YONS














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.
LECOQ 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.)


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


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SH THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
1894
PART I.
BLACK MA I L.
THE 8th of February, 1864, was one of the most severe days of the winter,
for at noon Chevalier's thermometer, the favourite Parisian oracle, marked
9.03 degrees centigrade below zero. The sky was dark and loaded with
snow, and the rain of the previous day had frozen on the pavement, render.
ing locomotion so perilons that both cabs and omnibuses had ceased to run.
The city wore altogether a most dreary aspect.
The Parisians, as a rule, are not apt to devote much attention to the
starving poor. They fancy, perhaps, that sufficient crumbs fall from the
ta bles of a million diners to satisfy the hunger of all the indigent; and yet
in the winter, when blocks of ice float down the Seine, thought instinctively
comes of those who are destitute and shivering, and they are naturally com-
miserated. So true is this, that on the particular sth of February we
spoke of, the landlady of the Hôtel du Pérou, Madame Loupias, a sharp
hard woman from Auvergne, actually gave her lodgers a thought, which
curiously enough had no connection either with raising their rents or exact-
ing payment of arrears. “How bitterly cold it is,” she said to her husband,
who was filling the stove with coal. “Cold enough to frighten a white
bear. In weather like this I always feel anxious-especially since that
winter when we found a lodger hanging to the rafters upstairs. His suicide
cost us fully fifty francs, not to mention the sneers and accusations of the
neighbours. You really ought to go upstairs, and see what the folks in the
attics are about."
“Pooh,” rejoined her husband, “they've gone out to warm them.
selves."
“Do you think so ?”
“I'm sure of it. Old Father Tantaine went off at daybreak; and soon
afterwards I saw M. Paul Violaine come down. Rose is the only one up
there now, and I fancy she has sense enough to stay in bed.”
"Oh ! as for her,” rejoined Madame Loupias spitefully, “I've no compas-
sion for her. Unless I'm greatly mistaken she'll soon be leaving Monsieur
Paul to his own devices. She's by far too good-looking for such a place as
ours."
The Hôtel du Pérou is situated in the Rue de la Huchette, at a score of
paces froin the Place du Petit Pont. There is a touch of cruel irony about
its name for none would think of associating “Peru”-the synonym of


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
"silver”_with such a sordid building, having a narrow muddy alley as its
entrance, and with windows so grined with filth, that at a glance the
passer-by would rightly judge: “ This is the home of poverty and want."
At the first look, moreover, the aspect of the house suggests a thieves' den;
but this is not the case, for, as times go, it is fairly honest. Indeed it is
one of those lodging-places-becoming yearly fewer in 'number—where
shame-faced paupers, folk who have seen “better times," vanquished com-
batants in the struggle for life, find shelter and a bed in exchange for their
last crown. Here they take refuge, like the ship-wrecked mariner on a
rock, here they at least have a moments' breathing time, and as soon as
strength returns start off anew. No matter how wretched a man might
be, it would be quite impossible for him to think seriously of abiding for
any length of time in the Hôtel du Pérou. By means of frames, covered
with sail-cloth and second-hand wall-paper, each storey is divided into a
number of little cells, which Madame Loupias dignifies as rooms. The frames
are disjointed, the paper is falling into shreds, and yet hideous as these cells
are, they seem superb in comparison with the two attics, which merely have
sky-light windows, and the ceilings of which are so low that it is almost
impossible for the occupants to stand upright. Here the only furniture is
a bed with a sea-weed mattress, a rickety table and two chairs. Such as
they are, however, the attics are let for two-and-twenty francs apiece per
month. But then, as Madame Loupias says, it should be remembered that
both of them have chimneys, and this is true--each garret having a hole in
the wall, though grate and mantlepiece alike are wanting. However the
worthy woman's tenants are not exacting, and in proof of this the garrets
are never vacant.
In one of these attics, on that cold February day, we find the young
woman whom Loupias called Rose. Her beauty was beyond all question.
She was just nineteen ; her hair-marvellously abundant-dazzled one with
its golden gleams, and her skin was fair and white. Long lashes attenuated
the metallic sparkle of her large blue eyes, while her lips, which on parting
disclosed small pearly teeth, seemed only intended for smiles and kisses.
Instead of remaining in bed as the landlord had suggested, she had risen, and
throwing the soiled, darned counterpane over her shoulders, had installed
herself near the fire-place. Why there you may ask, rather than elsewhere?
She could scarcely have hoped to warm herself, for the only signs of a
fire were two smouldering bits of wood, each as large as one's fist, which
exhaled between them about as much heat as a lighted cigar. No matter.
Crouching on the dirty rag which Madame Loupias called a hearth-rug,
Rose shuffled a pack of cards, meaning to consult them as to her future
destiny ; and, after all, it was only natural she should seek to console her-
self from the sufferings of to-day by the promises of to-morrow.
She was so absorbed in telling her own fortune that she did not seem to
feel the cold which was nipping her fingers. In a semi-circle before her
she had disposed the flabby dirty cards, and, in accordance with custom,
counted them three by three with her forefinger. Each of those she pointed
at had, of course, a favourable or unfavourable meaning, and she rejoiced
or lamented accordingly. “One-two-three,” she was saying, “a fair
young man—that must be Paul. One-two-three, endeavours. One-two
-three, ah ! money for me. One-two-three, no, disappointment. One
-two-three, the nine of spades, that means sorrow, want, and starvation.
Always that nine of spades, at every deal !” To tell the truth she looked as
worried as if she positively knew of some impending disaster.


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
However she speedily recovered herself and set about shuffling the cards
again. She carefully cut them with her left hand, spread them out as pