I hope,” said he,
" that Monsieur le Marquis will excuse the liberty I take in asking for this
favour, but the rascally rheumatism that troubles me prevents me from
walking. I'm growing old and weak, Monsieur le Marquis.”
Dauman knew how to give folks their fitting titles ; he had read that a
duke's son was known as a marquis, and so he lavished the apellation on
Norbert. It was the very first time that the latter had ever been so
addressed. A few days earlier, his common sense would have induced him
to look on the flattery for what it was worth, but now his famishing vanity
was delighted. “Yes, I've a seat for you, 'judge,'" said he, “I'm only
waiting for a sack that was forgotten at the last delivery."
Dauman made a low bow, and smiled obsequiously. But whilst express.
ing his thanks he watched Norbert, askance, and noting that the lad's


32
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
the province like himself, and of somewhat questionable reputation, albeit
exceedingly devout. She was certainly on terms of surprising familiarity
with her master. The latter's “study" as he called it was almost as am.
biguous as himself. A stock of pigeon holes ran along one wall; there was
a desk covered with ledgers ; sacks of wheat and rye stood in sundry cor-
ners ; a book case replete with legal tomes faced the fireplace, while from
the ceiling hung numerous bunches of dried herbs. It was with great re-
spect that the “judge” ushered the son and heir of the Duke de Champdoce
into this apartment. He brought forward his own leather chair, and, as
soon as his guest was seated, went in person to the cellar whence he
speedily returned with a venerable looking bottle. “Taste this, Monsieur
le Marquis," he said, when he had filled two glasses. “A grower at
Archiac gave me this brandy in return for a great service I did him ; for,
let me tell you without boasting, I have done many people a good turn in
my time.” So saying, he raised his own glass and smacked his lips.
“Good, is it not? One can't buy anything with a bouquet like that!”
All this obsequiousness was not thrown away, for in less than half an hour
Norbert had opened his heart. His conduct was in some measure excusable,
He was in one of those situations when it is positive relief to be able to con-
fide a secret to any one, and besides he knew little or nothing of the
“judge's ” true character. So he poured forth his most secret thonghts.
The story was a long one, and Dauman chuckled secretly as he listened ;
though all the time, he retained the grave face of a physician, called in
for a serious consultation. “This is frightful !” he said, at last. “Poor
fellow ! were it not for the respect I owe to Monsieur le Duke, I should say
he was not in full possession of his intellectual faculties."
How could such a lad as Norbert distrust such marks of commiseration ?
“Well, as I've just said,” he continued with tears of rage starting from his
eyes, “That's the way I'm situated ! My destiny is settled, it seems, and
I'm helpless. Unless, indeed, I kill myself.” And he added with clinched
teeth, “ After all, it would be better to rot under ground than lead such a
life as mine.” At these words Dauman smiled so singularly that Norbert
asked, “Do you think that a mere child's threat ?”
“By no means, marquis ; you have suffered too much not to have
thought of suicide ; but excuse me if I say that you are foolish to talk in
this way of your future.”
“Future !” cried Norbert angrily. “Why do you talk to me of a future,
when you know that my present life may endure twenty years more? My
father is young still.”
“What of that? In three years you will be of age, and then you will
have a right to claim your mother's fortune.” Norbert's astonishment con-
vinced the “judge” that the youth was even more simple than he had sup-
posed. “When a man reaches his majority," continued Dauman, in an ex-
planatory tone, “ he may claim whatever he is legally entitled to. Such is
the law. Your mother's fortune would render you independent of your
father.”
“But how could I ever dare to claim it?"
“It would not be necessary for you to claim it in person. A notary
would transact the business. Of course, you have to wait three years be-
fore making the demand ?”
“But that's impossible," answered Norbert. “I can never wait. I must
put a stop to this tyranny at once.”
“Fortunately there are ways”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“Do you think so, “judge'?”
“I will point them out. If you were of age, I would suggest applying
to the courts to have your father placed under interdict, as, being inflicted
with monomania, he is unfit to manage his fortune properly. That is done
every day in great families. But then, unfortunately, you are not of age.
Let us think of something else.” Worthy M. Dauman swallowed another
glass of brandy, and then resumed, “You are eighteen, and wish to escape
from your father's tyranny. Well, to begin with, you might enlist as a
soldier.”
“Ay,” exclaimed Norbert, “ that's always a resource.”
“A bad one, marquis, believe me. However, you might forward a com-
plaint to the Public Prosecutor."
“A complaint ?"
“Yes. Do you suppose our laws do not provide for the case of a father
abusing his authority? Tell me, has your father ever struck you ? "
“Never."
“Never mind, you might say it all the same ; and besides you could urge
that you are not brought up in accordance with your rank, that you are
denied the advantages of education, that you are treated as a servant,
whilst your father is several times a millionaire. All those points would
hit hard ; and, besides, all the countryside would bear testimony that you
are pitied by everyone, and commonly known as the little Champdoce
savage.”
· Norbert started to his feet. “Who ever dared to speak of me in that
way?” he cried, in a threatening voice. “Name him."
This explosion in no way amazed the “judge,” who had indeed artfully
provoked it. “Be calm, be calın, Monsieur le Marquis,” he answered,
adding 'as Norbert resumed his seat, “ The term is used by all your
enemies, or rather by your father's foes, and I can tell you they are no few
in number, thanks to his despotic habits. You yourself might count many
friends. For instance, several ladies of your own rank take great interest
in you. Only the other day, Monsieur le Marquis, when you were being
spoken of, Mademoiselle Diane de Sauvebourg turned scarlet at the mere
mention of your name. Do you know Mademoiselle Diane ?”.
The young man flushed. "Sufficit,” resumed Dauman. “Well when you
are free you will do as you please. And now, in reference to your com-
plaint-
But Norbert, who had just caught sight of the clock, started up once
more. “Twelve o'clock,” said he, * dinner-time. What on earth will my
father say?"
“ Are you afraid of him as much as that?” asked the "judge” with a
touch of sarcasm.
But Norbert did not hear the taunt; he was already in the road, and,
springing into his waggon, drove off at full speed. Standing on the
threshold of the house, Dauman gazed after him. “Make haste, my
lad,” said he. “You didn't say good-bye ; you'll come again. I've å
third little plan in iny mind to rid you of your father, and that's the one
you shall adopt. Ah ! ah ! my Lord Duke of Champdoce, you wanted to
send me to the galleys, did you? Well, you shall see where I'll send your
son.”
VOL. II.


36
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
away. “What does the boy mean?” he muttered. “Could the curé have
been right?"
The fact is, this new arrangement, as his grace called it, had been press-
ingly advised by the only man M. de Champdoce ever condescended to
listen to-the village priest of Bivron. However, the relaxation came too
late. Norbert's hatred against “his tyrant,” as he called his father, was
too deeply rooted to be so easily dispelled. And besides, what was this
great concession after all ? A gun, and a matter of thirty francs in all !
It would have been different had his father decided to complete his educa-
tion ; but no, he was still to remain the “Champdoce savage.” Neverthe-
less, availing himself of his father's authorisation, he spent long days in
the cover, less engaged in shooting than in thinking over his position. In
his rambles he was invariably accompanied by the dog the forester had
brought for him, and the animal was so intelligent and faithful that he felt
he had found a friend. He still thought of Dauman ; and although he had
asked questions, and ascertained that the “judge” was a most dangerous
man, who would stop at nothing, he none the less determined to return to
him for further advice. It was in vain that conscience warned him ; he
spurned its counsels, longing more ardently than ever for the life of freedom
and enjoyment he had dreamed of.
IV.
DAUMAN was expecting to see him, as certain of his coming as the bird.
catcher of a capture, after carefully arranging his perfidious mirror. Had
he not ensnared Norbert with a mirage of enjoyable liberty ? Dauman,
like all who speculate in cupidity and misery, had his spies everywhere,
and knew precisely what was going on at the château. He even knew the
very words the duke had used during this last conversation, and was aware
of the privileges granted to Norbert. Still, he was convinced that by this
relaxation M. de Champdoce only hastened his son's revolt. Of an evening
after dinner he often roamed along the high road, with his pipe in his
mouth, and whenever he sighted the château de Champdoce, he was wont
to shake his fist at it threateningly, and mutter, “He'll come back! Yes,
he'll come !"
And indeed, a week later, one day when Norbert was supposed to be
shooting as usual, he knocked at the door of his father's enemy. From his
window Dauman had seen him approach, and it was with quite as much
respect as before that he received "Monsieur le Marquis," as he took good
care to call the lad. Still, he seemed embarrassed, and in lieu of saying
anything to the point continued repeating, “Your very humble servant,
Marquis ; your very humble servant."
Norbert, who had expected a very different greeting, was disconcerted
by this coldness, and thought of withdrawing. However, his vanity with-
heid him, and he said to himself that if he retired without attempting any.
thing, the “judge” would certainly consider him a fool. So, mustering
up his courage, he began, “I wish to consult you, M. Dauman. As I have
no experience of my own, I desire to avail myself of yours.”
“I am sure, sir-I am sure—" replied the “judge with an absent air.
“ Come,” exclaimed Norbert, “ you really ought to help me after what
you said the other day. When I left so hurriedly you were explaining
the different plans I might resort to with the view of altering my position."


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
Dauman winked as he answered, “Nothing, marquis-bide your time,
you have only three years to wait. Be patient. Your father is an old
man. Let him nurse his hobby for three years more, and—”.
But he was suddenly cut short by Norbert, who, bringing his fist down
with a bang on the table, exclaimed, “If that's all you have to say, I am
sorry I came.” At the same time he turned as if to leave the room.
“You are too hasty, marquis,” rejoined the “judge."
The young man hesitated. “Well, go on then,” he said abruptly.
“ Please notice, marquis,” resumed Dauman, “ that while advising you
to be prudent, I don't suggest that you should endure all the hardships
you have hitherto had to bear. In fact, I should simply like to see you
both happy. I am like a justice of the peace seeking to reconcile two
adversaries. Now, while seeming to be submissive, can't you arrange a
plan of life for yourself ?" Norbert returned to the centre of the room.
He wondered what the “judge” was driving at. “You have more liberty
already, I think,” continued Dauman. “Does your father know how you
employ it?"
6What can I do but shoot
“Well, I know very well what I should do if I had your age.
“What would you do ?”
“To begin with, I should stop at home just enough to avoid all suspicion,
but the rest of the time I should spend at Poitiers, which is a very pleasant
town. I should rent there a nice apartment, where I could be my own
master. At Champdoce I should perforce wear my old coat and wooden
shoes, but at Poitiers I should wear clothes made by a good tailor. I
would find some jolly companions among the students ; have male and
female friends ; dance, sing, and generally amuse myself.” He hesitated
for a moment, and then abruptly asked, “ There ought to be some fast horses
among those your father breeds ? Very well, then ; why not take one for
your own use. In the night, when you are supposed to be sound asleep,
you could quietly slip out of doors, with your gun and spaniel, mind, harness
the horse, and reach Poitiers in a wink. Then dress yourself like the
handsome young lord you are, and join your friends. If you don't choose
to go home the next day, well, seeing neither gun nor dog, folks would
think you were out shooting."
Norbert was naturally straightforward, and the idea of this duplicity
was intensely repugnant to him. Still it was the natural result of circum-
stances. On the other hand, the coarse picture of pleasure, sketched by
Dauman, appealed to his imagination with such force that his eyes sparkled
with covetous longing. “What is there to prevent your doing this ? '
asked Dauman, insidiously.
“The lack of money,” sighed Norbert. “A large sum would be needed,
and I have none. If I asked my father he would refuse, and besides—"
“Have you no friends who would consent to oblige you for three years?"
“None whatever.” And Norbert, overwhelmed by a sense of his
powerlessness, dropped heavily on to a chair.
For a moment Dauman remained reflecting. It seemed as if a struggle
were going on in his mind. “Well, no, no, Monsieur le Marquis,” he
exclaimed at last, “I can't see you unhappy without doing my best to
save you. It's a foolish thing to slip one's fingers between the bark and
the tree, but no matter ; I'll risk it. Some one shall lend you what you
want."
“You, judge?'"


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
39
“ Unfortunately, no. I'm only a poor devil ; but I have the confidence
of several of the farmers hereabouts, who bring me their savings to invest
for them. Why shouldn't I secure them for you?"
Norbert caught his breath. “Can it really be managed ?” he asked,
anxiously.
“Yes, marquis. Only you must understand it will cost you dear. The
interest will be far above the legal rate, on account of the risk incurred.
The law does not recognise such transactions, and I myself don't approve
them. In your place, I shouldn't borrow this money, but wait until some
friend can accommodate you."
“I have no friends,” was Norbert's reply.
Dauman shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “Decide as you please, I
wash my hands of the consequences," and then he exclaimed aloud,
“ After all, marquis, this would be but an insignificant matter, given the
great wealth you will come into one of these days.” Thereupon he explained
in full detail on what conditions he could consent to part with the funds
intrusted to him by his clients, the farmers, pausing at each particular
point to ask, “Do you understand me, marquis ?”
Norbert understood so well that in exchange for two thousand francs in
banknotes he joyfully signed two I O U's of forty thousand francs each in
favour of a couple of petty farmers of bad repute, who were entirely under
Dauman's thumb. The young fellow, moreover, gave his word never to
disclose to any one that the “judge” had had anything to do with the
transaction.
“Prudence, marquis ! That must be the rule of your life. Come here
only after dark.” Such was Dauman's parting advice to his client; and as
he stood alone in his office, he carefully re-perused the acknowledgments,
which Norbert had given in exchange for the money. Yes, he had forgotten
nothing. His knowledge of the law had served him well. These I'O U's
would certainly be paid when the marquis came into his property, if merely
to avoid a scandal. The wily trickster intended to let Norbert have ail
his savings, some forty thousand francs, on similar terms, so as to be able
to claim a perfect fortune on the day the lad succeeded to his father's title.
It is true that all this fine plan hung on Norbert's discretion, for at the first
suspicion the duke would turn round and spoil everything. However, all
things considered, Dauman felt pretty sure that the young marquis would
keep his promises of secrecy.
As Norbert walked home, he was compelled to keep his hand in his
pocket and feel the crisp, silky bank-notes to satisfy himselfſ that it was
not all a dream. That night seemed a year long; and at day-break, with
his gun and dog, he strode along the road to Poitiers. “I will hire a small
apartment,” he said to himself, and make the acquaintance of some of the
students to begin with.”
In fact, he meant to do precisely what Dauman had advised. However,
he reached Poitiers, which he had only visited on one occasion, and at
sight of the houses and people felt terribly confused and embarrassed. He
sauntered along the streets not knowing how to begin, not daring to enter
a shop or make a single inquiry. He was like a newly fledged bird, at a
loss how to use its wings. At last, feeling cruelly mortified, he went to
the inn on the market-place, where he had been with his father, and, after
an unsatisfactory breakfast, returned, sadly downcast, to Champdoce. Late
that evening he saw Dauman, and related his misadventure, which greatly
amused the worthy “judge." But the latter was a man of resources, and


40
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
so he kindly put the young marquis in communication with a friend of his,
who, for a good commission, piloted him about, hired furnished apartments
for him, and took him to a tailor, of whom he ordered such clothes as he
needed. Norbert was now elated again, and fancied himself on the high-
road to the gratification of his desires; but the result was far below his
hopes. He was too timid and ignorant to enjoy himself. He needed a
friend and knew not where to find one. One evening he entered the Café
Castilie, and although it was then the long vacation he met several students
there. But their noisy merriment scared him, and he hastily withdrew.
Thus he lived alone at Poitiers as at Champdoce, spending most of his time
in the rooms he had rented, in the company of his dog Bruno, who would
certainly have preferred the open fields. Altogether, he only had five
enjoyable evenings which he spent at the theatre; and to attain this paltry
result, he had to lead a life of perpetual dissimulation. M. de Champdoce
had noticed his son's frequent absence froin hoine ; but his surmises were
far from the truth. One morning, however, he rallied Norbert on his lack
of success in the cover, for the lad seldom brought as much as a hare or a
rabbit home. “Come, Norbert,” said he,“ do your best to-day. Let's
have a full bag this time, for we shall have a friend to dinner to-morrow.”
“To dinner! Here?”
“Yes," said M. de Champdoce, repressing a smile, " yes, here! M. de
Puymandour is coming. The grand dining-room upstairs must be opened
and put in order.”
Norbert took up his gun and whistled Bruno. He was sorely perplexed
as to what this visit meant. At all events, he could not spend the day at
Poitiers, and it was essential he should shoot something. However, he
was by no means an able marksman, and throughout the morning he
rambled far and wide, burning a good deal of powder without result.
About two o'clock, however, he was approaching the moors of Bivron,
he fancied he could distinguish an imprudent rabbit, nibbling near a
hedge. Now was his opportunity. He raised his gun, fired-heard a
shriek of pain or fright-and Bruno at once dashed into the hedge,
barking furiously.
DIANE DE SAUVEBOURG was the veriest woman that ever breathed. This
seemingly artless girl, apparently occupied with a thousand frivolous
whims, really possessed an iron will, and would have died before renounc-
ing her project of becoming the Duchess de Champdoce. So far, all her
rambles had been fruitless. The weather had become uncertain, and she
would soon have to give up her long strolls round about Bivron and Champ-
doce. Still she clung tenaciously to her idea. “The day. must come,”
said she, “ when the invisible prince will appear !”
The day came. It was mid November, and the weather was ex-
tremely mild for the season. There was a blue sky overhead, the last
leaves on the trees fluttered in the breeze, and the blackbirds sang in the
hedges. Diane de Sauvebourg was walking along the path leading to
Mussidan from the Bivron woods, when suddenly she heard a crackling of
branches in the copse on her left hand. She turned at once, feeling some.
what startled, and all her blood seemed suddenly to rush to her heart, for
through an opening in the hedge she caught sight of the very man she had


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
41
been watching and waiting for during two long months. Norbert was
cautiously advancing, his forefinger on the trigger of his gun, as if about
to take aim at something he was watching. Emotion kept Diane spell.
bound. She faintly realised the difference between intentions and facts,
and all the phantasmagoria of her imagination vanished. Here was the
very occasion she had so long and patiently watched for, and yet she could
draw no advantage from it. What would happen ! Norbert would simply
bow to her in passing, she would return his salutation, and then she might
wait another two months for a second meeting. How could she engage any
conversation with him? Was there any possibility of her doing so ? She
was just deciding to make some heroic effort, when she saw Norbert level
his gun in her direction, he was taking aim. She wished to warn him, but
ere she had time she felt a sudden, sharp pain in one leg just above the
ankle. With a shriek she raised both arms and fell at full length on the
path-way. Still she did not faint, for she heard the report of the gun, a cry
of alarm in reply to her own, and a crash through the underwood.
Presently she felt a hot breath on her face, and then the touch of some-
thing cold and damp. She opened her eyes and saw Bruno licking her
hands. At the same moment the hedge was torn apart and Norbert ap-
peared before her. She at once realised the advantages of her position and
closed her eyes again.
Norbert, as he stood over this fair creature, stretched white and motion-
less before him, felt as if he were going mad. He had killed Mademoiselle
de Sauvebourg, and at the thought, his first impulse was to take to his heels,
his second, to aid his victim. He knelt beside her, and soon perceiving
she could not be dead, carefully raised her head, exclaiming, “Mademoiselle,
I beseech you, speak to me !" But she did not speak at once. She was
absorbed in returning thanks to Heaven for her granted prayer. Presently
she stirred, however, slowly raising her eyelids, and looked at Norbert with
the surprise of a person just roused from sleep. “It is I,” stammered the poor
fellow-"Norbert de Champdoce. Will you pardon me? Are you suffer-
ing?”
He seemed so distressed, that Diane really pitied him ; so repelling his
arm, she gently said, “It is for me to beg your pardon, sir, for fainting in
this foolish way ; for I am really more frightened than hurt."
· Norbert breathed again. “However, I will go for help,” said he.
“By no means. It is a mere scratch;" and she drew her skirt a little
aside and showed an ankle that would have turned a steadier head than
Norbert's. “Look !” said she, “it is there ;” and she showed a spot of
blood staining her white stocking
Seeing this, Norbert's fright returned, and he started up. “I will run
to the château," he said, “and in less than an hour-"
“No, do nothing of the kind,” interrupted Diane. “It is really nothing.
Look ! I can move my foot perfectly well.”
“But I beg of you—"
“ Hush ! we will soon see what it is ;” and ripping her stocking with a
pen knife she began to examine her wound. It was as she had said,
nothing. Two shots had struck her-one had grazed the skin only, and
the other had lodged in the flesh; however it was on the surface.
“You must have a surgeon,” urged Norbert.
“For that? No it's not worth the trouble !” And with the point of
her knife she loosened the tiny shot, which dropped on to the ground.
Norbert was gazing in ecstacy at this beautiful young woman. He had


42
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
never heard a voice like hers before. He had never seen anyone so lovely,
and he seemned perfectly entranced.
In the meantime Diane had torn her handkerchief into four strips, which
she tied around her wound. “Now I am all right,” she said gaily, at
the same time extending her pretty slender hands to Norbert, that he
might help her to rise. Once on her feet, she took several steps with a
slight limp.
• But you are suffering !" cried Norbert, in despair.
“No, I am not, indeed; why, I shall have forgot it this evening,” rejoined
Diane, and she laughed like a merry school-girl, as with a little teasing air
she added, “this is a droll meeting, marquis.”
Norbert was struck by the way in which Diane uttered the word mar-
quis, for no one save Dauman had ever before given him this title. “She
does not despise me!” he thought.
“ This melodramatic adventure will be a lesson to me. Mamma always
insists on my keeping on the highway, but I prefer this path on account
of its lovely view." So saying, she extended her hand, and it seemed to
Norbert that a curtain rose, as in a theatre, and that he saw the familiar
scenery for the first time. “Although it is very wrong to disobey mamma,"
continued Diane, “I come this way nearly every day when I go to see poor
old mother Besson ! Poor woman, she's dying of consumption ; still I try
to save her with nourishing food-good meat and soup. It is the only
chance." She spoke on as unctuously as a Sister of Charity, and in Norbert's
opinion, only lacked wings to be an angel. “The poor woman,” she con-
tinued, “has three children, and their father does nothing for them, for he
drinks all he earns.”
Norbert had indited one of his I O U's for 4,000 francs in the name of this
very Besson. He was, according to Dauman, one of those “clients” who
wished to invest their savings. However, Norbert paid no attention to the
matter; he was too preoccupied in looking at Mademoiselle Diane, who
had already placed her basket on her arm. “Before leaving you,” she said,
with considerable hesitation, “I should so much like-if I dared—to ask a
favour-"
“ A favour of me, mademoiselle ?"
“You will oblige me," she resumed, “ by saying nothing of this accident
to any one. Should it reach the ears of my parents, they would be very
anxious, and, undoubtedly, deprive ine of the little liberty they now
accord me."
“I will never mention this terrible misfortune, mademoiselle,” he
answered.
“Thanks, marquis,” exclaimed Diane, with a coquettish courtesy.
“And another time, let me advise you, before you shoot, to ascertain that
there's no one in the path !"
As she turned and departed, she limped no longer. Right lightly did
her happy feet tread the earth. She had read Norbert's eyes like an open
book ; the game was in her hands. Women have a sixth sense which re-
veals to them things hidden from masculine perception. She had told Nor-
bert in five careless sentences exactly what she wished him to know-that
she was allowed some little liberty by her parents, and passed along that
path almost every day. She was certain that the young marquis had not
Iost one word ; and looking back, she saw him standing just as she had left
him, as motionless as the trees around.
The poor boy felt, when Diane hurried off, as if she took with her all his


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
43
vitality. He had felt a strange, unaccountable pang as she tripped away.
What did it mean? Had he been dreaming? And as if to satisfy him.
self that the adventure was a real one, he knelt down and searched for the
shot that Mademoiselle de Sauvebourg had picked with her penknife from
her leg. Having found it he rose, and, lost in reverie, slowly sauntered
home. To his great surprise, when he entered the court-yard, he found
the grand entrance open, and on the steps there stood his father, who im-
patiently exclaimed, “Make haste, lad,' I want to present you to our
VL.
SINCE the death of Norbert's mother, the state rooms of the château had re-
mained closed, but they were kept in such order, that they could be utilised
at any moment. The dining-room was really magnificent, with its huge
sideboards of carved oak incrusted with steel and garnished with plate bear-
ing the Champdoce arms. Everything was on a grand scale. The walls
were hung with tapestry, the seats were covered with old stamped leather,
the table was so huge and heavy, that four men could barely raise it from
the ground. When Norbert entered, he found himself face to face with a
fat little, red-faced man, looking altogether common and vulgar, although
his clothes were cut in the very best style. This was the Count de Puy-
mandour, to whom M. de Champdoce at once introduced his son, by his
title of marquis. Norbert was surprised, and wondered what this cere-
monious presentation meant. However, his reflections were suddenly in-
terrupted by the sonorous peals of the great bell, which had not been rung
for fifteen years. At the same moment a valet entered the dining-room
carrying a large silver soup tureen. The dinner of three, seated at so huge a
table, and in so vast a room, would have been a little dreary, but for M. de
Puymandour's fund of anecdote and adventure. He was continually to
the fore with a fresh story, which he told in a jolly but vulgar tone, inter-
spersed with hearty laughs. Whilst talking, however, he ate, and went
into ecstacies over the wine, which the duke had brought up from the
cellar, where he preserved a large supply intended for his descendants.
M. de Champdoce, generally so silent and morose, smiled benignantly
whilst the Count de Puymandour rattled on, and seemed indeed to greatly
enjoy his guest's jokes. Norbert who knew his father, and had long
studied him, was quite at a loss to understand his urbanity. Was it merely
such as a host should show, was it sincere, or did it conceal an after-
thought? He could not tell.
M. de Puymandour resided with his only daughter in a charming château
of modern date, less than a league from Champdoce. He was most hospit-
ably minded, and his receptions were truly magnificent; but whilst the
neighbouring nobility condescended to dine at his table, they none the less
called him a "robber” and a “rascal.” He could not have been spoken
of with greater contempt had he made his fortune by highway robbery.
The fact is, he was wealthy ; folks who pretended to be well informed,
asserting that he possessed no less than five millions of francs. He had ac-
quired them honestly and legitimately enough, by trading in wool on the
Spanish frontier. His great, his only crime was, that his real name was
Palouzat. On becoming wealthy, he had purchased the title of count from
the Pope, had ordered a coat of arms from a herald's office in Paris, and had


44
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
endeavoured to convince the world that he was a born nobleman. With
this object, indeed, he had left his native town, Orthez, to settle in Poitou,
where the nobility tolerated him on account of his wealth, but without
ever recognising his aristocratic pretensions. Still on this particular even-
ing, he was greatly elated. It was no small honour to dine with the
terrible Duke de Champdoce, and, indeed, M. de Puymandour considered it
equivalent to a patent of social equality.
At ten o'clock, when the meal was over, and he talked of retiring, the
duke insisted on escorting him as far as the high road ; and Norbert, who
walked a little in the rear, managed to catch a few words of the private con-
versation the pair were having together. “Yes,” said De Puymandour, “I
will give a round million. That's a sum, mind."
“Oh, I must have half as much again,” rejoined M. de Champdoce.
“Half as much again !” was the retort, “no, that can never be
managed. And, besides, remember the million I speak of will be in hard
cash."
“Not enough, I say,” rejoined the duke. "You'll come to my figure;
I'm sure of it. It's your interest to do so." ..
Norbert was too absorbed in thoughts of Diane to pay much attention to
this talk ; but when M. de Puymandour had gone on his way the lad was
roused from his reverie by his father exclaiming, “ Did you note the bear-
ing of thạt man, Norbert? He's a representative of our new aristocracy,
and one of the best among them, too. Buffoon as he may be, he's still in-
telligent and honest. In another century the descendants of these folks
will form a new nobility as greedy of prerogatives and influence as ours.”
During the walk home, M. de Champdoce enlarged on this subject; but
Norbert, despite his seemingly attentive bearing, had again relapsed into
the land of dreams. He fancied he could hear Diane's harmonious voice
and merry laugh; he recalled all the circumstances of his melodramatic
adventure that afternoon, and asked himself what impression he could have
created on this young girl. Had he not made a fool of himself ? Had he
not behaved like a simpleton ? Surely she would never take any notice of
him.
However, he did not forget what she had said respecting her daily
rambles in the same direction, and at the thought he might perhaps soon
meet her again his blood tingled in his veins. He worshipped her already.
Ah ! if such a woman as she was only smiled upon him, his life would be
changed indeed! He longed to see her, to tell her that he loved her; but
realising that at the decisive moment his tongue would no doubt fail him,
he thought it preferable to write. However, what could he say? He be-
gan fifty fresh letters that night and tore them up in succession. He feared
that the plain, simple words, “I love you," would prove too startling and
abrupt, and tried to express his feelings in milder terms. At last he con-
sidered he had composed a masterpiece, and threw himself on his bed, not
to sleep, however, but to think and wait for morning. At early daybreak
he had left the house, carrying his gun and followed by his faithful spaniel,
and hurried to the spot where he had met Mademciselle Diane the day be.
fore. Alas ! he waited in vain. Hour after hour elapsed, and he strode.
up and down in feverish impatience, but she came not. He would have
been much surprised had he been told that the young lady considered it
not politic to show herself. And yet twice that day she ventured stealthily
through the brushwood, watched him for several minutes, and then
cautiously retired. On the morrow, after perceiving that Norbert was still


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
ing hold of her hands, covered them with kisses. Pale, and with com-
pressed lips, Diane felt herself carried away by this whirlwind of passion.
She panted for breath and fairly trembled. She found herself caught in
the snare she had herself spread for Norbert, and it was only with a great
effort that she succeeded in regaining some degree of self-possession. This
situation must not be allowed to last. “I am forgetting my poor people!”
she exclaimed.
“If I could only go with you, mademoiselle !"
“ You may; but you will have to walk fast.”
It often happens that a man's whole life is influenced by some apparently
trivial circumstance. If on this particular day Diane had gone to see
mother Besson, Norbert, who was with her, would have been put on his
guard against Dauman. But it so chanced that she was bound on a visit to
another of her protégés. Norbert watched her fulfil her charitable mission;
and as he still had some of the money borrowed from Dauman about him,
he laid a couple of gold pieces on the table before taking leave. He still
walked beside Diane until they sighted the houses of Bivron, when she
raised a finger to her lips, and, with the one word, “To-morrow !” turned
into the path which led her home.
It was only then that Norbert regained in some measure his self-posses-
sion. Yes, he thought, this beautiful girl loved him ; and, on his side, he
was ready to shed his heart's blood for her. He tore up the letter he had
written with so much' trouble ; for, in spite of his inexperience, he felt that
Diane's promise to come the next day amounted to a confession of love.
Now, indeed, life seemed sweet and the future radiant; and Norbert was
so unlike himself, so elated, that at supper the same evening the duke re-
marked, “ Jarnicoton, lad ! I'll wager a crown that you've had a good day's
sport."
* “ You are right, father,” answered Norbert audaciously. Fortunately
enough, the duke did not ask to see his game-bag. But, on another occasion,
he might be called upon to exhibit his spoils ; and so, on the morrow, before
going to meet Diane, he bought a couple of brace of partridges and a hare
from a poacher he was acquainted with
He had been waiting half an hour or so at the meeting-place, when Bruno's
joyous barks warned him of Diane's approach. She was very pale, and the
dark circles round her eyes testified to the anxiety which had kept her
awake all night. As soon as she had left Norbert the day before, she had
realised the risk she was running, and the extent of her imprudence. She
was, so to say, trifling with her reputation, her future, in fact, with every-
thing a young girl should hold most dear. For a moment she thought of
confiding in her parents; but, on second thoughts, she rejected this salutary
inspiration. “ÑO," said she, “they would never understand me. My
father would declare that the avaricious Duke de Champdoce would never
give his consent. I should not be allowed to leave the château, and, per-
haps, I might be sent back to the convent.” This last prospect was not at
all to Diane's liking, and, besides, she fancied she had considerable chances
of success. Hence she resolved to persevere with her scheme. She re-
mained for some time talking with Norbert in the pathway, but suddenly
remembering her poor, as on the previous day, she declared it was time to
be off. She must not neglect her patients, or otherwise her parents might
think of curtailing her liberty. Norbert again accompanied her on her
visits, and even made so bold as to offer her his arm whenever the path
proved slippery or steep.


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
This kind of thing went on for several days, the young lovers meeting
every afternoon at the same spot and rambling along the lanes together.
They were more than once met by peasants and farmers, and there are, of
course, as scandalous tongues in Poitou as elsewhere. Diane realised all
the imprudence of her conduct; but it was part of her plan to allow herself
to be slightly compromised, though, at the same time, it must be under-
stood that her behaviour, whilst in Norbert's company, was decorum itself.
Unfortunately for their meetings, it was now the end of November, and
cold weather was near at hand. One morning, when Norbert woke, he
could see the rain falling in torrents, and hear a blusterous wind
careering through the trees. He said to himself that Diane would never
be allowed to go out in such weather as that, and so he despondently
installed himself in front of the fire at home, and tried, or pretended, to
read.
Contrary to his surmises, however, Diane had gone out, but in one of
her father's carriages, having to visit a poor old woman called widow
Rouleau, who lived near Bivron, and who had broken her leg the previous
week. On reaching the miserable shanty where the widow resided with
her only daughter, Diane found them both in tears. "What fresh misfor-
tune has befallen you ?" she asked; whereupon the widow, with many sobs
and groans, related that she owed a matter of a hundred and thirty crowns
and could not possibly repay them, so that her creditor threatened to seize
her two cows-her only belongings of any value--and have them sold. It
was Dauman the “ judge,” she added, who had caused her all this trouble.
She had begged him to grant her a little time, but he had refused her
application, adding, however, that if her daughter went in person to appeal
to him he might perhaps change his mind. The inference was plain enough,
for Françoise Rouleau was a comely, buxom young woman. Diane was
intensely shocked on hearing this. “How shameful,” she cried; “I will
go and see this man myself, and return here by-and-by.” Thereupon,
she hastily got into her carriage again, bade the coachman drive fast, and
in ten minutes reached the “ judge's ” house.
Dauman was writing at his desk, when the woman he dignified with the
name of house-keeper showed Diane into his office. He started up, offered
her a chair, and with his velvet cap in his hand, bowed to the very ground.
Diane, although she knew little of Dauman's reputation, was not as artless
as Norbert, and was not imposed upon by this display of servile deference.
She waved away the chair with a disdainful gesture, and with haughty
mien and in a curt, cold voice, exclaimed, “M. Dauman, I have just left the
widow Rouleau.”
“Ah! you know that poor woman?” observed the “judge,” who had been
wondering what on earth could have caused this proud young lady to call
upon him.
" Yes, and am much interested in her,"
“Oh! mademoiselle's compassion is well known,” said the “judge” with
a servile smile.
“Well, the poor woman is in great distress. She is confined to her bed
with a broken limb, and is almost destitute.”
“Yes ; I heard of her accident."
“ And yet folks have threatened to seize her two cows, which are all she
owns in the world.”
Dauman assumed a benevolent expression. “Poor creature !” said he.
“I have often heard that misfortunes never come alone.”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
49
own master in every respect, barring this one point of matrimony. The law
is precise.”
Diane was convinced, and now drew herself erect with a pale face and
anxious eyes. “After all,” she said, “what does it matter to ine? I will
speak to my father about widow Rouleau. Good-morning.” Then making
a great effort, she tottered out of the house.
When she was alone in the carriage again, she abandoned herself to a
paroxysm of tears and despair. This fatal hampering provision of the law
seemed to thwart all her plans. She had hitherto said to herself : “ The
Duke de Champdoce will never accept me as his daughter-in-law, with my
poor little dowry; but as soon as Norbert is of age he can marry me, not-
withstanding his father, and we shall not have much more than a year to
wait.” But now she saw six years of dreary suspense and struggling before
her, and possibly a final defeat; for could Norbert's passion, fervid as it
now was, live on hope alone for six long twelvemonths? The old Duke de
Champdoce was as sturdy as an oak. He might last much longer. And
yet despite this crushing blow, Diane determined to fight on. Resistance
whetted her energy, and she swore she would do everything in her power
to carry the day. To begin with, it was of the highest importance she
should see Norbert as soon as possible. Alighting at the widow's door, she
entered the house and hurriedly exclaimed, “ I've seen the judge.' Don't
distress yourself, everything will be arranged." And then cutting the poor
old crone's thanks short, she added, “Can you give me a slip of white paper?"
Françoise, the daughter, produced a soiled scrap, and Diane wrote thereon,
in pencil, as follows : -“She would, perhaps, have gone there in spite of
the storm if she had not been occupied with the troubles of a poor woman.
The same troubles will compel her, to-morrow, no matter what the weather
may be, to go and see a man named Dauman, at his house at two o'clock.”
Diane folded up her note, and then exclaimed, “I want this to be delivered
to M. Norbert de Champdoce; to himself, mind, and no one else.”
It so happened that Françoise had made a blouse for one of the Champ-
doce farm servants, and thus, having an excuse for going to the château,
she willingly undertook the errand, albeit, Diane's conduct seemed to her
passing strange.
It rained hard again the next day, but at two p.m. Norbert, punctually,
arrived at Dauman's house. He had an excuse all ready for his visit, for
he had exhausted the funds of his first loan and needed more money. He
had no idea why Diane had selected the “judge's ” abode for their meeting
place, but he was inexpressibly downcast. He had thought of marrying
Mademoiselle de Sauvebourg. As ignorant as herself of the law, he had
fancied he might do so on attaining his twenty-first year; but, alas ! he dared
not confide his projects to his father, for the latter, in revealing his scheme
for the restoration of the family fortunes, had added : “You must marry a
woman of wealth.” However, Norbert felt he could never carry self-
sacrifice so far, never abandon Diane, and he was on the point of unburden-
ing himself to Dauman, asking his advice and help, when a vehicle stopped
outside, and a moment later Mademoiselle de Sauvebourg entered the room.
At one glance Dauman realised the position, and cut short all pretended
astonishment on the part of the young people by hastily explaining to
Diane what he had done in regard to the Rouleau matter. “The huissier,"
he said, “consents to delay proceedings—I can even show you his letter to
that effect.” He turned and looked for this letter among his papers, with
as much perseverance as if it had really existed. “I can't find it,” he
VOL. II,


50
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
eventually exclaimed; “I must have left it in iny bed-room. I have so
much to do,” he adıled, testily, “that sometimes I lose my head. I must
find it, however. Excuse me, I will be back directly.”
In point of fact the worthy “judge” was by no means anxious about this
huissier's letter ; only he had divined a rendezvous and considered he might
best ascertain its purport by leaving the room. He went, however, no
farther than the other side of the door, and then in turn applying eye and
ear to the keyhole, he heard and saw all that he desired. The “judge's”
absence seemed to Norbert a celestial boon. He had been painfully struck
by Diane’s pale face as soon as he saw her, and now he took her hands and
looked into her very eyes. “Tell me,” he said in a low, tender voice,
"what has happened to you?” A sigh came from Diane, and then two
pearly tears rolled down her cheeks. “In heaven's name,” cried Norbert,
w what has caused your grief? Diane, I implore you to tell me! Am I
not your truest and most devoted friend ?”
For a long time she refrained from giving any precise answer, and it was
only after Norbert in utter despair had again and again renewed his
prayers, that she finally declared that on the previous evening her father
had spoken to her of a young man who had asked for her hand-a young
man with every advantage of birth, character and fortune. Norbert listened,
quivering from head to foot with jealousy. “And you did not refuse?” he
asked.
She gave an evasive reply, asking; “What could a poor young girl do
against her family, when she had only two alternatives offered to her-
either a marriage she loathed, or a convent she dreaded."
With his ear close to the door, Dauman shook with laughter. “Not
bad !” he muttered—“not at all bad for a little convent-bred girl. She
has a clear head and a clever tongue, and under my tuition she would go
the whole hog or none. If this simpleton doesn't declare himself now, I
wonder what'll be her next move?”
“And you could hesitate ?” resumed Norbert, reproachfully. “There
would always be a chance of escape from a convent, but a marriage-"
Diane, looking more lovely than ever in her tears, wrung her hands
piteously. “What reasons,” she asked, “could she give her father for her
*refusal ? Did not every one know she was virtually dowerless-sacrificed
to her brother. Who but this man would ever ask for her hand ?”
“Do you forget me?" cried Norbert. “You do not love me, then—"
“Alas ! my friend, you are not free either.”
“I am only a weak child, it seems ?” he asked, with compressed lips.
“Your father is all-powerful,” she replied, resignedly. "His will is in-
flexible, and you are in his power.”
“What do I care for my father?” he exclaimed. “Am I not a Champ-
doce as well as he? Woe to the inan, father or not, who comes between me
and the woman I adore. For I adore you, Diane, and no human being
shall take you from me.” With these words, he clasped her to his breast,
and pressed a burning kiss on her brow.
Dauman, at the key-hole, held his breath for a moment. “This sight,”
he muttered at last, " is worth at least fifty thousand francs to me.”
Panting like a bird in its captor's hands Diane seemed for a moment
terrified, but with a sudden effort she repelled Norbert, and escaped from
his arms. She was a woman, be it remembered, young and passionate, de-
spite all her diplomatic artfulness, and she felt afraid-afraid of him,
afraid of herself.


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“Do you refuse me, then ?” he asked. “Do you really repel me when
I implore you to be my wife—to become the Duchess de Champdoce ?”
Mademoiselle de Sauvebourg answered with one look, which said as
clearly as eyes can speak : “I am your's, I belong to you.”
“Then, why frighten ourselves with these vain chimeras ?” resumed
Norbert. “Do you doubt my love? May be my father will oppose these
plans which assure the happiness of my life. But before long I shall have
shaken off his tyranny. In a few months' time I shall be of age.”
“Alas ! my friend,” she answered, “your's are vain delusions. You
must be twenty-five before you can give your name, unhindered, to the
woman you love.”
This was precisely the disclosure Dauman had been waiting for. “Bravo!
he muttered, “bravo ! young lady. So that's why she came. Well, there's
some pleasure in giving her a lesson, for she doesn't forget a word of it.”
“You are mistaken,” Norbert had answered in reply to Diane's statement.
“Unfortunately, I tell you the precise truth, my friend. The law clearly
defines the age I speak of-twenty-five. You will enjoy Paris, Norbert, from
twenty-one to twenty-five, and will you remember that a sad-hearted girl"
“Why do you talk to me of law? I shall have plenty of money when I'm
twenty-one ; and do you think I shall submit to my father's coercion ? Not
so, indeed I will wring his consent from him!”
The “ judge” now thought it time to intervene. “I shall suddenly open
the door," he said to himself, “accidentally hear a few words, make some
remark upon them, and master the situation.”
Norbert and Diane had so utterly forgotten Dauman's existence, that
they started with alarm as he re-entered the room. But he was in no way
disconcerted by the effect he produced. In the easiest possible tone, he ex-
claimed : “I can't find the letter ; but I assure you that the widow's
affair shall be speedily and satisfactorily arranged. I wish I could say as
much of your own concerns.”
Norbert and Diane exchanged a look, which testified to the anxiety they
felt on finding themselves at this man's discretion. Their evident fear
seemed to mortify Dauman most cruelly. “You have a perfect right,” he
exclaimed, “ to tell me to mind my own business, but the truth is, injus-
tice revolts me to such a degree that I invariably side with the weakest.
The few words I overheard just now, as I came in, were a ray of light to me,
and I said to myself, “Here are two young people made for each other,"
“Sir!" interrupted Diane, haughtily, “ you forget yourself.”
“I beg your pardon,” stammered the “judge,” “I am only a poor pea-
sant; I speak too plainly. I meant no harm, and I trust you will forgive
me.” Then as Diane made no further objection, he resumed: “Well, I said
to myself, here are two young people who love each other, and have a right
to love each other, and yet they are kept apart by unreasonable, hard-
hearted parents. Young and ignorant, knowing nothing of the law, they
would certainly get into trouble if left to their own devices. But suppose
I helped them, and no doubt I might do so advantageously, for I know the
law thoroughly-I know its weak points and its strong ones—" He talked
on sounding his own praises for fully ten minutes, and affected not to see
that the young couple were whispering to each other near the window.
“ Why not trust him ?” said Norbert; "he has had experience."
“ He will betray us; he is capable of anything for money."
“So much the better for us, then. He will hold his tongue if he is pro-
mised a magnificent reward.”'


52
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“Do as you think best, my friend.”
Thus encouraged, Norbert turned to Dauman. “I have perfect con-
fidence in you," he said, “and so has this young lady. You know the
situation. What is your advice?”
“Simply this,” answered the “judge." “Learn to wait. The least
step taken before your majority is fatal; but the day after you are twenty-
one, I promise to show you more ways than one of bringing the duke down
on his marrow-bones.”
He could not be induced to speak more plainly, but he looked so con-
fident and cheerful, that when Diane left the office she felt hopeful once
more.
This was almost their last interview that year. The weather turned
from bad to worse, so that it was impossible for them to meet out of doors,
and the fear of being watched prevented them from availing themselves
of Dauman's hospitality. Each day, however, the widow Rouleau's
daughter carried à letter to Sauvebourg and brought back a reply to
Champdoce. The cold weather had scattered the inhabitants of the various
châteaux of the district. Only the Marquis de Sauvebourg, who was a
great sportsman, lingered behind ; but after some heavy snow storms even
he decided to retire until the ensuing spring to the handsome mansion he
owned at Poitiers. Norbert and Diane had foreseen this contingency, and
acted accordingly. Two or three times each week Norbert mounted
his horse and rode to town, changed his clothes and hurried to a certain
garden wall where he walked up and down before a small door. At a cer-
tain hour, previously agreed upon, this door softly opened. Norbert slipped
in, and there in the garden found Diane, lovelier than ever. This great pas-
sion, the beacon of his life, and the certainty of being loved, had dispelled
much of his timidity. He had met Montlouis again, and often played a
game of dominos with him at the Café Castile. Montlouis was to join the
young Viscount de Mussidan in Paris, and become his secretary as soon
as the winter was over; but this prospect, which had once so delighted him,
was now scarcely to his taste, for, as he confessed to Norbert, he feared
separation from a young girl in the vicinity whom he was desperately in
love with. Confidence for confidence; and more than once Montlouis went
with Norbert to the door that opened into the Marquis de Sauvebourg's
garden.
April at last came round again. The châteaux refilled, and the
lovers were able to meet in the lanes once more. They had now only a few
months to wait until Norbert reached his majority, when Dauman had pro-
mised to help them. One day, however, when they had spent the after-
noon in the woods together, preaching patience to each other, and just as
Norbert, light-hearted and full of spirits, had reached home, his father sent
for him.
" Marquis,” said the duke, without the least preamble, “I have found you
a wife, and you will marry her in two months from now.
VII.
A THUNDER Clap would have terrified Norbert less than these words. But
the duke did not see, or did not choose to see, his son's agitation, and simply
added, in a composed, careless tone : “ There is no need, I imagine, to tell
you the young lady's name. She is, of course, Mademoiselle de Puymandour,


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
53
She cannot fail to please you. As you know yourself, for you have seen her,
she is very pretty, tall and dark, with a very pleasing figure. Her teeth,
eyes, and hair are admirable. Don't you think so ?”
“Yes,” stammered Norbert. “I think-in fact I've scarcely even
noticed her.”
“Pshaw !” rejoined the old nobleman, “I thought you were learning to
use your eyes. Never mind, you will have ample time to look at your wife
when you are married. And, marquis, there must be some alteration in
your dress. To-morrow you will go with me to Poitiers and give orders to
à tailor, who will see you are dressed as befits your rank. We mustn't
frighten this young lady with our fustian jackets.”
But-"
" Wait a moment, if you please. I shall set aside some of the rooms in
the château, and you will spend your honeymoon here. You will take care
it doesn't last too long, and, after a while, we can introduce this young
woman to our ways, make a frugal, economical housewife of her.”
“But, father,” said Norbert, hastily, “suppose I don't fancy this young
lady?”'
Well?"
“Suppose I entreated you to spare me a marriage which would make
me miserable ?"
M. de Champdoce shrugged his shoulders. “This is childish," he said.
“ This alliance is in every way suitable, and I wish it_"
“But, father-" Norbert began again.
“Do you hesitate?” asked the duke angrily.
“No; I don't hesitate," said his son boldly,
" Very well, then. Let a mere nobody consult the dictates of his heart,
if he sees fit, when he marries, but with a man of position, matrimony should
be looked upon as a matter of business. I have managed things admirably.
The marriage portion will be a million and a half of francs in hard cash,
and ultimately, when Puymandour dies, and he's apoplectic mind, you'll
come into the remainder of his fortune. Do you know what he's worth ?
Five millions. Think of that! And this is all the more reason for
pinching and economising. Think of the restoration of our house, of the
princely fortune of our descendants, and realise the beauty of self-abnega-
tion.” The duke walked for some minutes up and down the room, speaking
incoherently, and at last stopped in front of his son. “You understand
everything now," he said. “To-morrow you will go to Poitiers, and on
Sunday we dine with the Puymandourg."
Norbert hardly knew what to say or do in this extremity. “Father,"
he began once more, “I don't see the use of going to Poitiers to-morrow.”
“What do you say?, What on earth do you mean?”
“I mean," answered the young man with sudden energy, “ that I shall
never love Mademoiselle de Puymandour, and that she will never be my wife.”
The duke had not once foreseen this contingency, and his mind refused
to believe the possibility of such monstrous iniquity. “You are mad !” he
exclaimed, “and you don't know what you say or what you want!"
"I know very well."
“Reflect, my son.”
“I have reflected.”
M. de Champdoce was evidently struggling to keep calm. “And you
think,” he said, with a disdainful smile," that I shall be satisfied with
such an answer as this?”.


54
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“I hope you will yield to my entreaties."
“Do you, indeed? You think that I, the head of this family, after
conceiving a magnificent plan for the restoration of its fortunes, am to be
turned from my scheme by the mere caprice of a boy like yourself! Surely
you ought to know me better !”
“No, father,” rejoined Norbert, “it is no mere whim that impels me to
refuse and claim independence. Have I not always been a good son ?
Have I ever disobeyed you? You have said, 'Go there,' and I have gone,
• Come here,' and I have obeyed you. I am the son of the wealthiest man
in the province, and I have lived like the son of your poorest farm-hand.
Have I complained or murmured? Bid me do whatever you choose
except—".
"Î bid you marry Mademoiselle de Puymandour !” said the duke, strik-
ing the floor with the stout ash stick he carried, according to his wont.
“Oh! all but that. I don't love her, I cannot love her. Do you wish
me to be utterly miserable for the rest of my life? Do not exact that
of me!”
“I have spoken, and you will have to obey."
“No,” said Norbert quietly. “I will not obey !”
On hearing this the duke at first turned purple, and then every drop
of blood seemed to leave his face, which became absolutely livid.
"Jarnidieu !” he cried in a voice that once would have made Norbert
tremble. “How do you dare to brave me in this way? What on earth has
given you this audacity ?”
“The consciousness of being in the right.”
“How long has it been right for children to disobey their parents ?”
« Ever since fathers ventured to give unjust orders.”
This was more than the Duke de Champdoce could endure. “Jarniton-
nerre!” he cried ; and he rushed towards his son with his bludgeon raised,
but suddenly stopping short when only midway, he threw the stick across
the room, and in a hoarse voice exclaimed — “No! I will not strike a
Champdoce!”
Maybe it was Norbert's fearless attitude that restrained his father's
passionate fury. This once timid youth had not moved, not even sought
to avoid the onslaught, but stood quite still and erect, with folded arms
and head thrown back. And even now that the duke had flung his im-
provised weapon aside, Norbert retained the same attitude of defiance, thus
speedily rekindling his father's anger. “I will not submit to such auda-
city,” cried M. de Champdoce, and seizing his son by the collar, he dragged
him to one of the rooms on the second floor, and roughly pushed him inside.
Then before retiring and locking the door he exclaimed, “You shall have
twenty-four hours to decide whether you will accept the wife I have selected
for you.”
“My decision is made," answered Norbert, calmly. He had not resisted
his father, when the latter dragged him upstairs. Semi-prostration had
followed his sudden courage, and yet it was urgent he should act, urgent
he should warn Diane of what had happened and put her on her guard
against all contingencies. But how could he escape? The door was of solid
oak, more than an inch thick, and the lock was as enormous in strength as
in size. Only the window remained ; and this was forty feet from the
ground. But Norbert reflected that some one would probably be sent to
make up a bed for him, and then he would have two sheets at his disposal.
These he could knot together, and thus obtain the means of descent. If he


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
55
started off at night-time, with the intention of returning before dawn, he
could not of course see Diane, but he might send her a warning through
Dauman, whom it was also urgent he should see, with the view of obtain-
ing proper advice. This plan decided upon, he threw himself into one of
the arın-chairs in the room with a lighter heart than he had known for
inonths, for the ice was now broken between his father and himself, and
this seemed a very great point to Norbert. The first step was taken, and
it is always the first one that is the most difficult. The rest would be easier
work, and at all events he must conquer at any price.
In the meanwhile, downstairs, the duke was wild with rage. When he
took his seat at the supper table, he looked so terrible that the farm-hands
barely dared open their mouths to eat and drink. They all knew that a
violent quarrel had taken place between M. de Champdoce and his son,
and wondered what could have occasioned it. The meal was soon over,
and the duke then summoned an old confidential servant, who had been
in his employment for thirty years. "Jean,” he said, “your young
master is shut up in the yellow room on the second floor. There's the
key; take him something to eat.”
• Yes, sir,"
" Wait a moment. You will pass the night in his room. Whether
he sleeps or not, you will watch him just the same. It may be he will
think of running away. If it be necessary to employ force, employ it;
that's all. If you are not strong enough, just call to me; I shall hear
and come to your assistance."
This unexpected precaution destroyed all Norbert's hopes. He tried to
induce his jailer to let him out for a couple of hours, swearing he would
faithfully return, but his prayers were as vain as the threats to which
he next resorted, Had he looked from the window, he would have seen
his father pacing up and down the court-yard, absorbed in the dreary
thought that perhaps, after all these long years, he was doomed to disap-
pointment. "There is a woman concerned in it,” the duke reflected. “Only
a woman could change a young man's character from white to black in so
short a time, and besides he would never have declined this proposal with
such obstinacy if he had not been in love with some one else ?” “But who
could this woman be? What steps could be taken to discover her ? It
would, of course, be useless to question Norbert himself, and at the saine
time the duke was very unwilling to institute any formal inquiry. He
passed the greater part of the night in painful indecision as to the best
course to pursue, when all at once he had an inspiration, which he regarded
as direct from Heaven. “I have Bruno !” he cried. “And through this
dog I can learn all my son's habits, discover what houses he goes to when
he's out alone, and even ascertain the very woman under whose influence
he acts !” Somewhat comforted by this hope, M. de Champdoce was
more like himself when he appeared in the morning. At noon he took his
seat at the table as usual, and ordered the prisoner's dinner to be carried up-
stairs, with no relaxation of watchfulness.
At last the moment he deemed favourable arrived. He whistled to
Bruno, who seldom followed him, but in Norbert's absence the animal
yielded to entreaties and condescended to accompany the duke as far as the
end of the avenue. Three diverging roads started from this point, but
Bruno did not hesitate, he turned to the left one, with the air of a dog
who knows perfectly well where he is going. On he went for more than
half an hour, the duke following him all afire with hope and expectation,


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
57
to."
“Well then, I beg leave to inform you that I've found a wife for Norbert.
She is about your own age, beautiful, clever, witty, and wealthy."
“ And of high birth, of course ? ”
This sarcasm stung the old nobleman. “Fifteen hundred thousand francs
as a dowry," he sternly replied, “are worth more than a tower argent on
an azure field.” This was the Sauvebourg blazon, and the duke paused as if
to underline his uncourteous retort. “I will tell you," he at length re-
sumed, “ that the young lady in question has several millions coming to
her, and yet my son is mad enough to refuse her hand. But I will not
tolerate such disobedience.”
" You are right, sir, I am sure, if you really think this marriage would
ensure your son's happiness.”
“His happiness! "What does that matter if the supremacy of our house
is insured by it? I have deterinined that Norbert shall marry this woman
—and marry her he shall. I have sworn it, and I swear it again !”
Diane's agony of mind was well-nigh intolerable, but her pride sustained
her; and, moreover, feeling sure of Norbert, she ventured to ask, “And
what does Monsieur le Marquis say?"
“Norbert,” angrily replied the duke, “will return to his duty as soon as
it pleases me to free him from the pernicious influence he has been subjected
« Ah ! indeed !"
"He will obey me when I show him that, though he may be in ignorance
of the prestige of his fortune and his name, there are others who fully
understand it. I can understand a woman longing to be Duchess de
Champdoce! However, my son may be a mere child; but I have had
some small experience of the world, and when I enlighten him as to the
ambition which he, poor fool, mistook for love and unselfish devotion, he
will return to his allegiance to me. I will tell him how to look on those
haughty, high-born damsels, who, both penniless and proud, have merely
their youth and beauty to win husbands with-scheming girls who, in pur-
suit of phantom dreams, are willing to run risks and perils which eventu-
ally leave them with tarnished reputations."
• Continue, Monsieur le Duc !" cried Diane, turning pale with anger and
emotion. “Continue, pray ; insult a defenceless girl-laugh at her poverty
-it is a generous, noble thing to do, right worthy of a gentleman !
“I thought,” said M. de Champdoce, “ that I was addressing the person
whose influence had induced my son to rebel against my authority. “Am I
mistaken? You can prove me to be in the wrong by inducing Norbert to
submit.” Diane did not speak, but dropped her head. “You see,” re-
sumed the duke, more angrily than before, “I am right. Reflect well on
what I say, and rernember that persistency on your part will justify any
reprisals on mine. You are warned-continue your intrigue if you dare!'
This word, “intrigue,” spoken with an insulting sneer, was too much
for Diane. She would have sacrificed at that moment her honour, ambition,
and very life for the sake of revenge. Forgetting all prudence, she cast
aside the mask, and haughtily throwing back her head, with her eyes flash-
ing fire, and her cheeks blazing : “Listen to me !” she cried. “I, too,
have sworn-and I have sworn that Norbert shall be my husband ! Im-
prison him, have him guarded and ill-treated by your servants if you like,
but you will never draw from him a shadow of assent. He will resist be-
cause I bid him resist-even unto death, if need must be. His energy,
like mine, will never abate ; and, believe me, before attacking the honour


58
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
of a young girl, remember that she will one day become a member of your
own family. Farewell !”.
Diane was far down the path before the duke recovered his senses, and
then he burst forth into a torrent of imprecations, threats, and insults.
He believed himself alone, but never was he more mistaken. This strange
scene had an invisible witness-none other than “judge” Dauman in per-
son.
Informed by one of the servants at the château of the young marquis's
imprisonment, Dauman had been eager to warn Diane; but how was he to
do so ? He could not go to Sauvebourg, and no power on earth would have
induced him to write a line; for handwriting is treacherous, and may turn
up as evidence against one, even when least expected. The “judge” was
thus greatly embarrassed, when it occurred to him he might repair to the
lovers' usual meeting-place, whither Diane would come that afternoon no
doubt. He was barely a few yards off, when he heard her cry of alarm
on perceiving M. de Champdoce. This cry put him on his guard; he crept
and crawled to a hiding-place, where he could both see and listen. Bruno
soon scented him out; but he was known by the dog, who complacently
allowed the “ judge” to pat his head and fondle him. How eagerly Dau-
man listened to the talk between M. de Champdoce and Diane can easily
be imagined, But he realised that Mademoiselle de Sauvebourg, despite her
haughty bearing, was really sorely perplexed, and anticipated that, before
returning home, she would hasten to his house to ask his advice. “If I
am to carry out my plans," he said to himself, “I ought to strike the iron
while it's hot; and how can I do that, if I am not at home to receive her?”
Accordingly, without any especial caution, he rose from his hiding-place
and hastened through the woods, hoping, by means of a short cut, to reach
his house before Diane arrived there. The noise occasioned by his passage
through the underbrush attracted the duke's attention. “Who's there?"
he cried, going towards the spot whence the sound had proceeded. No re-
ply. Still he had certainly heard someone or something stir. Summoning
Bruno, he tried to put him on the scent; but the dog merely sniffed about
a little, and then lingered near the bush behind which Dauman had remained
concealed. The duke eagerly scanned the ground, and at last distinctly de.
tected the imprint of two knees on the velvety moss. “Some one has been
listening," he said to himself, disagreeably impressed by this circumstance.
“But who can it have been?' Has Norbert escaped from his room?” This
idea so alarmed him that he strode home in hot haste. “Where is my
son?” he asked of the first servant he perceived.
"Up-stairs, sir,” was the reply.
M. de Champdoce breathed again. Norbert had not escaped, and there-
fore it was not he who had been listening.
“Our young master's in a terrible state, sir," added the servant whom
the duke had questioned.
“What do you mean?"
“ Well, sir, he declared he wouldn't stay in that room a minute longer,
and so Jean called for assistance. He's frightfully strong, sir, for it took
six of us to hold him. He swore that if we would let him out, he would be
back in two hours, and said it was a matter in which his honour and life
were involved."
The old nobleman heard this account with a sarcastic smile. What did he
care for the young fellow's struggles ! His grace's heart had grown hard
under the pressure of fixed ideas during so many years. It was with the


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
59
solemn air of a man who believes he is fulfilling a sacred duty, that he
climbed the stairs and knocked at the door of the room where his son was
confined. Jean, the confidential servant, at once opened it, and for a
minute the duke stood on the threshold. All the furniture had been over-
turned, and a great deal of it broken, the fragments strewing the floor. A
stalwart farm-hand was seated by the window, and Norbert lay on the bed
with his face turned to the wall.
“Leave us," at last said the duke to the servants, who instantly withdrew ;
whereupon M. de Champdoce added, “Get up, Norbert; I wish to speak
to you."
The young fellow obeyed. Anyone but M. de Champdoce would have been
startled by the wild, haggard expression of his face. " What does this
mean?” asked his father, in his most arbitrary voice. “Are not my orders
sufficient to insure obedience? It seems it was necessary to employ brute
force during my absence. Tell me, my son, what you have gained by
these hours of solitude ? What plans have you formed, and what hopes ?"
“I wish, and I intend to be free.”
M. de Champdoce preferred not to heed this clear, decisive answer. “It
was easy for me to divine,” he continued, “from your obstinate resistance,
that some woman had taken advantage of your inexperience, and employed
her pernicious influence in inducing you to disobey your best friend." He
hesitated. No answer came. “Well, I went in search of this woman who
was flattering your pride and ministering to your worst passions, and, as
you may imagine, I found her. I went to the Bois de Bivron, and there, I
need scarcely tell you, I met Mademoiselle de Sauvebourg."
“ And did you speak to her?”
“Did I speak to her? I am inclined to believe I did. I told her what I
thought of those adventuresses who fascinate the dupes they mean to take
advantage of.”
“Father!”
“Can it be possible, poor, simple boy, that you have been taken in by
that young lady's pretended love. It is not you, marquis, she wants, but
our fortune, title, and name. However, there are places where women who
lead young men astray can be shut up, and I told her so.”
Norbert turned perfectly white. And you said that to her?” he asked,
in a low, hoarse tone. “You dared to insult the woman I love, while you
knew I could not protect her? Take care-I shall forget you are my
father.”
“Jainitonnerre! He threatens me!” roared the duke. “My son
threatens me!" And mad with rage, blinded by the blood that rushed to
his brain, he raised his heavy stick and struck at Norbert.
Fortunately, the young fellow instinctively recoiled, so that only the
extreme end of the staff hit him just above the ternple, and then slipped,
severely grazing his cheek. Norbert, in his turn infuriated, was about to
ush upon his father, when he suddenly saw that the door was open. This
meant liberty and salvation. With one bound he reached the stairs, and
before the duke could throw up the window and call for help, the young
fellow was running like a madman across the meadows.


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
VIII.
DAUMAN had hoped to take a short cut home, but his road proved longer
than the one followed by Mademoiselle de Sauvebourg. However, he
scrambled through the trees and hastened down the paths with wonderful
agility and speed, as if he had never been troubled with rheumatism, and
at last reaching his house, he darted without even drawing breath up to
the garret, and from an artfully concealed hole in one of the rafters, drew
forth a tiny black phial which he slipped into his pocket. Then going
downstairs into his office he examined the phial with a sinister smile, and
after ascertaining that there had been no tampering with its contents, he
laid it on his table behind a pile of papers, Next, he wiped his brow, and
donned his velvet smoking cap and shabby dressing-gown. Mademoiselle
Diane might come now as soon as she pleased : he was quite ready for her.
And why on earth did she not come? Had any other adventure befallen
her? Dauman began to be anxious. He went to the window, and lookeil
down the road; he consulted his watch and swore impatiently, when, all at
once, he heard a light tap at the door. “Come in,” he cried.
Diane entered, indeed, tottered into the room, and sank on to a chair
heedless of the “judge's” courteous welcome. He now understood why
she had been so long in coming ; her strength had failed her-prostration
and nervous emotion had followed anger and energy. But after a minute's
repose, she made a vigorous effort, and regaining in some measure her self-
possession, exclaimed, “.Judge,' I need advice. Listen to me. About an
hour ago— "
With a gesture Dauman interrupted her. “Alas !” he sighed, “I know
everything!”
“You know,”
" That Monsieur Norbert is a prisoner? Yes, mademoiselle, I know that.
And I also know that you have just met M. de Champdoce in the Bois de
Bivron. I know, moreover, all you said to the duke. I have heard every
word from a person who has just left me.”
Diane was unable to repress a start of terror and dismay. “Who told
you this?” she gasped.
“A wood-cutter. Ah ! mademoiselle, woods are not safe places to tell
secrets in. Behind every tree a pair of ears may be listening. Four wood-
cutters heard every syllable you both said. As soon as you left the duke,
they started off eager to tell their tale. I did my best to make the one I
saw promise not to repeat it. He promised, of course, but then he's married,
and will, naturally, tell everything to his wife. And then there are the
three others, besides.”
“Then I ain lost!” murmured Diane, despondently, regretting for the
moment, perhaps, that she had so trifled with her reputation. Dauman hung
his head by way of answer. But this daughter of the once martial house of
Sauvebourg was not the woman to abandon the fight so long as life was left
her. “All is not over yet,” she cried, grasping the judge's” arm.
“What are we to do? You must have some idea. I am ready for any.
thing, now that I have nothing to lose. No, it shall never be said that the
Duke de Champdoce insulted me, the coward ? without my having my
revenge. Will you help me?”.


THE SLAVES OF PARIS,
61
" For Heaven's sake!” said Dauman, "speak lower! Be calm, I im.
plore you. You do not know this man, I assure you."
“ You are afraid of him then, are you?”
“ Yes, mademoiselle, I am afraid, and very much afraid. What a man
he is ! He almost always gains his ends at any cost. Do you know that
he tried to injure me, to punish me, for having summoned him before a
magistrate in the name of one of my clients? And so, when anyone comes
to me with anything against the duke, I am apt to keep out of the
business— "
“ Indeed !” exclaimed Diane, contemptuously. “Then after inducing
us to compromise ourselves, you now abandon us in this emergency."
“Oh, mademoiselle, can you believe-"
“Do as you please, judge.' Norbert is still left to me."
Dauman shook his head, sadly. “How can we be sure that at this very
moment the marquis has not said Amen ! to all his father's propositions ? "
“No!” cried Diane, “I don't believe that of Norbert. He would kill
himself first! He is timid, I know, but not a coward ; and when he thinks
of me he will have strength to resist.”.
“Oh we can reason coldly," retorted Dauman, “for we stand here free
and in safety. M. Norbert, on the contrary, is exposed to all sorts of
threats and dangers, moral and physical tortures. He is in the power of
one of the most obstinately wicked men that ever lived. And, remember,
there are moments in men's lives when even the firmest natures waver.”
“Well, I admit it. I admit that Norbert may have abandoned me, that
he will marry another woman, and that I am lost and dishonoured, destined
to become the talk of the whole province. Nevertheless, I have still life
left to me, and that life I would gladly give in exchange for revenge.”
There was a ring of such terrible vehemence in her voice, that Dauman
started; and this time his start was a real, not an affected one. “Ah me!"
he said, “I also swore to have my revenge on the duke ; but then he's so
powerful, so dangerous an adversary, that I thought better of it. And
there are many others who have done the same, men who threatened
vengeance with frightful oaths, calling heaven and hell to witness them,
A good shot in the twilight from behind a hedge would finish him,' they
thought. Well, they loaded their guns and went forth to wait and watch";
but, dear me, at the last moment their hearts failed them, and the duke lives
on, as hale and hearty as ever. And yet, it seems to me, that judges don't
look deeply enough into things. What looks to them like a crime is often a
deliverance. Who can tell how many other crimes the Duke de Champdoce's
death would avert, or how many people it would render happy ?” “Diane
turned pale as she listened to these words. “Meanwhile,” continued
Dauman, “as I said before, the duke lives on. He is rich and powerful, and
to a certain degree respected. He will die in his bed, there will be a great
crowd at his funeral, and the curé will, of course, pray for him, as in duty
bound.” Whilst speaking, the “judge” had drawn the tiny black glass
phial from behind his papers, and turned it round and round in his hands.
Yes,” he repeated, “ M. de Champdoce, the sturdy old veteran, will bury
us all, unless—" He stopped short, uncorked the phial, and dropped a
few particles of the fine white sparkling dust it contained into the palm
of his hand. “And yet,” he said, in a low, stern voice, “a little of this
powder and no one would ever need fear the terrible duke again. A man
who lies six feet under ground, with a heavy stone and a fine epitaph over
him, doesn't inspire anybody with dread.”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
A heavy step could be heard on the stairs.
“Norbert !” gasped Diane.
“ Impossible ! can his father-”.
“It is Norbert,” repeated Mademoiselle de Sauvebourg, and snatching
the black phial from Dauman's hands, she thrust it into her bosom.
For one moment she had really been gifted with second sight. The new
comer was indeed Norbert and none other. He opened the door and at
sight of him both Dauman and Diane uttered a cry of terrified surprise.
Everything in his appearance indicated some terrible catastrophe, his auto-
matic motion, his haggard eyes, and the blood on his face. Dauman
scented a crime. “You are wounded, marquis," he said.
“ Yes ; my father struck me.”
“Can it be possible that he--"
“Yes, it was he!”
Diane had feared something worse than this ; she quivered like a leaf as
she went towards Norbert. “Let me examine your wound,” she said
softly, and standing on tiptoe the better to see, she took his head in her
hands. “Good heavens I one inch lower down and— " She shuddered.
««Judge,' give me some water and some old linen—"
But Norbert gently disengaged himself. “We will attend to this trifle
later,” said he, “I avoided the blow, which would have felled me to the
ground, had it come in full force; in fact, but for my alacrity, I should
have been murdered by my father."
“By the duke? And why—what has happened ? "
"He had insulted you, Diane: and he dared to tell me of it-to boast of
it to me! Didn't he know that the blood of the Champdoces' runs in my
veins as well as in his ?”
Mademoiselle de Sauvebourg burst into tears. “And it is I," she
sobbed—“I who brought all this upon you."
"You! You saved his life, probably. When he struck me with his
stick, the thought of you withheld my hand. I turned and fled, and never
again will I cross that threshold. We hear a great deal of a father's
curse—a son's should have equal weight. The Duke de Champdoce is my .
father no longer-I know him no more. I wish I could forget his very
existence, but no-I prefer to remember him, so that I may yet avenge
myself.”
Never in his life had Dauman felt such intense joy. Ah! his own ven-
geance also was near at hand. “At last, marquis,” said he, “you will be-
lieve with me that there is some good in almost all inisfortunes. Your
father's imprudence will cost him dear. It now rests with us to shake off
the paternal yoke just as soon as we choose. We now possess all the re-
quisite elements for a formal complaint. We have sequestration, threats,
violence connived at by third parties, wounds and blows which have im-
perilled life-in fact, we have everything we want. A physician will come,
examine your head, and draw up a formal, written report. We can pro-
duce plenty of witnesses of the accessory facts—and, as to the wound, the
scar will tell the story. To begin with, we shall pray in our petition, not
to be ordered back to the paternal home, and sue for legal emancipation—"
“But tell me,” interrupted Norbert, “ if I am emancipated, as they say,
from parental control shall I be able to marry whom I please without M. de
Champdoce's consent?"
Dauinan hesitated. In his opinion, under all the circumstances, Norbert
might eventually obtain from the courts the authorisation to contract an


64
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
honourable alliance, but this would mean litigation, and patience, so he
thought it advisable not to say so.
“Then why petition? The Champdoce family have always washed their
dirty linen at home, and I prefer to do the same."
This determination seemed to astonish the “judge." "If I dared,” he
began, “if I dared to advise you, sir—":
*No. No advice is necessary ; my mind is made up. But I need some
assistance, in fact, within twenty-four hours I must have a large sum-
twenty thousand francs.”
“You can have them, sir; but I warn you that it will be at a heavy
cost.”
“I care nothing for that!"
Mademoiselle de Sauvebourg tried to speak, but Norbert prevented her.
“Don't you understand me, Diane?" he said. “We must fly! Let us go
at once, and search for some retreat where we may live happy and ob-
scure.”
“ But this is folly! you would be pursued,” said Dauman.
Mademoiselle de Sauvebourg hung her head.
“ Is it true, Diane,” continued Norbert pleadingly, “that you hesitate
to intrust yourself to me? I swear to consecrate my entire existence
to you—all my thoughts, all my will. I ask you on my knees to go with
me!”
“I cannot !” she murmured, “I cannot !"
“ You do not love me !” he cried, in a tone of despair. “Fool that I
am, I believed that your heart was mine, but I see now that you never
loved me!”
“Thou hearest him! Oh, my God! Thou knowest that I love him!”
" Then why reject our only means of safety ?”
“Norbert, my dear Norbert-
“I understand only too well. The thought of the world's talk frightens
you—there are prejudices, opinions—"
He stopped, checked by the reproachful expression of Diane's eyes.
“Must it be?” she asked—“ must I justify myself? You talk to me of pre-
judices-have I not defied them already, and has not the world sat in
judgment upon me? And yet what have I done? I could repeat every
word we either of us have breathed, to my mother without a blush ; but
would any one believe me? No, no one. The opinion of the world is al-
ready made up, no doubt. My reputation is unquestionably gone, and yet
I am as guiltless as a child."
Norbert was furious. “Who has dared to mention your name except
with the most profound respect?” he asked.
“Alas! my friend, everybody. And to-morrow it will be worse still.
Some hours ago, while your father was talking to me with such appalling
violence and contempt, four woodcutters, binding faggots in the wood, over-
heard him.”
That is impossible !"
“No, it's true,” affirmed Dauman. “I heard it all from one of these
four men-"
If ever a man received a quiet intimation to leave a room it was conveyed
in a glance which Diane now gave the “judge." He took the hint at once,
and hastily rose from his seat. “Excuse me,” he said ; “but I just heard
some one calling, and I must prevent any one from coming in here!'
With these words he left the room, banging the door behind him.


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
65
It needed this noise for Norbert to notice that he and Diane were now
alone together. “And so," exclaimed the young fellow, “the Duke de
Champdoce did not even take the precaution of ascertaining whether
there was anyone to overhear his insults. And he was so blind that he did
not realise that in dishonouring you he was dishonouring hunself.”
“Alas ! "
“Does he think he can force me to marry this heiress of his—this
Marie de Puymandour ?"
At last Diane knew the name of the woman whom the duke had chosen to
become his son's wife. “Ah!” she murmured, “it is Mademoiselle
Marie, then, whose hand is offered to you?”
“Yes, it's she, or rather her millions; but my hand shall shrivel be-
fore it takes hers. You hear me, Diane ?”
She smiled sadly as she murinured, “ Poor Norbert," speaking moreover
in such a melancholy tone, that the young man's heart sank.
"You are cruel,” he exclaimed ; " what have I ever done to deserve your
distrust? What oath shall I take that I will never have any other wife
but you? Is it because you doubt me that you will not go with me?"
“No, it is not any distrust of you that deters me.”
“But what is it, then? Is it not liberty and happiness that I propose ?
What keeps you from accepting ?”
She rose, threw her head back with haughty pride, and answered, “My
conscience! Yes, my conscience—the same that has hitherto enabled me
to walk with head erect, despite all the slander I knew was being circulated.
But now it bids me stop, and I dare not disobey its voice. Duty may be
hard to perform, my heart may break; but I must not, I cannot go
with you. If I were alone in the world, I should, perhaps, not hesitate ;
but I have ties, I have a family whose honour is a sacred trust."
“ A family that sacrifices you to an elder brother ! ”
“ That may be—so the more my merit if I do my duty. Where did you
ever hear that virtue was easy to practise ?” Norbert was too inuch op-
pressed with the thought of losing her to notice the contradiction of her
conduct. She had preached insubordination to him, but pretended to
practise duty herself. “Both my reason and my conscience," she resumed,
* dictate the same course. The result is fatal when a young girl sets social
rules and conventionalities at defiance. You would soon cease to esteem
her whom others despised.”
“Good heavens ! what an opinion you have of me!”
"I believe you to be a man, my friend. Suppose I followed you to-day,
and suppose to-morrow you heard that my father had fought a duel on my
account, and had been killed-what then ? Believe me, I give you the best
possible advice in bidding you depart alone. You will forget me; indeed,
you inust!”
“ Forget you !" cried Norbert fiercely. “I forget you! Can you forget
He was so close to her that she felt his burning breath. “I," she stam-
mered, “14”
Norbert drew back that he might better look into her eyes. “And if I
went alone,” he asked, “what would become of you?”
At this question Mademoiselle de Sauvebourg turned extremely pale.
A sob rose from her heart, and her strength seemed suddenly to fail her.
“I,” she answered, in as sweet and resigned a voice as if she had been a
Christian martyr about to enter the arena, “I know my fate. We see each
VOL. II.
me?"


66
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
other now for the last time. I shall return to Sauvebourg, where every.
thing is known-or will be known in a few hours. I shall find my father
irritated, enraged, he will order me to a carriage, and to-morrow the walls
of a convent will again close round me.”
“Never ! never! That life would be long agony to you; you have told
me so over and over again.”
“Yes,” she answered, “it would be agony; but it is duty also. And
when the burden grows too heavy-when I can no longer bear it—" As
she spoke, she had drawn Dauman's black phial from her bosom, and
Norbert, on perceiving it, at once understood what she meant. As he
tried to snatch it from her, she resisted ; but the contest soon exhausted
her little remaining strength. As Norbert at last clutched the phial in his
hands, her beautiful eyes closed, her head fell back, and she sank into her
lover's arms, while he, with horror, asked himself if she were dying. Dy.
ing she might have been, and yet she murmured a few words in a low but
distinct whisper. She implored Norbert to restore to her that precious
phial, her only friend and liberator; and then, with tri ly wonderful lucidity,
she contrived to repeat to him all the directions Dauman had given her.
“Oh! my friend,” she said, “return it to me. I shall not suffer-in ten
seconds aïl will be over. A mere pinch of it in wine or coffee will suffice,
and no one will ever suspect the truth; for it leaves no trace behind it.”
At the thought that this woman loved him so tenderly and passionately
that she would rather die than live apart from him, Norbert felt his senses
reel. “Diane!” he repeated, as he leaned over her. “ Diane !”
But she continued, as if in delirium, “ To die after such fair hopes !
Ah! M. de Champdoce, you are pitiless, indeed. You have robbed me of
my happiness ; you have insulted me, lowered me in the estimation of the
world, blackened my reputation, and now you want my life.”
Norbert uttered a cry of iningled rage and hatred-so terrible a cry that
even Dauman, listening as usual at the key-hole, felt frightened. An exe-
crable idea had just dawned on the young man's mind ; and as he deposited
Diane in the “judge's ” arm-chair, he exclaimed in a hoarse voice, “No,
you shall not kill yourself, nor shall I depart !” He looked at her once
again ; she smileil faintly, murmuring his name, with parted lips eager to
be kissed. Norbert's last ray of reason fled. “You shall be inine!” he
murmured. “ The poison you intended for yourself shall serve my venge-
ance.” A moment later and he had gone.
Dauman was livid, and his teeth were fairly chattering when he returned
to his office. He had lost nothing of this scene, and, hardened as he was,
it had greatly impressed him. He could barely fancy himself awake when
he saw Diane-whom he had expected to find in a tainting condition-
standing near the window, and carefully scrutinising Norbert as the latter
hastened away. She was pale, no doubt, and her eyelids were red and
swollen, but her eyes themselves flashed with all the pride of victory.
“ To-morrow, judge,'” she said ; “to-morrow I shall be the Duchess de
Champioce !"
Dauman, the ready speaker, the man of many words, was so confounded
that he made no rejoinder.
"I mean," resumed Diane, “providing the truth is not discovered to-
night."
At these words Dauman felt a cold shiver along the spine ; but sum.
moning all his self-possession he replied, “I do not understand you;
what could be discovered to-night? Pray, explain-."


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
" Ah! women, women !” muttered her father. “What frivolous
creatures they are ! The most serious matters only furnish them with food
for jest and scoffing." So saying he rose, and assuming an oratorical atti-
tude, resumed, “I ask myself with anxiety, Marie, whether you will be
equal to the exalted position I have in view for you. You were eighteen
last month, and it is time to consider your future. I have an important
piece of news for you. In fact, I have had an application for your hand.”
Marie dropped her eyes and endeavoured to conceal her confusion.
“Before coming to a decision on so grave a subject," continued M, de
Puymandour, “it was, of course, necessary for me to give it serious reflec-
tion. I have made full inquiries, and I am certain that the proposed alliance
offers every guarantee of human happiness. The young man is only a few
years older than yourself. He is good-looking, his fortune is considerable,
he is of noble birth, and bears the title of Marquis—"
“He has spoken to you, then ?" interrupted Marie in an agitated tone.
“He? Who do you mean by 'he?'" "As the girl did not answer, her
father repeated his question.
“Why, M. George de Croisenois,” replied Marie faintly.
“What have you to do with Croisenois ?” retorted M. de Puymandour.
“And who is this Marquis de Croisenois? Is he that fop with little mous-
taches whom I saw hanging round your skirts this winter ?”.
“Yes," she stammered, quite out of countenance; “that is he."
" Why should you suppose he has asked for your hand? Did you know
he intended doing so ?”
"My dear father—"
“There's no dear father' in this case. What ! my daughter-a Puy-
mandour-listens to a declaration and conceals it from me! Zounds! He
has written to you, I suppose? What have you done with his letters ? "
“Dear father-"
“Silence! You have preserved these letters, no doubt? Very well, I
must see them.”
“Dear father_”
“ The letters !” interrupted M. de Puymandour in a formidable voice ;
“where are they? I must have them, even if I turn the whole house
topsy-turvy.”
Marie was incapable of dissimulation, and such was her father's anger
that she dared not resist him ; so she surrendered these precious missives,
four in number, tied together with a blue ribbon. He at once opened the
topmost one and read it aloud, interspersing his perusal with invectives
and exclamations. “Mademoiselle, although I fear nothing in the world
so much as your displeasure, I venture, notwithstanding your commands,
to write to you once more. Forgive me, but I learn that you are on the
point of leaving Paris for several months. I am twenty-four years of age.
I am an orphan, and my own master. I belong to an old and honourable
family, my fortune is considerable, and I love you with the most sincere and
respectful love. May I entreat you, therefore, to authorise me to ask M.
de Puymandour for your hand ? My great uncle, the Duke de Sairmeuse,
who knows your father, will act as my intermediary on his return from
Italy, that is in three or four weeks' time at the utmost. Once more, in-
ploring your forgiveness, I am, Mademoiselle, &c., &c."
“Very nice indeed--very nice," said the count as he finished reading,
“The scamp doesn't beat about the bush. That's quite enough for me-I
need read no more. And what did you write in return?”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“That he might apply to you, dear father.”'
“Indeed ! you do me too much honour, upon my word. And you
thought I should listen patiently to propositions from such a source ? You
love him, then?”
She averted her face, and tears streamed down her cheeks. This mute
avowal, for avowal it was, exasperated M. de Puymandour. “You love
him!” he exclaimed, “and you have the audacity to own it. Ah! what
times we live in ! Any girl is at the mercy of an adventurer !”
Marie looked up quickly. “The Marquis de Croisenois," said she, “comes
of a good family.”
“Pshaw! you know nothing about it. The first Croisenois was an errand
boy of Richelieu's. Louis XIII. conferred this title upon him for some
dirty piece of work he executed for him. Has your petty marquis any
roal means of subsistence?”.
“Most certainly. Some fifty thousand francs a year.”
“Stuff and nonsense.”
“But am I not rich enough for both of us?”
“Ah ! that's the point. That's what the scamp was after your money!
Do you think I've slaved for twenty years for the sake of a Croisenois ! No,
no. I won't hear of him. His conduct has been most disgraceful. When
a man of honour is in love, he goes to his notary, and lays before him his
intentions and position. This notary goes to the notary of the young lady's
family, and when the two notaries have studied and found everything satis-
factory, then the heart is allowed to speak. And, besides, we need not
bandy words; you must forget this Croisenois as quickly as possible. I
have chosen a husband for you, and have given my word of honour-you
will have to keep it. On Sunday, the young man will be introduced to
you ; on Monday, a visit to the bishop, to ask him to bless your union ;
on Tuesday, a round of visits to announce the engagement; on Wednesday,
the reading of the contract; on Thursday, a great betrothal dinner; on
Friday, the examination of the trousseau ; on Sunday, the banns, and at the
end of the week after, the wedding will take place."
Mademoiselle Marie listened aghast. “For heaven's sake, dear papa, be
serious !” she pleaded.
The count merely shrugged his shoulders. “Finally," added he, “the
husband I have selected for you is the Duke de Champdoce's son, young
Marquis Norbert.”
Marie turned deadly pale. “But I don't even know him !" she stammered.
“How can I love him?”
“I know him, then, and that is quite enough. I have decided you shall
be a duchess, and I mean it."
Marie loved M. de Croisenois more than she had told her father--more
even than she dared avow to herself. So she at first resisted with a hero-
ism most unexpected on the part of a girl endowed with so mild a nature,
and so weak a character. M. de Puyinandour, however, was not the man
to readily abandon the dream of his life. He did not leave his daughter
for a minute in peace-he argued, insisted and domineered-until at last,
on the third evening, Marie surrendered, and murmured the fatal “yes”
amid sobs and tears.
The word had scarcely passed her lips when her father, not lingering
even to thank her for the sacrifice, exclaimed, “I must go at once to
Champdoce. I have had no news from there for the last three days, and
there were still several points to be settled between the duke and myself.”


72
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
Thereupon he hastened off, just adding as he closed the door, “I shall
soon be back, my little duchess.”
He had every reason to wish to see the duke, for when they parted,
three days before, the old nobleman had said to him, “ To-morrow you will
hear from me,” but not a word had come. The delay had suited M. de
Puymandour, inasmuch as it had enabled him to conquer his daughter's
resistance ; but now that she was reduced to submission, he began to feel
very anxious. Could anything have gone wrong? He walked on at a
rapid pace, and had just reached the rising ground near Bivron, when he
perceived “ judge” Dauman talking earnestly with the widow Rouleau's
daughter. Despite his haste, M. de Puymandour bowed affably and
stopped, for he was now courting popularity, preparatory to coming for-
ward as a candidate at the next election. Now Dauman, despite his vil-
lainous reputation, was undoubtedly an influential personage, and an able
electioneering agent as well, whenever occasion required. “Good-day,
'judge,'" said the count, “what's the news ?”.
Dauman bowed to the ground. "Sad news, Monsieur le Comte,” he
answered; “I hear that the Duke de Champdoce is very ill."
" The duke! Impossible !”
"Well, this girl has just told me so. Tell us all about it, Françoise.”
The girl curtsied and replied “I've just heard at the château that it is
quite impossible for him to recover."
“But what's the matter with him?"
"I didn't hear."
M. de Puymandour stood aghast.
“That is always the way in this world,” observed Dauman, philoso-
phically. “In the midst of life we are in death—"
“Good-bye, 'judge'," interrupted the count, “as this is the case, I
must try and obtain some further particulars.” So saying, he lurried on,
breathless and anxious. All the people belonging to the château-servants
and farm-hands—were gathered together in the court-yard, talking ear-
nestly, but as soon as M. de Puymandour appeared, Jean, the duke's con-
fidential valet, advanced to meet him. “Well,” cried the count, “tell me
what is the matter ?”
“Oh ! Monsieur le Comte, a most awful misfortune! My poor master—"
“Is he dead ?"
“ Alas ! he is hardly any better !”.
“But how is it he has so suddenly fallen ill ?”
“It came like a flash of lightning,” responded Jean, after a moment's
hesitation. “On the day before yesterday, at about this same hour, Mon-
sieur le Duc was alone with Monsieur Norbert in the common hall, when we
heard Monsieur Norbert suddenly shriek for help. We hastened in and
found Monsieur le Duc lying on his back on the floor, unconscious, with his
face all black and swollen."
“He had had a fit of apoplexy, then ?"
“No, not exactly—the doctor called it a suffusion of blood to the brain,
and said he would have died at once if, in falling, he had not struck his
head against the oak dresser, cutting himself so that he bled profusely,
We carried him to bed, he was stiff and—”.
" And now?"
“Well, now, no one can say anything for certain. My poor master
neither sees nor hears; and if he recovers, which I scarcely believe possible,
the doctor says, that at all events his mind is gone for ever.”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
73
"Frightful ! frightful ! Such a noble, worthy, remarkable man! I don't
ask you to let me go upstairs, for I could do him no good, and the sight
would be a most painful one; but if I could see Monsieur Norbert,"
“Don't think of it, Monsieur le Comte, I beg of you!” said Jean, with a
sudden start.
“I was his father's friend, his intimate friend; and if sympathy could
soften the marquis's grief—"
“Impossible, Monsieur le Comte," rejoined Jean in a curt, gloomy voice.
“My young master is with his father, he has not left him for a moment,
and he has given orders not to be called on any pretence. But I must go
to him now. We are expecting two physicians who are coming from
Poitiers.”
“I will retire, then, and to-night I will send for news.”
M. de Puymandour walked slowly away, in a most anxious, despondent
state of mind. The old servant's manner, voice and look had struck him as
very singular. Had he told him the whole truth? The count recalled the
fact that Norbert was alone with M. de Champdoce at the time of the acci-
dent; and bearing his own daughter's resistance in mind, he jumped to the
conclusion that the duke had inet with similar opposition from his son,
that a violent quarrel had followed, and that, mad with anger, the old
nobleman had been struck with this fatal fit. Interest, indeed, so
sharpened M. de Puymandour's natural penetration, that he came singularly
near the truth. “If this should really be the case,” he thought, “it will
be just the same whether the duke dies or loses his mind, for Norbert will
certainly break off the negotiations.” In that case, what could M. de Puy-
mandour do, so as to escape ridicule? Only one plan occurred to him, that
of immediately marrying his daughter to the Marquis de Croisenois, who,
despite all he had said to the contrary, was in reality a most desirable hus-
band.
The count was thus cogitating as he walked home, when suddenly he
was startled by hearing some one ask him : “Was the girl right, Monsieur
le Comte." Chance had again thrown Dauman across his path. “How is
the duke?” resumed the "judge”_"and Monsieur Norbert? You saw
him, of course ? "
“No; the poor fellow is overwhelmed with grief. Fancy, his father has
a suffusion of blood to the brain, and will remain an idiot even if he doesn't
die.”
“How awful!" answered the “judge.” “For it really is a terrible thing
indeed !” And then with a low bow, he turned towards his own house.
In point of fact, M. de Puymandour felt little or no pity for Norbert.
He was mainly occupied in wondering whether his surmises as to the cause
of the duke's attack were right; and supposing such to be the case, what was
Norbert thinking of, what were his intentions.
At that moment the young marquis was kneeling at his father's bedside,
and with his heart full of anguish and remorse, watching for some indica-
tion of returning life or reason. Three days of horror and self-abasement
had made him a different man. It was only at the very last moment, when
the poison all but touched his father's lips, that he had realised the horror
and enormity of his crime. His whole nature had revolted, and a for-
miilable voice seemed to cry to him: “Assassin ! Parricide!” When his
father fell back he had had strength enough to shout for assistance ; but
immediately afterward, he was seized with a wild fear, and ran into the
fields, at hap-hazard, as if hoping to escape from himself. Jean, the duke's


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
old confidential servant, had alone witnessed this precipitate flight, and a
terrible presentiment had seized hold of him. He knew the cause of the
estrangement existing between father and son; he was acquainted with the
violence of their tempers, and with the fact that a woman was urging
Norbert to resistance. . After the frightful blow the duke had struck his son,
he was amazed to see Norbert return home. What could be his intention
in thus so speedily coming back to the château ? Finally, Jean had been in
the court-yard at the very moment when Norbert had flung the glass con-
taining the poisoned wine out of the window. All these circumstances
combined, made the old servant apprehensive of the truth, and so as soon as
the duke had been put to bed, he went downstairs again into the common
hall, convinced he should find something to confirm his fears. The bottle
containing the duke's wine stood there on the table, three-quarters empty.
What did this mean? With infinite care Jean poured several drops of the
wine into the hollow of his hand; he tasted them cautiously, spitting them
out again as soon as they had touched his palate. The wine retained its
usual aroma and flavour. No matter. Obeying the inspiration of his
devotion to the House of Champdoce, Jean carried the bottle to his own
room, unperceived, and hid it there. He then bade another servant to
remain with the duke until the doctor arrived, and went himself in search
of Norbert.
He had searched in vain for fully a couple of hours, and utterly dis-
couraged, was returning through the woods to the château, when on the
turf, under a tree, he saw a human form extended. He advanced cau-
tiously-yes, the man lying there was Norbert. The faithful old servant
knelt down, and finding him all but unconscious, shook him roughly.
With one bound the young fellow sprang to his feet. It seemed to him as if
justice, human or divine, had just set its clutch upon him, and his eyes
dilated with sudden terror. “It is I, Monsieur Norbert,” said Jean.
“Ah! yes ; what do you want?”.
“I came to find you, sir, to beg you to return with me to Champdoce."
“Return to the château ?" answered Norbert, in a hoarse voice. “No;
not now."
“But you must, sir. · Your absence would seem perfectly inconceivable.
It would set people talking, and strange things might be said. Your place
is at your father's bedside.'
“Never! No, never !”
He said this ; but he made no resistance when Jean slipped his arm
through his, and drew him along. Thus led, Norbert retraced his steps, in
automatic fashion, to the château, crossed the court, and ascended the stairs;
but on reaching the door of his father's room he drew back, again in a state
of abject terror, and tried to escape Jean's grasp. “I will not !” ho
gasped ; “I cannot !”
or You can, and you shall," said the faithful old servant. “For, no
matter what else happens, the family honour must not be tarnished in the
eyes of the world.”
These few words, the thought of the honour of Chainpdoce, gave Norbert
just sufficient strength to stagger across the room and sink on the floor at
the bedside. Once on his knees, with his forehead on his father's cold
hand, he burst into tears. He sobbed aloud, and at the sound the farm-
hands clustering in the room breathed sighs of relief. They were only
simple peasants, but on seeing Norbert, as white as if every drop of blood
had been drawn from his body, with his lips quivering, and his eyes blazing


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
75
with fever, they had asked themselves if he were not mad? Indeed, he
was not far from it. But with these tears relief came to his brain ; and
with thought, suffering returned. Still he had again become sufficiently
master of himself, when the doctor arrived, to appear before him simply as
an anxious son.
“There is no hope for your father, marquis,” said the rough spoken country
practitioner, by no means trying to soften the blow he dealt. “Even if we
succeed in saving his life, we can't hope to save his reason. The truth
ought always to be told to a patient's relations, and there you have it! I
shall return to-morrow.”
Norbert did not escort the doctor down-stairs. He had fallen on to a
chair, with his hands clasped round his head, which throbbed as if about to
burst. He sat in this way for half an hour or more, when suddenly he
started to his feet with a stifled cry. He remembered the bottle he had
dropped the poison into, and which had been left in the common hall.
What had been done with it? Suppose one of the servants had profited of
the duke's illness, to imbibe its contents. Everything might then be dis-
covered. The intensity of Norbert's fears gave him sufficient strength to
go down-stairs. The bottle was neither on the table, nor in its ordinary
place on the shelf. He was searching for it in every corner, when sudilenly
the door opened and Jean appeared. At sight of his young master, the old
servant was so impressed that he almost dropped the light he carried.
“Why are you here, sir?” he asked, in a trembling voice.
“I wanted—” stammered Norbert; “I was looking for—"
The servant's suspicions were instantly transformed into convictions. He
approached, and whispered in his ear, “You are looking for that bottle,
are you not? Well, it's safe. I have it in my room. To-inorrow we two
will throw its contents away, and there will be no proof left.”
Jean spoke so low, hardly articulating the syllables, that Norbert divined
these words rather from the movements of his lips than from any sound.
And yet it seemed to the young marquis that the valet's voice, recalling his
awful crime, resounded like thunder, filling the whole château from roof to
cellar. “Hush !” he said, looking around him with wild, affrighted eyes.
“ Hush !”
What more explicit confession than this was required ? "Oh! we are
alone, sir,” murmured Jean. “Fear nothing. There are words, I know,
which should never be spoken. If I have dared speak to you of a matter
which I accidentally discovered, it was because it was my duty to reassure
you, and warn you against any imprudence."
Norbert at once realised that the servant thought him more guilty than
he really was. “Jean," he exclaimed, “what do you believe? My father
never tasted that wine! I snatched the glass from him before his lips had
touched it. I threw it out into the court-yard, and if you look you will
find its fragments there."
“I am not your judge, sir, and you need give me no explanations.
Whatever you bid me believe, I will believe."
“ Ah! he doubts me,” rejoined Norbert. " He will not believe me. I
swear, in the name of all I hold sacred, I swear to you that I am innocent!"
The old valet shook his head sadly. “You must be so, sir, of course ;
for we two must save the honour of the house. But listen to me. Should
it so happen that any suspicions are aroused, throw them all on me, I will
defend myself, but in such a way that they will have all the more reason to
believe me guilty ; and now I think of it, I won't throw that bottle away,


76
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
but keep it in my room, where it may be found. That would be all the
proof required. What does it matter how a poor man like me is sent to
another world ? but you, a Champdoce—"
Norbert wrung his hands in despair. Jean's sublime devotion only
proved to him that the man was convinced of his guilt. Once more he
was endeavouring to explain, when suddenly a door was heard being banged
to on the floor above. “Hush !” said Jean ; “some one is coming down.
We must not be seen whispering together like two conspirators ; suspicion
would then certainly be awakened. I can't get rid of the idea that the
secret may be read on my face, or in your eyes. Quick, sir ! go up-stairs
and do your best to be calm. I entreat you not to risk the honour of your
family, it is that which is now at stake !"
Norbert obeyed, and regained his father's room. The servant who had
been watching there rose as he entered, and exclaimed, “The medicine the
doctor ordered has just come, sir. I have given the duke a spoonful, and it
seems to have had some effect already.” Norbert looked-he was bound
to do so, for hesitation would have been suspicious—and concurred with
what the man had said, Then, as he wished to be alone, he told the man he
might retire, for he would watch his father with Jean, and see that the medi-
cine was regularly given. The servant thereupon withdrew, and Norbert
wheeled a large arm-chair in front of the bed, and sat down. In the state
of mind in which he found himself, he could only with difficulty recall the
series of swiftly succeeding events which had culminated in his abominable
crime. But as he appealed, again and again, to memory, it seemed as if a
bandage fell from his eyes-perception returned, and judgment also. He
could still hear his father roughly exclaiming : “ That girl is an intrigante,
she does not love you, she loves your name and your fortune." He had
then been indignant, and had thought these words blasphemous. Alas!
the duke had been right. He saw it now. How happened it he had not
realised that this girl was throwing herself at his head; that her reserve
and her frankness alike were artificial ; that she it was who had impelled
him into this fatal path leading to such an awful precipice? The monstrous
meaning of the comedy enacted by Dauman flashed upon him. She whom
he had believed to be a pure and noble young girl had been the “ judge's "
accomplice. Between them they had excited him to madness, and finally,
placed in his hands the poison intended for his father. He quivered with
anguish as he realised all this, and his love for Diane de Sauvebourg turned
to loathing:
Day broke at last, and worn out, he fell asleep. It was noon when he
awoke. The sun was streaming into the room, and the doctor stood at the
patient's bedside. He turned as Norbert stirred, and coming towards him
exclaimed, “We shall save his body."
The prediction came true; that very night the Duke de Champdoce was
able to turn over in his bed. The next day he uttered a few unintelligible
words, and later again, he made those about him understand that he was
hungry. His life was saved ; but would not death have been a mercy ?
The powerful will that had guided his athletic form had vanished ; his
eyes had lost their glitter; his expression had become painfully idiotic.
And there was no hope of cure, no hope of restoring the mind. The duke
would be always thus-always! After realising the enorinity of his crime,
Norbert was now to measure the immensity of his chastisement.
It was now that Jean ventured to speak of M. de Puymandour's visit,
and such was the change in Norbert that he regarded this circumstance as


80
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
cation of banns in view of the dispensation the contracting parties have
obtained from our lord the archbishop. Any one who may know of any
impediment to this marriage is charged, under penalty of excommunication,
to acquaint us with it; while at this same time it is forbidden under the
same penalty to create any impediment either in inalice or without cause."
“Impediment!” What frightful irony. Mademoiselle de Sauvebourg
knew of more than one. A wild longing came to her to start up and shriek
aloud before them all, then and there, that this marriage could not take
place; that Norbert was her husband before God ; that he was bound to
her by a tie stronger than all other ties—by that of crime. However, her
pride saved her from this folly. She inade a prodigious effort and remained
still, white as snow, but with a smile on her lips; and seeing one of her
friends—a young girl of her own age-she made her a little sign, as if to
say, “Who would have thought of that?” Now she devoted all her energy
to retaining a bold, dispassionate countenance, and such was her wonderful
strength of mind that she succeeded. Still, as soon as the service was
over, she did not linger to converse with friends, but hurried homewards,
followed by her maid. She longed to be alone, longed to allow her grief
full course, unseen.
But a fresh calamity awaited her at Sauvebourg. As she entered the
château, a servant, who seemed greatly agitated, rushed to meet her.
“Ah, mademoiselle !” gasped the man,“ such a terrible misfortune!
Your father and mother are waiting for you. It is terrible.”
She went slowly upstairs. No doubt she was going to learn that her in-
trigue with Norbert had been discovered, perhaps even something worse.
When she entered the drawing-room, she perceived her father and mother
sitting near each other and weeping. She went towards them, and
the marquis, drawing her to him, pressed her tenderly to his heart.
“Poor child !” he murmured; “poor, dear child ; we have only you
now.”
Their son was dead. An express had brought the sad news while she
was at church. She was an only child now, heiress to one of the largest
fortunes in the province. If this catastrophe had occurred only one week
before, it would have assured her marriage with Norbert, and she would
never have committed that frightful crime. This was something more than
the grim sarcasm of destiny-it was a chastisement. She burst into tears,
not tears for her brother, but tears of rage and passion.
She could only think of Norbert, and still seemed to hear the old priest
reading the banns of marriage. Why had her lover decided on marrying
Marie de Puymandour, whom he did not even know, whom he had spoken
of with loathing only a few days previously? Diane scented a mystery and
determined to solve it. What had taken place at Champdoce? Had the
duke, contrary to Dauman's predictions, recovered ? Had he discovered
his son's attempt, and pardoned it only on conditions he now yielded to his
will? The day passed away in these futile conjectures, and in efforts to
think of some means of preventing Norbert from marrying Marie de Puy-
mandour ; for Diane, cast down as she was, had not relinquished the
struggle. She had a presentiment that she might triumph yet, providing
she could only see Norbert for one minute alone. Had she not already,
with one single look, influenced his career? Yes, she must see him, and in-
stantly. The danger was urgent; so she determined she would go to
Champdoce that very night.
A little after midnight, when she knew that everyone in the château was


THE SLAVES OF PARIS,
83
else.”
wonderfully clever.” Thereupon he turned towards his daughter and
added, “Now there's a model, Marie, which I should like you to copy--
which it would be well for you to imitate—as you are so soon to become a
duchess."
Whenever he started on this topic, M. de Puymandour was not easily
stopped, so his daughter calmly waited till he drew a long breath, and then
left the room with a murmured apology of an order to give. However, the
count was not much disturbed by her defection, for Norbert was left to
him. “To return to Mademoiselle Diane," said he, “black is wonder-
fully becoming to her. Indeed, fair-haired beauties ought really to con-
sider a relative's death as a piece of rare good luck. But I beg your pardon
for singing her praises to you, who know her so much better than any one
“I, sir ?"
“Yes, sir, you. I don't suppose you intend to deny the soft impeach-
ment, do you?”
“I don't understand—"
“ Well, I do, then. I understand that—that you have been making love
to her, and that quite lately, my lad ! Bless my soul! how you blush !
What's in the wind now?"
" I assure you, sir—".
De Puymandour laughed aloud. “I have heard a good deal of your little
walks and talks, and all that sort of thing,” said he.
In vain did Norbert protest and deny. His words did not make the least
impression on the count. Seeing this, and feeling excessively annoyed, the
young fellow would not remain to dinner, as M. de Puymandour urged him
to do, but declared he must return home to attend on his father. He was
walking hastily back to Champdoce, lost in a reverie as usual, when sud-
denly he heard some one call to him by name. He turned, and to his sur-
prise recognised Montlouis, the farmer's son, who had been his friend and
confidant at Poitiers. “I'm glad to see you," said Norbert, with some
little embarrassment, for Montlouis reminded him of much that he longed
to forget. “How long have you been here?”
“A week or so," replied Montlouis ; “I came here with my patron-for
I have a patron now. The Viscount de Mussidan has engaged me as his
private secretary. M. Octave is not the pleasantest man in the world
to live with, for at times he flies into terrible passions ; but after
all, he is at heart the best of men, and so I'm very well content with my
position."
“I am very glad to hear it, my friend, very glad.”
“And you, marquis, I'm told, are to marry Mademoiselle de Puymandour.
When I heard it I could hardly believe my ears."
“ And why, pray?”
“Why? because I remembered the time when we used to wait outside a
certain garden till we saw a certain gate open mysteriously."
“But you must forget all that, Montlouis."
“Oh, sir! my lips are sealed except to you ; no one else could ever
extort a word from me. But, nevertheless, there are some strange things
in life. Just fancy, your castaway—"
“Stop!” cried Norbert with a threatening gesture; “do you dare
imagine-
“ Imagine what, sir ? "
“I wish you to understand that Mademoiselle de Sauvebourg is as pure


84
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
to-day as she was when I saw her first. She was foolish, unquestionably,
but guilty-no! I swear it before God !”.
“And I believe you, sir ; I believe you."
The fact is that he did not believe one word that Norbert said, and it was
easy to read that it was so in his eyes. Still, he boldly resumed, “ And
all the more, too, as the young lady is to marry my patron.”
“ Then, it's really true," thought Norbert, and he added, aloud, “But
when and where has Viscount Octave had means of seeing Mademoiselle
Diane?”
"At Paris M. Octave was very intimate with her brother, and visited
himn constantly during his illness; so, as soon as the parents heard of his
being in the neighbourhood, they sent for him to come and see them. He
went at once, saw Mademoiselle Diane, and has ever since been most
enthusiastic about her.” Norbert's irritation was so evident that Montlouis
checked himself, convinced that the marquis was still in love with Diane,
and jealous into the bargain. “After all,” he added, by way of consolation,
“nothing is finally settled, as yet."
But Norbert was too much disturbed to endure Montlouis' chatter any
longer. He pressed his hand and left him abruptly, walking off at a rapid
pace. Did he really love Diane still ? he asked himself. Could he never
forget her? Was he such a coward as that, after all she had made him
suffer? And then, love or passion apart, did not the future seem most
threatening? Mademoiselle de Sauvebourg would marry the Viscount
Octave de Mussidan, no doubt, and thus she must, constantly, come into
contact with Montlouis, her husband's secretary. What would be her
feelings in such a situation ? Montlouis was acquainted with her meetings
with himself (Norbert); he had often been intrusted with letters and
messages for her. Besides, how would he behave on his side? Would he
have the sang froid and tact required in so delicate a position ? Norbert
decided in his own mind that Diane would not be able to long endure
Montlouis' presence near her person. Such being the case, she would seek
some pretext for his dismissal, and if that happened, Montlouis, enraged at
losing a comfortable livelihood, might retaliate by exposing her. Then, no
doubt, M. de Mussidan would part from his wife. Diane would be cast on
the world, beyond the pale of society, with all the social influence she had,
undoubtedly, dreamt of, lost to her for ever. What would she do then ?
Would she not seek for revenge? And on whom? Why on himself,
Norbert.
He had just asked himself if in these circumstances death would not
really be a mercy, when suddenly, to his intense surprise, he saw the widow
Rouleau's daughter, Françoise, standing before him. She had been waiting
for him for two hours, hidden behind a hedge. “I have something here
for you, sir,” she said.
He took the letter she offered him, and opening it, he read as follows:-
“You said that I did not love you, you wish me to prove my love, possibly.
Very well, let us elope to-night. I shall be sacrificed—but to you, by you,
and for you! Reflect, Norbert. There is time still ; to-morrow it will be
too late.” Yes, that is what Diane had dared to write. He stood with his
eyes long fixed on this letter, which to him was thrillingly eloquent. Then
did it not tell him something of the thoughts of her who penned it? Diane's
usually firm, neat writing was here trembling and confused. The three
last words were nearly illegible. In many places the writing was blurred
and the paper blistered, was it with tears? But then writing may be


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
85
intentionally irregular, and drops of water sometimes do duty for tears.
“Does she love me?” he murmured.
He hesitated-yes, he hesitated, touched by the idea that she would
sacrifice for him her honour, family and fortune; that she was his if he
raised his finger ; that in two hours, seated by her side, he might be driving
at full speed towards some foreign land. His heart beat madly, and he
gasped for breath, when suddenly, fifty paces down the road, he caught a
glimpse of a man's figure. It was his father. This was the second time
that by his simple presence the duke had triumphed over Diane and all her
power of fascination.
“Never !” cried Norbert, with such energy that Françoise retreated,
terrified. “Never! never !" And crushing the letter with unconscious
violence, he flung it on the ground (where Françoise picked it up a moment
later), and rushed forward to meet his father.
The duke, then, had recovered from his attack? Recovered, yes, in one
sense. In the sense that his life was saved—that he rose from bed, walked
about, ate and slept as of yore. He went to look at the labourers in the
fields, and thence strolled to the stables; but he had no recollection of
what he saw nor even consciousness of it. The state of his health had,
indeed, created many difficulties, which would have seriously embarrassed
Norbert but for M. de Puymandour's siirewd assistance.
The wedding was necessarily delayed. Still it caine at last. Norbert
and his bride were driven to the mayor's, and thence to the church, every
formality was fulfilled, and the Marquis de Champdoce and Marie de Puy-
mandour were yoked together for life.
Five days later, after a round of hypocritical festivities which the bride's
father obstinately refused to curtail, they were installed at Champdoce.
With a wife whom he could not love, and whose sadness was a perpetual
reproach to him, and with a father who had lost his mind, no wonder that
Norbert at times felt tempted to suicide. A prey to regrets and remorse,
seeing no object in life, no finish to his tortures, this fatal idea of self
destruction was daily gaining more hold on his mind, when one morning he
was told that the duke refused to get up. The doctor was sent for, and at
once declared that M. de Champdoce was in danger. A kind of reaction
was setting in, and all day long the invalid seemed to be in a state of great
excitement. His powers of speech, which had been much iinpaired, seemed
suddenly restored to him. Finally, he became delirious, whereupon
Norbert and Jean sent everyone else away from him, lest, in some inco-
herent phrase, those dread words, parricide or poison, should be pro-
nounced.
At about eleven o'clock he became calmer, and seemed drowsy, but all at
once he started up in bed. “Come here!” he cried, whereupon Norbert
and Jean hastened to the bedside, and were much startled to find that he
had regained his old expression of face; his eyes flashing and his lips
trembling as in moments of great excitement. “Pardon me, father !” cried
Norbert, falling on his knees. “Pardon me!”
M. de Champdoce gently extended his hand. “My pride was unreason.
able and God punished me,” said he. “My son, I forgive you."
The young man sobbed aloud. “I renounce my projects, my son. I do
not wish you to marry Mademoiselle de Puymandour if you do not love
her.”
“I have obeyed you, my father,” Norbert answered. “She is my wife
already.”


86
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
On hearing this, M. de Champdoce's features expressed the most fright-
ful anguish; he raised his arms as if to drive away a phantom, and, in a
hoarse voice, he cried : “ Too late! Too late!” Then he fell back on his
pillows in convulsions. He was dead !
If it be true, as is asserted, that for the dying the veil of the future is
sometimes torn a way, then the Duke de Champdoce must have had a
frightful vision of mental torture and misery, infamy, and bloodshed.
XII.
REPELLED by Norbert at that interview in his room at night time, Diane,
with death in her heart, turned towards the château de Sauvebourg, fol.
lowing the same road she had so lately traversed palpitating with hope.
The apparition of the Duke de Champdoce had terrified her; but, with
her, impressions were fleeting, and at home once more, in the seclusion of
her own room, she even smiled at her alarm. She had threatened Norbert,
but she now realised that it was not he whom she hated, but rather that
rival who had robbed her of him--Marie de Puymandour. As this
marriage could not be broken off by bringing influence to bear on Norbert,
she must change her tactics, and see if on Mademoiselle de Puymandour's
side there was not some reason that would suffice to prevent the wedding.
With this object Diane commenced an inquiry into her rival's antecedents.
She was busy with her investigations when the Viscount Octave de Mus-
sidan was introduced to her. He was a tall, handsome young man, highly
educated and possessed of a considerable fortune. When he was presented
to Diane de Sauvebourg, it was, on his side, a case of love-ardent, passion-
ate love at first sight. But with Diane matters were different. *Octave
was too much unlike Norbert to please her. There was no possible point
of comparison between this well-bred, accomplished young nobleman of
supremely aristocratic tastes, and that veriest child of nature, “the Champ-
doce savage.” It seemed to Diane that nothing could ever efface Norbert's
image from her memory. How well she recollected their first interview
his rustic garments, his shyness, his consternation at having wounded her!
She was the first woman he had ever dared look upon-ah ! how plead-
ingly eloquent had been the gaze of his bright blue eyes. At all events,
whatever may have been Diane's thoughts, Octave de Mussidan was fairly
smitten, and returned home more and more entranced from each visit he
paid to Sauvebourg. At last he could control himself no longer, and de-
cided to ask Diane if he might dare to apply to her parents for her hand.
Having succeeded in finding himself alone with her, he presented his re-
quest in a trembling, respectful voice. Diane was exceedingly surprised, for
she had been so absorbed in her own affairs that she had not even suspected
his feelings. What should she answer? The viscount's prayer snatched
her as it were from dreamland, and brought her face to face with the reality
of life. However, she could not give a decided answer on the spot. She
must have time for reflection. Hence she replied, with well affected
timidity, that on the morrow she would tell him whether he might hope or
not. She hesitated all night long. Must she really relinquish Norbert ?
Must she really abandon all hope of reaping the fruits of the crime she had
instigated ? The result of her meditations was the letter she intrusted to
the widow Rouleau's daughter-the letter in which she had offered to
elope with Norbert, and which he had so furiously flung aside at sight of


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
87
his father. Diane had been anxiously waiting at the end of the park for
her messenger's return, and at sight of her hastened forward, asking,
“Have you an answer? what did he say?"
“Nothing—that is, he made a furious gesture and cried out, "Never !
no, never ! »»
As it was necessary this girl's suspicions should not be aroused, Diane
had sufficient strength to laugh aloud, as she rejoined, “That is just what
I thought !”
Françoise seemed inclined to say something more, but Diane hastily dis-
missed her with the present of a louis. There was to be no more uncer-
tainty, doubt and anguish now, no more struggling, no other hope than
that of vengeance. She was thankful now for Octave's love, and said to
herself that, once married, she should be free, and able to follow Norbert
and his wife to Paris.
. When she returned to the château, Octave was there. He questioned her
with his eyes, and with a slight grave bow she gave her assent. This con-
sent, she thought, would free her from the past. But, alas ! she was mis-
taken. She forgot her many follies and acts of imprudence, and most es-
pecially she was oblivious of that scoundrel Dauman. The latter had only
felt fully reassured as to the consequences of the crime when he ascertained
the duke had absolutely lost his reason, and that the doctor, regarding the
case as hopeless, had ceased visiting Champdoce. Then as he heard, in suc-
cession, of Norbert's marriage and the duke's death, the horizon seemed fair
indeed. All danger was over, and he recalled the important fact that he
possessed twenty thousand francs' worth of notes signed by Norbert,
which were worth their full amount now that the young man reigned at
Champdoce.
Still after all, thought he, twenty thousand francs was but a small sum,
quite inadequate to recoup him for all the risk he had incurred, all the sus-
pense and anxiety he had endured ; hence why should he not make a bold
bid for a larger amount, which would enable him to spend his last years in
comfortable retirement. Influenced by this idea, Dauman began roaming
about Sauvebourg, hoping that he might meet Diane alone, and have a
little private conversation with her. For several days he was unsuccess-
ful, but at last one afternoon he perceived Mademoiselle de Sauvebourg walk-
ing towards Bivron. He followed her cautiously, and without accosting
her as long as she kept to the high road ; but as soon as she took a bye-path
leading through a small wood he hastened forward and overtook her.
“What do you want?" she asked hastily, as soon as she perceived him.
He did not answer at once, but after apologizing for his audacity, he be-
gan to congratulate Diane on her marriage, which everyone was now talk-
ing about, and which, he said, delighted him, especially as he knew M. de
Mussidan to be far superior to-
“Is that all you have to say ?” she asked ; but as she turned away he
had the impudence to restrain her by the corner of her shawl.
“I have something more to add,” he replied, “if you will listen; some,
thing about-you know what.”
"About what, indeed ?" she asked, with no effort to conceal her utter
contempt.
He smiled, looked round to see that no one was near, and then leaning
towards Diane, whispered, “It is about the poison
She started back as if fearing a serpent's sting. “What do you mean?
What do you dare to say ?” she asked.


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“Go to him, then."
Dauman shook his head. "No," he replied, “I'm not quite such a
simpleton. I know Monsieur Norbert; he's his father over again. But
you, mademoiselle, can manage him. Besides, you are even more in:
terested in the question than he is."
"Judge !”
"Oh, you'll find that there is something more than the judge' con-
cerned. I came to you humbly enough, and you treated me like the dirt
under your feet. However, I won't submit to such treatment, as you will
find. I never poisoned any one! But enough recrimination. This is
Tuesday. If on Friday, before six o'clock, I don't receive what I want,
your father and M. de Mussidan will hear from me. And perhaps you
won't be married after all !”
Mademoiselle de Sauvebourg was absolutely aghast at such impudence,
and Dauman had disappeared before she could think of a retort calculated
to wither him. She understood perfectly well that he was the man to exe-
cute his threats, even if he seriously compromised himself, and gained no
advantage whatever in doing so. Strong natures do not procrastinate,
but try to cope with difficulties as speedily as possible. Thus it was with
Diane; but then she had little or no choice in her decision. Indeed her only
resource was to apply to Norbert. She of course knew that he would do all
in his power to avert danger which threatened himself as much as her ; but
the idea of applying to him for money-for this is what it amounted to-
was odious to her pride. Her pride, indeed! She, a Sauvebourg born,
was at the mercy of that vile Dauman, and must do his bidding! Ay, there
was no help for it.
Thus instead of continuing her road, she repaired at once to the widow
Rouleau's, and addressing Françoise as if she were not acquainted with her
perfidy-indeed dissimulation was highly requisite-she bade her go to
Champdoce, speak to Norbert alone, and tell him that a pressing emergency
required that he should come that night to the little park gate at Sauve-
bourg where she would be waiting for him..
Then she went home. For the rest of the day she endured intolerable
agony of mind, and as the hour of rendezvous drew near, her heart beat as
if about to burst, and the most terrrible doubts assailed her. Would Nor-
bert come? Had Françoise seen him ? Suppose he had been away from
home! At last it grew dark, and the servants entered the salon with the
lamps. Octave de Mussidan was there paying his court as usual : still
Diane contrived to slip away, and reached the park gate in breathless haste.
Norbert was already waiting for her, and as soon as she appeared, he
sprung forward--but then, as if overtaken by a sudden remembrance, he
drew back and in a grating, guttural voice exclaimed, “You sent for me,
mademoiselle?”
“Yes, Monsieur le Duc."
At this title, dropping without thought from her lips, they both started.
This title Norbert owed to his father's death, and that death was due to
Diane's wish to become a duchess.
She recovered her self-possession first; and at once feeling the need of
haste and decision, she began with extreme volubility to explain Dauman's
insulting demand, exaggerating all his threats, albeit there was little need
of doing so. She fancied that the “judge's” rascality would enrage Nor-
bert, but he had suffered so intensely that he had now become insensible to
misfortune. Hence, to Diane's surprise, he merely answered listlessly,


90
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“Don't be troubled, I will see Dauman.” So saying, he turned as if
anxious to withdraw.
“And you can leave me thus," she asked sadly, “ without a word ?”
“What can I say, mademoiselle? My dying father forgave me-I for.
give you. Adieu."
"Adieu, then, Norbert, we shall see no more of each other. I am about
to be married as you have probably heard. Can I resist my parents' will ?
Besides, what does it matter ? Farewell! Remember that there is no
one in the world who hopes so earnestly for your happiness as I do."
“Happiness !” cried Norbert. “I happy? Impossible! Can you be
happy again? If you can, teach me your secret- tell me how to forget, and
how to annihilate thought. Perhaps you don't know the dream I had in-
dulged in-a dream of happiness, the memory of which will be the despair
of my life. Were I to live a thousand years I could never forget it."
A gleam of triumph, of ferocious joy in fact, came into Diane's eyes as she
heard these words. " She had dreaded this interview, but to her surprise it
had occasioned her little or no painful emotion. “He loves me still,” she
murmured, “and I no longer love him. My vengeance will be an easy
task.”
Two days afterwards, Jean, the old Champdoce servant, approached Diane
as she was returning home from walking, and handed her a package. She
opened it in the seclusion of her room, and found that it contained not
merely the two letters Dauman had spoken of, but her entire correspond-
ence with Norbert-more than a hundred missives, all of them lengthy and
compromising. At first she thought of destroying them, but on reflection
she carefully hid the package, together with the letters she had received
from Norbert. "Who knows ?” she murmured, “they may be of use some
day.”
The sixty thousand francs given by Norbert to Dauman as hush money,
and the twenty thousand due on the notes of hand, apparently repre-
sented the height of the “ judge's" ambition, for, a week afterwards, he
mysteriously disappeared from the neighbourhood in the company of Fran-
çoise, mother Rouleau's daughter. Mother Rouleau went about repeating
that Diane had favoured this abominable intrigue ; and the old woman who
had served as Dauman's housekeeper, declared to the amazement of the
villagers that the judge” had never been a huissier at all, but had acquired
all his legal knowledge in a convict prison, where he had been detained ten
years. Diane was delighted to hear of the elopement of the “judge” and
Françoise. She was now at least rid of two of her accomplices. Moreover,
Norbert had started for Paris with his wife, and M. de Puymandour re-
peated on all sides that there was little chance of his daughter, the Duchess
de Champdoce, returning to Poitou for a long time to come.
At last, Diane and Octave de Mussidan were married. She had literally
enslaved him, so fervent was his passion, and she considered she would be
able to mould their life in accordance with her pleasure. All the dark
clouds had passed away, and the future seemed to be her own. She
planned out a gay existence in Paris, an existence of fêtes and social suc-
cesses, at the same time bearing well in mind the vengeance she intended
to wreak on Norbert and Marie de Puymandour.
On her wedding day she seemed radiant, though in point of fact, her
apparent delight was only so much bravado. She knew that every eye was
fixed upon her as she came out of the church, and she espied many an evil
minded look on the faces of the villagers. The happy pair drove at once


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
to the château de Mussidan, and there a terrible, unexpected misfortune
awaited Diane. There indeed, in the drawing-room, stood her husband's
secretary, Montlouis, and despite all her courage and audacity, she coloured
to the roots of her hair when he was presented to her. He, fortunately,
had foreseen this emergency, and having had_time to prepare for it, retained
an apparently impassive attitude. Still, respectful as was his obeisance,
Diane-now Madame de Mussidan-detected, or thought she detected, in his
eyes the same threatening expression of ironical contempt as she had so
often seen in Dauman's. “That man cannot stay here,” she thought.
Still, however simple, it was withal a dangerous thing to ask her husband
to send Montlouis away at once. The wisest course was to defer the
secretary's dismissal until some good pretext offered itself. Nor was
this occasion long in coming; for Montlouis, zealous enough in Paris, had
wonderfully relaxed in punctuality since his arrival at Mussidan. He had,
in fact, renewed his connection with the young girl he had courted before
going to Paris. M. de Mussidan was by no means pleased with the change
in his secretary's conduct, and indeed this sort of thing could not, of course,
go on. However, the first blow struck at Diane's newborn happiness
did not come from this direction.
She had been married a fortnight or so, and was strolling one afternoon
with her husband through the woods, when all at once a dog was heard
barking in the underbrush. A moment later and the animal appeared. It
was Bruno. The sagacious spaniel immediately recognised Diane, bounded
towards her, raised himself on his hind-legs, and, with his fore-paws resting
on her breast, tried to lick her face. Diane was inexpressibly agitated.
“Help me, Octave !” she gasped.
Her husband at once complied, driving Bruno on one side. “Has the
dog frightened you, dear?” he asked.
** Yes,” she answered faintly ; “I am sick with terror.” She was very
pale and shuddered at this recognition-shuddered at the thought that it
might excite her husband's suspicions.
M. de Mussidan was watching Bruno, who, quite surprised by this un-
favourable reception, looked questioningly at Diane with his bright, intelli-
gent eyes. “I'm sure the dog can have meant no harm,” exclaimed the
viscount.
“No matter. Pray drive him away." And as she spoke, Diane raised
her parasol ; but the dog, never supposing it to be a threat, fancied that his
old friend wished to play with him as formerly, and at once began leaping
round her, barking joyfully at every bound.
“Why, this dog knows you, Diane,” remarked the viscount.
“Knows me !” As she spoke Bruno licked her hand. “ Well, perhaps
I may have met him before, but I hardly know where ; his memory is
better than mine. At all events I don't feel quite at ease. Come, Octave,
"let us go.”
They turned their steps homewards, and Octave de Mussidan would have
forgotten the occurrence if Bruno, delighted at having met an old acquaint-
ance, had not obstinately followed Diane. “It's singular,” repeated the
viscount; “very singular. Look here, my man!” he cried, seeing a
peasant at work in a field,“ do you know this dog ? "
"Oh yes, sir.”
“To whom does he belong, pray ?”
“Why, to our master, sir ; to Monsieur Norbert de Champdoce.”
On hearing her old lover's name, Diane could not repress a shudder.


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
95
duels that resulted to his advantage, and showed himself everywhere in
the companionship of women without reputation. His days were spent in
the saddle and in the fencing gallery, his nights in supping and gambling.
His wife seldom even saw him. As a rule, it was day break when he re-
turned home, more or less intoxicated, and having generally lost large
sums at play. Old Jean, the faithful retainer of the House of Champdoce,
sighed, not because his master scattered so lavishly the treasure his
father had amassed, but because he was always surrounded by folks of
questionable repute. “Think of the name, sir,” he said at times, “the
name !"
"Oh! what does it matter,” answered Norbert,“ providing I live fast
and die soon ?”
The truth is, that the young ruke seemed a prey to vertigo. He was like
a bark caught in the Maelstrom, whirling round and round, beyond hope
of salvation. He rushed on without thinking, or rather, the only thoughts
that came to him were thoughts of Diane. Ah ! the recollection of others
might fade away, but the memory of her still clung to him. Even amid the
fumes of wine her image rose before him, luminous and attractive, like a
lamp suddenly ignited in the dead of night.
For six months or more, Norbert had been leading this senseless life,
when, one fine February afternoon, as he was riding down the Champs
Elysées, he noticed a woman nod to him in friendly style. She was seated
in a large open barouche, and swathed in furs. He fancied she must be
one of the many actresses he knew, and nonchalantly rode towards the
carriage ; but when only midway, he discovered to his intense surprise that
its occupant was Diane-Madame de Mussidan. Still he rode on, and as
the carriage had just stopped, he drew his horse up beside it.
Diane seemed as niuch agitated as himself, and for a few moments neither
of them spoke. Their eyes were fixed on each other, and they were as
oppressed as if they had felt a presentiment of what Fate had in store for
them.
At last, however, Norbert realised he must speak--speak, at any cost,
no matter what he said, for the servants were eyeing him inquisitively.
“ You, madame ! here in Paris ? ” he stammered.
“ Yes, Monsieur le Duc."
“Since how long?"
“Oh! we have been installed here, my husband and myself, for a couple
of months at least.” Artfully enough, she accentuated these words, “my
husband.”
“Two months !” repeated Norbert, as if lost in a dream.
“Quite so, though I myself can scarcely believe it, for the time has
passed so quick.” She smiled strangely as she spoke, and a peculiar gleam
came into her eyes as she added, “But give me some news of the Duchess
de Champdoce. Does she amuse herself in Paris ?”
Norbert made a furious gesture. “Oh! the duchess, the duchess !” he
grumbled.
Diane interposed. Whilst the duke was speaking, she had disengaged
her hand from among her furs, and now, as she held it out to him, she said
in a half tender, half jesting tone, “I hope we shall always be friends-
good friends. Au revoir !""
The coachman, as if the words " Au revoir" had been a signal, at once
touched up his horses, and the barouche rolled rapidly away.
Norbert had not taken Diane's hand; he had been too bewildered. But


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
he speedily recovered himself, and spurring his horse, rode swiftly towards
the Arc de Triomphe.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, with despair gnawing at his heart, “I love her
still. I can never love any one but her!”
He made several fruitless efforts to find her barouche again, but all in
vain ; no doubt she had gone home. “But I will see her again !” he said
to himself. “She has not forgotten me-her eyes and voice both said she
hadn't.” At this moment a gleam of sense darted through his mind.
“ After all,” he murmured, “a woman like her could never forgive certain
offences. Her cordiality must have been a snare. Did she not swear to
revenge herself?”
Unfortunately he did not long retain this common sense view of the
matter. In fact, the same evening, he asked a friend at his club if he
could tell him the Mussidans' address. His friend smiled. “What !
Champdoce,” said he, “are you in love with the charming viscountess as
well? Hasn't she made enough victims already?”
“Victims !” ejaculated Norbert in surprise.
“Ay, I know at least of four. To begin with, Octave de Mussidan, her
husband ; then the youngest of the Sairmeuses ; next, Clairin, and then
George de Croisenois.”
The young duke turned aside in disgust, not daring to carry his inquiries
any farther. However, the next day, in the Champs Elysées, he again en-
countered Madame de Mussidan's carriage ; and indeed, day after day, they
met in similar fashion, merely exchanging a few words. However, at the
beginning of the following week, after a great deal of hesitation, Diane
promised Norbert that the next afternoon, at three o'clock, she would alight
from her carriage in the Bois, as if desirous of walking, turn into a side
avenue they agreed upon, and grant him a short interview there.
She had said at three o'clock ; but before two, Norbert was already at
the rendezvous, boiling over with impatience and tortured by uncertainty.
He asked himself, “Is this really I, waiting for Diane, as I did at Bivron?”
How many events had taken place, and how many changes since then! It
was not Diane de Sauvebourg who was coming, but the Viscountess de
Mussidan, another man's wife. And he himself was married. It was no
longer the mere caprice of a father that separated them, but duty, law,
and society. Still, in his mad excitement, he asked himself why Diane
and he should not set absurd prejudices on one side. Couldn't she leave
her husband ? couldn't he leave his wife? In the meanwhile, time was
passing, and Norbert half feared she might not keep the appointment. He
had hardly expressed his anxiety to himself, when he noticed a cab stop
soine short distance off and a woman hastily alight. It was she. She
rapidly approached-crossing an open space, careless of the brambles, so as
to reach him the sooner. He bowed low as she drew near; but without a
word she took his arm and drew him deeper into the wood. It had rained
for several days, and the paths were very muddy, but Madame de Mussidan
did not seem to notice it. “Let us go on,” she said. “I do not wish any
one to see us from the road. I have taken every precaution, my carriage
and servants are waiting for me outside the church of St. Philippe du Roule.
I am supposed to be at confession ; but I came out by a side door and
jumped into the first cab. However, I may have been watched and followed.
Let us walk farther still."
“ You were not so timid once upon a time.”
“I was my own mistress then ; my reputation was all my fortune, but it


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
97
was mine-I had a right to risk it, for if I lost it I only injured myself ;
but when I married I accepted a sacred deposit—the honour of the man
who gave me his name. I'must keep it-keep it intact!”
“Say that you love me no longer.”
She gave Norbert one of those frigid looks she excelled in, and slowly
answered, “ Your memory is failing you, I think. However, I remember a
certain letter.”
With an entreating gesture Norbert interrupted her. "Mercy!” he
stammered. “Have pity on me! You would have some compassion if you
realised the horrors of my punishment. I was blind, mad, foolish then !
But never have I so loved you as now.”
A smile curved Diane's exquisite lips. Norbert told her nothing new;
still, she took pleasure in listening to his confession.
“Alas !” she murmured, “what can I say? Nothing but the fatal
words, too late!'”
6 Diane !"
He tried to take her hand, but she hastily drew it away. “Oh! do not
speak like that!" she cried with a wild look; “ do not use that name, you
have no right to do so. Is it not enough to have trifled with the young
girl ? Do not dishonour the wife! You must forget me-do you hear?
It is to say that, I came here. The other day when I saw you I was not
altogether mistress of myself—my heart, which you possessed, went forth
to meet you, and I allowed you to see it. But draw no conclusions from
my weakness. I said to you, “We are friends; ' 'twas folly. We cannot
even be friends ; we must become strangers.”
Whilst listening, Norbert remembered what his friend had said to him at
the club. “You are cruel,” he exclaimed bitterly. "You have been kinder
to M. de Sairmeuse, to M. George de Croisenois—"
“What do you mean?" she asked haughtily. "These gentlemen are
my husband's friends ; whilst you" She paused, and then, taking both
his hands and fixing her eyes on his, resumed : “You forget that the folks
of Bivron said I was your mistress. Do you think this slander has never
reached my husband's ears? One day when your name was mentioned in
his presence, I read suspicion and hatred in his eyes. Good God! If he
suspected on my return that your hand had just touched mine, he would
drive me from his roof like a degraded wretch. Is not the door of our hone
closed to you for ever?”.
"Ah! I am very miserable!”
“And I, what am I? But what is the use of complaining ? Be a man;
and if in your heart there still lingers one ray of affection for me, prove it
by never trying to see me again.”
Thereupon, despite all Norbert's entreaties and efforts to retain her, she
hurried back to the cab, leaving in his heart even a more subtle poison than
that she had once intended for his father. She knew what chords vibrated
in him, and how to deal with them. She felt certain that before a month
was over he would be at her feet, that she would be able to govern him
more absolutely than ever, and that even against himself he would assist
her in carrying out the infamous scheme of vengeance she had conceived.
Her calculations were correct. After following her about like a shadow
for a fortnight, Norbert at last made bold enough to approach her again,
one afternoon in the Champs Elysées. She showed her displeasure, but not
in so marked a degree as to prevent him from renewing his offence. He
accosted her again, she shed tears, and yet he persevered. Her defence
VOL. II.


98
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
seemed very heroic to Norbert, but by degrees it grew weaker, and at last
she granted him one interview, then two more. But wbat were they ?
They took place in a church, in a museum, or in the Bois, and they hardly
even had time to shake hands.
Still he did not dare complain, for she depicted the danger she incurred
as something terrible. At lust, after a great deal of hesitation, tears and
expostulation, she finished by saying that she had found a means of making
their interviews less hazardous. It was—but she dared not say it. How-
ever Norbert urged her to speak, and finally she allowed herself to be per-
suaded. It was that they might meet in coinparative safety, if she could
only become the friend of the Duchess de Champioce! This time Norbert
felt certain she was altogether an angel, and it was decided that on the
very next day he would introduce her to his wife.
XIV.
It was a Wednesday, early in March. Instead of breakfasting in his own
room, or at his club with bis friends, the Duke de Champdocc had seen fit to
join his wife. He was in the best possible burnour, gay and smiling, in-
deed his wife had never seen him so affable since their unfortunate
marriage. Madame de Champdoce could not understand the change ; it
frightened her, for with an innate presentiment, she seemed to divine that
it presaged some approaching misfortune. However, as soon as the ser-
vants had retired and Norbert found himself alone with his wife, he took
hold of her haal and kissed it gallantly. "I have long wished, my dear
Marie," said he,“ to oren iny heart to you. Indeed a frank and friendly
explaration has become positively necessary.”
“An explanation !”
“Good heavens! yes-but don't let the word startle you. I have ap-
peared, I fear, the saddest and most dismal of husbands.'
"Indeed !"
“Permit me to explain. Since we came here, we have hardly seen each
other. I go out early, and come home very late, and sometim-s three days
elapse without our exchanging a word.”
The young duchess listened with the air of a woman whɔ distrusts her
senses. Could this be Norbert accusing hiinself in this way ! “I have no
complaint to make,” she stammei ed.
"I know that, Marie. You are a noble and dig:ified woman. However,
you are a woman, and a young one too ; so it is impossible that you
should not have judged me.”
“Indeed, sir, I have not."
“So much the better then. In that case I gnall not be obliged to defend
or excuse myself. But I wish you to know, Marie, that you are my first
thought, even when I am not with you.”
He was evidently trying to appear good, kind, and affectionate, but bis
efforts were useless ; for while his words were almost tender, his voice was
not even friendly.
“I know my duty, sir,” said the duchess.
“Pray, Marie," exclaimed her husband, “let there never be a question
of duty between us. You know the causes of your isolaticn as well as I
do. The people who were the friends of Mademoiselle de Puymandour
could not be those of the Duchess de Champdoce. You know that.”


100
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
ing pit-a-pat, and yet with a winning smile, and charming grace, she bowed
to the young duchess, gaily excusing herself for her importunity. “She
had not been able,” she said, “to resist the desire of seeing her old neigh-
bour, now that she was so near; and so in disregard of all convenances, for
which she trusted the duchess would forgive her, she had ventured to call
so that they might talk together about Bivron, Champdoce, and all that
beautiful country where she was born, and which she loved so dearly."
The duchess listened in silence to this flow of words. She had bowed
with great coldness, and her face expressed more clearly, perhaps, than is
customary in good society, the surprise this visit caused her.
Even a more perfectly self-possessed person than Diane might have been
disconcerted. But present annoyance was so small in comparison to the
advantages she hoped to reap, so that she appealed to all the resources of
her wit and skill.
Norbert meanwhile wandered up and down the room feeling none too
comfortable in the contemptible rôle he had accepted. However, as soon
as he fancied that the ice was broken, and that the two women were con-
versing amicably, he left them, uncertain whether he ought to feel glad or
sorry at the success of this unworthy comedy.
The task was more difficult than he supposed. After what Norbert had
told her of his wife, Madame de Mussidan had fancied she would be re.
ceived by the duchess as if she were an angel come down from heaven to
visit and console a prisoner. She expected to find a simple, artless sort of
woman, who, on her first visit, would throw her arms round her neck, and
afterwards entirely abandon herself to her influence. But she speedily re-
alised that she must be most cautious and skilful, if she wished to win the
duchess's confidence. Still this unexpected difficulty rather exhilarated
Diane than discouraged her, and such, when she chose, were her powers of
fascination, that when she left, the first step was achieved.
That same evening, Madame de Champdoce said to her husband : “I
think that the countess is an excellent woman !”
“ Excellent is just the right word,” answered Norbert. "All Bivron
wept when she left; she was the providence of the poor."
He was flattered by Diane's success. For had she not displayed all this
address for his sake-were not her efforts a fresh proof of the sincerity of
her passion ! However, his satisfaction diminished considerably the next
day, when he saw Madame de Mussidan in the Champs Elysées. She
looked sad and preoccupied. “What has gone wrong?” he asked.
“I-I repent bitterly having yielded to my own heart and your en-
treaties. Alas! we have been terribly imprudent."
“ We imprudent? And how ?”
“Norbert, your wife suspects something."
“She-impossible ! She sang your praises after your departure."
“ If that is the case, she is cleverer than I supposed, for she is able to
conceal her suspicions, and has determined to verify them.”
Diane's tone was so serious, that Norbert was positively startled.
“What is to be done, then?” he asked. “What can we do?"
“It would be best to give up seeing each other.”
“Never ! never !"
“Let me think, then ; and in the meantime, be prudent. Yes, in the
name of heaven be prudent,”.
The result of Diane's reflections and artful advice was that Norbert entirely
changed his mode of life. No more club bouts, or suppers, or nights spent


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
101
in gambling and drinking. He went about with his wife in the daytime,
and often spent his evenings at home. His friends charged him with
having become a model husband. This great change did not take place
without many an inward revolt on his part. He was humiliated by the
constant hypocrisy he was condemned to, but then Diane's small white
hand, apparently so slender and so frail, was yet as firm as steel.
“You must live like this,” she said, in reply to his complaints—“ first,
because it must be so, and next, because I wish it. On your present con-
duct all our future security depends. I wish Madame de Champdoce to
feel that happiness entered her doors with my introduction to her."
What could be said in reply to this? Norbert was more in love than ever,
and a terrible fear froze every objection upon his lips. “If I displeased
her,” he thought, “she wouldn't hesitate to throw me over !” and so he
obeyed her, hard as it was to do so.
After remaining for a long time on the defensive, the duchess yielded at
length to the charms of the friendship which seemed so frankly offered her,
and finished by abandoning herself absolutely to her mortal enemy. Finally,
she had not a secret from her; and one day, after many long and confidential
conversations with Diane, she confessed, amid tears and blushes, her one
girlish love—the memory of which remained in her heart like some precious
perfume. She even spoke of George de Croisenois by name. That day
Diane was thrilled with joy. “I have her at last,” she thought; “my
vengeance is at hand !”
The two young women were now constantly together. In fact, they
seemed like two fond sisters. Norbert, however, was scarcely pleased
thereat; for Diane's intimacy with his wife had by no means conduced to
that liberty of intercourse he had desired and anticipated. In fact, now
that Madame de Mussidan went daily to the Hôtel de Champdoce, Norbert
saw her even less than before. Sometiines weeks elapsed without their see-
ing each other alone for a single moment, and she devised everything so
artfully that his wife always rose up, as it were, between him and her-
just as in the pantomimes, when the clown, wishing to kiss Columbine, al-
ways finds Harlequin there to prevent him. At times Norbert waxed
wrathful ; but Diane always had reasons, either good or bad ones, to close
his lips with. At times she ridiculed him mercilessly, and then at others
she assumed her grand air and said, “In heaven's name, what did you ex-
pect? What infamy did you suppose me capable of ?”
Norbert was, in fact, managed by Diane precisely as if he had been a
child or a fool. He knew it and realised it fully. If he could only have
followed her about as before! But she was always guarded in the Bois or
at the races, in fact, wherever she went, by some cavaliere servente riding
beside her carriage---now by M. de Sairmeuse, now by M. de Clairin, and
most frequently by George de Croisenois. These men were one and all dis-
agreeable to Norbert, and De Croisenois especially so ; for he looked upon
him as impertinent and absurd, in which opinion he was altogether wrong.
At twenty-five, the Marquis de Croisenois was one of the cleverest and
most witty men in Parisian society, and his high reputation, contrary to
what often happens, was well deserved. Many persons were envious of
him, but he had no enemies. He was greatly esteemed, for his honour and
probity were beyond question. Moreover, his character was not destitute
of certain chivalric, adventurous traits. However, Norbert could not brook
him, and in his mad jealousy often asked, “I should like to know what you
see in this impertinent fop to have hiin about you so much ?”


102
-AE SLAVES OF PARIS.
To which she invariably replied, with an equivocal smile, “You are too
curious-you will know some day.”
Ah ! if Norbert had been less carried away by his passion, if he had
studied Diane's tone of voice when she spoke to him, if he had investigated
her conduct! But no, love had blinded him ; he saw, he divined nothing.
In the meanwhile, not a day passed without some conversation between
Diane and the duchess about Croisenois ; and the viscountess had artfully
accustomed Marie to look certain probabilities, or rather, possibilities, in
the face, from the mere idea of which, a few months before, she would have
shrunk with horror. This point gained, Madame de Mussidan now con-
sidered it advisable to bring the old lovers once more together; an unex.
pected meeting, thought she, would have more effect than all her insinua-
tions. Accordingly, one day when Madame de Champdoce called for her
friend, she was asked to wait in the salon for a few minutes. She entered,
and found herself face to face with the Marquis de Croisenois.
An exclamation of surprise escaped them both as they recognised each
other, and they turned very pale. But the emotion of the duchess was
such, that she sank half fainting on to a chair near the door. M. de Croise-
nois was scarcely less moved; for he had loved Marie de Puymandour
deeply and truly, and was not yet consoled. “I had faith in you," he
murmured, hardly knowing what he said ; “but you forgot me.”
"You do not believe what you say," answered the duchess proudly. But
a moment afterwards, unconscious of the gravity of her words, she added,
“What could I do? I obeyed my father. I was weak, no doubt; but I
have forgotten nothing.”
Behind the door Madame de Mussidan was crouching and listening, and
as she heard these words, her eyes glittered with infernal triumph. She
said to herself that an interview that commenced like this was not likely
to be the last one. She was not mistaken ; for she soon discovered that
George and the duchess understood each other enough to meet regularly at
her house. However, she did not appear to notice it. She waited calmly ;
things were proceeding as she wished, and sooner or later the mine she had
prepared must surely explode with terrible force and effect.
XV.
SEPTEMBER had come round, and although the weather was atrocious, the
young Duke de Champdoce, accompanied by his faithful Jean, was sojourn-
ing at Maisons, where his racing stable was installed. The truth is, that
having had a tiff with Diane, he wished to try the effect of absence in re-
ducing her to submission, having, indeed, heard say that absence is like the
wind that fans a fire and extinguishes a candle.
Norbert had been at Maisons a couple of days, and was already growing
very anxious at not having heard from Madame de Mussidan, when one
evening, as he came in from a last look at his horses, he was told that a
man wished to see him. He found this man to be a poor old fellow, well
known in the place, who lived partially on the alms he received and the
ei ran Is he was intrusted with.
“ Did you wish to see me?” asked the duke.
The old fellow half drew a letter froin his pocket, and with a knowing
· wink replied, “This is for you.”
Very well-give it to me."


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
103
" But I was told, sir, to wait until you were alone, for—"
“Never mind. Make haste !”.
“ If you say so, I suppose I must."
Norbert took it for granted that this letter came from Diane, so tossing
the man a louis, he hurried with the letter to the nearest stable lamp. But
the direction was not in the aristocratic, delicate handwriting of the
Countess de Mussidan. Indeed, Champdoce was written with two s's
instead of with a c. “Who the deuce could have sent me this?” thought
Norbert. However, he broke the seal.
The paper was soiled and greasy, and as coarse as the envelope. The
writing was atrocious, and the mistakes in spelling innumerable. The mis-
sive ran as follows: “Sir, it gives me pain to tell you the truth; but I can't
help it, for I must relieve my conscience. I cannot endure to see a woman,
without heart or honour, persistently deceiving a man like yourself. I write
therefore to tell you that your wife betrays you, and daily laughs at you.
You may believe me, for I am an honest woman; and it is easy, too, for you
to satisfy yourself that I don't lie. Conceal yourself this very evening, from
half-past ten to eleven, in any place where you can see the small door in
your garden wall, and you will certainly see the lover arrive. He has had
a key for a long time. The hour for the rendezvous is well chosen, for there
won't be a servant in the house. But I implore you, sir, don't be severe;
for I would not do your wife any harm on any consideration.
• FROM ONE Who Knows.”
Norbert read this infamous letter at one glance. The blood rushed to
his brain, and he gave vent to a roar of rage. All the servants rushed to-
wards him. “That man !” he cried, “where's that man?”
" What man?"
“ The fellow who brought me this—this letter. Run after him. Bring
him here instantly."
In a minute or two the man appeared, dragged along by two stalwart
grooms. “I didn't steal it,” he cried ; "it was given ine. I'm ready to
restore it !” He spoke of the louis tossed to him by Norbert; for the
largeness of the sum had awakened his doubts as to its having been intended
for him.
“Keep the money," said the duke... “I gave it to you. But answer my
question. Who gave you this letter ?”
"A man I don't know, sir," replied the old fellow trembling.
“Is that really true?" asked Norbert.
“Oh! may my next pipe poison me if I am lying. It was about four
o'clock when he jumped out of a cab near the bridge. I was passing by,
and he stopped me and said, “Do you see this letter? At half past seven
just take it to the Duke de Champdoce, in the house at the stables on the
forest road.' 'Yes, I know the place,' says I; and then he put the letter
and a five-franc piece into my hand, jumped into the cab again, and drove
off.”
“ What was he like?” asked Norbert.
“Like? Well, sir, I don't know. He had a gold watch-chain across his
waistcoat; but I didn't notice anything else. He wasn't old, nor young,
nor short, nor tall —”
“Enough! You may go."
At this moment Norbert's anger was solely directed against the writer
of this anonymous letter. He did not place the smallest belief in the
charges against his wife ; for if he did not love her, he respected her.


104
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“My wife,” he said, “is an honest woman, and this must come from
some servant she has discharged, and who takes this mode of revenge."
However, he re-perused the note, and on reflection it seemed to him that
the bad spelling was somewhat forced. Moreover, the mention that there
wouldn't be a servant in the house struck him as especially singular.
Anxious for information on the point, he summoned Jean. “Is it true,"
he asked, “that there won't be any of the servants at the house in Paris
to-night?”
“Doesn't Monsieur le Duc remember? It's the head coachman's wed-
ding to-day, and madame was kind enough to say she would not deprive
any one of the ball, and that if the concierge and his wife remained at home
as usual that would do.”
“Ah, yes, I remember now," said Norbert with affected calmness.
But in point of fact, doubt had now crept into his mind, and as we know
suspicion cannot be reasoned away. “After all,” thought Norbert, “ why
shouldn't my wife betray me? I believe her to be virtuous, and attached
to her duties ; but all husbands who are deceived undoubtedly believe the
same. Why shouldn't I profit by this advice? Why shouldn't I see for
myself ?-No,” he continued, “I will not descend to such baseness. I
should be as vile as the person who wrote this letter, if I played the spy,
as she suggests."
He looked up and saw that all the stablemen were watching him with
intense curiosity. “Go to your work !” he cried, angrily; “put out your
lanterns and shut the windows."
He thought the men looked sneeringly at him, and intensely aggravated,
he at once made up his mind. He took out his watch. It was eight
o'clock ; he had just time to get to Paris, he thought. Accordingly he
summoned Jean once more. With this devoted servant there was no need
of dissimulation. “I must go to Paris at once, Jean,” said Norbert.
The old man shook his head sadly, “On account of that letter ?” he
asked, respectfully.
“Yes, on account of this letter.”
“Some one has made charges against my mistress.”
“How do you know that?" asked Norbert.
“It was easy enough to guess, sir.”
“ Well, quick, a change of clothes for me. Have horses put to the
carriage, drive to the club, I will go on foot.”
“ It can't be done like that, sir," said Jean gravely ; "the other servants
may have the same idea as myself. You ought to go without anyone knowing
it. Let the servants here suppose you have never left Maisons. I will
take a horse from the small stable, secretly saddle him, lead him across the
bridge, and you can come and join me there.”
“ Very well; but there is no time to lose. "
Jean hurried away, and Norbert heard him say to an under valet, “Put
some cold meat on the table, the duke says he's famished.”
Entering his bedroom M. de Champdoce donned an overcoat and riding
boots, and slipped a loaded revolver into his pocket. The night was very
dark, a fine, icy rain was falling, and the rjads were almost impassible.
However, at the appointed spot he found the old valet with the horse.
Norbert at once leaped into the saddle, exclaiming, “No one saw me
leave.”
“Nor me either," answered the faithful servant. "I shall go back and
attend to things just as if you were at supper. But in three hours from


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
105
now I shall be in that wine shop on the left. When you return just touch
the window lightly with the handle of your whip.”
The horse champed the bit impatiently, Norbert was off like the wind.
Jean had made a wise choice, for the animal stretched himself out and
took the muddy road at an even, regular pace. Still Norbert, by this time
in a state of great excitement, applied the spurs.
As he reached the Faubourg St. Germain, he had a new idea. Suppose
some of his club friends had sent him this letter as a practical joke? In that
case, they would of course be watching for him, and would keep him on the
qui vive near that gate for two hours, and then suddenly appear and over-
whelm him with ridicule. This fear made him prudent. What was he to
do with his horse? The wine shops were still open ; he might perhaps go
into one, and find some man who would take charge of the animal. Whilst
he was hesitating, he perceived a soldier tramping along on his way,
probably to his barracks. “Eh, my good fellow," asked Norbert, "are
you inclined to earn twenty francs ?”
“Of course I am, if it's honestly and in no way contrary to the regula.
tions of the service."
“It's only to hold my horse and walk hinn up and down, while I pay a
visit near here."
“Oh, all right, I can stay cut a couple of hours more."
Norbert thereupon alighted, told the soldier where to wait for him, and
went rapidly on his way. To make sure of everything, for he still dreaded
a practical joke, he took a circuitous route to the Rue Barbet de Jouy
where the side gate of the Champdoce grounds was situated. Almost in
front of it on the other side of the way was the porte-cochère of an aristo-
cratic mansion, and Norbert slipped into a dark corner and watched. Pre-
viously, however, he had carefully explored the street from one end to the
other, for it is a very short street, and had ascertained that it was utterly
deserted. This necessarily put an end to all idea of a mystification, and so
he determined he would wait till midnight, and if by that time no one had
come he would recognize his wife's innocence, and retire.
Three windows on the second floor were faintly lighted ; and these were
precisely those of his wife's sleeping room. Norbert looked at thein and
reflected. “She is not the kind of woman,” he said to himself, “who
would receive a lover! No, no! it is impossible." And by degrees he be-
gan to think of the manner in which he behaved to his wife. Had ho
nothing to reproach himself with ? Two days after their marriage he had
virtually abandoned her; and if during the last few months he had con-
desonded to show her any affection, she owed it, poor thing, to the cap.
rice of another woman-who bestowed it upon her like alms to the star-
ving. Even if a man were with her, what right had he to interfere? The
law, of course, gave him every right, but his conscience accorded hin
none.
He stood against the wall, motionless as the stone itself. He was chilled,
and it seemed to him that life and thought were both fading away. How
long had he been there-one hour or six? He had no idea. He pulled out
his watch, but it was so dark that he could not see the hands. However,
just at that moment the clock of the Invalides struck a half hour-What
half hour was it? He had already decided to depart, when suddenly he
heard a light footfall at the end of the street. It was a man's stop plainly
enough, but not the decided tread of some dweller in the street returning
home. It was timid, undecided, furtive so to say. Could this really be


108
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“I must not listen to you," she cried. “It is too late now-impossible
-impossible !"
"Impossible! and why?”
“Ah, George ! ” she sobbed ; “because—if you knew !”
He dared to clasp her round the waist, and was about to press his lips on
her brow, when all at once he felt Marie totter, whilst she extended one
arm towards the door.
The door was open, and there, motionless on the threshold, stood Norbert
de Champdoce. The marquis realised at once what a terrible, irreparable
situation he had created by his own impetuosity. “Come no nearer!” he
cried in a threatening voice. "No nearer !”
What ! at the dead of night, unarmed, he was in another man's house,
with his arm round the waist of that other man's wife, and yet he dared to
threaten! A sardonic laugh from Norbert recalled him to the truth, and
made him realise the folly of his words.
He carried Madame de Champdoce to a sofa and laid her on it. She was
almost unconscious, but for one instant she opened her eyes, and, dim as
they were, George read therein love and forgiveness for the man who had
blasted her happiness forever. This look restored his sang froid, and he
turned to Norbert.
“Whatever appearances may be," he began, “you have here but one
person to punish-not even the shadow of a suspicion should rest on your
wife. It was without her knowledge-without any encouragement from
her—that I dared to enter your house, knowing all the servants to be away.”
Norbert did not speak. He also needed to collect himself. He knew
when he ascended the stairs that he was about to surprise the duchess with
a lover ; but he could not foresee that this lover was precisely the man
whom he hated most in the world. When he saw Croisenois, it was with
difficulty that he resisted the temptation of springing at his throat
This man, whom he had suspected of stealing Diane's heart, had now
robbed him of his wife. He was silent, simply because his mind was in such
confusion that he did not dare to speak. If he seemed as cold and rigid as
marble, when all the flames of hell rioted in his heart, it was because he
could not move-a physical impossibility prevented him. With all this ap-
pearance of impassibility, Norbert was mad-absolutely mad.
Meanwhile Croisenois continued, with his arms folded across his breast,
“I had just come here, sir,” he said, “ when you arrived. Would to God
you had only heard our conversation from the beginning—you would then
realise all the nobility and grandeur of this lady's character. My offence is
very great, I admit; but I hold myself at your orders, and am ready to give
you all the satisfaction you desire.”
As these last words fell from the marquis's lips, Norbert seemed to awake
from a dream. With a heavy, uncertain step he entered the room, shut
all the doors, and put the keys in his pocket. Then taking up his stand
near the mantelshelf, with Croisenois in front of him, he exclaimed, “If I
understand you aright, you propose a duel. That is to say, having dis-
honoured me to-night, you propose to kill me to-morrow; you are too kind."
“Sir!”
“Allow me! I am perhaps a child, as you were once good enough to
say to Madame de Mussidan; but at least I've sufficient experience to know
that it is foolish to abandon advantages. In the game you have been play-
ing, sir, a man risks his life and you have lost, I think.”
Croisenois bowed mechanically. The mention of Madame de Mussidan's


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
109
name came to him as a revelation of Norbert's true feelings. "Iam a dead
man !” he thought, as he looked at the duchess, “and not on your account,
poor Marie ! but for a very different woman.”
In the meanwhile Norbert went on, becoming more excited by the sound
of his own voice : “What do I care for a duel? I come to my own house
in the middle of the night, I am armed, and I blow out your brains—the
law sustains me—" As he spoke, he produced his revolver and deliberately
took aim at George.
This was a terrible moment, but Croisenois did not flinch. However, as
Norbert did not pull the trigger, the suspense became well nigh intolerable
to him. “Fire !” he cried. "Fire !”
“No!” said Norbert coldly. “On reflection, I've decided that your
body would be a great inconvenience to me!”
“My patience has its limits, sir ; what do you mean to do?”
“I mean to kill you !” answered the duke, in such a tone of concentrated
rage and hatred that George shuddered; “but not with a bullet. It is said
that blood washes mud away. It's false. If all yours were shed, the spot
on my escutcheon would still be there. One of us must disappear from the
face of the globe in such a way that not a trace is left."
“Very well, sir ; point out the means."
“I know a way," said Norbert, “if I were sure that no human being
suspects your presence here to-night.”
. "No one can know it, sir. I swear it.”
“ In that case," resumed the duke, “instead of taking advantage of my
rights, which justified me in killing you, I consent to risk my life against
Croisenois, with difficulty, repressed a sigh of relief. “I am at your
orders, as I told you before,” he said.
“I hear and understand; but it will be no ordinary combat, in broad
daylight, with seconds—”
. We will meet wherever you choose, sir.”
“Very well. That being the case, we will fight with swords, this very
moment, in the garden."
The marquis glanced towards the windows.
“You probably think that the night is too dark for us to see to fight,"
observed Norbert.
" That's true.”
“ You need not be troubled, however; there will be light enough to die
-for one of us must die—you understand me?”
“I understand. Let us go down at once.”
Norbert shook his head. “You are in too much hurry,” said he ; “you
have not allowed me to fix my conditions."
“Speak, sir.”
“At the end of the garden there is a vacant place, which is so damp that
nothing is grown there, and no one ever goes there. Nevertheless, there I
shall take you. We shall each of us take a pickaxe and a spade, and in
very little time we can dig a hole deep enough to bury the one who is killed.
When this is done, we will lay down our spades and take our swords, and
fight till one or the other drops. The one who is left standing must finish
the other, if he is not quite dead, and then roll him into the pit and cover
him over with earth.”
“Never !” exclaimed Croisenois ; “never will I accept such conditions."
“ Take care, then !” said Norbert; “I shall use my rights. In four
yours.”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
111
Croisenois was fully determined not to yield. “You say our chances are
equal,” he rejoined. “Is that so? If I disappear, who on earth would
dream of looking for my body here? You are in your own home, you can
take every imaginable precaution. But if I kill you, what then? Can I
ask the Duchess de Champdoce to assist me? Will she not be herself under
suspicion ? Shall she say to her gardeners—when all Paris is on the qui vive
in reference to your disappearance, "Take care not to disturb the ground at
the end of the garden ?"
Norbert now suddenly remembered the anonymous letter he had received,
and realized that whoever wrote it possessed his secret, and might noise it
about.. “What have you to propose then?” he asked.”
“Simply, that each of us, without referring in any way to the causes of
our duel, shall write down the conditions, with an acceptance of them
signed in full.”
“Very well ; but hasten.”
Thereupon the two adversaries drew up the procès-verbaux agreed upon,
and moreover, again at Croisenois' suggestion, they each penned two short
notes dated from abroad, so that the survivor might have them posted with
the view of misleading any inquiry, or search that might follow the dis-
appearance of either of them.
When this was done, Norbert rose. “One word more," said he. “A
soldier is just now leading my horse up and down the Esplanade des In-
valides—the horse on which I came here. If you kill me, go and fetch
this horse, and give the man twenty francs—I promised them to him.”
“ Very well."
“Now let us go down."
They left the room, but as Norbert stepped back to allow Croisenois to
pass before him, he felt himself pulled by his coat-tails. He turned and
found that the duchess, too weak to stand, had dragged herself to him on
her knees. Foor woman! she had heard everything, and with clasped
hands, and in an almost inaudible voice, she pleaded in agonized entreaty :
“Mercy! Norbert-I am innocent. I swear to you that I am innocent!
You never loved me! Why do you fight ? Mercy! To-morrow I swear
to you I will enter a convent-you shall never see my face again.
Mercy!”
_“Pray God, madame, that your lover may kill me—that is your only hope.
Then you will be free— "
As he disengaged himself with brutal violence, the poor woman fell back
on the floor, and fainted away.
XVII.
TWENTY times during that last quarter of an hour had Norbert de Champ-
doce been on the point of bursting into a furious passion, but twenty times
he had been restrained by his excessive vanity. Now, however, he could
contain himself no longer; when he left his wife's room, he evincel savage
earnostness and inpatient ferocity. As he lighted Croisenois down the
giand staircase, he over and over again exclaimed, “Make laste, make
haste.” It needed very little to disconcert his plans-merely a servant re-
turning earlier than the others.
When they reached the ground floor Norbert took Croisenois into a large
room which looked as if it belonged to an arsenal, so crowded was it with


112
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
weapons of every epoch, and every kind. “I think we shall find what we
need here," he said in a tone of sardonic raillery, and jumping on to the
divan which ran round the room, he took down several pairs of swords and
threw them on the table. “Choose for yourself,” he said.
George de Croisenois was as desirous as Norbert of putting an end to all
the suspense—anything was preferable to this mental agony. That last
look from the duchess had entered his heart like a dagger ; and when he
had seen Norbert thrust aside his kneeling wife, he had only with difficulty
restrained himself from felling him to the ground. He did not condescend
to look at the swords which were offered to him for inspection, but snatch-
ing up one of them, he exclaimed, “This will do, as well as another !”
They then went out into the garden, but the fog was so thick one could
not even distinguish one's own hand at arm's length. “It is impossible,'
said Norbert, 'to do anything in darkness like this. However, I've an
idea. Follow me down this narrow passage, if you please, so that we may
not awaken the suspicion of the concierge.”
They reached a stable where Norbert found a large lantern and lighted
it. “With this,” said he in a tone of intense satisfaction, “we shall be
able to see all night."
“Yes, but the neighbours can see as well. This light, at this hour, would
certainly attract attention.”
“Don't be concerned, no one can see into my grounds."
They then returned into the garden, which they crossed diagonally,
finally reaching the spot which Norbert had spoken of. He hung his lantern
on to a tree. It gave rather more light than an ordinary street gas burner.
“We will dig the grave over there in that corner,” said the duke to
Croisenois, “and then we can cover the ground with some of that straw near
by.” He took off his overcoat, as he spoke, and handing a spade to Croise-
nois, he took another, exclaiming grimly : “ To work ! to work !”.
It would have taken Croisenois the whole night to complete this task ;
but the duke had not forgotten the days when he dug in the fields at Champ-
doce. He exerted all his strength and displayed marvellous skill, working
on with a kind of mad rage, till the sweat gathered in large drops on his
brow. Thus, thanks to his superhuman exertions, in forty minutes the
grave was dug.
“Enough! " said Norbert ; and throwing down his spade, he took up his
sword, adding, “On guard, sir !"
But Croisenois did not move-impressionable and nervous by nature, he
felt a cold chill at his heart. The night-the vacillating light-all these
hideous preparations affected his imagination. He could not take his eyes
from that yawning grave-it fascinated and attracted him.
“Well," said Norbert, impatiently.
Croisenois started. “I will speak," he said at last, in a solemn tone.
“In a minute, sir, one of us will be lying there dead; a man does not lie in
the face of death. Hear me. I swear to you on my honour, and on all my
hopes of salvation, that the Duchess de Champdoce is innocent."
* You have said that before, why repeat it?”
“Because it is my duty, sir–because I think with horror that my mad
passion has ruined the noblest and purest of women. Believe me, sir, I
entreat of you, you have nothing to forgive her. See here, I am not
ashamed to entreat you—yes, to entreat you humbly—to allow my death, if
you kill me, to serve as full expiation. Be humane towards your wife-
treat her kindly do not make her life one long torture.”


114
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
said, more gently, “ don't weep in this foolish way, I'm not going to hurt
you. Who are you?”
“I'm Caroline Schimmel."
“Caroline ?” he repeated.
“Yes, Monsieur le Duc; I have been a scullion here for three months."
“How does it happen you are not at the wedding with the others ?”
“ Alas! it wasn't my fault; I was invited, and wanted to go, but I
hadn't a decent dress to wear : I've only fifteen francs wages a month. I'm
very unfortunate, for not one of the women in the house would lend me
one.”
“How did you happen to be in the garden?” interrupted Norbert.
“Oh ! Monsieur le Duc, I felt so very unhappy, and I was sitting at
my attic window crying, when all at once I saw a light in the garden. I
thought it might be robbers, and I went down the servants' stairs on
tip-toe.”.
** And what did you see?”
“I saw everything."
“What do you wean by everything?"
“Well, when I got here you and the other man were digging. I made
certain you were searching for hidden treasure. But, bless me ! how mis-
taken I was! The other began to talk to you, but I couldn't hear a word,
you, either of you said ; and then you began to fight. I was horribly
frightened, but I couldn't turn my eyes away. Then I saw the man fall
back "
“And then ?"
“Then,” she repeated, with evident hesitation, “I saw you—bury him-
then_"
“Did you have a good look at this man?"
“. Yes, Monsieur le Duc."
“Had you ever seen him before? Do you know his name?"
“No, Monsieur le Duc."
Norbert reflected for a moment. “Listen, my girl," he said. “If you
know how to hold your tongue-if you know how to forget-it will be a
great piece of luck for you that you came into the garden to-night.”
“I will never say a word, Monsieur le Duc, to any human being. I
swear to you I never will."
“ Very well. If you keep this oath your fortune's as good as made.
To-morrow I'll give you a handsome sum, and you can return to your pro-
vince, and marry any good fellow you may happen to fancy."
“Can that really be, Monsieur le Duc ?"
“It will be. Now go up to your room again and go to bed. To-morrow
my valet Jean will tell you just what you are to do, and you must obey
him as you would obey me."
“OhMonsieur le Duc !-oh! Monsieur le Duc," and in her trans-
ports of joy, the ugly scullion wept and laughed together.
To know that his name, honour, and life were in the hands of a girl like
this, meant the loss of all repose and sense of security for Norbert. And
yet, he was at her mercy! For it resolved itself into that. He realised
that in future this girl's merest wishes would be orders he must obey. No
matter what absurd notions and fancies she might take into her head, he
must comply with them all. What means could he employ to liberate
himself from this odious slavery? He only knew of one-murder ; but
surely there had been enough blood spilt on that one night.


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
115
Four persons now possessed, or were on the point of possessing Norbert's
secret. First, the unknown person who had written the anonymous letter,
then the duchess, and Caroline, and finally, Jean, whom he would be com-
pelled to confide in. But this was not the moment to reflect. Danger was
perhaps at hand. The servants might at any moment return. Accordingly,
Norbert obliterated the last traces of the duel, and then went to his wife's
room.
He expected to find her unconscious, lying where she had fallen when he
pushed her back. But the duchess was seated in an arm-chair beside the
fire. She was very pale, and her eyes shone with fever. She rose when he
entered the room, fixing such a strange look upon him that he involuntarily
bowed his head.
But ashamed of his own moral cowardice, he swiftly raised it again.
“My honour is avenged,” he said, with a bitter sneer. “The Marquis de
Croisenois is dead. I have killed your lover, madame."
She was apparently prepared for this blow, for she did not start; only
her expression became more haughty, and the lurid light in her dark eyes
grew more intense. “You are mistaken,” she said, in a wonderfully calm
voice. “You are mistaken, Monsieur de Croisenois-George-was not my
lover.”
“Oh! spare yourself the trouble of lying ; I ask no questions."
Norbert was inexpressibly irritated by his wife's calm impassibility, and
would have given anything to have been able to dispel this inood, which to
him was utterly inexplicable. But in vain did he use the most mortifying
words, and speak in the most sarcastic tone ; she had reached heights he
could not attain.
“I am not lying,” she answered, coldly. “Why should I deceive or
feign? What have I to fear or dread any more in this world? You wish
the truth? Very well, you shall have it. Learn, first, that it was with my
knowledge and my permission that George came here this evening. He
came because I expected him, I left the small gate open for him.”
“Madame!”
“When you came, he had not been five minutes in my room, where he
had never been before. I might have left you, fled from you, perhaps ; but
living under your roof and bearing your name I could never have betrayed
you. When you entered the room, he was begging me to fly with him. At
that moment his life and his honour were mine. Ah ! why did I hesitate?
Had I said, yes, he would have been living, and in some country far away ;
we two might have learned that this life was not all sorrow.”
She became more and more animated as she spoke ; all her usual timidity
seemed to have vanished. “ Yes, I will tell you all," she continued-_"all,
since you desire it. Ah! I loved him before I even knew that there was
such a person as yourself in existence. It was my broken love I wept for
on the day when I was weak enough to obey my father, cowardly enough
to give my hand to such as man as you! And it is my own folly I now
deplore-my own miserable weakness. Why did I ever consent to be your
wife? You have killed George, you say? No; not so. His memory will
live for ever in my heart, radiant and imperishable.”
“Take care !” cried Norbert; “ take care! If—”
“Ah! you will kill me, too? Do so! I will make no struggle for life ;
it is worth nothing without him. He is no more. I have lived, and life
- can have no charms for me henceforth, death would be welcome. To kill
ine would be the only boon you could now bestow on me! Strike! You


116
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
would unite us in death, and my lips would murmur, till they grew cold
and rigid : “Thanks ! thanks !!
Norbert listened, confounded, astonished that he had still any power of feel.
ing left him, after the terrible scenes he had passed through. Was this she-
Marie, his wife—who expressed herself with this unheard-of violence—who
braved him thus, and defied his anger? How could he have so misunder-
stood her? He had often compared her to polar ice, and now she burst
forth into volcanic passion. He forgot all his resentment in his admiration.
She seemed to him absolutely transfigured, her beauty was something
unearthly, her eyes glistened like stars, and her superb hair fell around her
shoulders in heavy masses. Yes, this was passion-real passion—not the
mocking shadow he had so long pursued. Marie was capable of loving,
really loving ; whilst for Diane, the fair-haired beauty with the steel-blue
eyes, love was only a battle or a jest! This was a revelation, indeed. Ah!
what would he not have given to have been able to efface the past? An
absurd, preposterous idea entered his mind. He really fancied that his wife
might possibly forgive him, and so went towards her with extended arms.
“Marie !” he said, “Marie !”
“I forbid you,” she answered—“I forbid you' to call me Marie.”
He did not reply, but approached still nearer-when, all at once, she
threw herself back with a fearful shriek. “Blood !" she cried—“ blood
on your hands !”.
Norbert looked at his hands. It was true. The palm of his left hand
was crimson red, and on his right shirt-cuff there was a large spot of blood.
The sight well nigh overwhelmed him, and yet he once more made a
pleading gesture.
But the duchess pointed to the door. "Go!” she cried, with extra-
ordinary vehemencego ! I will not betray you-I will keep the secret
of your crime. But never forget that there lies a corpse between us, and
that I hate you ! ”
Rage and jealousy tore Norbert's heart. Croisenois, although dead,
would harm him still. “And you," he answered, in a hoarse voice—“ you
seem to forget that I am your husband--that you are mine—that I can
make your life one long agony. Let me remind you of that. To-morrow,
at ten o'clock, I shall be here."
He left the house just as the clocks were striking two, and hurried to the
Esplanade des Invalides. Steady at his post, the soldier was still leading
the horse about. “Upon my word !” he exclaimed, however, when
Norbert appeared, “you make long visits ! I only had leave to go to the
theatre, and I shall get into trouble.”
“Pshaw! I told you I would give you twenty francs. Take a couple,"
and Norbert handed him two louis.
“Ah!” exclaimed the soldier, in delighted astonishment, and saluting
the duke as deferentially as if he had been a marshal of France, he
hurried off.
An hour later, Norbert rapped at the window of the wine shop, where
Jean was waiting. “Take care not to be seen when you take the horse
in,” he said, “and then come to me; I need your advice and experience.”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
117
XVIII.
GRIEF, anger, and horror had imparted wonderful strength and energy to
the Duchess de Champdoce, whilst she was in her husband's presence; but
as soon as she found herself alone, all her excitement subsided, and ex-
hausted by the stupendous effort she had made, she sank on to a sofa, half
fainting and sobbing. Her despair was all the greater, as she reproached
herself for Croisenois' death. “If I had not granted him that fatal rendez-
vous,” she said to herself, “ he would be living now; it is my love that
killed him!”
Her distress was truly terrible. At one moment the idea of going to her
father occurred to her ; but she rejected it, for what good would it do?
The Count de Puymandour would hardly listen to her, or at the most
merely say: “You are a duchess, you have five hundred thousand francs
a year ; you must be happy, or at least you ought to be ! ”
The night was passed in untold anguish, and when her maids entered her
room, about ten o'clock the next morning, they found her stretched on the
floor, dressed as they had last seen her at dinner. Her limbs were stiff
and cold, her head was burning, and her eyes glistening. This discovery
caused quite a panic in the house. No one knew what to do, and four
messengers had been despatched, one after the other, for a doctor, when
Norbert arrived from Maisons. He went at once to his wife's room. She
did not recognise him. Finding her in this condition, he became very un-
easy as to what had taken place in his absence. Accordingly he began to
question the maids as skilfully as he could, and while thus occupied not
one physician, but two arrived. They declared that the duchess was in an
alarming state, expressed doubt whether she would even live through this
strange attack, and advised a consultation for the afternoon. Then, after
urging the strictest adherence to their prescriptions, and the most careful
watchfulness, they retired.
These injunctions were superfluous. Norbert took his place at his wife's
bedside, determined not to leave her until she was either better or dead.
She was now in a terrible fever, and the language delirium brought to her
lips made Norbert shudder. This was the second time he had been com-
pelled to guard a secret in the same way. Formerly, at Champdoce, it
was his father he watched—the father who could disclose the terrible crime
he had attempted. And now he had to guard his wife, and prevent the
story of Croisenois' fate escaping her lips. Forced to sit at Marie's side-
forced to the contemplation of the past-he was horror-stricken to think
that, at twenty-five, he had to look back upon such appalling crimes, and
forward to a life filled with such remorse and gloom. What a future was
in store for him after such a past! And his wife's delirium was not his
only care. Every ten minutes he rang to ascertain if Jean, his faithful
valet, had not yet arrived.
At last, after repeated inquiries, Jean came, and Norbert at once led
him to the embrasure of a window. “Well ?” he asked.
“It is all arranged, sir-be easy.”
- This Caroline".
“Is gone, sir. I put her into the train myself, after giving her twenty
thousand francs. She has left Paris, and proposes going to America to


120
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
The Château de L-- was marvellously adapted to Norbert's plan for
once there the duchess was entirely at her husband's mercy and discretion.
She could look nowhere for assistance; she had not even the faint hope of
her father's help, for a month previously he had died suddenly, from dis-
appointment and vexation, at having been beaten at an election. What
exactly occurred at L-- when the duchess was confined ? It is difficult
to say, so well was the secret kept. The note in which the poor mother
wrote : “Have mercy, give me back our child,” alone reveals something of
the terrible struggle which undoubtedly took place. However, this much is
certain-the child which the duchess gave birth to was left by Jean at the
Foundling Hospital of Vendôme ; and it is moreover beyond question that
the infant, baptised under the name of Anne-René-Gontran de Doinpair,
Marquis de Champdoce, was really the son of a poor girl of the environs of
Montoire, who was called the “ Witch.”
XIX.
At this point B. Mascarot's manuscript abruptly ended. Paul Violaine
laid the leaves on the table, saying with some surprise, “And that's all?”
It was, however, quite time he finished, for his voice was well-nigh broken
by this perusal of six hours' duration, with but one or two pauses of a few
minutes. The narrative had certainly been listened to with due attention.
Neither Catenac nor Hortebize had interrupted, either with remark or
gesture. As for B. Mascarot, he had apparently listened with the satisfac.
tion of ar uuthor who is proud of his work, but in reality, as he sat leaning
back in nis arm-chair, twirling his thumbs, he was keenly watching his
companions. The effect of the narrative had been just what he had antici-
pated. The perusal was over, and Paul, Catenac and Hortebize, still
looked at each other, with an air of mingled terror and stupefaction. The
lawyer was the first to break the silence. “Ah ! ha! I always said that
our friend Baptistin was born for literature. As soon as he takes up a pen
the business man disappears, and instead of notes and memoranda, we have
a romance ! ”
“Do you really look on this as a romance !” asked Hortebize.
“A romance in form, certainly-you will admit that."
“ Catenac,” said Mascarot, in a sarcastic tone, “ought, better than any
one else, to be able to judge of the veracity of this tale, he being the adviser
of the noble Duke de Champdoce, this very Norbert whose youth I have
described.”
“I don't deny the foundation,” said Catenac, quickly.
“ Then what do you deny ?”
“Nothing, in fact; I was merely jesting. I merely object to the some.
what romantic form in which you have stated your case."
“Catenac,” resuined Mascarot, “has heard several important state-
ments from his noble client, but he has taken good care never to com:
municate them to us. Knowing as much as he did, he had every reason to
believe we were going straight on to the rocks, and should be wrecker.
Indeed, he positively hoped such would prove the case, and that he would
thus get rid of us for good !” The advocate tried to protest and deny, but
Mascarot silenced him with a threatening look and an imperious wave of
the haud. “As for this narrative being a romance,” he resumed, “my


THE BLAVES OF PARIS.
121
work has merely been so much editing-80 much classification and curtail-
ment. The romantic element, if such it be, is entirely the work of Norbert
and Madame de Mussidan. Certain things may have seemed to you far
fetched, but don't blame me. I have merely been a copyist.”
“It seems to me”
“It seems to me," interrupted Mascarot, “ that you have forgotten
Madame de Mussidan's correspondence. She is a very careful woman, and
had preserved not only her own letters, which Norbert returned to her, but
also his answers."
“And we have them ?”
“Most certainly we have, and my narrative is mainly a resumé of their
contents, supplemented by information from the instigator of the original
intrigue-judge' Dauman.”
“The judge' indeed! What, is he still living ?"
“Certainly he is, and you know him too. He's one of our people. He is
no longer in his première jeunesse, no doubt; in fact, he's rather broken as
regards his limbs, but his brain is still intact.”
Catenac had become very serious. “You tell me so much—” he began.
“I can tell you even more,” interrupted Mascarot. “I can tell you that
all the particulars of the duel and death of poor George de Croisenois were
written under the dictation of Caroline Schimmel. When this woman left
Paris with the 20,000 francs Jean had given her, she meant to go to
America, but as it happened she travelled no farther than Le Hâvre. The
good looks and persuasive language of a gallant sailor she met there, changed
her plans. This sailor was certainly a most amiable man as long as her
money lasted, but somehow or other he disappeared just at the same time
as her last thousand franc note. Caroline was as poor as ever again, but,
however, she contrived to return to Paris, and applied to the Duke de
Champdoce. He realised he was caught, and succoured her. Four or five
times he tried to assure Caroline a comfortable little position, but her mis-
conduct made all attempts in that direction useless. At last the duke
resignedly allowed her to black-mail him whenever she chose, accepting
this shame, perhaps, as a kind of penance. She leads a queer life. Now
and then she'll seek a situation and work for a week or two, but her dis-
solute habits soon gain the upper hand, and then she goes off to the Duke de
Champdoce and asks him for money. However, the oath of secrecy she
swore was until very recently faithfully kept by her. If it hadn't been
for her partiality to the bottle, Tantaine would probably have failed to ex-
tort a word from her. It may happen, that having recovered, she will
remember she has divulged the duke's secret, and go and warn him of the
fact.”
“Good heavens !” exclaimed Catenac, in alarm, "in that case—"
“Do you think,” asked Mascarot, “ that I should be as much at ease as
I am, if I feared any peril? What would Caroline say. Who would she
accuse of having stolen her secret ? An old man named Tantaine. Do you
suppose the noble duke, your client, would be able to trace any connection
between a poor devil like Tantaine, and a highly respected advocate like
yourself ?""
“It would be difficult, indeed!”
“And besides,” urged Dr. Hortebize, “at the first sign of danger we
should suppress old Tantaine. No trace of him would ever more be found.”
B. Mascarot nodded approvingly, and then resumed, “What have we
really to fear from the Duke de Champdoce? Nothing at all in my opinion,


122
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
We hold him as surely as we hold the Countess de Mussidan. We have his
letters, and we know that Croisenois' skeleton could be found in his garden.
The identity of the marquis's remains could easily be established, for we
know that when he disappeared he had about his person a thousand francs
or so in Spanish onzas. That fact is distinctly stated in the report of the
inquiry which took place concerning his disappearance.”
It was amusing to watch Catenac's face, and see how his feelings and
views changed as he gradually became convinced that little or no risk was
incurred by these proceedings. “Come,” said he, “enough speaking.
I'm at your discretion. Am I not? And, besides, you've convinced me.
I'll act loyally, I give you my word. Explain your plan, and then I'll tell
you all I have learned from the duke.”
Mascarot smiled with an air of satisfaction. He had really won the day,
and no longer doubted the advocate's sincerity. “Before anything else,”
said he, “I must give you the end of the story which Paul has just read.
The Duke and Duchess de Champdoce renounced all hopes of happiness, but
they both determined to save appearances, and did not allow the world to
suspect the terrible life they led. The duchess, who had become a great
invalid, devoted all the time her ailments allowed her to works of charity ;
and the duke, after applying himself to remedy the deficiences of his early
education, became one of the most remarkable men in Europe.”
“And Madame de Mussidan?” asked Catenac.
“Her husband's father was dead. She had now become a countess with
great wealth at her disposal. However, with the strange perversity of her
character, she did not consider herself completely avenged on Norbert,
until he learned that he owed the crowning misfortune of his life to her;
and, in fact, on her return from Italy she sent for Norbert and told him
everything. Yes, she dared to tell him that it was she who had, so to say,
impelled his wife into Croisenois' arms—she told him that it was she who,
having heard of the rendezvous, had written him that fatal anonymous
letter."
“And he didn't kill her?” cried Hortebize.
“Hadn't she all his letters? And she threatened him with them, more-
over. Oh! we need not flatter ourselves that we have the monopoly of
blackmailing! This noble countess made the duke shell out just as if she
had been a mere adventuress. Only ten days ago she borrowed-she called
it borrowing, you observe—a large sum from him, to appease Van Klopen.
However, on that point sufficit, let us turn to the child who was substituted
for the duchess's real son. You knew him, doctor, I believe.”
“I often saw hiin. He was a handsome fellow-".
“Yes, but a miserable scamp after all. He was educated and brought
up in the most princely manner ; but he had the tastes and manners of a
lacquey, and if he had lived he would certainly have dishonoured the name
he bore. He had caused the duke and duchess any amount of despair, when
some ten months ago he was carried off by a brain fever. He died, im-
ploring the forgiveness of those whom he believed to be his parents, and
they forgot their animosity towards each other at the bedside of this dying
youth who had caused them so much sorrow-a sorrow, which Norbert, at
least, may have looked upon as divine punishment. Well, this lad being
dead, it seemed as if the name of Champdoce was doomed to extinction.
However, urged by his wife, Norbert decided to try and find the child, left
at the Foundling Hospital of Vendôme. He could not undo what had been
done, but still, in accordance with the law, he might adopt this child and


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
123
bequeath fortune, name, and title to him. He no longer doubted that the
boy was really his own ; and so, all hope and expectation, he started for
Vendôme provided with all needful information for identification. A
terrible disappointment awaited him. It was admitted at the hospital that
a child had been received there on the day Norbert named, and clothed as he
described. The register proved all this, and the medal the poor little
foundling had worn round his neck was even produced. But on the other
hand, the child had long since left the hospital, and no one knew what had
become of him. When twelve years old, he had run away, and all efforts
to find him again had proved unavailing.”
It was with a keen pang that Catenac listened to these precise particu-
lars, which showed how well informed his associates were. He had hoped
to be able to reveal many of these points himself as an atonement for his
past treachery.
However, Mascarot continued, “ This new misfortune overwhelmed the
Duke de Champdoce. After the crimes and follies of his youth, which he
considered he had bitterly expiated by long years of misery and anguish,
he had hoped at least to end his days in peace, and to find his hoine not
quite desolate after all ; but even this solace now seemed denied him. He
returned home, looking fully twenty years older, and had to tell his poor
wife the sad truth. Their son had disappeared-there was no hope of
finding him. For some days the duke remained in a state of absolute pro-
stration, but at last it seemed to him that it would be culpable cowardice
not to make an effort to try and find the child. The world is wide, no
doubt, and a nameless, penniless boy flying from a foundling hospital is a
mére speck on its surface ; but then with money miracles can be accom-
plished, so why shouldn't the duke make an effort ? With his great wealth
he might obtain the assistance of the most expert detectives. And besides,
his life would have an object, and in the search he might utilise all his own
energies now running to waste. Seized with this idea, he swore that he
would never rest—that he would never despair of finding his son until he
held in his hands the indisputable proofs of the lad's death. However, he
did not confide his project to the duchess. He feared, for he had learned to
have some consideration for her, that alternatives of despair and hope would
be more than she could bear. Her health was so shattered, that such ex-
citement might kill her. Having fully reflected, he began by applying to
that lesser Providence which watches over society from the Rue de Jerusalem.
However the police hardly paid any attention to him. They merely
said, “All right. We'll see what can be done; call again in a month's time.
Goud-morning.' The fact is, the duke's peculiar position imposed especial
reserve upon him. As he could not tell the truth, he naturally presented
the subject weakly, and in fact, awakened no interest. This was very
unfortunate for him, for he had been received by a rather clever chap-a
fellow who has a big reputation at the Préfecture, who is our friend Martin
Rigal's neighbour by the way, and whose name is Lecoq.”
To Paul's great surprise, this name produced an appalling effect on Dr.
Hortebize, who at once started to his feet, caught hold of the locket dang.
ling from his watch-chain, and looked round the room with haggard eyes.
“ Stop !” said he, in a choked voice, “if that Lecoq's mixed up in this, I
withdraw, for nothing will go well. Yes, really, I withdraw.""
His panic was so singular, that Catenac deigned to smile. “Ah! ah !"
said the lawyer, “I understand your excitement. But don't be troubled ;
Lecoq has nothing to dº with us.”


124
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
This assurance was not enough for Hortebize, who turned and looked at
Mascarot. “No, Lecoq has nothing to do with us,” repeated the agent.
“ The simpleton replied that his position prevented him from occupying
himself with any private investigation-which is true, by the way. The
duke offered him a large sum if he would give up his position, but he re-
fused, saying that he did not work for money, but for art."
“Which is also true,” interposed Catenac.
“ To make a long story short, it was when Lecoq refused his assistance
that the duke applied to Catenac, who introduced him to Perpignan. I
believe that is everything"
“Yes, that's everything," said the advocate, “I will merely add that the
duke requested me to superintend the searches.”
“Have you a plan ?”
“Not yet. The duke's instructions are these : Succeed, even if you
have to question everybody on earth.' However, operations have not yet
commenced, and to say the truth, I am very much of Perpignan's opinion,
the enterprise is a senseless one."
“Lecoq thought that success was possible.”
“He said so, no doubt; but I fancy that if he had really thought so, he
would have undertaken the task himself."
“Well,” said Mascarot, calmly, “I have felt certain of success ever since
the outset.”
“ Indeed!”
6. Yes, and I have been at work—"
“What! You have been to Vendôme !"
“Never mind : I have been somewhere, at all events, and at this very
moment I can lay my hand on the Duke de Champdoce's heir."
“You are jesting ?”
“I was never more serious in my life-I have found him. Only, as it is
quite impossible for me to appear in the matter, I reserve the pleasure of
restoring this child to his father to yourself and Perpignan."
Catenac looked at Marscarot, Hortebize, and Paul in turn, as if desirous
of assuring himself that he was not being laughed at. “You don't wish to
appear?” he said at last to his associate, in a suspicious tone. “And why?
Do you fear failure then? Do you want to ensnare me?"
Mascarot shrugged his shoulders. “First of all," he said, “I am no
traitor, as you very well know. Then it is our mutual interest that no
misfortune should befall you. One of us can't be compromised without
harming the others. And besides, as to laying a trap for you, the part
you'll have to play is so simple that treachery or bad faith is quite out of
the question. You will have nothing to do but to point out the beginning of
the scent. Others will follow it up at their own risk and peril, and you will
only have to look on.”
o Buta"
Mascarot's patience was gone; and he frowned severely. “Enough!”
he harshly answered, “No further discussion is required; I am the
master, and you must obey."
When the agent spoke in this style, it was pure waste of time to try and
resist, and so Catenac, albeit humiliated and puzzled, discreetly relapsed into
silence. “Now,” resumed Mascarot, “sit down at my table and take care-
ful notes of what I am about to say. Success, as I have told you, is certain,
but I must be ably seconded. Everything now depends on your exactitude
and the precision of your movements-one false step may spoil our game.”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
125
XX.
WITHOUT another word, hiding his resentment and jealousy under an
equivocal smile, Catenac sat down at the agent's table, opened a large note-
book, and provided himself with a well sharpened pencil. In the meanwhile,
Mascarot, on his side, took up a dozen of those cardboard squares which he
spent his life in studying.
“Now, Paul," said he,“ pray listen, and you, Catenac, don't lose a word
of what I am going to say. “To-day's Thursday ; can it be arranged that
the Duke de Champdoce, Perpignan, and yourself, shall start for Vendôme
on Saturday?"
“ Possibly so," answered the advocate.
“ Answer me with a yes or no. Are you sure that you can take these
people there?”
"Well, then-yes.”
“Very well ; on Saturday you will start, and on reaching Vendôme you
must go to the Hôtel de la Poste.”
“Hôtel de la Poste !” grumbled Catenac, with the air of a secretary who
repeats the last words of a phrase dictated to him.
* On the day of your arrival at Vendôme,” resumed Mascarot, “ you will
naturally do nothing—you will rest and feel your way. It will be Sunday,
as you know. Nevertheless, go to the hospital together, and repeat the in-
quiries which the duke previously made alone. The superior, who is a
woinan of the higher class, and a good woman too, will take the greatest
pleasure in answering your questions. Through her you will again obtain
the description of the boy, and the precise date of his disappearance. She
will tell you that it was on the 9th of September 1856, that his flight was
discovered. She will tell you that he was at that time a tall, vigorous lad,
with an intelligent countenance, and keen bright eyes, healthy and hand-
some, about twelve years and a half old, but looking fully fifteen. She will
say that he wore a grey linen blouse, trousers of cotton stuff striped blue
and white, a little cap without a peak, and a black silk neckcloth with
white spots. She will add that the young fellow also carried away with
him a white blouse, a pair of grey trousers, and a pair of new shoes, tied
up in a coloured handkerchief.”
The lawyer watched the agent with stealthy curiosity. “Upon my
word !” he muttered, “you are well informed."
“ Passably so, I think," answered Mascarot carelessly; and then in a
quick decided tone, he continued : “ After this you will return to your
hotel, and not until then-you understand you will hold a consultation as
to your first steps. Perpignan's plan is a good one-"
You know it then?"
“I think so. He will suggest dividing the environs of Vendôme into a
certain number of zones, and visiting every dwelling in these zones in
succession."
“The project seems reasonable to me."
“It is so. Let him initiate it, but quietly influence its execution. Draw
his attention to the fact that a natural division of the surrounding localities
in some measure already exists, and that the simplest course is to begin by
exploring, first of all, the communes depending from Vendôme itself, and


126
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
then all the cantons of the arrondissement. In support of your idea ask for
Bescherelle's Geographical Dictionary, and determine the others to work
in the order the dictionary indicates. That is to say, you will, first of all,
visit the commune of Areines, then Azé, then Marcilly, but that's already
more than enough.”
“ Areines,” repeated Catenac, like an echo; “Azé, Marcilly.”
Mascarot leaned over the advocate and touched his shoulder lightly.
“Note the order," he said ; “the order I indicate. Everything depends
on that."
“Never fear-it's written ! Look.”
The agent nodded his approbation. “When you set out,” he continued,
“ you will naturally require a guide."
“Of course, we shall require such a person."
“Well, here, Catenac, I am obliged to leave something to chance ; I can't
do otherwise. But there are ninety-nine chances to one that the hotel-
keeper will designate a man named Frégot, whom he employs as a commis-
sioner. Still, it may be that his choice will fall on another. In that case
you must, in some way or other-skilfully, mind-obtain the services of this
particular man.”
“But what am I to say to him?"
“Nothing at all. He knows what he has to do. His duties have been
even more carefully traced out than your own; he understands everything
fully. However, these preliminaries settled, you will, on Monday morning,
begin your investigations in the Commune of Areines, under the guidance
of Frégot. Leave all the responsibility to Perpignan; but be sure the duke
is with you. You will begin by questioning the local authorities, who will
not be able to give you any information, and then you must go through
the village from door to door. Ask the inhabitants a series of questions
which you will previously prepare. Something in this style : ‘My friends,
we are looking for a child. There are ten thousand francs reward for the
person who puts us on the right track. At the beginning of September,
1856, this lad must have been in your neighbourhood after running away
from the Foundling Hospital at Vendôme. Do any of you recollect such a
child ? Did any of you shelter or assist him? The ten thousand francs
will be paid at once. He was thirteen years old, &c., &c.'"
The lawyer stopped Mascarot. “Wait a moment,” he said; “I can find
nothing better than your own words; so I'll just jot them down." And
he proceeded to do so.
« On Monday,” resumed the agent, “you will receive discouraging
answers. Matters will be the same on Tuesday and on the next three days;
but on Saturday be prepared for a great surprise. On that day Frégot will
take you to a secluded farm, which is tilled by a man named Lorgelin,
his wife and two sons. These good people will be at table; they will ask
you to take some refreshment, and you will accept. But at the first words
you utter about the child, you will see their faces change. The farmer's
wife will turn pale and at once exclaim, ‘Holy Virgin! these gentlemen
are surely speaking of our poor Sans-Père.""
Since he began to disclose his plan, Mascarot appeared to have grown
taller, and his features, usually so composed, seemed animated by the spirit
of perversity. His mode of explanation was wonderfully clear, and his
gestures were full of authority. He spoke of problematic events as certain
to happen, and described them with such strange lucidity, and with such
merciless and logical reasoning, that they seemed to be absolutely real.


128
.
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
mayor's office. He will tell you, loftily, that the investigations in the
provinces are completed, and that it is advisable to return to Paris at once.
Make no objections. Allow your noble client to reward Frégot and Lorgelin,
but take care not to leave him behind you. I presume he will be in a hurry
to reach Paris. When you arrive here again, Perpignan will take you at
once to the Rue de Jerusalem, where Vigoureux must certainly have his
papers like all other travelling artists. The police are very avaricious, and
keep a firm hold on all the documents they possess; but the magic name of
the Duke de Champdoce will open all the boxes. Finally, you will be in-
formed that Vigoureux was sentenced to imprisonment for disorderly côn-
duct in 1864, and that now he is still under surveillance, and keeps a wine-
shop at the corner of the Rue Dupleix—"
"Stop a moment !” exclaimed Catenac; “ let me take down his address."
“When you go to the Rue Dupleix, you will recognise Vigoureux by his
missing finger. He will admit that the little rascal followed him, and was
with his troupe for ten months. He will say he was a fairly decent lad, but
as proud as a peacock and as lazy as a lizard. All he cared for was music,
and he became most intimate with an old Alsatian named Fritz, who was
the band-master of the troupe. In fact, this old fellow and the lad were
so happy in each other's society, that one fine day they went off together,
Thereupon you will ask what has become of this Fritz, and Vigoureux will
overwhelm you with insults; but in your capacity as a lawyer threaten
him with punishment for carrying off a minor, and then he'll become as mild
as a dove, and promise to try and find the old Alsatian. Before a week's
over, he'll tell you he has found Fritz, whom you can see at the Hospice
St. Magloire, where he has obtained comfortable shelter for his old age."
Catenac, Hortebize, and even Paul Violaine had long since lost their illu-
sions, and the two former, at least, were not easily surprised, and yet they
marvelled greatly as they listened to Mascarot still unwinding the thread
of this strange search, proceeding from investigation to investigation in the
most minute manner, and giving the most precise particulars concerning
each successive prediction. “Now,” resumed the agent, “this fellow Fritz
is a cunning old scamp-tottering and blear-eyed, no doubt--but a great
deal more cute than he looks. Tell the Duke de Champdoce not to trust
him too much. However, the old rogue will tell you, with many tears, all
the sacrifices he made for his dear boy. He will tell you that he went
without his tobacco and without his schnapps to pay for the music lessons
which he insisted on Sans-Père taking. He will say he had determined
that the lad should go to the Conservatoire ; for he had recognised his sur-
prising ability, and cherished the hope of seeing him becoine a great musician
some day, like Weber or Mozart. I'm persuaded that Fritz's crocodile tears
will touch your noble client. He will see his son rising above the trammels
of poverty all unaided. He will recognise this energy as indicating the
characteristics of the Champdoce family, and would be ready to accept the
lad as his son on the strength of that alone.”
It was always a hard task, not to say an impossible one, to divine Mag.
carot's thoughts, and Catenac had, for three quarters of an hour, been try-
ing to guess what was passing in this spectacled sphinx's mind. What was
he aiming at? Was all this serious, or merely so much joking? What was
true and what was false in all he said and prophesied ? The advocate was
utterly at a loss to tell. Still, he was growing impatient, and so exclaimed,
“ Never mind, never mind about all that. I shall find out if your surmises
are correct, later on, from the facts themselves."


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
129
“If your penetration requires no further explanations from me,” rejoined
Mascarot testily, “ you will allow me, I trust, to continue for the benefit of
our young friend, Paul Violaine, who has a far more difficult part to play
than you. So, to resuine, the old Alsatian will try and excite your com-
passion by declaring that as soon as the lad felt himself strong enough to
iy alone, he abandoned Fritz, installed himself in a magnificent hotel in the
Rue d'Arras, gave music lessons, and played of an evening in a band at a
ball. However, you will listen impatiently to old Fritz's grumbling, for
you will detect in his complaints the rancour of a disappointed speculator.
He will confess to you, moreover, that his very bread comes from that “un-
grateful fellow.' The duke will, of course, leave him some testimonial of
his joy, and then you will betake yourselves as fast as possible to the hotel
in the Rue d'Arras. The landlord there will state that four years ago he
got rid of this artist, the only one who ever dared to install himself in the
house ; but with a little skill, and a twenty-franc piece, you will obtain the
name and address of one of the young musician's former pupils—Madame
Grandorge-a widow in the Rue Saint Louis. This woman, who is still
handsome, will tell you, with a blush, that she is ignorant of her former
teacher's present address, but that he formerly resided at No. 57 Rue de la
Harpe. From the Rue de la Harpe you will be sent to the Rue Jacob, and
thence to the Rue Montmartre, at the corner of the Rue Joquelet.”
The worthy agent here paused to draw breath, and indulge in one of
those quiet chuckles which presage the success of some capital joke. "Be
comforted, friend Catenac,” he said ; “you have nearly reached the end of
your pilgrimage. The concierge in the Rue Montmartre, mother Bregot,
who is the most obliging and most talkative woman in the world, will take
much pleasure in explaining to you that the artist still has his bachelor
apartinent under her roof, but that he lives there no longer. For he has
been lucky,' she will add, 'and I'm glad of it. Last month he married the
daughter of a rich banker in our street. This young lady, Mademoiselle
Martin Rigal, fell head over heels in love with him !"
Catenac ought to have foreseen what was coming, and yet he uttered an
exclaination of surprise. “Upon my word !”
“Yes, that's precisely what she'll say,” rejoined Mascarot, with modest
triumph. “The Duke de Champdoce will drag you off to the residence of
our excellent friend, Martin Rigal, and there you'll find our young protégé,
Paul-Flavia's happy husband.”
Having thus spoken, Mascarot drew himself erect, re-arranged his
spectacles, and then turning once more to Catenac, exclaimed, “Now let's
have no spite, Show your common sense, and do obeisance to Paul Gontran,
Marquis de Champdoce.”
Hortebize had of course foreseen this finish, having long been in Mas-
carot's confidence and having prepared part of the draina himself. Still he
applauded as warmly as a simple spectator, and clapping his hands, called
out, “ Bravo, Baptistin ! bravo !”
Paul, warned and prepared as he had been, had fallen back on his chair
with his head swimming and his breath gone.
“Well, yes,” exclaimed Mascarot, in a ringing voice, “I accept your
praise without false modesty. We have no reason to fear even that grain
of sand which sometimes interferes with the working of the best machinery.
Success is certain. I have explained my combinations. If you find the
slightest defect in any of them, tell me of it; it shall be remedied at once.
Who is our most valuable tool? Perpignan, of course. And the vain fool will
VOL. II.


130
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
serve us without knowing it. Can the duke have a suspicion after these
minute investigations? It is impossible! But to remove the faintest
shadow of doubt, I have an additional plan. I will make him go back over
the whole ground. He himself shall take Paul to all these various places,
and will obtain additional confirmation of everything that has been stated.
Paul-Rigal's son-in-law, Flavia's husband-will be recognised in the Rue
Montmartre, in the Rue Jacob, and the Rue de la Harpe. He will be recog.
nised in the Rue d'Arras. Fritz will throw himself into the arms of the
ungrateful fellow.' Vigoureux will remind him of his marvellous aptitude
for trapeze exercises. The Lorgelins will press their dear Sans-Père to
their hearts! And this will happen, Catenac, because the scent you will
follow has been created by myself, because all these people, from mother
Bregot back to the Lorgelins, are my slaves who dare not have any other
will than mine. So triumph is certain. The twelve millions of the house
of Champdoce will belong to us. You cannot say the contrary."
Catenac rose slowly and solemnly. “I admire your patience and your
ingenuity Baptistin, only I am going, with one word, to overthrow the
edifice of your hopes. I'm sorry for it, but it must be done.”
Catenac might be a coward, he might be also a traitor, but he was none
the less a clear-sighted counsellor. In former days, when they were all
working cordially together, even Mascarot had at times relied on his per-
spicuity. Thus Hortebize shivered as he heard these words, though the agent's
sinile was still as victorious as ever. “Speak on,” he said to the advocate.
“Very well, then, Baptistin-old comrade—you will not overreach and
deceive the duke.”
Mascarot smiled pityingly. “Are you sure,” he said, “ that I wish to
deceive him? You have not been frank with me, why should I be honest
with you? Am I in the habit of confiding in those I can't trust. Does
Perpignan suspect the role he is to play? Why may it not have suited me
to keep from you the fact that Paul is really the child the duke seeks after?"
Mascarot spoke so seriously, and what he said was so singular, thau
Catenac stood with mouth and eyes wide open. His conscience was by no
means clear, and he felt ill at ease. He himself had thought of treason,
and might not his associates in their turn intend to betray him? He hastily
weighed all the probabilities ; but no, in all these combinations he could not
detect any possible danger for himself. “I sincerely hope," he answered,
in some degree regaining his self-possession, “that Paul is what you imply.
But mark my words, the duke has an infallible means of preventing or
rather of detecting any imposition. What can you expect? It is always
so. The most trivial circumstance is sufficient to upset the most sagacious
plans—to render the finest inspirations of genius useless.”
The agent interrupted his associate. «Paul is the son of the Duc de
Champdoce,” said he gravely.
What did this mean? Catenac felt that he was being trifled with, and
he was offended. “As you please,” he answered; "but you will allow me, I
trust, to convince myself of the truth?” So saying, the advocate approached
Paul, and eagerly added, “Have the goodness, sir, to take off your coat."
Paul did as he was bid. “Now," resumed Catenac, “ roll up the right
sleeve of your shirt_higher still-to the shoulder.” Hardly had the young
man obeyed, and hardly had the lawyer glanced at his arm, than he turned
to his associates, and said : “No it is not he!”
To his infinite astonishment; Mascarot and worthy Dr. Hortebize burst
out laughing


132
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
• Of course, however, we shall go shares," continued the lawyer. "I
come in towards the end, it's true, but my work is delicate and important-
in fact, you can do nothing without me.”
“You will have your due share," answered the agent, evasively.
“One word more,” said the advocate. “Are you sure that the duke has
no other means of recognition ?"
“Remember the duke has never even seen the infant, that it was carried
away before the duchess even asked for it.”
“But Jean saw it. Jean is still living, mind. He is eighty-seven and
very infirm no doubt, but as soon as anything arises of interest to the
Champdoce family--to which he has devoted his whole life-his intelligence
revives.”
“Well! And what then?”
“Why Jean, you know, opposed the substitution of another infant with
all his strength. Isn't it possible that he may have foreseen just some
emergency like the present one, and have prepared for it?”
The agent had become very grave. “I have thought of that,” he said ;
“but what can be done?”
“I will ascertain,” exclaimed Catenac. “Jean has entire confidence in
me, and I will question him.” The advocate seemed altogether changed.
So lukewarm and hesitating before, he was now all zeal and eagerness.
“Well that point's settled, then, for the present,” he continued. “But who
can be certain that no one will recognise Paul as the person he really is ?”
“I can be sure of that,” answered B. Mascarot, "for I know how en-
tirely his poverty isolated him from every one except a girl named Rose,
who's now lodged at Saint-Lazare. She's the very girl you induced Gandelu
the builder to file a complaint against. At one time I was a little anxious
as I discovered that Pauſ had had a protector whom I did not know. But
this protector turns out to be the Count de Mussidan, his father's mur-
derer; for Paul is really the son of Montlouis.”
“ The conclusion is clear, then-there is nothing to fear in that direction,"
interposed the doctor.
“No, nothing. And now, while you attend to your duties, Catenac, I
shall hasten Paul's marriage with Flavia Rigal. But this will not prevent
my attending to another operation, and before a month, Henri de Croisenois
will have organised his company and have become the husband of Sabine
de Mussidan.
“It would be as well to go to dinner, I think,” now said the doctor, who
was beginning to feel very peckish, and turning to the protégé of the as-
sociation, he added, “Come on, Paul.”
But Paul did not move, and then only did the three men perceive that
the young fellow had fainted. They were obliged to bathe his head with
cold water some time before he recovered his consciousness.
“Dear me !” said the doctor, “can it be that the idea of a little opera-
tion, which you will not even feel, has put you into this state?”
Paul shook his head sadly. “It isn't that,” he answered.
“ What then?"
“Simply,” he answered, with a shiver, “that there exists some one-I
know him-I know where he lives—".
“Who? What?" asked the partners, half thinking that the young
fellow had gone mad.
"I know him, I tell you—the Duke de Champdoce's son."
Had a thunderbolt fallen at that moment into the office, it would not


134
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
the suspicion of De Croisenois, whom it was desirable they should lull into
a sense of security. Accordingly, they determined to attach themselves,
each in his own sphere, to the marquis's person, and arranged to meet of
an evening, and exchange notes at a little café in the Champs Elysées, near
the house where André worked.
The young painter's resolution was in no way daunted, but his first reck-
lessness had passed away. He was a born diplomatist, and fully realised
that he could only succeed in his task by dint of cunning. What should
he do? There was his contract with M. Gandelu to attend to, and yet how
could he superintend the men he had engaged, and watch De Croisenois at
the same time? He must have money as well, and he was altogether un-
willing to borrow from De Breulh. On the other hand, if he suddenly gave
up his work, questions would naturally arise, and suspicion follow. Re-
membering M. Gandelu's kindness, André at last decided that the best
thing he could do was to confide in the contractor, and so early the next
morning he repaired to the Chaussée d'Antin.
To his great surprise, in the courtyard of the house, he met young M.
Gaston, looking sadly woe-begone. The self-created “marquis " was by no
means so carefully dressed as usual, and the disconsolate manner in which
he was chewing a cigar stump, showed that he was altogether out of sorts.
“Hallo," exclaimed the brilliant young “masher," "Here's my artist.
Bet you ten louis that you have come to see my father on business."
“You are right. Is he at home?”
“Oh yes ; he's at home, but he's sulking-he has locked himself in his
room, and refuses to see me.”
“ You are is jest, of course ?”.
“I, in jest ! not in the least. He's playing the tyrant, and, upon my
word, it's altogether supremely ridiculous !”
As the grooms, busy in the adjoining stable, could hear, the young man
had sense enough to draw. André aside. “Do you know," he resumed,
“the governor has put me on short allowance. He swears he will insert
an advertisement in the papers, to the effect that he declines to be re-
sponsible for my debts. But I can't think he will do it after all, for it
would ruin me entirely-," At this thought poor Gaston heaved a bitter
sigh. “You don't happen to have ten thousand francs to lend me, eh?”
he suddenly asked the young artist. “If you have, I'll give you twenty
thousand in return, when I come of age.”
“I must admit, sir-” began André in surprise.
“Pshaw !” exclaimed Gaston. “What a fool I am! Say nothing-
I understand. You are an artist, of course, and if you had ten thousand
francs you wouldn't be here. And yet I must have that amount; I gave
certain notes to Verminet, and they're bothering me dreadfully. Do you
know Verminet?”
“Not in the least.".
" Where on earth do you come from then? Why, he's the manager of
the Mutual Loan Society, my dear fellow. The only thing that troubles
me is, that, at his suggestion, to facilitate matters I signed another person's
name as endorsement.”
“But that's forgery, man!” cried André, in alarm.
“Not at all—because I intend to pay ; besides, I positively required the
money for Van Klopen. You know Van Klopen, I suppose. No? Well,
he's the man to dress a woman, and no mistake! I ordered three costumes
of him for Zora. But after all, the governor's to blame for everything-


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
135
why did he drive me to despair? Yes, he drove me to it. He did not
content himself with abusing me, but he revenged himself on a poor inno.
cent, defenceless woman, who never did him any harm-it was a cowardly,
contemptible thing to do. Now, Zora-
“ Zora,” repeated André, to whom this name recalled nothing.
“Yes, Zora. You remember her—you came to take pot luck with us one
day."
7 Ah, yes—you mean Rose ?”
“Precisely; but you know I don't like any one to call her by that name.
Well, then, the governor went perfectly wild about her. Bet you twenty
louis you don't know what he did ? He filed a complaint against her for
leading a minor astray. Truth! As if I were a fellow to be led by any
one! But all the same, they arrested her and she's now in prison at Saint-
Lazare.” This heart-breaking idea brought tears to Gaston's eyes. “Poor
Zora !” he resumed, with a moan. “I never cared much about women,
but she really pleased me. What style she had ! Her hairdresser told me
he had never seen such hair as her's before. And yet she's at Saint-Lazare!
When the men came to arrest her she thought of me at once, and cried
out: "The poor fellow will kill himself, I'm sure of it.' The cook told
me so, and added that the poor dear girl was in such a state of agony, she
actually spat blood! Think of that! And she's at Saint-Lazare now! I
went to see if I could speak to her, but it was no use.” At this point the
young fellow was so afflicted that he actually began to sob.
“Courage, M. Gaston, courage !” said André kindly.
“ Yes—to be sure. Oh ! I'll have courage ; and as soon as I'm of age I
intend to marry her. You'll see. In the meantiine, I don't consider my
father altogether to blame, for he had been advised by his lawyer, a man
named Catenac. Do you know him ? No? Well, to-morrow I intend to
call him out-I must select my seconds. By the way, will you be one ? I
can easily find a second one."
“I really know nothing of such matters.”
" Then you wouldn't do, of course. Besides, I must have seconds whose
looks and manner will frighten him a little.”
“ In that case_"
“I know what you mean. You think I had best find some military men.
But, after all, the affair's simple enough : I'm the insulted party, and I
choose pistols at ten paces. If he's afraid, then he will make the governor
give up all his nonsense.”
At any other moment André would no doubt have been amused by young
Gaston's folly ; but now he merely asked himself how he could best get rid
of him. However, just at this moment a servant came out of the house
and approached him, saying: “Monsieur, my master has seen you from
his window, and begs you to go up to him."
“At once," answered André eagerly ; and with a few words of encourage-
ment and consolation he hurriedly took leave of the young “marquis."
XXII.
The con.
The young artist found M. Gandelu: looking greatly changed.
tractor had evidently been weeping, for his eyes were red and swollen.
However, at sight of André, his face brightened, and he half rose from his
nowever, at $1990 OF A "
mo o i voice of It does me
chair. “Ah ! it's you !” he said, in a melancholy voice. “It does me


138
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
after a wild kind of dance, he added, “I'll buy her a brougham, as soon
as she comes out!”
André had foreseen some answer of the kind. “Softly, softly,” said
he. “If your father heard you, Madame Zora would probably remain
where she is for a long time to come.”
" You don't mean it !”
« Yes I do. Your father will only set her free and pay your debts,
providing you promise to alter your mode of life and be more reasonable in
future.”
“Oh, I'm ready to promise anything you like.”
“No doubt you are ; but then your father asks for something more than
promises. He must have guarantees.”
These words considerably moderated Gaston's joy. “Guarantees ? ” he
answered sulkily. “Isn't iny word enough? What guarantees can my
father ask for?”
“Ah! I can't tell you, you must suggest them yourself. I will propose
them to him, and coming from me I'm quite sure he'll accept them."
Gaston looked at his companion in astonishment.
“Do you mean to say that you can make my father do anything you
choose ?” he asked.
“Not precisely; but you must see for yourself that I have a great deal
of influence over him. Do you need a proof of it? Well, I've just obtained
from him the money to pay those notes of your's.”
“ Verminet's, do you mean?"
"I suppose so. I speak of those which you were mad enough to en.
dorse with another man's name.”
For a moment Gaston averted his glance. Foolish as he was, his imprud-
ence nevertheless made him feel very anxious. He vaguely realised that
it might have terrible consequences, which even all his father's influence
and wealth might be powerless to save him from. Still he strove to regain
his assurance, and clapping his hands, exclairned, “What! my father's
parted with the coin ! That's capital ! Just give it me.”
But André shook his head with a knowing smile. “Excuse me,” said
he, “the money won't leave my hands until I receive the notes. My orders
on this point are precise; but the sooner we settle the affair and take up
the notes the better.”
M. Gaston did not reply at once. A grimace of disappointment followed
his triumphant smile. «Come, that's really too bad," he said, at last.
“My father's a cunning old fox, as Augustin said in the play the other night;
but I suppose he must have his own way, so come on. I'll just put on au
overcoat and go with you."
With these words he hurried into the house, whence he returned in less
than a quarter of an hour, arrayed in all his usual splendour.
" It's in the Rue Sainte-Anne,” he said, taking André's arm. “We'll
walk if you don't mind.”
It was, indeed, in that street that M. Isidore Verminet had installed the
office of the “Mutual Loan Society," of which he was the sole director.
The house he had selected and adorned with his name in gilt letters on a
marble slab was far from attractive in appearance, and passers-by noticing
its dirty front, its tumble down shutters and filthy windows, might well in-
quiringly exclaim, “ What kind of business can be carried on in there?”
It is, indeed, scarcely easy to define M. Isidore Verminet's business.
According to the prospectuses of the Mutual Loan Society, it was founded


142
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
If the marquis was pleased at meeting Gandelu, he certainly did not
show it. He seemed surprised-he frowned, in fact, and just extended
his gloved hand with a careless, “Glad to see you."
This was all, and then, with small ceremony, he turned his back on
Gaston and continued his conversation with Verminet. “As regards the
other matter, all the difficulties are conquered," he said, “and so there is
not a moment to lose. You must see the banker, Martin Rigal, and Mas-
carot to-day.”
André started. Were these people accomplices of Croisenois? He saw
accomplices everywhere now, to be sure! At all events, these names re-
mained engraven in his memory.
“Tantaine was here this morning,” answered Verminet, "and gave me
an appointment to see his master at four this afternoon—Van Klopen will
be there, too. Shall I speak to him for your fair friend ?”
The marquis shrugged his shoulders with a laugh. “Upon my word !”
he said, “I had nearly forgotten her! After all, it's carnival time; she
will be wanting silks and laces. Speak to Van Klopen by all means, but no
extravagance, mind. Remember that I don't care a sou for Sarah's whims,
now.”
“I understand,” rejoined Verminet; “but be cautious. Don't have any
quarrel— keep things as smooth as possible with her; an amicable separa-
tion would be best."
“Certainly—to be sure," answered Croisenois, and after shaking hands
with the manager of the Mutual Loan Society, he walked swiftly across the
office, just touching his hat to Gaston, and altogether ignoring André's
presence. However, the young artist was by no means offended, quite the
reverse ; for he was doing his best to escape attention.
“At your orders, gentlemen !” now exclaimed Verminet. "Walk in,
please. Excuse me, but greatly hurried. One o'clock already-not been to
Bourse yet-customers anxious.”
When André and Gaston had entered the private room, the financier sat
down in his leather-covered arm-chair. He was better than his office. In
the first place, he was clean ; in the next, his clothes did credit to his tailor.
Was he young or old ? Who could say? His age was no more apparent
than that of a five-franc piece. He was plump and fresh, pink and white;
wore English whiskers, and had a pair of vitreous eyes, as expressionless as
a cellar window. His great preoccupation was to seem a serious, very
serious man, well acquainted with the value of all things; and it was be-
cause he was so convinced of the axiom that “time is money,” that he
usually spoke in a curt, telegraphic style.
Young Gandelu was also in a hurry. “One word, if you please-as
Geoffroy said in the play the other night-one word. You lent me some
money last week”
“ Precisely. Do you want some more ?"
“No. I wish, on the contrary, to take up my notes."
A cloud came over Verminet's face. “The first payment isn't due until
the fifteenth," he said.
“ That's no matter; I have the money now, and so, you understand, I
should like to take them up."
“ Impossible.”
“Eh ! Impossible! Why, pray?”
“ Negotiated !"
Gaston started with surprise. “Come, you don't mean it?” he stam-


THE SLAVES OF PARIS. . 143
mered. “You've negotiated them! It can't be. That's too much of a
joke ; for of course, Verminet, you're joking?"
" Joking! Oh! no, indeed; I never joke."
The young fellow could not believe his ears, could not imagine that
this statement was serious, and his surprise and aların could be read in
his eyes. "Come now," said he, “don't play the fool. You know
very well that when I signed those notes, it was agreed they should
never leave your hands-it was so understood by both of us. You
promised "
“I don't say the contrary. But to make a promise and keep it are very
different things. I was compelled-needed money-some one ready and
so disposed of the notes-”
André was not surprised by this answer, for to tell the truth he had an-
ticipated something of the kind, and seeing that Gaston had now utterly
lost his head, he thought it advisable to intervene.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, to the laconic director, “but it seems to me
that certain circumstances-peculiar circumstances-should have made you
respect your agreement.”
Verminet made a stiff bow, and, instead of replying directly, asked,
“Honour of speaking to whom ? "
André, who was becoming more and more suspicious, thought it prudent
not to give his name.
“I am a friend of M. Gandelu's,” he said evasively.
“In his confidence ?".
“Quite so; you lent him I think, ten thousand francs—"
“Excuse me, five thousand-”
André turned in astonishment to his companion, who grew crimson.
“ What does this mean?” asked the artist.
“Can't you see? I said ten thousand, because I needed the difference
for Zora."
“Ah, indeed !” answered André, lifting his eyebrows slightly. "Then
M. Verminet, it was five thousand francs you lent M, Gandelu. That was
natural enough. But it was not so natural, in my opinion, that you should
have induced him to forge a signature."
Verminet started off his chair, “I !” he answered, “I didn't know it
was a forgery!”
This impudent denial aroused poor Gaston from the stupor into which he
had fallen. "That's too strong," he cried, “altogether too strong! Did
you not yourself tell me, Verminet, that for your own personal safety you
must insist on another name in addition to mine? Did you not yourself
hand me a letter, and say to me, 'Imitate the signature—it's that of
Martin Rigal, the banker, in the Rue Montmartre ?' I didn't want to do
it, but you declared it was a mere formality so as to make sure I should pay
you punctually. And besides, you declared the notes should never leave
your drawer. Now, however, you deny it. Come, that's hardly delicate,
and I'm quite surprised at you."
The honourable director of the Mutual Loan Society listened with a frigid
air. “False accusation--absence of proofs,” he said at last. “Society in-
capable of any act punishable by law."
“And yet, sir," insisted André, “ you had no hesitation in putting these
notes into circulation. Have you calculated the frightful consequences of
this breach of faith? What would happen if this forged signature was pre-
sented to M. Martin Rigal?".


146
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
At the sound of his voice she started—and when she looked round and
recognised him, she could not restrain an exclamation of surpris
“Heavens! Is it you!”
“ Yes, it is I-here."
The look which accompanied his words was so expressive, that Madame
de Bois d'Ardon, divining his thoughts, flushed scarlet. “My presence here
astonishes you,” she said, “and you think I have little memory, and less
pride."
André did not answer, his silence was a sufficiently significant reply.
“Let me tell you, then," continued the viscountess with a reproachful
look, “you do me great injustice. If I'm here, it's because De Breulh this
very morning told me that in the interest of your projects, I ought to for-
give Van Klopen and come here as I did before. You see, Monsieur André,
it is never safe to judge by appearances—a woman above all things.”
“Will you ever forgive me, madame?” replied the young artist in an
earnest tone.
With a rapid gesture which he alone could see she cut his apologies and
protestations short. Clearly enough this gesture implied : “ Take care, we
are being looked at."
At the same time she turned her face to the window and André did the
same. By this means their features at least escaped observation. Their
conversation had been carried on in too low a tone for anyone to overhear
it, and the other ladies looked intensely scandalised at what they con-
sidered a preconcerted rendezvous. As for young M. Gaston he was over-
come with jealousy. “Why that artist pretended to be virtuous,” he
muttered. “But, dear me, this looks rather the reverse.”
In the meanwhile, the viscountess had resumed speaking. "De Breulh,"
said she, “has found out several things about M. de Croisenois, and
nothing to his credit. However, in the present case, this information would
not suffice, for it is clear that De Mussidan has a knife ať his throat. We
must rake out of the past some really infamous act of this man's, the re-
velation of which will force him to withdraw of himself."
"I shall find one,” muttered André between his teeth.
“But, my dear sir, there is no time to lose. According to our agree.
ment, I am altogether charming to him; he thinks I am entirely devoted
to his interests, and to-morrow I have agreed to present him to the Mussi-
dans. The count and countess have promised to receive him.”
André started, and was barely able to restrain a gesture of rage.
“As soon as I saw the Mussidans," resumed Madame de Bois d'Ardon, “I
realised that you were quite right in your opinion: in the first place, Mussidan
and his wife, who always lived on the most wretched terms, are now most
friendly, almost affectionate towards each other, as if they felt that they could
best resist danger by remaining united. Then, their faces are careworn and
anxious—they watch their daughter with the saddest, dreariest eyes. I
think they regard her as their salvation, and deplore the necessity of the
sacrifice !”
“And she ? " asked André eagerly.
"She is sublime--yes, sublime! She accepts the sacrifice, which she has
decided on, fully and entirely, without a word, without a murmur. Her
devotion is adınirable, and so great is her heroism, that she hides from her
parents the real extent and the horror of her sacrifice. Noble girl! She
is calm and grave as she always was, but not more than usual. Perhaps
she is a little thinner and a trifle paler. When I kissed her, her forehead


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
147
was so hot that it fairly burned my lips. But except that, nothing be-
trayed her sufferings. Modeste told me, however, that her poor young
mistress was merely playing a part, affecting calmness she did not feel.
At night time, said Modeste, Sabine is utterly exhausted ; and the poor girl
wept as she told me that her poor mistress was killing herself !”
Big tears pearled forth from André's eyes. “What can I do,” he said,
“to deserve such a woman?”
But at this moment a door opened, and the young artist and the
viscountess turned round abruptly. It was Van Klopen coming from his
sanctum, after dismissing the customer with whom he had just been en-
gaged." Well! whose turn is it next?" asked the illustrious ladies'
tailor, in his usual brutal style.
But when he saw Gaston his face changed, and it was with the most
amiable smile that he went towards him, waving away the patient lady
whose turn it should have been, and who protested against the injustice.
“Ah!” said Van Klopen, in a gay, good-natured tone, “ you have come,
I presume, M. Gandelu, to order some surprise for that exquisite creature,
Zora de Chantemille ?”
This may have been unintentional irony, but it was none the less ex-
tremely bitter for poor Gaston, who heaved a terrible sigh. “Not just
now," he answered. “ Zora is not quite well."
But André, who had arranged the little story he intended to lay before
the mighty Van Klopen, was in too great a hurry to waste time in useless
chatter. “We have come,” he said, hastily, as soon as they had reached
the privacy of the modern Mantilini's sanctum,“ on a matter of import-
ance. My friend, M. Gandelu, is about to leave Paris for some months,
and, before leaving, he is desirous of withdrawing all his notes of hand
from circulation, for his father would be very displeased if he knew he had
been discounting his signature.”
“I can understand that."
"Well, sir, you can be very useful to him.”
Intelligent M. Gaston already considered himself saved. “Come, Van
Klopen,” said he, “pray let us have the notes of mine you received from
Verminet »
The illustrious ladies' tailor looked perplexed. - “Yes, I remember those
notes,” he said slowly. “I had them once-five notes of a thousand francs
each, signed Gandelu, and endorsed by Martin Rigal. I received them
from the Mutual Loan Society, as you say, but I have them no longer.”
“Is that really so ?” murmured Gaston, faintly.
“ Yes ; I sent them in part payment to my ribbon merchants at Saint
Etienne-Rollon, Vrac, & Co.”
Van Klopen was certainly a clever rogue, but, born at Rotterdam, he was,
like most other Dutchmen, deficient in a certain finesse of detail ; and,
besides, apart from his extraordinary professional inpudence, he was easily
disconcerted. In proof of this, André's fixed stare so worried him that he
added, “If you don't believe me I can show you these gentlemen's acknow-
ledgment."
" It is not necessary, sir," answered André ; " your word is sufficient."
“And I certainly give it to you, sir. Nevertheless, I should like to
show you the letter." And he began turning over a pile of papers on his desk.
"Oh ! don't take so much trouble, pray,” said André, quietly, as if he
were really duped by this comedy, which was far from being the case.
“It can't be helped. The notes are at Saint Etienne ; I am sorry for it,


148
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
However, we will wait until they come due. M. Gandelu won't disinherit
his son for that. I have the honour of wishing you a very good morning."
In reality, the young artist's blood was boiling in his veins, and he feared
he should not long be able to control himself. So, although Gaston was
anxious to consult Van Klopen about sundry dresses for Zora when she left
Saint-Lazare, André hastily dragged him away from the tailor's sanctum.
He paused when they were in the street, and more as a mere formality
than anything else, just jotted down the name of Van Klopen's ribbon
people. Then turning to Gandelu he asked, “What do you think of your
man-dressmaker ?".
Gaston now felt quite comfortable. "I think,” he said, “ that Van
Klopen's no fool. He knows me. As Philippe says in the play, I'm a
good fellow, but I don't care for practical jokes."
“Then where do you think your notes are ?”.
“At Saint Etienne, of course.”
Young Gandelu's obstinate confidence elicited from André a gesture of
impatient commiseration. He could not understand such idiotic siinplicity
on the part of a young fellow who moved in one of the most corrupt
circles of Parisian life. “Come,” said he, looking at his watch when they
had reached the corner of the Rue de Richelieu, “it's three o'clock, and
I've still another quarter of an hour to give you. Now listen to me, and
try, if you can, to realise the frightful position you stand in."
* I'm listening, my dear fellow ; go on."
“It was because Van Klopen refused to give you longer credit-in fact,
it was in order to pay him that you applied to Verminet?”.
• Precisely."
“ Then how do you explain the fact that this same man, who, on
Monday, did not think your credit good enough to open an account with
you, should, on Wednesday, accept your notes from Verminet, with the
intention of sending them to his manufacturers ?”.
The objection was so forcible, and it so clearly defined the situation, that
even obtuse M. Gaston was struck by it. It was like a sun ray piercing
suddenly through the fog that obscured his mind.
“The deuce!” he muttered, anxiously. “I never thought of that ; it's
queer. Does he mean to do me a bad turn — he, Van Klopen, or
Verminet?”
“It is clear to me that the two together have a charming little project of
blackmailing you.”
This expression seemed peculiarly offensive to Gaston, who indignantly
exclaimed," “ Blackmail me! Indeed they won't. I know a trick worth
two of that, and they won't make much out of me.”
André shrugged his shoulders. “Then,” he said, “have the goodness to
tell me what you propose to say to Verminet when, the day your notes are
due, he comes to you and says, "Give me a hundred thousand francs for
these five bits of paper, or I shall take them to your father?'”.
“I should say-well, upon my word, I don't know what I should say.”
“ You could say nothing at all. You would realise that you have been
imposed on in the most shameful manner, and you would implore Verminet
to wait, as he would no doubt consent to do, providing you agreed to give
him a hundred thousand francs the day you came of age.”
"A hundred thousand fiddle strings ! that's all Verminet will get from
me! That's my way, you see. If people treat me badly, I am apt to kick
and upset their plans. Pay this fellow ! No, not I. I know very well there


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
151
away his cigar, and changed his air and walk. He walked rapidly along
the Rue du Petit Carreau, and having almost reached the end of the Rue
Montorgueil, near the Halles, he suddenly stopped short and disappeared
under a vast porte-cochère. André had only to glance at the boards on
either side of the door to ascertain where the financier had gone. He had
gone into the office of B. Mascarot, and this Mascarot simply kept an
employment agency. André had expected a more brilliant, certainly a
more significant, discovery, and he felt somewhat disconcerted. Still he
determined to wait for Verminet, and to give himself an air of doing some-
thing, he crossed the street, without losing sight of Mascarot's door, and
pretended to be absorbed in watching three men who were fitting sliding
shutters to the shop-windows of a new house. However, André was not
obliged to wait long. In less than a quarter of an hour he saw Verminet
come out with two men-one of them tall and thin, wearing coloured
glasses; the other, stout, smiling, and ruddy, with the air and bearing of
à man of the world. They all three advanced from under the porte-
cochère, and, standing on the kerbstone, remained talking with no little
animation.
André would have given half of the twenty thousand francs in his pocket
to have heard their conversation, or at least some portion of it, and he was
executing an adroit maneuvre destined to bring him closer to the group,
when, suddenly, two sharp shrill whistles resounded above the hum of the
street traffic. These whistles were so oddly modulated that they struck
André, and he was not the only one to notice them, for the tall, thin,
spectacled personage who was talking to Verminet started, and looked
hastily around. Hidden behind several passers-by, however, André still
advanced, when suddenly the three men he was watching separated. The
man with the spectacles went into the house again, while Verminet and the
stout fashionable-looking man walked away together.
André hesitated. Should he try and find out who these men were ?
There was a young chestnut vendor under the porte cochère. Could he not
first find out something from him ?
"No," he thought, “ that fellow will always be there, while I shall
never, perhaps, get hold of Verminet again, so I had best begin by following
him."
So saying, he started in pursuit of the director of the Mutual Loan
Society, who, with his jovial-looking companion; walked down the dark
passage of the Reine de Hongrie, and turning to the right in the Rue Mont-
martre entered a handsome-looking house. Whom had they gone to visit ?
A man with any experience in detective business would not have been em-
barrassed, but the young painter was extremely so, until as he got nearer
he espied at the end of the vestibule a marble slab bearing the words :
“Office on the first floor." This was a ray of light. “Ah!” he thought,
“ the banker Martin Rigal must live here."
He entered and questioned the concierge, and ascertained that his sur-
mise was a correct one. “Upon my word,” he thought, “I'm in luck
to-day. And now if that young chestnut vendor can only tell me the names
of Verminet's companions I shall have done well. It is to be hoped he hasn't
gone."
Not only was he still there, but he had a companion with whom he was
so eagerly disputing, that André's presence remained for a moment un-
noticed. “Come now," said the young chestnut dealer, to his "pal,"
“that's enough beating about the bush. I told your guv'nor just what I'd


i 52
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
do. You want my place, and furnace, eh? Well, you can have 'em for
two hundred and fifty francs.”
“But the old boy will only give two hundred.”.
“Then he may go to blazes. Two hundred francs for a place like mine!
Why, some days I've made ten francs, and over-I give you my word for
it, the word of Toto-Chupin.”
Toto-Chupin ! Yes, the chestnut vendor was our familiar young friend.
This name tickled André's fancy, and without more ado he spoke to the
young scamp. “I say, my good fellow," he exclaimed, “you were here
just now. Did you happen to notice three gentlemen who came out of this
house, and stood talking together for a few minutes ?”
Toto turned, and with an insolent air surveyed the person who had pre-
sumed to interrupt him; then in a brutal tone, he replied : “ What can it
matter to you? Mind your own business, and go your own way.”
André was acquainted with more than one specimen of the engaging class
to which Toto-Chupin belonged. He knew the language and the ways of
the gamins de Paris, and so he resumed. “Well, you might as well
answer, it wouldn't burn your tongue.”
“Well, yes, I saw them. What then?”
“ What then? Why, I should like to know their names, if you happen
to know them yourself.”
Toto-Chupin lifted his cap and scratched his head, as if to stimulate his
intellect, but while he set his yellow tow-like hair on end, he examined
André inquisitively. “And if I did know these men, and could tell their
names,” he said at last, " what would you give me?”
“Ten sous.”
The young scamp puffed out his cheeks, and gave them a resounding
slap, as a superlative expression of contempt and irony. “Look out for
your suspenders !” he exclaimed, with an air of supreme pity. “Ten sous !
Upon my word ! Shall I lend 'em to you?”
André smiled blandly. “Did you think I meant to offer you twenty
thousand francs ?” he asked.
To his infinite surprise Toto burst out laughing. “I've won!” he cried.
“I bet with myself that you weren't a fool, and I've won, as I said. I owe
myself a new hat.”
* And why do you think I'm not a fool ?"
“Because a fool would have offered me five francs to begin with, and
when I asked for more, he'd have advanced to ten-as many francs, as you
did sous.”
The painter siniled.
“But you were not to be caught,” continued Toto. He paused and
frowned, for he was in great perplexity. He knew these names, of course,
but should he give them ?' He instinctively scented an enemy. Well
intentioned persons do not usually address themselves to chestnut vendors
with such questions. To speak was, in all probability, to do some harm
either to Mascarot or Beauinarchef, or perhaps, to that sweet and gentle
Tantaine.
This last thought settled the point. “Keep your ten sous," said Toto;
“I'll tell you what you want to know for nothing. I've taken a fancy to
you! The tall fellow was Mascarot, and the other, the stout one,'his
friend Dr. Hortebize; as to the third-wait a minute till I think-"
“Oh, I know him, his name's Verminet.”
“ Yes, that's it!”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
153
André was so delighted with Chupin that he drew a five-franc piece from
his pocket and tossed it on to the cover of the furnace. “Here! take
this for your pains,” he said.
With an apish grimace Toto caught up the coin. “Thanks, my prince !”
he said, and he was no doubt about to indulge in one of his usual witticisms,
when he happened to glance down the street, and at once his expression
changed. He became very serious, almost anxious, and fixed his eyes on
the young painter with a most singular expression.
“What's the matter ?” asked André, much surprised.
“Nothing," answered Toto—"oh, nothing at all! Only as you seem to be
a nice sort of fellow, and not a bit proud, I should advise you to look out."
“ Look out? And for what?".
“I mean—be careful-I don't know just what I do mean. It's only an
idea that's coine into my head-an idea that some one wants to blackmail
you. But that's enough–I don't mean to say another word.”
André only concealed his astonishment with infinite difficulty. He
realised that the young scamp knew a great many things, the knowledge of
which would be wonderfully useful to himself; but he also perceived that
Toto did not mean to tell them, at least at present, and that it would be
folly to try and elicit another word from him. Besides, the hour fixed for
meeting M. de Breulh was now approaching. Accordingly, as an empty
cab passed by André hailed it, and bade the Jehu drive him to the Rond-
point of the Champs Elysées.
If he did not give the name of the café where he was to meet his friend,
it was because, in obedience to Toto's counsel, he had resolved to be careful
-yes, extremely careful. He remembered the two odd whistles he had
heard, which had made Mascarot start, and had apparently broken off the
conference which the agent, Verminet, and Hortebize were having together.
He recollected also, that it was after a glance down the street that Toto-
Chupin had suddenly become serious, and had given him that strange,
mysterious warning.
av Zounds !” he cried, suddenly enlightened by the recollection of a story
he had been told not long before, “I'm being followed! That's it evi-
dently.” André was too perturbed for the time being to draw any con-
clusions from this discovery. Besides, the more essential point was to put
the person who was following him off the scent.
He lowered the glass in front of the cab, and pulled the driver by the
sleeve to attract his attention. Then, when the man turned and leaned his
head towards him, he exclaimed : “ Listen to me attentively, and don't
change your pace. First, I wish to pay you your five francs in advance.”
" But-"
“Listen. Drive as quickly as possible to the Rue de Matignon ; when
you get there turn round, and, as you turn, check your horses for one half
minute. Then go on like the wind. When you are once in the Champs
Elysées, you can go where you choose, for I sha'n't be inside.”
The driver gave a little chuckle. " Ah, ah !” he said, “I understand ;
you are followed, and you want to give somebody the slip?”
“Something like that, I confess."
“ Then listen to me. Look out when you jump, for I shall turn short,
and don't take the side next the foot-walk-the roadway's less dangerous."
The driver was not only intelligent, but skilful as well, for on reaching
the Rue de Matignon, he so managed matters that André was able
to spring out without hurting himself, and had time to turn into a dark


154
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
alley before anyone else entered the street. “Like this," thought he, “I
shall be able to ascertain who it is that follows me.”
But all in vain did he listen and watch, entrenched behind a door for
fully five minutes, which seemed endless ; neither foot-spy nor vehicle
appeared—there was nothing to justify his precautions in the smallest
degree. “Have I been frightening myself for nothing ?” he thought. “No,
such coincidences cannot be accidental.”
However, when a quarter of an hour had elapsed, André decided to
abandon his post and join M. de Breulh. “For I am sure he must be
waiting !” said he.
And he was right; for as he approached the little café in the Champs
Elysées chosen as their meeting place, he perceived M. de Breulh's
brougham waiting close by, and the baron himself walking up and down
smoking a cigar. On catching sight of André, M. de Breulh advanced to
meet him, and exclaiined : “I have been waiting for you for fully twenty
minutes."
André began to excuse himself, but his friend stopped him. “Never
mind,” he said; “I know, of course, that you must have had an excellent
reason for your delay. Only to tell you the honest truth I had become a
little anxious."
"Anxious ? And why?”
"Don't you remember what I said the other evening? How I recom-
mended you to be careful. Henri de Croisenois is a villain of the deepest
dye.”
André did not speak, and his friend put his arm familiarly through his.
“Let us walk," he said, “it will be better than shutting ourselves up in
the café. Yes, I believe Croisenois to be capable of anything and every-
thing. Ah! you guessed him aright the first time. He constantly talks of
the large fortune left by his brother George, which he will one day come
into possession of; but it's really only a bait for his creditors. He has
long since devoured this fortune by anticipation. A man driven to
extremities is not to be trifled with you know."
“Oh, I'm not afraid of him—"
“ But I am, for your sake, friend André ! I am somewhat relieved, how-
ever, by the idea that he doesn't know you."
The young painter shook his head. “ Not only does he know me," he
answered, but I am inclined to believe that he suspects my designs."
“Impossible !” exclaimed M. de Breulh.
“Nevertheless, this very day, I've been followed about. I have no
actual proof of this, but still I'm certain of it.” Thereupon, without
waiting for a reply, André briefly recounted everything that had befallen
him.
"Yes, you are right,” said M. de Breulh in a serious voice. “ You are on
the track of the scoundrels who mean to blackmail the Count and Countess
de Mussidan ; but they evidently know it and have taken their precautions.
Yes, you have been followed, no doubt of it, and, in future, at each step
you take, you will be watched by spies. Why, at this very moment, no
doubt, we are being observed.".
He looked round as he spoke, but it was already dusk, and he could see
nothing suspicious. “Ah well,” he added with a laugh, “ we'll give your
spies the slip for to-night, and if we dine together, they'll hardly know
where.” Thereupon, approaching his brougham, he gave the coachman
some orders in an undertone.
is broughgether, they'We'u give your


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
155
“Come," said he to André, and they both took their seats in the carriage.
The horses at once started off at a tremendous pace in the direction of the
Avenue de l'Imperatrice. "What do you think of this expedient?" asked
Monsieur de Breulh, gaily. “We shall keep up this pace for an hour, and
return to town by way of the Avenue de St. Ouen and the Rue de Clichy.
At the corner of the Chaussée d'Antin we'll stop, jump out, and then be
free. Those who are minded to follow us to-night must have good legs."
The programme was carried out, only just as De Breulh alighted, he saw
a shadowy form slip from behind the carriage and disappear among the
crowd on the Boulevard. “By jove!” he cried, “I thought I was leading
the spy off the trail, and I was only giving him a drive!”
And then to make certain, he went behind the carriage, and felt the
springs and axles. “There can be no doubt of it,” he said to André.
“Feel for yourself, the iron is still warm. The scoundrel had passed his
legs here, and held on there.”
The young painter now realised why he had seen no one, when alighting
from his cab at the corner of the Rue de Matignon. Whilst he darted into
the dark alley, the spy perched behind the vehicle had gone on with it as far
as the Champs Elysées. This adventure saddened the dinner, and a little
after ten André excused himself and retired.
XXVI.
THE Viscountess de Bois d'Ardon had accurately described the situation at
the Hôtel de Mussidan, when she said to André in Van Klopen's salon,
“Misfortune and sorrow have brought the count and countess near to-
gether, and Sabine has decided that it is her duty to save the honour of the
family. Sabine is sublime in her self-abnegation."
It was indeed a fact, that M. and Madame de Mussidan had realised that
their' hate ought to subside in presence of the common peril, and that their
united efforts would be none too many to resist the scoundrels who threatened
them. Unfortunately, this change had not taken place as early as it should
have done. After Dr. Hortebize's threatening communication, and when
she had ascertained that all her letters had really been stolen, Diane's first
impulse had not been to confess everything to her husband, but rather to
implore the help of Norbert, who was in reality as much compromised by
this correspondence as herself. However, her first letter to the Duke de
Champdoce elicited no reply. She wrote a second, and, finally, a third
one in which she said enough to acquaint Norbert with the persecution she
was a victim of, and the peril which threatened Sabine,
This third letter was brought back to her by one of the Champdoce foot-
men. The duke had certainly read it, for across it he had written : “ The
weapons you intended to use against me are turned against yourself. God
is just."
She almost lost her reason on reading these words, and, for the first time,
her heart of marble knew remorse. The duke's reply seemed to her á
prophecy—a voice from Heaven, telling of evil days to come-saying that
the hour of chastisement was near at hand, and that she must now expiate
her crimes. Poor fool! She implored God to efface the past, as if the
divinity had that power! At last, she realised that all was lost, and that
she must speak to her husband, if she did not wish copies of the letters
stolen from her to be sent to him.
It was one evening, in a small salon adjoining Sabine's room, that the


156
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
Countess de Mussidan told her husband the peril which menaced her, and
what she had been asked to do. Alas! she was compelled to speak of
those fatal letters and their contents; she did so with that marvellous dex.
terity of women who avoid lying, and yet do not speak the truth. How-
ever, she could hardly gloss over the share she had had in the death of the old
Dukede Champdoce, and the mysterious disappearance of George de Croisenois.
The count was stupefied. However skilfully she presented the facts,
they were still so odious, that he could hardly believe his senses. He
looked at his wife, who was still handsome, and asked himself how it was
possible that such a face could hide so much perversity. He recalled his
youthful days, and remembered Diane as he had first seen her at Sauve-
bourg, where he had learned to love her. How pure and candid she had
seemed, and yet she had instigated a parricide! But yet another circum-
stance struck M, de Mussidan. He had hitherto believed that Diane's
relations with Norbert de Champdoce had been more than questionable, and
that they had continued even after her marriage. And yet the countess
denied it, denied it absolutely, with all her energy. And the moment was
a solemn one. She was reduced to reveal the secret of her life. After the
terrible confession she had made, there seemed no reason why she should
not admit her guilt on this point also, if guilt there was. But on the con-
trary, she warmly asserted her innocence, and given all the circumstances,
she was certainly worthy of belief.
The court believed her ; but he remembered with a pang that he had
often doubted whether Sabine was his child, and now felt himself condemned
to self-reproach for the indifference he had shown her. He did not speak, but
when the countess had finished he rose and left the room, staggering like a
drunken man.
Whilst talking, the count and countess had believed their daughter
to be asleep, but they were inistaken. Fearing what she might say
in her delirium, they had sent the faithful Modeste to rest, while they
sat in the small salon, with the door of Sabine's room half open, so that
they could hear the slightest movement she made, and, if need be, instantly
hurry to her side. Yes, they had been guilty of this imprudence; and
Sabine had heard the significant words-ruin, dishonour, infamy, despair.
At first she did not understand. Were not these words part of her
delirious fancies? She made an effort to shake off this nightmare. But
soon she realised that the whispers were grim realities, and she lay in bed,
shuddering with terror. Many of the words exchanged by her father and
mother escaped her, but the conclusion was too clear. Her mother's crimes
would be divulged and punished if she, Sabine, did not consent to marry
this man, who was unknown to her—the Marquis de Croisenois.
With a shudder she resigned herself. Duty was there ; she must obey
its dictates. At least, her agony could not be of long duration. To tear
her love for André from her heart, was equivalent to killing her. Still she
must have courage enough to live until her sacrifice was consummated and
her parents safe; and then, she thought, she would have a right to accept
the repose and forgetfulness of the grave. But her flesh was weaker thân
her spirit. Her fever returned during the night, and a relapse imperiled
her life again. Fortunately, her youth and good constitution gained the
victory, and, when she recovered, her resolution was in no degree weakened.
Her first act was to write that letter to André, which had sent the poor
fellow nearly wild. Then, as she feared her father might take some
desperate step in his despair, she went to him and confessed that she


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
157
knew everything. “However, I never loved Monsieur de Breulh,” she
said, with a wan smile, “and so, it will not be so great a sacrifice on my part."
Was the Count de Mussidan duped by this generous falsehood? Certainly
not. Alone, he would have braved the consequences of the murder of Mont-
louis; but could he suffer the divulging of his wife's sins, of the trap set
for poor George de Croisenois and the midnight duel he had fought with
the Duke de Champdoce ?
Time was going on, however, and the scoundrels who had threatened the
Mussidans gave no signs of life. Dr. Hortebize didn't show himself.
What did this silence mean? Sometimes the countess ventured to hope.
“ Have they forgotten us?” she asked herself.
No, they were not forgotten. Honourable B. Mascarot never for one mo-
ment lost sight of any of the pieces on the vast chessboard he had selected
for his last game, and it was with admirable precision, and always at the right
moment, that he made a move. Everything had been arranged for the success
of the Champdoce matter. All precautions were taken to avoid detection
in the substitution of Paul for the duke's real son, and Mascarot had now
time to turn his attention to the marriage of M. de Croisenois and Sabine.
First of all, the count and countess's consent must be wrung from them, and
then the marquis must be compelled to start that famous company, intended
to mask the blackmailing practices of B. Mascarot and his associates.
Our old friend, Father Tantaine, was commissioned to interview the
Count de Mussidan, and obtain a decisive promise from him concerning
Sabine's marriage. Any one else but the old clerk would, no doubt, have
considered it indispensable to make some little improvement in his dress
-to clean his boots, possibly, and brush the accumulated dust from his
coat. But Tantaine disdained cleanliness, which he indeed called nonsense,
declaring that the coat did not make the man. He had once been heard
to say that he never quitted an article of clothing; he waited till the
garment dropped from him in shreds, and, judging from his appearance,
this was perhaps true. He clung to his rags as to his personality, saying
that if he changed them he should not be the same man, and should fail
to recognise himself in new clothes. So this is why the servants at the
Hôtel de Mussidan, on seeing this dirty, shabby old man enter the vesti-
bule, and ask to see the count or countess, replied with a jocular sneer that
their master and mistress had gone out several hours ago.
· However, the jest in no way disconcerted old Tantaine. Drawing one of
Mascarot's address cards from his pocket, he implored these “ good gentle-
men,” to take it up-stairs, saying that as soon as their master saw it, he
would send for him to come up. The name of the honourable employment
agent had magic influence among menials, and yet the footmen still hesi.
tated, when Florestan entered the hall and consented to take the card to
the count.
The Mussidans were at lunch, and when the count read Mascarot's
name, he turned deadly pale, and barely had strength to stammer, “Show
the gentleman into the library, and tell him I will join him soon."
Florestan left the room, and the count passed the card to his wife, saying,
" You see !”
Madame de Mussidan did not look at it. "I can guess," she answered.
“Ah, yes !” said the count, “settling day has arrived. This name on
this strip of card is the signification of our sentence.” He rose to his feet
with such a violent movement of rage that half the things on the table
were overturned. “And to think I can do nothing against the scoundrels,"


158
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
he exclaimed, "nothing! It is enough to drive one mad!” His emotion
was too much for him, and sinking on to a chair again, he covered his face
with his hands and burst into tears.
At sight of his despair the countess rose, and kneeling beside him, took
hold of one of his hands and kissed it tenderly. “Pardon, Octave," she
murmured, “forgive me. I am a wretched woman. God is unjust. I alone
committed these crimes, and alone ought to be punished.”
M. de Mussidan repelled her gently. He suffered so much, that the
idea never occurred to him of reproaching this woman, his wife, who had
made of his life one long agony, and who alone had caused this supreme
catastrophe. “And Sabine,” he resumed, “must she, a Mussidan, marry
one of these ignoble scoundrels! That cannot be. It would be abominable
cowardice, a more odious crime than all the others to sacrifice our daughter
in order to save ourselves from infamy!”
Sabine was the only one of the three who retained a semblance of calm-
ness, and yet her sufferings were even more terrible than her parents', and
besides, she was innocent; but then she possessed that heroism which is
the outgrowth of duty, and her countenance was firm and composed.
“Ah ! dear father !” she said, with a gaiety that was heart-breaking
under the circumstances, “why despair? Who can say that M. de
Croisenois won't prove a good husband?”
The count turned to Sabine and gave her a look of the tenderest affection
and gratitude. “Dear child !” he murmured—“dear Sabine !”.
Her example, in some measure, restored his self-possession, and he rose
again. “Let us resign ourselves in appearance, at all events," he said.
" Time alone can bring us succour. Let us wait. Rescue may come before
we reach the church door.” Then going to the table he poured himself out
a large glass of water, swallowed it at one draught, and left the room,
muttering, “Come, I must be brave !"
XXVII.
GENIAL Father Tantaine had guessed that some such scene would take place
between Mascarot's luckless victims, and was by no means surprised at
being asked to wait. Florestan had conducted him to the superb library
where B. Mascarot had been received, and to kill time he took as it were
an inventory of its contents. He inspected the fine old carved furniture,
felt the heavy hangings, examined the costly bindings of the books, and
admired the magnificent bronzes on the consoles.
“Ha! ha!” he inuttered, as he tried the springs of the arm-chairs, “it
is very comfortable here, and when everything is arranged, I'm not sure
I shouldn't like such a nest for myself. I'm quite sure that Flavia—".
He stopped short, hearing a foot-fall on the stairs; the next moinent the
door opened, and the count appeared, calm and dignified, but very pale.
Tantaine bowed to the very ground, pressing his shabby hat against his
breast. “Your most humble servant,” he began.
But the count had paused abruptly on the threshold. “Excuse me,” he
said, “was it you who sent me a card soliciting an interview ?”
“I had that honour,” answered Tantaine humbly.
“ But you are not the person whose name I read on this card ?"
" True, I am not M. Mascarot; but I used that respectable name,
Monsieur le Comte, because I knew that my own would convey no informa-


160
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
night hence M. de Mussidan will give a grand fête for the signing of the
marriage contract. The leaves of M. de Clinchan's diary, and the corres-
pondence of Madame de Mussidan, will be handed to M. de Mussidan, im-
mediately after the marriage has been solemnised."
The count sat with compressed lips and clinched hands, listening to these
atrocious conditions. “Very well,” he said, coldly; " but who can tell
me that you will keep your engagements, and that the papers will be re-
stored to me after all?"
Tantaine gave him a glance of commiseration. “Your own good sense!”
he answered. “What more could we hope from you when we have your
daughter and your fortune?”
This was logical enough. Assuredly he would be left quiet when nothing
more could be extorted from him. However, the count did not speak at
first. For some minutes he walked up and down the library, glåncing
askance at the old clerk, and employing all his penetration in trying to
discover some flaw, some weak point in the armour of his impudent,
cynical adversary. “Well," he said at last, in a deliberate tone, like a man
who has made up his mind : “I renounce struggling. You hold me; I
must admit myself conquered. Exorbitant as your conditions are, I accept
them."
“That's the way to talk !” said Tantaine, cheerfully.
“ Only let us have a frank explanation without reticence. It seems to
me that all artifice of language is unnecessary.”
66 Quite so."
“Then,” rejoined the count, in whose eyes there sparkled a gleam of
hope, “why do you talk to me of giving my daughter to M. de Croisenois?
It is perfectly unnecessary. What you want is simply the six hundred
thousand francs, is it not? Well, take them, and leave Sabine to me. I
offer you her entire dowry-"
He checked himself, and waited for the result. He believed he had won
the battle, but he was mistaken.
“It wouldn't be the same thing," answered Tantaine. “We should not
attain our object in this way.”
“I can do more even. Grant me another month, and in that time I shall
be able to increase the sum to a million."
But Tantaine was not moved by the magnitude of this offer. "You
have forgotten what I told you, Monsieur le Comte," said he. “Our con-
ditions are final, irrevocable.” He rose to his feet, and added, “I think, it
would be best to end this interview, which might become irritating. You
have agreed to accept the conditions ; M. de Croisenois will be welcomed
to-morrow ”
The count replied with a gesture of assent, but he dared not trust him-
self to speak.
“ Then,” continued Tantaine, “I can now retire. As you, sir, keep
your engagements, so will we keep ours.”
His hand was on the door, when the count stopped him. “One word
more," said M. de Mussidan. “I can answer for myself and my wife, but
as to my daughter—".
Tantaine's face changed. “I don't understand," he interrupted, speak.
ing in a tone that showed he understood only too well. "I don't know-"
* It may be that my daughter will reject M. de Croisenois.”
“Why should she? The marquis is good-looking, witty, and amiable.”
“Nevertheless, she may reject him all the same."


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
161
“But surely Mademoiselle de Mussidan is too well born and bred to
question her parents' decisions.”
The count knew he was surrounded by spies, but he had no notion that
his persecutors were acquainted with Sabine's admirable devotion. Hence
he rejoined, “However, it is as well to foresee all contingencies. My
daughter has always had a firm will. She was expecting to marry M. de
Breulh-Faverlay, and perhaps—"
“If mademoiselle resists,” interrupted the old clerk, peremptorily, “you
will, if you please, let me see her for a few ininutes. After that I am in-
clined to believe you will have no further difficulty."
“What would you presume to say to my daughter ? "
“I should tell her--well—I should tell her that if she loves any one it is
certainly not this M. de Breulh !” As he finished speaking, worthy
Tantaine tried to bolt, fearful of the consequences his words might have,
but the count, with a kick, closed the door which the old fellow had already
partially opened.
“You will not leave this room," said the count, sternly, “without ex-
plaining that insulting remark. What do you mean?”
Tantaine seemed to be reflecting. His impatience had carried him
farther than he meant to have gone, and he was rather at a loss for an
answer. “Good heavens!” he replied at last, as he adjusted his spectacles,
“I had no intention of offending you. I merely—" He hesitated, and
finally, in a tone of the most delicate sarcasm, which was strange in a man
of his apparent condition, he resumed : “I am aware that a noble heiress
may do many a thing without being in the slightest degree compromised--
many a thing which would hopelessly ruin the reputation of a girl of a
different social grade. So no doubt M. de Breulh-Faverlay knew that the
young lady he expected to marry was in the habit of passing her afternoons
in the room of a young man,”
“Scoundrel ! ” roared the count. "Wretch, you lie !”
M, de Mussidan's gesture was at the same time so threatening, that
Tantaine started back and pulled out the revolver which never left him,
and which he had already produced on the occasion of his memorable visit
to Perpignan. “Gently, count, if you please,” said he. “Insults and
blows never pay. I am simply better informed than yourself, that's all.
I, myself, have often had the honour of seeing your daughter enter No-,
Rue de la Tour d'Auvergne, ask the concierge for M. André, the painter,
and then dart up the staircase like a hare.”
The count was fairly choking. “Proofs !” he gasped. “Proofs ! ”
As they talked, the old clerk had maneuvered so successfully that the
great library table now separated him from M. de Mussidan. Entrenched
behind this improvised rampart he felt comparatively secure. “Proofs !”
he answered ; " do you think I carry them in my pocket? I couldn't
furnish you with any of the correspondence of these young people under a
week, and that's too long to wait. However, you can satisfy yourself very
easily. To-morrow, berore eight o'clock, go to the address I have just
given, and climb the stairs to M. André's studio. There, behind a green
baize curtain you will find Mademoiselle Sabine's portrait--and a good
portrait it is, too. I presume you will admit that this could not have been
painted without a sitter.”
“Leave this room at once !” cried the count, who felt as if he were
going mad.
Tantaine did not wait for the injunction to be repeated. He hurried to
VOL 11.


162
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
the door, and when he was quite outside, popped his head in and cheer-
fully added, “Don't forget the address, Monsieur le Comte---André, artist,
Rue de la Tour d'Auvergne, No.-, and go early, before eight o'clock.”
At this supreme insult, the count bounded forward, but he was too late.
Tantaine pulled the door to, and darted down the staircase. “It was
better than I expected,” he muttered ; “but, after all, I have yet to see
the man who is not subdued by a fortnight's agony of suspense!” When
he reached the vestibule his face had regained its usual expression, and it
was with the greatest respect that he bowed to the footmen, and left the
house.
“Eh ! eh !” he said to himself, as he walked down the Rue de Matignon,
" it seems to me I didn't arrange that so badly. The count will certainly
verify my information about André. They will be brought together, and
what will be the result? Was I not rather too prompt ?-But no, on the
contrary, it was a happy inspiration of mine. André knows himself
watched, and of course I shall discover nothing more through him ; whilst
on the other side, M. de Mussidan, now certain that his daughter has had a
lover, and what a lover too ! a low born ornamental sculptor, will almost
thankfully accept the Marquis de Croisenois as his son-in-law."
In saying this, worthy Tantaine felt convinced that Sabine had been
André's mistress. He was quite unable to imagine the possibility of such
a noble honest love as that which bound the young artist and Mademoiselle
de Mussidan together. “What will be the result of the count's visit to
the studio ?” he asked himself. “The old nobleman's frightfully hot-
tempered. Suppose they quarrelled, we might have a duel then, and who
knows-that cursed André might be killed. Well in that case, good
riddance to bad rubbish, that's all I say."
XXVIII.
THE old clerk had by this time reached the Champs Elysées, and he looked
anxiously around him, and then made the tour of the summer circus
building. He was seeking for Toto-Chupin with whom he had made an
appointment, and as usual on these occasions, the young scamp was not to be
found. Tantaine not only felt uneasy but out of temper also, but at last near
one of those stalls where imitation lotteries for worthless gewgawsand pieces of
crockery are organized, he saw Toto conversing earnestly with its owner.
Chupin was no longer radiantly attired as at the “Grand Turk” but wore
a dirty patched blouse, and a greasy cap—“Eh, Toto !" called worthy Tan-
taine - Toto-Chupin !”
Ti , lad heard him, plainly enough, for he looked round, but did not
move. The conversation he was engaged in was evidently of great inter-
est. However, Tantaine shouted again, and more imperiously than before,
and Toto reluctantly left his companion and went towards the old clerk.
“What an idea !” he grumbled. “As soon as you come, I must leave
everything else. Do you feel ill, that you set up such a squeal? If you
do, I'll go and get a physician.”
“I'm in a great hurry, Toto.”
“I daresay. So's the postinan when he's late. I'm busy too."
“With that person you just left ?”
“Yes, to be sure that person,' as you call him, is wiser than I am.
How much do you make each day, Father Tantaine ? Well, that fellow


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
163
there with that little stall pockets thirty or forty francs every night, and
he has literally nothing to do for it either. It must be nice to see people
make such fools of themselves. I should like that business, and I think I
shall start on it soon. Patience !”
Patience! Father Tantaine realised that he had never so much needed it
as at this precise moment. “I thought,” he said, quietly, “that you were
going into business with the two young men you were drinking beer with
at the Grand Turk.'"
At this suggestion Toto howled with rage. “Business with them !” he
cried. “I won't have anything more to do with the rascals ! ”
“Have they done you any harm, my poor Toto ?”
“Yes, utterly ruined me at cards—won all my coin, and even my new
clothes, that's why I'm in this old blouse. They were in force, the beggars,
and made me strip. If you like to lend me a hundred sous, I shall just
have five francs in my pocket. Fortunately, I saw Mascarot yesterday,
and he gave me leave to sell the furnace. He's a good fellow, is
Mascarot.”
Tantaine pouted disdainfully. “Good fellow !” he answered. “He's
good and friendly enough, no doubt, as long as no one asks a favour of him.”
It was so strange to hear the old clerk say a word against Mascarot that
Toto was astounded. “That isn't the way you used to talk," said he.
"Ah, I didn't know Mascarot then. But since he lets me half starve
while he rolls in gold, I say to inyself, “That'll do ; I've had quite enough
of you.' And, in fact, Toto, as you are a bright boy, I don't mind telling
you that I'm only waiting for an opportunity to leave Mascarot and set up
in business on my own account.”
“Work for oneself, indeed,” said Toto in a tone which betrayed bitter
deception. “That is easier said than done ; I know that right enough.”
“You've tried, then?”
" To do something alone? Yes, I have, but I came to grief. Besides
you know all about it as well as I do myself. Don't tell me you didn't
listen that evening when you were looking for Caroline at the Turk.'
Well, never mind, I can tell you all the same. One day then, I saw a lady
looking frightened to death get out of a cab. I followed her at once. My
plan was already made, and I knew just what I meant to do. I was well.
dressed at the time, so I rang at the door, and I felt so certain I was going
to make something out of her, that I wouldn't have taken eighty francs
down for the hundred I expected to have. Well, then, I rang. A servant
opened the door, and in I went. What luck I had! Why a great big
fellow pummelled away at me, and finally kicked me down stairs." So
saying, Toto lifted his cap and showed a couple of scars, which reddened
his manly brow, “That's the bloke's mark,” he added, grimly.
Whilst talking, Tantaine and Toto had walked slowly up the Champs
Elysées, and they had now just reached the house which was being built by
M. Gandelu- the house where André worked.
Tantaine took a seat on a bench just across the road. “Let's sit down a
moment,” he said ; “ I'm horribly tired.”
And when Totó had installed himself at his side, he added : “Your
story, my boy, only proves that you are lacking in experience. Now I've
plenty of that. With Mascarot, it was really I who was at the head of
most things. If I were to start on my own account, I should have a
carriage this time next year; only one thing deters me, and that's my age,
for unfortunately I'm growing old. At this very moment I have a superb


164
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
affair on hand with half the coin paid in advance. Only I must give it up, for
to bring it to a successful issue I need some one who's young and quick.”
Chupin looked up with eager eyes. “Wouldn't I do?” he asked. The
old clerk shook his head. “You are too young,” he said—“ just as I'm
too old. The heart, at your age, speaks too loudly. You would recoil
just at the critical moment. And then you have your conscience."
“So I have !” cried Toto, “but it's a conscience much like yours, Papa
Tantaine ; it has a deal of elasticity about it, and can be rolled up and
tucked away when one takes the omnibus.”
“ Well! well ! perhaps we can come to terms."
The old clerk produced a checked rag, which did duty as a handkerchief,
and wiped his spectacles without removing them. “Listen to me, Chupin,”
he resumed ; “ listen to a mere supposition. You hate your two quondam
friends—the fellows who were stronger than you, and who fleeced you of
your money and clothes. Well, suppose you knew they ran about like
squirrels all day long in the scaffolding of that big house opposite, what
should you do ?”
Toto scratched his head. “If your supposition were truth,” he answered
at last, “those chaps might as well say their prayers; for I'd slip into the
house at night-time and just saw the planks nearly apart, so when one of
my brigands the next morning stepped forward-whew! You under-
stand, Father Tantaine ?”
“Not bad !" said the old man paternally, “not at all bad, upon my
word, for a lad of eighteen.”
Toto-Chupin swelled with pride. “And I'd manage it all so well,” he
added, “that no one would ever suspect me. I know all about the build-
ing trade. Why I worked for a mason myself once on a time.”
* The more I listen to you, Toto," said the old clerk seriously, “the
more I'm convinced you are precisely the partner I need. I'm sure we
could make heaps of money together."
“Oh, I'm sure of that."
“ The more so, as you know all about the building trade. Well, just
let me tell you that among my acquaintances there's a very wealthy
old gentleman who has a mortal enemy—a young man who ran off with a
woman he adored.”
“The old fellow must have been awfully wild.”
“He wasn't pleased, certainly. Now it happens, Toto, that this young
man spends ten hours out of the twenty-four on those very scaffolds op-
posite. The old gentleman, who's a clever fellow, had much the same idea
as you, but he's too stout and too old to try the game himself, and to cut
a long story short, he'd give four thousand francs to the persons who put
his idea into execution. If we went into partnership, that would be halves
for each of us. Two thousand francs for a little sawing !-what do you
think of that, Toto ?”
Despite the elasticity of Chupin's conscience, this significant suggestion
made him turn pale, and he shuddered. Trying, however, to master his
feelings, he exclaimed, “The thing might p'r’aps be done.”
His agitation was too evident to escape Tantaine, but the latter pre-
tended not to notice it.
“First of all, Chupin,” he said, “I must explain to you how the old
gentleman's plan differed from yours. If any plank were sawed as you
suggest, why we should run the risk of some other fellow breaking his
neck, and our man escaping scot free.”


166
THE SLAVES OF PARIS,
Toto listened to the old man with astonishment; he had never supposed
him so practical. He promised that he would attend to all these details,
and presuming that his instructions were over, he rose to go.
But Tantaine had not finished. “By the way,” he said, “just tell me
the truth about Caroline Schimmel. You told Beaumarchef that she ac-
cused me of making her drunk, and that she was looking everywhere for
me to avenge herself. Is that true?”
"Oh! you weren't my partner then," answered the lad with a laugh;
“and I only said it to frighten you. The truth is, you made the poor
woman drink so much that she's very ill, and is in an hospital now.”
Tantaine looked pleased. He rose, and before turning away, asked,
“ Where do you lodge at present?”
“I don't know. Yesterday I slept at the Carrières d'Amerique ; but
now, as I've some coin, I shall be furnishing a place for myself.”
“In the meantime, will you have my room for a few days ?” asked Tan-
taine. “I've moved, but the attic belongs to me for another fortnight."
'All right. Where is it?”
“ You know; in the Rue de la Huchette, at the Hôtel du Pérou. I'll
write a word to the landlady, Madaine Loupias.” As he spoke, he tore a
leaf from his notebook, and wrote with a pencil a request “that a young
relative of his, M. Toto-Chupin,” might have his room.
Toto carefully secured this letter with the bank-note in the folds of his
neckcloth, which seemed to be both his strong-box and his archives. “And
now,” said he, “I'll just have a look at the building, so as to plan how I'll
do the job.”
The old clerk watched him cross the avenue and stand on the opposite
pavement, looking up at the men at work. At this very moment, M.
Gandelu, the builder, came out with his son, and stopped to give some
directions. For two or three minutes, Toto and Gaston stood side by side,
close to each other. A strange smile fitted over Tantaine's lips as he
noticed this. “Two children of Paris," he mused, “charming examples of
its vaunted civilisation-both gifted with similar instincts, but one of them
stultified by vice, and the other sharpened by necessity. However, the
dandy struts about on the pavement, while the gamin plays in the gutter.
Why is it that Toto doesn't buy cigars at a franc a-piece, and let Gaston
pick up the stumps ?”
But he had no time to spend in philosophising, as the omnibus he needed
was within sight. He hailed it, took his seat, and, half an hour later,
entered the house in the Rue Montmartre, where he had installed Paul
Violaine.
Madame Bregot, the excellent concierge, who was ready to swear that
Paul had resided in her house for years, happened to be in the courtyard
watching one of the tenants, who was bottling wine, when she caught sight
of Tantaine. She rolled up to him with a most ingratiating smile; but still
absorbed in thought, the old clerk neglected to touch his shabby hat, and
merely asked, with an absent air, “How is our young man getting on?”
“Better, sir ; much better. I made him some good soup yesterday, and
he enjoyed it immensely. He looks like a king this morning, and the
doctor has just sent a dozen of wine, which will set him all right again.”
Tantaine listened as carelessly as he had spoken, and he was already half
way towards the stairs when mother Bregot stopped him and mysteri-
ously added, “A person was here last night making inquiries about
M. Paul."


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
169
“It seems,” continued the conceited simpleton, “ that M. Martin-Rigal
spends his life in his private office. As soon as he is up in the morning, he
shuts himself up in his private room, and is never seen again all day. So
Flavia is free as air. As soon as she knows that the worthy banker is busy
with his papers, she throws a shawl over her shoulders and flies to me.
Upon my word, no one could be more obliging or prettier.” Then with an
impudent little chuckle he added, “Why, I could send M. Mascarot about
his business.”
“Believe me, it would be most unwise to do so," rejoined the doctor
severely.
Paul' perceived the gesture with which M. Hortebize underlined these
words, but he mistook their meaning. “Oh I don't intend to do so,” he
said. “Only it would hardly do for M. Martin-Rigal to think of refusing
me his daughter's hand. Flavia wouldn't hesitate between her father and
me"
Tantaine, who for some minutes had been pulling frantically at his spec-
tacles, now stammered, “You are no doubt flattering yourself.”
“And why? Flavia loves me, you know that, of course—and this is the
point. Poor girl! I ought to marry her, and I will ; but still, if I
chose-"
"Miserable scoundrel !” cried the gentle Tantaine. “Only a fool and
coward would dare speak like that of a poor girl whose only misfortune is
that she loves a conceited whipper-snapper unworthy of her. Do you
think I'll allow-"
His gesture was so furious, and his voice so threatening, that Paul was
frightened, and drew back to the wall ; but Tantaine went no further, for
Hortebize had seized him by the arm and now fairly dragged him from the
room.
XXIX.
Paul was utterly at a loss to imagine why Tantaine had burst into such a
rage. No doubt he had spoken improperly of Flavia, who was really en-
titled to his respect and tender deference. But conceited as his language
had been, did it really justify such an outburst? And, besides, why was it
that each time he affected that scorn of all morality which his associates
gloried in, they should turn round on him, and treat him with contempt?
After all, he would have understood and accepted a remonstrance from the
doctor, who was Martin-Rigal's intimate friend. But what earthly con-
nection was there between that cynical old beggar Tantaine and the rich
banker?
Forgetful of the suffering which the slightest movement caused him,
Paul sat up in bed and listened eagerly, with extended neck, hoping to hear
something of what was going on in the next room. But there was a thick
wall between the salon and bedroom, and he could hear nothing. “What
are they doing?” he asked himself. 6. What are they plotting ?”
Father Tantaine and Hortebize had rapidly crossed the salon, only
pausing on the landing where the doctor tried to console his companion, who
seemed utterly desperate. “ Courage !” he said, in a low voice —"courage !
What on earth is the good of getting into a state like this? How can you
mend matters? No-it's too late. Besides, even if you could, you
wouldn't, as you know very well yourself.”


170
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
The old clerk had drawn out his bandkerchief to dry-not his glasses,
but his eyes. “Ah !” he said, “now I understand only too well what Mon-
sieur de Mussidan must have felt when I proved to him that his daughter
had a lover. I have been cruel, hard, and pitiless, and I am punished-
yes, bitterly punished.”
“You mustn't attach too much importance, old friend, to this nonsense.
Paul is a mere lad.”
“ Paul is a miserable, cowardly hound," replied Tantaine in a fierce
whisper. “He does not love Flavia, but she adores him. Oh, what he
says is true, too true--I feel it. Between her father and himself she would
not hesitate a moment. Poor girl, what a future lies before her!” He
checked himself abruptly, and appealing to all his energy, succeeded in re-
gaining some semblance of his usual composure. “However,” said he," she
must not remain here, and as I cannot speak to her myself, try, doctor, and
inake her listen to reason."
Hortebize shrugged his shoulders. “I fear my eloquence will be of no
avail,” he answered. “And in that case, no doubt, you will be unable to re-
strain yourself. However, remember that one word might reveal to her the
secret of our lives."
“Go at once. I swear to you that whatever happens, I will remain
calm.”
The doctor returned to the room as he spoke, while Tantaine sat down
on the stairs outside with his head in his hands.
Mademoiselle Flavia was just returning to Paul when the doctor ap-
peared. “Back again !” she said, pettishly ; “I thought you far away.”
“I wanted to say a few words to you," answered Hortebize, “and
serious ones, too. You need not draw down those pretty eyebrows—I see
you understand me. Yes, you are right. I came to tell you that this is
not the place for Mademoiselle Martin-Rigal.”
“I know that,” she answered, with such cool calmness that the smiling
doctor was evidently disconcerted.
“ It seems to me,” he began again.
“What? that I ought not to be here? However, I place duty above
propriety. Paul is very ill-he has no one with him ; so who ought to
take care of him, except the woman he is soon to marry ? . Has not my
father given his consent?”
Hortebize was reflecting for some good argument. “Come,” he said at
last,“ listen to the voice of my experience. Men are so constituted that
they never forgive a woman for coinpromising herself, even for themselves.
Do you know what would be said of you twenty-four hours after your
marriage, if it were known you had been here? Why, people would say
that Paul had been your lover, had, in fact, seriously compromised you,
and that your father had only for that very reason consented to your
marriage. Believe me, don't lend yourself to slander which might trouble
all your married life.”
Flavia was as red as a poppy. The doctor's words had hit home, and
she hesitated. “But can Paul be left all alone ?" she objected. “What
will he think?"
“Paul's nearly cured, and, come, if you are reasonable, I promise he shall
go and see you to-morrow.”
This last argument put an end to Flavia’s resistance. “Very well then,"
she said, “I obey you—and don't ever tell me again that I'm obstinate.
Just let me say one word to Paul, and then I'll go !”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
171
The doctor retired, well pleased with his victory, and not in the least
suspecting that he owed it to a suspicion awakened in Flavia's mind.
"We've won,” he said to Tantaine on the stairs. “Now let's make
haste. She'll follow us at once.”
When Tantaine was in the street again he semed to have recovered his
wonted self-possession. “Ay, we've won,” he said, “for to-day; but how
about to-morrow? This marriage must be hastened. It can take place now
without danger to any one. In forty-eight hours the only obstacle separat-
ing this youth from the Champdoce millions will have disappeared." *
Worthy Dr. Hortebize turned pale at this information, although it was
not unexpected. “What !” he stammered ; “ André—"
" André's very ill, doctor! I have arranged the scheme I spoke to you
about, and the most difficult part of the undertaking will be accomplished
this very night by our young friend, Toto-Chupin.”
"By that boy? Why, only the other day you declared. you suspected
him, and thought of getting rid of him for good.”
“That's still my intention, but I mean to kill two birds with one stone,
When it's discovered after André's fall, as will certainly be the case, that
the window supports had been sawed apart, the perpetrator of the deed
will be searched for. My precautions are taken. Master Toto will be
found at the Hôtel du Pérou ; it will be proved that he purchased a saw,
and changed a thousand-franc note at the time.”
Dr. Hortebize looked greatly alarmed, “ Are you mad?” he cried.
" Why, Toto will denounce you."
“I daresay he will, but by that time poor Tantaine will be dead and
buried. Then will come the interment of B. Mascarot. Beaumarchef, the
only one who has faithfully served us, will be in America. The play will
have finished, and we shall be able to snap our fingers at the police ! " He
talked like this, the genial Tantaine, so as to stimulate the doctor's con-
fidence, and yet at that very moment, mindful of mother Bregot's visitor, he
was asking himself whether he hadn't a detective at his heels.
“Decidedly,” said Hortebize, “you were made for success. But for
heaven's sake make haste! All this incessant suspense and these fluctua-
tions of hope and despair will make me seriously ill."
The two honourable associates talked thus at the corner of the Rue
Joquelet, partially concealed from observation by a van. They were wait-
ing, anxious to ascertain if Flavia's promise had been sincere. Yes, she
had been truthful, for in less than ten minutes they saw her pass.'
“Now,” said the old clerk, “I can go in peace. Good-bye, doctor, till
to-morrow.” And without waiting for a reply, he walked rapidly away in the
direction of the Rue Montorgueil. " Ah,” he muttered to himself, “how can
I find out about that chap with the gold spectacles. I dare not confide
anything to Hortebize ! However, when a man's three persons at the same
time he surely ought to be able to save one individuality!"
He was interrupted by Beaumarchef who breathlessly barred his passage,
just as he turned under the porte cochère leading to B. Mascarot's agency.
“I was looking for you,” cried the ex-sub-officer. “M, de Croisenois is in
the office, abusing ine like a pick-pocket, because M. Mascarot isn't
there."
"Go up stairs,” replied Tantaine, " and occupy this penniless marquis.
Make him be patient. The master will be there before long.” Then as
soon as Beaumarchef had disappeared, he darted down the Passage de
la Reine de Hongrie, turned into the Rue Montmartre, and entered Martin-


174
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
well; but on the other hand, great as was his patience, time was wanting.
Only a few days now separated Sabine from the terrible, irreparable sacri.
fice she was called upon to make, and would they suffice for the mighty
task he had undertaken ?
Having risen at day break, André was seated in his studio before his
work table, and with his head in his hands he pondered—recapitulated the
various events that had occurred, and tried to connect them together, like a
child tries to fit the pieces of a puzzle-map one into the other. He was
searching for the connecting link, which to his idea must exist between all
these people he had come across-Verminet, Van Klopen, Mascarot, Hor-
tebize and Martin-Rigal. Whilst analysing the various incidents of the
last few days, he came at last to thinking of young Gaston Gandelu.
“Is it not strange,” he said to himself, “that this unfortunate fellow
should be victimised by the same scoundrels who are persecuting us-by
Verminet and Van Klopen? It is really very strange.”
He stopped with a short start. A new idea had occurred to him. On
superficial examination, it was no doubt monstrous, improbable, fantastic,
and yet after all might it not be founded on fact? A presentiment seemed
to tell him that young Gandelu's ruin was connected with his own, that
they were both the victims of the same intrigue, and that this affair of the
forged promissory notes was but part and parcel of some general scheme.
André would have sworn that such was the case, and yet he had of course
no means of explaining to himself how it happened that he and Gaston
were thus mixed up together. But stay, who had denounced young Gan.
delu to his father? Catenac. Who had advised the incarceration of Zora-
Rose? Catenac again. Now this Catenac, who was Gandelu's lawyer, was
also Verminet's and de Croisenois' man of business. Had he not obeyed
their instructions ? All this was certainly vague and entangled. How
could all these strange presumptions be linked together? It seemed almost
impossible to accomplish such a task, and yet André determined to pursue
his investigations on this basis.
He had just taken a pencil with the view of jotting down the main
features of some general scheme of investigation, when suddenly he heard a
knock at the door. He glanced at his clock : it was not yet nine. Who
could this matutinal visitor be, André wondered ; nevertheless, he rose to
his feet and called out, “Come in.”
The door was thrown open, and the young artist staggered back, for
who should stand before him but Sabine's father. He had only caught a
glimpse of the Count de Mussidan on two previous occasions, but he would
have recognised him under any circumstances.
The count also was ill at ease. He had passed a sleepless night, and it
was only after a severe mental struggle that he had decided upon taking this
step. However, he had had time to prepare himself, whereas André was
taken unawares.
“You will excuse me, sir," began M. de Mussidan, “ for intruding upon
you at so unseasonable an hour, but I thought I should be more likely to
meet you.”
André bowed. A thousand suppositions, each more unlikely than the
other, flashed through his mind. Why had the count come there? Was
it as a friend or as an enemy? Who had given him his address ?
“I am an amateur,” continued Sabine's father, " and one of my friends,
who has an excellent judgment has spoken to me, most warmly, of your
talent. This will explain to you the liberty I take, curiosity has induced me, I


176
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
André's eyes flashed. “Stop, sir-you misunderstand me. This is the
portrait of the purest and most innocent of girls. I love her, and it would
be as impossible for me to cease loving her, as to stop by an effort of will
the circulation of the blood in my veins. But I respect her as much as I
love her. She, my mistress! Why, I should loathe myself forever if I
had ever breathed to her one word that her own mother could not have
heard !”
Never in his life had Monsieur de Mussidan experienced so delicious a
sensation of relief. “You will excuse me,” he said ; “but a portrait in a
studio suggests that there must have been a model.”
“And there was one, sir. She came here, unknown to her family, risk-
ing her honour, her reputation, and her life, and thus giving me the strong.
est possible proof of her affection.” He shook his head sadly and resumed :
“I was wrong, very wrong, to accept this devotion ; and yet, not only did
I accept it, but I went on my knees to beg for it. How else was I ever to
hear her voice or see her? We love each other, but, alas ! such a great
social difference, so many prejudices keep us apart! She is an heiress, be.
longing, unfortunately for our love, to a very great and noble, a very proud
and wealthy family ; whilst I—" He paused, as if hoping for some remark,
a word of encouragement or blame. None came, however, and somewhat
emphatically André resumed : “Do you know what I am ? A poor found-
ling, dropped in the basket at an hospital door by some poor girl who had
been betrayed. One morning, when I was twelve years old, I ran away
from the hospital at Vendôme with twenty francs in my pocket, and found
my way to Paris. Since then, I have earned my bread by daily toil. You
see only the brilliant side of my life. Here, I am an artist; elsewhere, I
am a common workman. Look at my hands; they tell the truth. Still, I
hope to succeed ; one day, perhaps, I shall. But I have had to study and
at the same time earn my livelihood.”
If M. de Mussidan still kept silent, it was because he could not help
really admiring André, and he wished to conceal his true sentiments.
“She knows all that,” resumed the young artist; "she knows it, and
yet she loves me. She has confidence in me. When I despaired, she bade
me persevere. Here, in this very room, she swore she would never be
another man's wife. I have faith in her promise. Not a month ago, one of
the most brilliant men in Paris solicited her hand. She went to him and
told him our story, and he generously withdrew, and to-day he is my best
friend." He paused, for he was stifling. He was pleading for his own
happiness in life, and his anxiety was overwhelming. At last, however, he
managed to speak again. “And now, sir,” he asked, “ do you wish to see
the picture of this young girl ?”
“Yes,” answered the count ; “I should be grateful to you for that mark
of confidence.”
André went to the picture; but as he touched the curtain his hand
dropped, and he hastily turned round again. “No!” he exclaimed, “no!
I cannot continue this comedy. It is unworthy of me!”
Monsieur de Mussidan turned pale. These words might have a terrible
signification. “What do you mean?” he stammered.
"I mean that I knew you, sir—that I knew I was speaking to the Count
de Mussidan, and not to the Marquis de Bivron. I will not uncover this
picture without warning you, without telling you—"
With a kindly gesture the count interrupted hiin. “I know,” he said,
“that I am about to see Sabine’s portrait. * Uncover it, sir, if you please.”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
177
The young painter obeyed, and for a moment M. de Mussidan stood in
silent ecstacy before this really remarkable painting. “Yes, it is she,” he
said ; “her very smile, the light in her eyes! It is beautiful !” He spoke
a few more words, but in so low a tone that they were lost for André, and
then slowly turning to the young painter's arm-chair, he sat down and
seemed lost in reflection
Misfortune is a true master. A few weeks before, M. de Mussidan would
have smiled and shrugged his shoulders at the idea of giving his daughter
in marriage to this insignificant painter. He was then thinking exclu-
sively of M. de Breulh-Faverlay. But now, he would have received as
a boon from heaven the liberty to choose André for Sabine. Must she
really marry that hateful Marquis de Croisenois? At this thought the
count started.
André had shown so much assurance that he could hardly be acquainted
with the real situation. But on questioning the young artist, M. de
Mussidan was undeceived. Conscious of having won the day, André told
the count exactly what he knew, spoke of M. de Breulh's generous assist-
ance and the part that Madame de Bois d'Ardon had consented to play, re-
vealed his plans and investigations, his conjectures and his hopes. Such
was his vehemence and energy, so brightly did his eyes sparkle with con-
viction of success, that the count's spirits began to revive. At last they
studied the situation together at great length, and agreed that prudence
and dissimulation were requisite above ought else ; that it would be better
not to confide their hopes even to Sabine, and that the Marquis de Croise-
nois must be received with apparent good grace. Moreover, they must
abstain from seeing each other; they must hide their understanding from
everyone,
Eleven o'clock was striking when M. de Mussidan rose with the view of
retiring. After again contemplating his daughter's portrait for some
minutes, he turned to the young painter, and grasping his hand, exclaimed,
“Monsieur André, you have my word for it, if we ever free ourselves from
these scoundrels, Sabine shall be your wife."
XXXI.
WHEN M. de Mussidan had gone, André sunk on to the divan. His head and
heart were burning. Yes! Sabine was promised to him, but on conditions
he won her; and to win her he must unmask and confound Croisenois and
his associates. However, with the promise of such a prize, the young
painter felt strong enough to dare them all. “To work !” he cried, spring-
ing to his feet again, “ to work !”
He stopped short, for on the stairs outside he could hear some woman
laughing noisily, whilst a man seemed to be scolding in a sharp, high-pitched
key. André had no time to ask what this meant, for his door was well-
nigh burst open, and a whirlwind of velvet, silk, and lace burst into his
studio. To his astonishment, he recognised that this whirlwind was the
beautiful Zora-Rose de Chantemille. In her wake came young Gaston de
Gandelu, who was the first to speak. “Ay, here we are, in the flesh,” he
shouted. “Did you expect us?”
“Not at all."
“Ah, indeed! Well, it was a surprise of the governor's. Upon my
word, I intend to make his declining years happy, as Leontine said in the
VOL. II.
M


178
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
play. This morning he came into my room, and he said to me : 'I took all
the necessary steps yesterday to release a person you are very fond of. Go
and find her.' Now what do you think of that? So I rushed off, found
Zora, and here we are !”
André gave him only imperfect attention, for he was watching Zora, who
was looking about the studio. She was on the point of pouncing on Sabine's
portrait, when the young painter hastily intervened. “Excuse me,” said
he, “I have to place a picture to dry." And then, as the portrait stood on
a movable easel, he rolled it into his bedroom.
“Now,” resumed Gaston, “I want to celebrate Zora’s deliverance. Will
you come and lunch with us?”
“ Thank you ; no. Indeed I can't, for I have to work."
“I daresay-and work is a very good thing ; but just now you must go
and dress--"
“Indeed, it's quite impossible ; I can't go out."
Gaston reflected for a moment, and then exclaimed, “I have it; you
won't come to lunch. Well, then, lunch shall come to you. An excellent
idea. It's the reverse of Mahomet and the mountain. Well, I'll just go
down and order the needful." So saying he bounded out of the room.
André rushed after him ; but it was in vain that he shouted down the
stairs. Gaston hurried on, and the young artist returned to his studio con-
siderably out of temper. Rose noticed how annoyed he looked. “That's
the way Gandelu goes on,” said she, shrugging her shoulders ; "and he
thinks himself very witty. Pshaw !”
Her tone indicated such utter contempt for her lover that the painter
looked at her in astonishment.
"Why are you so amazed ?" she asked. “It's easy to see that you don't
know him. And all his friends are just like him. If you listen to them for
an hour you are absolutely sickened. Merely to think of the evenings I've
spent in their society makes me yawn.” And she did yawn, as if inexpres-
sibly wearied. “If he only loved me !" she sighed.
“Loved you! Why, he adores you !"
Rose made a little gesture that would have excited Toto-Chupin's envy
and admiration. “Do you really think so ?" she asked. “Come, do you
know what he loves in me? When people look at me as they pass and say,
• Heavens! what chic!' my idiot is proud and happy. But if I wore a
cotton wrapper, he wouldn't as much as look at me ; and yet, after all, I'm
not so very ugly.”
The fact is, that Rose had improved, despite her incarceration. Her im-
pudent beauty had never been so brilliant. She was glowing with youth,
and life, and passion. “My name didn't please him," she continued.
“His dainty lips couldn't condescend to utter the name of Rose, and so he
called me Zora-a dog's name, by the way-and I have to bear it. He has
money, no doubt; but I don't care much for money after all, My little
Paul had no money, and yet I loved him well enough. I have forgotten
how to laugh, I think, and yet I was merry once."
“But why did you leave Paul?"
“Why? Well, just tell me why there's velvet at forty-five francs the
yard? I thought I should like to know how women feel when they put on
an India shawl, and so, one fine day, I took to flight; but, after all-who
knows?--perhaps Paul would have left me. There was a fellow doing his
best to separate us-a neighbour of ours at the Hôtel du Pérou --an old
monkey named Tantaine, a huissier's clerk.”


180
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
of the wine mingled with the fumes of vanity in his shallow brain. The
small amount of good sense he possessed disappeared entirely, and he be-
gan to overwhelm Zora with bitter reproaches--not being able to under-
stand, as he told her, how a serious man like himself, destined to play a
great rôle in society, could have been led away by such a person as she was.
Gaston possessed a goodly store of invectives, but Rose was even stronger
than himself in this respect. Being attacked, she defended herself so
effectually that finally the young fellow lost his temper, or what remained
of it, and went off declaring that never, no never, would he see Zora again.
She might keep all he had ever given her-furniture and jewels—said he,
and he should consider himself well rid of her at the price.
His departure delighted André, who, now that he was alone with Zora,
hoped to obtain some further information from her, and notably an exact
account of Paul, whom he now numbered among his adversaries. The
hope was vain, for the young woman herself was so exasperated that she
would not listen to a word. She hastily put on her hat and mantle and
darted off, declaring she meant that very moment to go in search of Paul,
who in her conviction would speedily punish Gaston for his insults. All
this transpired so rapidly that the young painter felt as if he had been
visited by a tornado.
As quiet and calm fell on his studio again, he began to realise that Pro-
vidence had manifestly interposed in his favour, by sending this interesting
pair to furnish him with new facts, which were of the greatest importance.
Indeed what Rose had said, incomplete as it was, threw light on a portion
of the intrigue which had hitherto been enveloped in darkness. Paul's in-
timacy with Tantaine explained the pains Catenac had taken to have Rose
shut up, as well as the forged signatures wrung from the weak-minded
Gaston.
But, on the other hand, what was the meaning of this business enter-
prise started by the Marquis de Croisenois, at the very time when he was
applying for Sabine's hand? André decided to turn his attention first to
this detail; and, at once, ran down stairs and hastened to the corner of the
street, where Gaston had told him he had seen the poster. There it was,
dazzling and conspicuous, and sufficiently fascinating to attract even the
most tiinid capitalists. Nothing was lacking, not even a charming view of
Tifila (Algeria), showing a number of workmen loading barrows with
copper ore ; whilst, just above, the name of De Croisenois stood out in letters
six inches high.
André had surveyed this masterpiece for five minutes, or more, when all
at once he had a gleam of common sense and prudence. “Idiot!" he said
to himself, “what am I doing here? Who can tell how many knaves may
be reading my countenance, and deciphering all my plans in my eyes.” As
this thought crossed his mind, he turned swiftly round, but no one sus.
picious was in sight. “Never mind,” muttered André “those fellows must
lose my scent. I must disappear.” Success depended on this point, and
when he returned to his room he sat for an hour revolving every possible
plan in his mind. At last, he fancied he had discovered a feasible one.
Under his windows there extended a large garden, or rather play-ground
belonging to a school, which was entered by the Rue de Laval. A wall,
not more than seven feet in height, separated the courtyard of André's
house from this garden. Why couldn't he escape un perceived in this
direction. “I might,” he thought, “ disguise inyself in such a way as not
to be recognised, and to-morrow in the small hours of the morning, climb


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
181
the wall and get out by way of the Rue de Laval, while the spies are
watching my door in the Rue de la Tour d'Auvergne. It isn't necessary
for me to sleep here. No! I can ask Vignol to accommodate me, and besides
he'll assist me in every possible way."
This Vignol was the friend who, in André's absence, was superintending
the work going on at the Gandelu mansion. “In this way, continued
the young artist, “I can escape completely from Croisenois and his
banditti. I can watch their game without their suspecting me. Of course,
I must cease to see all those who are now assisting me : De Breulh, Gan-
delu and M. de Mussidan. But that can't be helped. Besides, I have the
post-office and the telegraph in cases of emergency. Indeed, I will write
and tell them my intentions."
It was dark before he had finished his letters. He then went and dined
at the nearest restaurant; and, having posted his letters, returned to his
rooms to arrange his disguise.
His costume was ready, for he found it among his old clothes, an old blue
blouse, a rusty pair of trousers, shabby shoes, and an equally shabby cap,
were all he required. However, it was important he should change his
face. He began by clipping off his beard, and then cut his hair in such a
way as to leave on either side two long locks which he affixed with cos-
metic to his temples. This done, he looked for some water colours, and set
to work with a camel's hair brush, seeking to modify the complexion and
expression of his countenance. The task was more difficult than he
had supposed, and it was only after long and patient toil that he was
satisfied with the result. He then dressed himself, wrapped an old hand-
kerchief round his throat, and stuck his cap on one side, with the visor
pulled down over the right eye. Thus equipped, he gave himself a glance
in the looking-glass, and thought himself absolutely hideous. However,
like a conscientious artist, he was about to correct certain faults he de-
tected in his make-up, when he suddenly heard a knock at his door.
It was nine o'clock. He was expecting no one. The waiters from the
restaurant had taken their baskets and crockery away ; and the person
outside could only be his concierge, whom he did not choose should see him
in his disguise, for he had but liinited confidence in the discretion of worthy
Madame Poileveu. “Who's there?” he asked.
“It is 1,” answered a plaintive voice—“Gaston!”
Was there any reason to distrust this young fellow? André decided
not, and accordingly he opened his door.
"Has Monsieur Andró gone out?” asked young Gandelu faintly; “I
thought it was he who spoke."
Then he was deceived by the disguise ! This was a triumph for André,
but showed him at the same time that his voice must be changed as well as
his face. “What !” said he, “don't you recognise me?”
Gaston started with surprise, and made some confused remark. It was
plain that some terrible catastrophe had befallen him. His morning ex-
cesses alone could not have reduced him to that state.
"Tell me,” said André kindly, “what has gone wrong with you?”
“Why, I've come to say good-bye to you. I'm going to blow out my
brains at once,"
“ Are you mad ?"
Gaston struck his forehead in a dreary way. "Not in the least," he said,
“it is simply this--those notes have turned up. To-night just as I was
leaving the dining-room-having dined with the governor-the butler


182
TIIE SLAVES OF PARIS.
whispered to me that an old man was waiting for me outside. I went out
and found a dirty old beggar, with his coat collar turned up about his ears.”
“Old Tantaine !” cried André.
"Ah! Is that his name? I didn't know it myself. However, he said
to me in the sweetest voice that the holder of my notes had decided to lay
them before the authorities at twelve o'clock to-morrow, but that a means
of escape was open for me.”
“And that was to go to Italy with Rose.”
Gaston's surprise was so great that he started to his feet. “Who told
you so ?” he cried.
“Nobody; I guessed it. It was part of their plan, when you were first
induced to forge M. Martin-Rigal's signature. And what did you say?"
“ That the proposition was utterly absurd, and that I wouldn't move a
foot. Besides, I see their plan. As soon as I'm out of the way, they'll go
to my father and blackmail him. But it shan't be. Why it'll kill him to
learn that his son is a forger. However, I've bought a revolver, and in
an hour from now, it'll all be over."
André was not listening. What should be done ? he asked himself. To
advise Gaston to depart and take Rose with him was to deprive himself of
à considerable chance of success. But on the other hand, to let the young
fellow kill himself was not to be thought of; ordinary humanity forbade
that, and besides André was under great obligations to his father.
“ Listen to me,” he said finally. "I have an idea, Gaston, which I will
disclose to you when we are out of the house. Only for certain reasons,
which would take too long to tell you now, it's necessary I should get into
the street without leaving this house by the door. I can manage it, if you
will only help me. Go away now, and at midnight-precisely-ring at the
door of No. 29 Rue de Laval. The concierge will pull the string, go in,
and ask some question of her. In the meanwhile leave the street door
ajar. I shall be in the garden of the house, and while you are with the
concierge, I will get out into the street and wait for you."
Gaston complied with these instructions, the plan succeeded, and at ten
minutes past midnight he and André were walking along the outer Boule-
vard. The young painter was full of hope. He was convinced he had put
the spies who were watching him off the scent, and besides he had con-
ceived the idea of executing a powerful diversion, thanks to Gaston, whilst
personally he continued tracking Croisenois and the rest of the band.
XXXII.
MONSIEUR LE MARQUIS DE CROISENOIS resided in a superb new house on
the Boulevard Malesherbes, near the church of Saint Augustin. In a
modest suite of rooms, rented for four thousand francs a year, he had as-
sembled sufficient vestiges of his former opulence to impress superficial
observers. To guard against the annoyances of creditors, his apartment
was taken in the name of his valet. His brougham and horse belonged, in
the same way, to his coachman. For, low in funds as he was, the marquis
still drove about in his own natty "pill-box.” He had no other servants
besides his coachman and valet-the former doing most of the rough work
indoors, whilst the latter knew enough of cooking to prepare a bachelor's
breakfast.
Mascarot had only seen the marquis's valet on one occasion, and the man


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
183
had so singularly impressed him that, in his distrust, he tried to find out
who he was and where he came from. Croisenois had told the agent that
he had only engaged the fellow on the recommendation of an English friend,
Sir Richard Wakefield. Morel, as the valet called himself, certainly seemed
to have lived in England, for he spoke English passably well. He was,
moreover, expert in all his duties, and so dignified in manners and appear-
ance, that ignorant folks fairly believed his master to be a perfect grandee.
André knew but little of all this; he had merely obtained some trifling
information from M. de Breulh, when he asked the latter for Croisenois' ad-
dress. However, on the morning of his escape from his studio, he came,
still in his disguise, to a wine-shop close to the marquis's residence. Pro-
viding Croisenois' servants patrgnised this establishment, as seemed probable,
there being none other in the immediate vicinity, he would no doubt be able
to overhear their talk and pick up sonie useful information. The young
artist's confidence had increased since the previous evening ; for not only
had he saved Gaston, but the young fellow's escapade seemed likely to yield
an advantageous result.
This is what had occurred. After infinite trouble, he had induced Gaston
to return to his father's house ; and on reaching the Chaussée d'Antin, at
two o'clock in the morning, he had made bold enough to have old Gandelu
woke up. Then, after explaining the reason of his own disguise, he told
the contractor how his son had been victimised and induced to commit a
forgery, and how, but for his own intervention, the young fellow would
have committed suicide. He naturally insisted on Gaston's repentance,
the good sentiments he expressed, his separation from Rose, and his proinises
to become serious.
The old man was much moved and shed tears. This would no doubt
prove a decisive lesson for his son, and really modify his conduct for the
better. “Go and fetch him," said the poor contractor ; “tell him to come
to me, and say that we two will save him.”
André had not far to go, for Gaston was waiting in the next room in an
agony of suspense. He was weeping, weeping with repentant sorrow, be-
wailing his own foolishness and the misery he must have caused his good,
indulgent father. “Come in, Gaston,” said André.
But with unusual energy, the young fellow exclaimed, “Never call me
by that name again. It is as false as the coronet on my cards. Call me
Pierre Gandelu. My father is only too kind to allow me to bear his name.”
Thus begun, the reconciliation was bound to prove complete. The worthy
contractor had not felt so happy for many years. The next thing was to
decide what course to take to rescue the lad from the consequences of his
folly. “I do not believe," said old Gandelu, “ that these wretches will
dare to carry their threat into execution, and apply to the legal authorities.
At all events, my son cannot remain exposed to this intimidation. I my-
self will lay a charge against the whole band. I will call on the public pro-
secutor before noon, and we will see what happens to this Mutual Loan
Society, which lends money to minors and extorts forged signatures in re-
turn! It will be best, however, for my son to go to Belgium in the morn-
ing ; but he won't stop there long, as you'll see.”
André remained in the old gentleman's house throughout the night, and
it was in Gaston's room that he made himself up again in the morning.
The future looked rosy indeed, as he walked lightly up the Boulevard
Malesherbes. Thanks to the contractor's intervention, the police would
now deal with Verminet's malpractices. The inquiry would, moreover,


184
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
probably result in the detection of the other members of the band, and this
enormous result would be gained without any mention being made of M. de
Mussidan, the countess, or Sabine. For his own part, André was deter-
mined to cling to Croisenois like a shadow. The establishment where he
installed himself was wonderfully adapted for his purpose. From the table
where he sat he could see all the windows of De Croisenois' apartment, as
well as the door of the house, which no one could leave or enter unper-
ceived by him. Moreover, as there was no other wine-shop in the vicinity,
André felt certain that the marquis's servants would come there, in which
case he could talk with them, offer them something to drink, creep into
their confidence, and obtain important information. He sat down at a table
near the window and ordered breakfast, keeping his eyes and ears on the
alert. The shop was full of customers, nearly all of them servants, and
André wondered whether any of these were in the employ of M. de Crois-
enois. He was racking his brain for some excuse for questioning the land-
lord, when the door opened and two more servants entered, one of them
attired in a coachman's livery, and the other wearing the discreet black of
a valet de chambre. “Ah, ha !” exclaimed an old man with a placid
countenance, who was struggling with a tough beefsteak at the table next
to André's. “Ah, ha! here come Messrs. Croisenois.”
Servants, as is well known, often call each other by their masters' names;
and thus André obtained the information he desired without having to make
any suspicious inquiries. “If these men,” he thought, “only had the
happy thought of sitting near this old fellow, who knows them, I could
hear every word they say."
This they did, at the same time begging the landlord to serve them as
speedily as possible, as they had not a moment to spare.
“What are you in such a hurry about?" asked the old man near whom
they seated themselves.
" Why," answered the yo. 'nger of the new-comers—M. de Croisenois'
coachman, “I have to drive my master to his office ; for he has an office
now. He's the chairman of a mining company-copper mines—a splendid
thing it is, too. Why, “Geese plucked here' ought to be written up over
the door! If you have any savings, Monsieur Benoît, as you ought to have,
this is a good chance to invest them.”
Benoît shook his head gravely. “Who can tell ?” said he. “All that
looks good isn't good, and what seems bad isn't bad.” Benoît was evidently
a prudent man, who had seen much of life, and was not disposed to com-
mit himself lightly. “But corne,” he continued, “if your marquis is going
out, Monsieur Morel will be free, and we can have a game of piquet to-
gether."
“No, sir,” answered the valet.
“Are you engaged as well, then?”
“Yes, sir ; I'm just going to put on some white gloves and carry a heap
of flowers to the marquis's future wife ; for he's going to be married. It's
official. A splendid dowry, so I hear; as for the young lady, she's a bit
haughty ; but I wouldn't mind taking her myself for three months, just on
trial.”
This fellow in the preposterously high, stiff collar was actually speak-
ing of Sabine in this disgraceful style, and André had to appeal to
all his powers of self-restraint not to spring at his throat and strangle
him.
“Ah, well !” said the coachman, with his mouth full, “ah, well! I don't


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
187
into a narrow corridor, and presently found himself in a room which
seemed to be the commissary's private office. On the right hand side, be-
fore a desk in front of a window, sat a man who looked between forty or
fifty years old, and who wore a white choker and a pair of gold-rimmed spec-
tacles. “Please to sit down, Monsieur André," said this personage with
the most exquisite politeness.
The young artist took a chair in a semi-stupefied condition and waited.
Was he dreaming? Was he awake? He was uncertain. He doubted
himself, his own intelligence, even the testimony of his senses.
“Before proceeding further,” said the spectacled gentleman, “I must
apologise for what must seem to you the very singular manner in which you
have been treated. However, I really had no choice. I particularly
wished to speak with you. You are closely watched, and it was essential
that the folks who watch you should not imagine there was any con-
nivance between you and me.”
“I am watched !” stammered André.
“ Yes, by a certain La Candèle; a bright fellow-in fact, I may say the
brightest fellow for that sort of work in Paris. Does this astonish you?"
Yes, for I thought-".
The spectacled gentleman siniled benevolently. “You thought,” he in-
terrupted, “ that you had succeeded in eluding your spies. So I supposed
this morning, when I saw you in your present disguise. Unfortunately you
were bound to lose your time. The people who watch you know very well
that you yourself are watching the Marquis de Croisenois. So by stationing
himself near the marquis's house, La Candelemade sure of meeting you again."
“Ah! Of course, I had not thought of that,” stammered André, with
considerable confusion.
« On the other hand,” resumed the spectacled gentleman with increased
urbanity of manner, “you must allow me, my dear Monsieur André, to
tell you that your disguise leaves much to be desired. The first attempt of
a man in a new trade is, I admit, always to be viewed with indulgence.
But La Candèle would not be taken in. Even at this distance, I can de-
tect your entire 'make up,' and what I see, others, of course, can see as
well.” So speaking, he rose and approached André. “Why on earth,” he
said, “ have you decked your face with all these colours, which make you
look like a North-American Indian in his war-paint? In order to change a
man's countenance, only two strokes of a crayon are necessary, red or
black-here at the eyebrows, there at the nostrils, and here again at the
corners of the mouth. See for yourself—”.
He joined a practical•demonstration to his theory; for producing a pencil
case as he spoke he corrected the young artist's imperfect work. When he
had finished, André glanced at himself in the looking glass over the mantel-
piece, and was fairly astonished. No one would ever have recognised him.
With his eyebrows which almost met, his deformed nose, and his enlarged
mouth, he had a sinister, impudent look, such as he himself would never
have known how to acquire.
“Now,” continued the unknown gentleman, “ do you realise the futility
of your attempts ? La Candele knew you at once. However, I wished to
speak to you so I sent for Palot, one of my agents, and bade him pick a
quarrel with you. Two policemen then arrested you, and so here you are.
No one knows that we are together. Pray, efface my touches, for they would
be remarked when you go out, and would necessarily awaken suspicion."
André obeyed, and while he rubbed his face with the corner of his


188
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
handkerchief, his bewildered mind sought for some elucidation of this
mystery. He was evidently in presence of some important functionary of
the Préfecture of Police ; but what was wanted of him? How had the
police found him out? What had they discovered ?
Meanwhile the spectacled personage had resumed his seat in his arm-
chair, and was handling his snuff-box in a style which the most finished
actor at the Comédie Française might have envied. “Now,” he said,
“let us have a little talk together, if you please. As you see I know you-
Jean Lantier, your old master who engaged you eleven years ago when you
arrived in Paris, after running away from Vendôme, tells me he'd answer
for you under any circumstances, and Lantier's son-in-law, Dr. Lorilleux,
asserts that he knows no character higher than yours-he declares your
probity to be without a stain, your courage undoubted--"
“Really, sir,” stammered the young painter, flushing scarlet.
“Let me proceed. Monsieur Gandelu tells me he would be willing to
confide his whole fortune to you; your comrades, one and all—Vignol at the
head of them have the highest respect for you. So much for the present.
As to the future, two painters of the greatest renown assert that you will
one day stand at the head of the French school. At this moment, your
work brings you in about fifteen francs per day. Am I correct in my in.
formation ? "
“Quite so," stammered the bewildered André.
The spectacled gentleman smiled. “Unfortunately," he continued, “my
information ends here. The means of investigation in the hands of the
police are necessarily very limited, they can only act on facts, and not on
intentions. So long as volition is not accompanied by action, the police
are helpless; and it must always be so until a detective finds some way of
taking the top of a man's head off like the cover of a box, and looking
down into it to see what's going on there. However, I heard of you only
forty-eight hours ago for the first time, and I already have your biography
in my pocket. I know that the day before yesterday you were walking
about with young Gandelu, and driving with Monsieur de Breulh-Faverlay,
and that La Candele was behind the vehicle. These are all facts, but,"
He paused, and after giving André a piercing look, slowly resumed, “But
no one has been able to tell me why you followed Verminet, or why you
watched Mascarot's house, or why you have disguised yourself to follow
the honourable Marquis de Croisenois about. It is the motive we can't get
at--the facts are clear.”
André moved restlessly on his chair, disturbed by his questioner's mag-
netic gaze, which seemed to draw the truth from him, despite the resist.
ance of volition. “I cannot tell you, sir,” he said, at last-“I really can-
not. It is a secret which does not belong to me.”
The spectacled gentleman smiled : “You don't choose to trust me?
Very well, then, I will speak. Remember that I have told you all I knew
positively; but I have also drawn my inferences and deductions, from the
facts laid before me. You are watching Croisenois. Why? On account of
his Mining Company? No. Then it must be because he is going to marry
a rich heiress ---Mademoiselle de Mussidan. Come don't blush. We
haven't got to the end of it yet. Well, we'll conclude then that you wish
to prevent this marriage--and why? Do you happen to love Mademoiselle
de Mussidan, and does she love you in return? That is of course a reason;
but it doesn't explain your disguise. So there is something more no doubt.
I have heard that Mademoiselle de Mussidan was at one time to marry


190
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“Yes you, the artist and ornamental sculptor, called André for the time
being."
For the time being !--The expression seemed strange to the young painter,
but he did not venture to question the detective.
“For several years,” resumed M. Lecoq, “I have felt certain that an
organised association for blackmailing existed in this city. Family differ-
ences, sorrows and shame, imprudences, and the like, prove absolute gold-
mines to a party of scoundrels who make at least a hundred thousand francs
per annum."
“Ah!" muttered André, “I suspected something of this kind.”
“Of course, when I was quite sure of it, I said to myself: 'I must nab
these fellows.' But it was easier said than done. Blackmailing, you see,
has one peculiarity: those who practise it feel well-nigh certain of impunity.
Suppose you are asked for a thousand francs, and are threatened in default
thereof with the revelation of some secret calculated to overwhelm you
with shame or ridicule ; naturally you would pay the money and keep quiet.
Why, a score of times I have found out some pigeon or other who had just been
plucked, but never would one of them furnish me with weapons against the
scoundrels who had victimised them. It was all very well for me to say,confide
in me, the police is discreet, your secret will be respected, I can promise it,
swear it. No one would ever believe me. The fools doubted my word !
Such being the case, I soon realised that it was impossible to reach the
scoundrels through their victims. Accordingly, I decided to try and reach
their victims through them. Ah! I have needed patience. For three
years I have been waiting for an opportunity. During the last eighteen
months one of my agents has been acting as the Marquis de Croisenois'
valet. The scamps ! I'm sure that at the present moment they've cost the
house at least ten thousand francs !”
As André realised, “the house,” was no other than the Préfecture of
Police.
“Yes, ten thousand francs,” repeated M. Lecoq, “to say nothing of the
worry. Why, I owe a dozen white hairs to Mascarot alone! For I
believed that Tantaine really existed, and Martin-Rigal as well, whereas
Tantaine and Rigal and Mascarot are simply one and the same person! It
was a long time before I thought of a door of communication between the
banker's house in the Rue Montmartre and the Employment Agency in the
Rue Montorgueil. Ah ! the scamp's a cunning fellow 1”
Cunning indeed, but he was to find his master : such was evidently the
meaning of the detective's smile. “This time,” said he with increased
animation, “ this time they have gone too far, and I have them. The idea
of establishing a company so as to net the coin of all their victims was
really a very pretty one; but then I'm there and the scamps are lost. Ah !
I know them all now, from their chieftain Mascarot, alias Rigal and alias
Tantaine, down to Toto-Chupin, their lowest agent, and to Paul their
docile instrument. We will trap the whole band. Hortebize and Ver-
minet, Croisenois and Beaumarchef. We may, perhaps, also collar Van
Klopen. As for Catenac he can't escape. Just now, he's travelling in the
country near Vendôme, with the Duke de Champdoce and a fellow named
Perpignan. But two of my guardian angels are at the party's heels, and
send me news of their progress almost hourly. My trap is well set, well
baited, and we'll catch them all as you shall see. And now, Monsieur
André, do you still hesitate to confide to me what you know? I swear to
you, on my honour, to respect your confidence, no matter what may happen.”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
191
The young painter felt half bewildered, but still, thanks to the detective's
statements, he divined that he had to contend against truly terrible adver-
saries—adversaries so powerful and expert, that alone, unaided, he had
little prospect of success. Moreover, like everyone else who approached
Lecoq, he was fascinated by him ; and besides, what was the use of hiding
anything ?-what he concealed from the detective to-day would surely be
known to-morrow. Thus the wiser plan was rather to try and win his
good graces. With the utmost frankness, therefore, André told everything
he knew.
When he had finished, Lecoq rose to his feet. “Now,” cried he, “I
see clearly before me. Ah! They wish to compel Gandelu to go off with
Rose, do they? Well, we'll see about that."
His eyes flashed behind his gold spectacles ; he had just decided on his
plan of battle. “From this moment,” said he, “ you may sleep in peace,
Monsieur André. In another month Mademoiselle de Mussidan will be
your wife. I promise it you. And when Lecoq promises, he means what
he says. I answer for everything.” He stopped, reflected for a moment,
and then resumed more slowly. “I answer for everything except for your
life. Such great interests are centred in your person that every means will
be tried to get rid of you. Don't forget that for one moment. Never eat
twice in succession at the same restaurant; throw away any food that has
a peculiar flavour ; keep away from all street crowds, hold all kinds of
vehicles in suspicion ; never lean out of a window unless you know that
the supports are solid. In a word, fear everything and suspect every-
thing.”
André warmly thanked the detective, and was on the point of retiring,
when Lecoq exclaimed, “One moment. Do you happen to have such a
thing as a scar or a sign on your arm or shoulder.”
“Yes, indeed, I have the scar of a severe burn."
M. Lecoq did not take the trouble to hide his satisfaction. “Ah ! ha!"
said he, “I thought as much. Everything's going on capitally.” And as
he gently pushed the young artist out of the room he saluted him with the
the same words that Mascarot had so often used to Paul: "Till we meet
again, my Lord Duke of Champdoce !”.
XXXIII.
ANDRÉ turned hastily round, but the door had been closed behind him, and
he could hear the key grating in the lock. He was now again in the outer
office, where the commissary's secretary, the two clerks, and his whilom
opponent in the wine shop looked at him and smiled. André was, how-
ever, too preoccupied to notice thein ; he mumbled a word or two, which may
have been “ good morning" or not, and then hurried out into the street.
He was greatly perplexed by M. Lecoq's parting words. Were they a joke?
But in that case what was their point? "Now André was a clear-headed,
practical man, he had proved it; but on the other hand he was a foundling,
he had never known either father or mother, and the field of conjecture
was immense. Who could tell ? Perhaps he belonged to a noble family-a
family that had been compelled to abandon him, but would seek for him
once more. Such strange things happen at times, who can be certain of
his destiny? “What a child I am," he muttered at last ; " is joy troubling
my brain ?”


192
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
At all events, he now possessed a formidable ally, a protector, who took,
indeed, even greater interest in hien than he imagined. Immediately after
his departure, M. Lecoq had opened his door, and summoned his agent
Palot. “My lad,” said he, “you saw that young man who just went
out?”
“ Yes, sir.”
“Well, he's a worthy fellow, with heart and energy, as honest as daylight,
and as true as steel. I esteem him thoroughly, and he's my friend.”
Palot's look and manner signified that he should henceforth consider
André a sacred being.
“Now you must follow him," resumed M. Lecoq, “and closely too, for
this isn't merely a case of watching him, but of defending him, if needs be.
I'm sure that the Mascarot gang want to murder him, and it must be pre-
vented, mind. You are my best, most faithful agent, and I trust him to
you. He's warned, but he lacks experience. You will see danger where
he would never dream of any. If there's any trouble, throw yourself into
the breach, have every one marched to the lock up, but try not to let any
one discover who and what you are. If at any emergency it is imperative
you should speak to him, do so; but only as a last extremity. Whisper in
his ear my servant's name 'Janouille,' and he'll understand that you come
from me. Now, remember, you are to answer for him. But Mascarot's
men inustn't recognise in you the fellow of this morning's quarrel. They
would guess everything then. How are you dressed under that blouse ?”
"Like a commissioner."
“Good. Now arrange yourself, and be very particular about your
head."
Palot at once approached the looking glass, pulled a carroty beard and
wig from his pocket, and adjusted them with all the dexterity that habit
imparts. Twenty minutes later, he approached his superior, who was
waiting, and asked, “Shall I do?”
M. Lecoq scrutinised him most carefully, and finally replied: “Not
bad !” The fact is, the fellow was the ideal type of a Paris commissioner,
and any Auvergnat would have saluted him instantly as from his own
province.
“Where shall I find this young artist now, sir?” he asked.
“Somewhere near Mascarot's den, for I advised him not to relinquish
his rôle of spy without my orders. Come, make haste after him!”
Palot darted off, and overtook his "ward "half-way down the Rue Mont-
martre. André was sauntering slowly along, ruminating over M. Lecoq's
advice always to be careful, and look out for his adversaries, when a hand-
some young fellow with his arm in a sling walked rapidly past him, pro-
ceeding in the same direction as himself. André felt certain that this
young fellow was Paul Violaine, and as he did not fear being recognised,
he overtook him in his turn and had a good look at him. It was, indeed,
Rose's former lover. But why had he his arm in a sling ? This was the
first question that occurred to André, and by a phenomenon which is not
uncommon when the mind is concentrated on one particular point, he had
an intuition of the truth. “At least," he thought, “I can discover where
he goes.”
Accordingly, he followed him, and saw him enter the house where M.
Martin-Rigal resided. Two women were talking near the door, and André
heard one of them say, “That's the young man who is engaged to Madem-
oiselle Flavia, the banker's daughter.”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
195
another word, he dragged the woman towards the nearest policeman and
gave her in charge. “Take her to the lock-up," said he, after explaining
that his name was Palot, and that he was M. Lecoq's lieutenant. “Don't
let her escape on any account. She'll be wanted as a witness at an import-
ant trial." .
Palot could not conceal from himself that the woman had no doubt
spoken the truth. “Plainly enough,” thought he, “she didn't know
what she was doing, and it was old Tantaine who gave her those two louis.
He shall pay for this. But, unfortunately, even if the whole gang's
hanged, it won't restore this poor fellow's life.”
However, Palot hadn't time to indulge in meditation now. He must
collect all the evidence he could. How had this accident happened ? It
was easy to ascertain, for the window frame had fallen with André, and
had broken into several pieces as it reached the pavement. Palot picked
up one of the fragments, and the crime which he had already suspected
became manifest. The plank had been sawed through on both sides, and
still retained traces of the plaster and putty with which the saw-marks had
been concealed. This was too important a bit of circumstantial evidence to
be neglected, and accordingly Palot called one of the workmen-an intelli-
gent looking fellow-explained the discovery he had just made, and advised
him to put the fragınents of the window frame in a place of security, as
they would surely be needed at the judicial inquiry which was bound to
take place.
This duty fulfilled, Palot could at last join the spectators crowding round
the spot where André had fallen, but the young painter had already been
carried away.
The detective looked round, asking himself what course he had now
best adopt, in view of obtaining further information, when suddenly on a
bench, hard by, he perceived a fellow whom he had often followed in the
days when M. Lecoq was still uncertain as to the identity of B. Mascarot,
Father Tantaine, and Martin Rigal. This fellow was our young friend,
Toto-Chupin. He no longer wore his sordid rags of a day or two pre-
viously, but was clothed from head to foot in the newest raiment. Still,
well dressed as he was, he scarcely looked at his ease. His face was livid,
his eyes were wild, and his jaw worked convulsively as if seeking for saliva
to moisten his parched mouth. These circumstances struck Palot forcibly,
and he muttered to himself, “That young blackguard must be the guilty
party, and he's frightened at his crime."
The surmise was correct enough. Toto-Chupin was struggling against
remorse, which with him was quite a new sentiment. In fact he was
positively deliberating whether he should not go and give himself up at the
nearest police station, not because he thought confession would make his
judges more merciful, but because he longed to revenge himself on old
Tantaine, who had made him an assassin.
Naturally enough, the idea of arresting Toto crossed Palot's mind, but on
reflection he decided to abandon it. “By nabbing this scamp,” thought
he, “I might warn the whole band. Big as Paris may be, we are certain
of finding him again whenever we need him. Perhaps I even made a mis-
take in arresting that woman." Accordingly, he returned to his inquiries,
and on learning that André had been reinoved to the Beaujon Hospital, he
determined to go there. On his way he began to think of the consequences
of the catastrophe. “Good heavens !” he thought, “M. Lecoq will de-
clare I'm not fit to be trusted. I'm disgraced for ever. I knew that this


196
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
poor fellow's life hung on a thread, and yet I allowed him to enter an un-
finished house. Why, I might just as well have killed him with my own
hand.”
Thus Palot was in a great state of apprehension when he reached the
hospital, and asked one of the assistant-surgeons what had become of the
young man who had been brought there half-an-hour previously. “ You
mean number seventeen ?” said the assistant-surgeon ; "he is in a most
deplorable state. We fear internal injury—a fracture of the skull-in
short, we fear everything."
Sixty-four hours had elapsed, when André at last regained sufficient
consciousness to think of his situation. It was in the middle of the night;
the large hospital ward was lighted up by a single lamp; still, at a glance,
he realised where he was. It seemed to him strange that he was yet alive,
and still stranger that he felt no pain. Suffering only returned to him
when he tried to turn in his bed, and yet he found he could move his legs
and one arm. “How long have I been here?” he asked himself. He tried
to think, but his thoughts flickered like those of a man who has been under
the influence of chloroform, and he fell asleep.
When he awoke again it was broad daylight, and the ward was full of
life and motion. It was the hour when the chief surgeon made his rounds.
This chief surgeon, a middle aged man, with a bright, kind face, was going
from bed to bed, followed by a score of students—demonstrating and lectur-
ing, and scattering among his patients encouraging words. At last came
André's turn, and the surgeon told him that he had a shoulder out of joint,
an arm broken in two places, and a deep cut on his head, whilst his whole
body was but one large bruise ; still he was a lucky fellow to have escaped
with such little harm. André listened with only a dim conception of the
meaning of the words he heard. With revived reason, remembrance of
Sabine had returned to him, and he asked himself, with a sinking heart,
what would happen while he lay there in bed.
In his bitter anxiety he was shedding tears, when a stout gentleman with
large carroty whiskers, a high white neckcloth and a venerable-looking hat
-looking for all the world like one of those provincial doctors who, when
visiting Paris, make it a point of frequenting the hospitals—suddenly
stepped forward from the group of students, and approached his bedside.
This stout gentleman leaned over André and whispered, “Janouille." On
hearing this name, the password which had been agreed upon by himself
and M. Lecoq, the young painter started. “I see that you don't recognise
me,” said the old gentleman in an undertone.
André could not believe his eyes. The art of disguise became genius
when carried to such perfection. "Monsieur Lecoq !” he gasped.
“Hush ! who can tell who is watching us ? Quick-only two words—I
came to tranquillize your mind, which will do more for your recovery than
all the medicine you can take. Without committing you in any way, I
have seen Monsieur de Mussidan, and have furnished him with a pretext
for postponing his daughter's marriage to Monsieur de Croisenois, for
another month. In the meantime, you will remain here in comparative
safety. Still, be careful. Eat nothing coming from outside, unless it is
brought you by some one possessing our password. Some spy might be
sent here, so don't confide in any one. M. Gandelu will no doubt come to
see you. His son is in safety. "If anything extraordinary happens to you
and you wish to write me, apply to the patient in bed on your right hand.
He's one of my men. Poor Palot is so grieved about your accident, that I


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
197
haven't had courage to scold him. Now good-bye. You will hear from me
every day, and you must be prudent and patient.”
“I can wait," murmured André, "since I hope !”
“Ah!" murmured Lecoq, as he moved away, “ah! isn't hope the sun
total of life?”
XXXIV.
IF M. Lecoq advised André to be prudent and patient, and instructed his
agents to be exceedingly cautious and discreet, it was because he realised,
and willingly admitted, the ability and cunning of the scoundrels he had to
deal with. They would scent his supervision from a distance, just as crows
scent powder, and he foresaw that at the least sign of danger they would
all decamp, each in a different direction. His agents, weary of difficult
work which seemed to lead to nothing, had frequently begged him to act,
but he had mastered their impatience saying, “It isn't a good plan to
chatter or make a noise when a man goes fishing."
Events had proved that he was right in delaying operations. This time
the mysterious association of blackmailers had been obliged to unmask
itself in prosecuting its final and most complicated scheme. It could
already be proved that the leader, who tried to conceal himself under three
names, had instigated an assassination. But M, Lecoq preferred not to
utilise this circumstance at once. He was desirous of apprehending the
whole band. And his investigations had been so secretly conducted, that
the association suspected nothing whatever. Yet, B. Mascarot was ir-
remediably lost at the very monient when he considered himself more
certain of success than ever.
On the morrow of the acident which had befallen André, he forwarded
to the Prefect of Police a most explicit anonymous letter in which he
denounced Toto-Chupin's culpability, and furnished sufficient particulars to
lead to his apprehension. “Of course,” mused he, “ Toto will try to turn
all the responsibility on Father Tantaine, but the worthy old man no longer
exists, and I defy even the police to resuscitate him.”
That very morning, indeed, he had lighted a large fire, and burned to the
very last thread the rags and tatters he wore whenever he assumed the
name of Tantaine for the needs of his dark designs.
He laughed at the success of his ruse as he watched the thick smoke
that rose. “Search, my friends,” he chuckled, “Toto's accomplice has
gone up the chimney!”
The next thing was to get rid of B. Mascarot, which was a more delicate and
difficult operation. Tantaine had been an old nomad, and nobody would
trouble themselves about him; but Mascarot could not disappear in the same
style. He was a man of position, paying considerable rental and large taxes.
He was widely known and esteemed in his capacity as a servants’agent. His
disappearance would have created a great sensation--the whole neighbour-
hood would have gossiped about it, and the police would have taken the
matter in hand. The simplest thing, therefore, was to make open arrange-
ments for departure, and so the honorable agent began by telling everyone
that family affairs and ill health compelled him to dispose of his business,
which he would sell for a modest sum. At the same time he searched for a
purchaser, found one, and in four-and-twenty hours the whole transaction
was completed. Ah ! Mascarot had a hard night's work, on the eve of his


TIIE SLAVES OF PARIS.
201
favour is granted, for of course you have one to ask---have you not, my
darling?"
Mademoiselle Flavia shook her head, and in the same tone that she would
have used towards a naughty child, exclaimed, “Oh! what a bad papa!
Am I in the habit, sir, of selling you my kisses? When I want anything,
is it necessary for me to say more than that I want it?”
“No, of course not; only—"
“I merely came to tell you that dinner is ready, and that Paul and I are
both very hungry-and I only kissed you because I love you. Yes, I love
you because you are good-yes, if I had to choose a father from among all
the fathers in the world, I should choose you!”
He smiled, half-closing his eyes like a cat does when her head is scratched.
“Come,” said he, “confess it. During the last six weeks, you have loved
me a little bit more than you used to do.”
“No," she answered, “not during the last six weeks only since a fort-
night or so.”
* And yet it is more than a month since our good friend, the doctor,
brought a certain young man to dinner for the first time.”
Flavia laughed-a pretty, frank, girlish laugh. “I loved you for that,"
she replied, “yes, very dearly, indeed ; but I love you more for something
else."
" And what's that?”
“ Ah! that's a secret which mustn't be told."
. “Oh, come now, let me coax it out of you."
“How anxious you are! And besides it would make you angry."
“No, it wouldn't, I'm sure.”
“Well, I'll tell you then. It is only during the last fortnight that I have
realised all your love for me. Poor, dear papa! Ah! I cried when I knew
all the pains you took to please your naughty daughter, when I realised all
the difficulties you had to contend against to bring me my dear artist. To
think you put on those wretched clothes, that horrid beard, and those
spectacles ! Ah, how awfully ugly you looked, poor papa !”
Martin-Rigal at these words started so abruptly to his feet, that Flavia
was nearly thrown on to the floor. He was deadly pale. “What on earth
do you mean?” he stammered.
"Do you suppose a father can impose on a daughter? Others may not
have recognised you, but I-"
“I don't understand you, Flavia."
“Do you mean to say,” she asked, fixing her eyes upon him, “that you
did not come in disguise one day to Paul's, when I was there myself ?"
“ You are crazy-listen to me.”
"No, papa, I'm nearly as cunning as you are. When you came to Paul's,
in spite of your ragged clothes, I had a vague suspicion, a presentiment;
and when you went out with the doctor I listened at the door, and heard a
few words you said. And that is not all, for when I came home I hid my-
self in the passage, and I saw you come into this very room.”
The banker no longer thought of denying. He seemed overwhelmed.
" Ah," murmured he, “this is the result of a single act of imprudence. It
was necessary to get in doors-into Mascarot's office. Croisenois was wait-
ing for me and I feared his suspicions.” Then suddenly, as a terrible idea
crossed his mind, he eagerly asked, “But, Flavia, you have said nothing
to any one-"
"No, indeed-certainly not.”


202
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
He breathed again.
“Of course I don't count Paul,” she added ; “but he is the same as my-
self.”
“Unfortunate child !” cried Martin-Rigal. “Unfortunate child ! "
His gesture was so terrible, his voice so threatening, that for the first
time in her life Flavia felt afraid of her father. “But what have I done?”
she asked, with tears in her eyes. “I only said to Paul: 'Dear Friend-
We should be monsters of ingratitude if we did not worship my father. You
do not know what he does for us. He even dressed in rags to go and find
you out, and—'"
The doctor, who had hitherto been a mute spectator of the scene, now
interrupted Flavia : “And what did Paul say ?” he asked.
“Paul ? Oh ! he stood still, looking quite confused for a moment, and
then he shook his head, saying, "I understand !' At last he began to laugh
as if he would kill himself.”
The banker, who was walking up and down the room in a state of great
agitation, now stopped before his daughter. “And you, poor child," he
said, in a bitter tone, "didn't you understand the meaning of that laugh?
Paul, at this very moment, thinks you have been my accomplice. You
have shown him that it was in obedience to your orders that I went in search
of him.”
“ Well, what then?"
“ Alas! a man like Paul would never love a woman who has sought after
him. No matter how great her beauty and her love for him, he would
always think and say that she threw herself at his head. He will accept
all tokens of tenderness and devotion, and make no more return for them
than if he were a wooden idol, before which worshippers burn incense.
You don't see this? God grant that this bandage may never fall from your
eyes! Can you not yet read the character of this poor, foolish boy, who
lacks every manly quality! who is inflated by vanity, who has neither
energy nor independence, nor will nor heart?”
Flavia had flushed scarlet. “Enough!" she exclaimed, interrupting
her father, “enough! I am not such a coward as to allow you to insult
my husband. I will defend him against all comers, even against my
father.”
Martin-Rigal shuddered at the thought that his words might cost him his
daughter's affection, and he was asking himself how he could manage to
attenuate the effect of his fit of anger, when Hortebize interposed. The
doctor put his arm round Flavia's waist, and hurried her from the room.
Then, when he was alone with the banker again, he exclaimed, “I really
can't understand your anger. At the outset it depended on you yourself to
prevent this marriage ever taking place. You lacked the courage to do so.
Why? That's no business of mine. However, at the present hour, recri.
mination is quite out of place.”
Martin Rigal was in consternation. “You speak as if it were nothing,"
said he; “ but here I am at the discretion of this miserable Paul.”
"Not more, it seems to me, than before your daughter's indiscretion.
Isn't Paul our accomplice? Are we any the more compromised because he
has penetrated the mystery of your triple personality ?"
“Ah! your are not Flavia's father!" Paul until now believed that I did
not know Mascarot, and that I was a victim of blackmailing. All my
strength was in that. As a dupe he respected ine-I held him ; but as an
accomplice he escapes me! I think we must hasten this disastrous marriage


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
203
as well as the Duke de Champdoce's search. Let's go to dinner. The evil
can't be remedied. I'll write to Catenac to-morrow.”
The marriage took place at the end of the next week, and Paul left his
simple bachelor abode to take possession of the magnificent suite of rooms
prepared for him by the banker under his own roof. The transition was
abrupt, but Paul was no longer astonished at anything. The simpleton was
so imbued with Mascarot's and Hortebize's theories that he imagined that
adventures like his own were common in Paris. And he reflected with
admiration how easy and how profitable it is to be dishonest. He had not
a shadow of remorse. He feared only one thing—that he might make some
blunder and fail, when came the decisive scene which was to give him a
high social position and a ducal title. He longed for that moment to arrive,
and flushed with pleasure when one day Martin-Rigal said to him, “Gather
your strength together. It will be for this evening.”
"Oh, I'll be brave," replied Paul. And, indeed, when in the course of
the evening the Duke de Champdoce appeared, accompanied by Perpignan
and Catenac, the young impostor rose to the level of his masters, and played
his difficult part with consummate skill. However, he might have been
clumsy had he chosen. The duke would have detected nothing. This man,
whose life had been one long agony, was as if siezed with vertigo. Had his
wishes been complied with, Paul would have at once established himself
with his wife at the Champdoce mansion. But here Martin-Rigal inter-
posed with objections.
The banker pretended to be only moderately pleased at finding that his
son-in-law was a marquis and ten times a millionaire. He objected that it
was very late, and that the Duchess de Champdoce was no doubt hardly
prepared for the emotion the recovery of her son would cause her. Finally
it was agreed that the duke should come and lunch the next morning at
Martin-Rigal's, and that afterwards he should take his son away with him.
The appointment was fixed for eleven o'clock, but it was only ten when
the Duke de Champdoce was ushered into the banker's private room, where
the master of the house, Catenac, Hortebize and Paul were already assembled
in council. Almost immediately behind the duke came Flavia. She had
no suspicion of this ignoble comedy, and the thought that her husband was
the only heir of a great house filled her with joy. It was not that she was
dazzled by a title, but she saw in all this the justification of her choice.
“Come now," she had said to her father, whom she kept on thorns by her
enthusiastic expressions of delight, “ you can laugh no more at me for
loving a poor Bohemian. You see that this artist is a Champdoce, and that
his father possesses millions !”
She entered her father's room on tiptoe, and stood near the door with a
smile on her pretty lips. The Duke de Champdoce was sitting on the sofa
by the side of Paul, whose hand he held and whom he fully believed to be
his son. He was relating what an anxious night he had passed. He had
wished to prepare the duchess, his wife, for this great joy, all the more un-
expected by her as he had concealed his investigations from her; and yet
a few words of vague, faint hope, had now sufficed almost to imperil her
life. “This morning,” he added, "she is better, and she hopes
He was abruptly interrupted. A succession of loud quick thuds could be
heard against one of the walls. “Dear me,” said M. de Champdoce, “the
neighbours don't seem to be very particular.”
Certainly not, indeed. They were evidently attacking this wall with
pickaxes, without the least care for what other people might think. The


206
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
The commissary of police leaving to superintend the removal of Dr.
Hortebize, M. Lecoq now remained alone with the Duke de Champdoce,
Paul, and Flavia. The poor young woman had seen her father led away by
the police agents without having force to say a word. She was stretched
helplessly in an arm-chair, and the wild light in her eyes told that her mind
was wandering. She could not believe in the reality of the horrible scene
which had just been enacted.
For a moment the celebrated detective looked at her with an air of com-
passion which was certainly not feigned. He was reluctant to strike another
blow-a more terrible one than all the others—at this poor child, who, be-
ing innocent, was necessarily the greatest sufferer. However, time was
passing, in the interests of justice the truth could not be deferred, and so
he approached the Duke de Champdoce, who seemed to have been struck
dumb with surprise. “I must warn you, Monsieur le Duc,” said M. Lecoq,
“ that you have been odiously imposed upon. This young man here is not
your son. His name is Paul Violaine, and his mother, originally a poor
work-girl at Châtellerault, kept a petty thread and needle shop at Poitiers
during the last years of her life.”
Hard as was this blow for Paul, he still tried to continue playing his
part—he began to bluster and deny ; but at a sign from M. Lecoq, an
agent ushered in a young woman most fashionably attired. Paul recognised
at once his discarded mistress—Rose, and without even letting her speak,
he confessed everything. “It is true,” he stammered, bursting into tears.
“I was persuaded, threatened, led away. I did not know how to resist;
forgive me!”
With a disdainful gesture M. Lecoq repelled him. “It is not of me you
should ask forgiveness,” said he, “but of this poor young woman, your
wife, who is dying, I think.”
The Duke de Champdoce had entered the banker's house with a joyful
heart, and now he was about to leave it in a state of despair, when the cele-
brated detective suddenly led him aside. “Let me tell you, Monsieur le
Duc," said he, “these scoundrels have only half deceived you. The child
you seek exists, and they know him. But I know him also, and to-morrow
I-Lecoq-will take you to him !”
XXXV.
OBEDIENT to the instructions of his new protector, André had resigned him.
self to wait patiently at the Beaujon Hospital for the finish of the great
game which M. Lecoq was playing on his behalf. Moreover, he had enough
courage to assume that air of utter indifference for the future which had
duped B. Mascarot's spies. It is true that he received all the comfort and
solace possible under the circumstances. Every day his neighbour on the
right hand side-the patient whom M. Lecoq pointed out as one of his
agents—stealthily slipped into his hand a note acquainting him with the
march of events. André read these notes in secret, and then carefully de-
stroyed them.
But time was rolling on, the days seemed interminable ; and as the de-
cisive moment approached, André was beginning to lose patience, when,
one afternoon, his neighbour openly handed him a note which thrilled his
heart with joy. “We are winning the fight,” wrote Lecoq ; "all danger
is over. Ask the surgeon to sign your permission to leave. Make yourself


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
207
a swell, and to-morrow morning, at nine o'clock, you will find me waiting
for you outside the hospital door.”
André had not yet fully recovered. He must still carry his arm in a
sling for several weeks to come ; but no consideration of this kind would
have deterred him from complying with the detective's instructions. Rising
at an early hour on the morrow, he arrayed himself in his best clothes, which
he had sent for, and then, after taking leave of the Sisters of Charity, who
had carefully tended him, he went downstairs, crossed the courtyard of the
hospital, and passed into the Faubourg St. Honoré beyond. He remained for
a moment on the threshold of the great entrance-gateway, inhaling the fresh
air with delight. The day before he had still suffered from his wounds;
but now he forgot them, as if he had been touched by some magic wand.
Never had he felt so young, so strong and lithe ; never had his heart pal-
pitated so intensely with hope. However, he was surprised not to see his
new protector, and he was deliberating as to what he had better do, when
an open vehicle, drawn by a fast trotter, dashed up the Faubourg and
stopped just in front of the hospital. André at once recognised the respect-
able-looking old gentleman with gold spectacles who was seated inside, and
so, hastening towards him, he exclaimed, “Thank Heaven you have come,
sir. I was beginning to feel very anxious."
“You are right !” said M. Lecoq, consulting his watch. “I am five
minutes behind time, but I was detained at the Préfecture.” Then as
André began to thank him most effusively, he added, "Jump in beside
me. I want to talk to you ; the weather's delightful; we'll go as far as
the Bois."
As he took his seat beside the detective, André was struck by the
unusual expression of his features, as a rule so placid and composed; and
feeling anxious, he ventured to ask, “Has anything unfavourable occurred,
sir."
•Not in the least."
“I was afraid "
“Ah, I see, you detect a strange expression in my face? It may be so,
for I'm tired out. I've spent the night looking over Mascarot's papers.
And, besides, I have just witnessed a most painful scene-one of the most
painful of my life, and yet I have seen a good many strange and terrible
things in my time." He shook his head, as if he hoped to dispel the im-
pression, and then resumed. “Martin-Rigal's reason has not resisted this
catastrophe. This villain had one sublime passion, he adored his daughter.
Suddenly separated from her, knowing her to be without fortune, and
married to a fellow with a worthless character, Rigal has given way to the
delirium of despair and become mad. He will go to an asylum instead
of to the galleys. He escapes the punishment of man, but not the punish-
ment of God, and this last is the more terrible.”
“Martin-Rigal mad !” muttered André.
“ Yes ; and do you know what form his madness has taken? He imagines
that Paul and Flavia are without resources, without shelter, without bread.
He fancies that Paul means to speculate on his wife's beauty, and live on
the fruits of her shame. He thinks he can hear his daughter constantly
crying to him for help. Yes, he hears this voicema bitter, pleading,
agonising voice. Then he calls for the gaolers, and on his knees implores
them to let him out only for a day, an hour, swearing he will return as
soon as he has rescued his child from infamy and shame. And when his
prayer is refused he becomes frenzied, he wounds himself in trying to


208
TIIE SLAVES OF PARIS.
loosen the window bars and break the locks. This morning he had to be
fastened on his bed, where I just saw him making vain efforts to free him-
self. I saw him with his features frightfully convulsed, with his eyes
starting from their orbits, with a foaming mouth, and howling like a wild
beast. He recognised me and exclaimed, “Do you hear Flavia's voice ?'
And this agony, mind, will perhaps last for years, the doctor told me so.
Until his death he will unceasingly hear his daughter's despairing voice.
Each minute of the years to come will contain more intolerable torture for
him than he ever inflicted on all his victims."
A pause followed. André could not help pitying this scoundrel, al-
though he had tried to have him murdered, and had endeavoured to rob
him of Sabine.
" You see,” resumed M. Lecoq, “the battle is won. Dr. Hortebize is
agonising. The poison which he relied on as instantaneous has betrayed
him, and his sufferings have already lasted twenty-four hours. Catenac
is trying to hold his own, but he will be convicted of infanticide or com-
plicity therein, and will at the least have ten years' hard labour. Martin-
Rigal's papers have furnished me with proofs against Perpignan, Van Klo-
pen, and Verminet, who will all serve out a comfortable sentence. Toto-
Chupin's fate is not yet settled. We shall remember that he came and
surrendered himself, and shows very great repentance.”
But all this did not fully reassure André." And Croisenois ?” he asked
timidly:
The detective repressed a smile. “Ah, ha!” said he, “ you are not con.
fident in me, I see.”
“Oh! I assure you, sir-"
“Well, don't be nervous, I promised you that the Count de Mussidan's
name should not be mentioned in the matter, and so I have allowed Croise.
nois to escape me. Last night he slept at Brussels, at the Hôtel de Saxe,
room No. 9. The Tifila Mining Company will be treated as an ordinary
swindle. No funds have been paid in so far; the promised subscriptions
will be returned to the persons they emanate from, and Croisenois will be
sentenced by default to a couple of months' imprisonment. Finally, to-
morrow young Gandelu will have his notes of hand returned to him.”
The vehicle had been rolling through the Bois de Boulogne ; and now M.
Lecoq måde a sign to the coachman to turn and go back." The time has
come, Monsieur André,” said he,“ to explain to you why, at our first inter-
view, I saluted you as the Duke de Champdoce.. I had guessed your his-
tory, but only last night did I learn its details.”
And without waiting for a reply he rapidly analysed, for André's benefit,
the voluminous manuscript prepared by B. Mascarot, and read aloud by
Paul. He did not tell everything, however. He concealed as far as
possible the crimes and faults of the Duke de Champdoce and Madame de
Mussidan. He wished to spare André the pain of loathing or ceasing to
respect his father and Sabine's mother.
The detective had managed his narrative so well, that he had just brought
it to a conclusion when the coachman drew up at the corner of the Rue de
Matignon. “Now, just alight here,” said M. Lecoq ; "and take care of
your arm.” André mechanically obeyed. “Now,” resumed the detective,
turning towards the carriage again, “listen to me. The Count and
Countess de Mussidan are expecting you to lunch. Here is the invita-
tion they requested me to give you. However, don't linger too long near
Mademoiselle Sabine. Ať four o'clock be at your studio, and I will then


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
209
have the honour of presenting you to your father. Until then not one
word.”
The young painter wished to speak and express his gratitude ; but before
he was able to do so M. Lecoq's driver had whipped his horse, and the
vehicle rolled rapidly away. So much happiness overwhelmed the young
artist. Everything came to him at once-a great name, an immense for-
tune, and the girl he loved. However, he gathered himself together, and
walked with a firm step towards the entrance of the Hôtel de Mussidan.
He wondered how he would be received. Would M. de Mussidan remember
his promises, or the peril no longer existing? Would he merely frigidly ex-
press his thanks? The respectful manner of the servants made him judge
that he was expected and recommended. This was of good augury, and
yet, in the hall, when the head valet asked him his name, he could hardly
articulate it. The door of the grand salon was thrown open, and he
staggered as he crossed the threshold, for there on the opposite wall was
Sabine's portrait, the portrait which he himself had painted. How came
it there? Fortunately, the Count de Mussidan understood the young
artist's embarrassment, and came towards him with extended hands.
Then leading him towards the countess, he exclaimed, “Diane, this is our
daughter's husband.”
André bowed low, while words of gratitude rose confusedly to his lips ;
but the count had already led him to where Sabine stood, and putting his
hand in her's, resumed in a feeling voice, “If happiness, here below, is a
reward, you will be happy.”
It was only after a moment's pause that André recovered sufficient self-
possession to look at Mademoiselle de Mussidan. Poor child, she was but
the shadow of her former self-she had suffered so intensely during that
long month when she had forced herself to receive the homage of the
Marquis de Croisenois, and smile to him. “Oh darling !” whispered
André in her ear, “how terribly you must have suffered.”
“ Yes,” she said, quietly, “I should certainly have died if it had lasted
longer."
Ah! the young artist needed great courage to keep his secret from
Sabine during the delightful afternoon he spent near her, during the
glowing hours when she told him what had been her anguish and her
hopes ; and it was only with a superhuman effort that he tore himself
away at half-past three o'clock.
He had not been five minutes in his studio when he heard a knock at the
door. He opened it, and M. Lecoq entered, followed by an old gentleman
of somewhat haughty mien. This was the Duke de Champdoce--Norbert !
“Monsieur,” said the duke to André, without a preamble, “ you know the
reasons that bring me here. You know who you are, and who I am—”
André bowed affirmatively.
“This gentleman,” resumed the duke, indicating M. Lecoq, “has told
you under what deplorable circumstances I abandoned you—my son. I
will not try to excuse myself-though I have cruelly expiated this crime.
Look at me, I am only forty-eight years of age.”
He looked sixty at the least, and André was able to form some idea of
what this man, his father, must have suffered.
“My fault follows me still," continued M. de Champdoce. “To-day,
although it is my dearest wish, I cannot claim you as my son. The law
only allows me to give you my name and fortune by adoption.”
The young painter remained silent; and the duke at last resumed, with


210
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
evident hesitation, “You can of course institute proceedings against me;
but in that case I must say I must confess—".
“Ah ! Monsieur," interrupted André, “what can you imagine my feel.
ings to be? What! Before assuming your name, which is mine as well,
do you think I should try to dishonour it?”.
The duke breathe more freely. André's manner had chilled him.
What a difference there was between the young painter's haughty reserve,
and the pathetic scene enacted by Paul, the day before !
“However, Monsieur le Duc," resumed André,“ before anything else,
I must ask you to allow me to address you a few observations ?"
“ Observations?"
“Yes ; I did not dare to say conditions—but I think you will understand
me. For instance, I have never had a master. My independence has cost
me enough for me to cling to it. I am a painter, and for nothing in the
world can I ever renounce art.”
“ You will always be your own master," rejoined the duke.
Just as the latter had hesitated a moment earlier, so André hesitated
now. He had become very red. “This is not all," he said: “I love a
young lady and am loved by her. Our marriage is arranged, and I think,”
“I think,” interrupted the duke, “that you can only love a woman who
is worthy of our name.”
As André heard this he smiled sadly. “But I was a nobody yesterday,"
said he, softly. “However, you may be at ease, monsieur, she is worthy
of a Champdoce, both by her fortune and by her name. From a social point
of view she was far above me. She is—the daughter of the Count de
Mussidan!”
At the mention of this name M. de Champdoce turned livid. “Never!"
he cried, “never! I would rather see you dead than see you become
Mademoiselle de Mussidan's husband.”
“And I, sir, would suffer ten thousand deaths rather than renounce
her!”
“If I refused my consent-however-if I forbade—"
André sadly shook his head. “Paternal authority," said he, “is ac-
quired only by long years of protection and affection. I owe you nothing.
Forget me, as you have hitherto done. Follow your road, and I will follow
mine.”
The Duke de Champdoce remained silent. A frightful struggle was
going on in his mind. He bitterly realised that either he must renounce
this son, so miraculously restored to him, or else he must see him married
to Diane's daughter. Both alternatives seemed to him equally terrible.
“Never!” he inuttered at last; “besides, the countess would never con-
sent. She hates me as much as I hate her.”
M. Lecoq, who had looked on in silence, now thought it time to inter-
fere. “I will undertake,” said he, “to obtain Madame de Mussidan's
consent.”
On hearing this the duke no longer resisted. He opened his arms to
André, and exclaimed, “Come, my son, let it all be as you desire."
But the young painter soon drew himself from the embrace to give free
course to the emotion which was stifling him. “My mother !” he cried,
pressing the duke's arm. “Lead me to my mother.”
That evening, when embracing the son for whom she had so often wept,



11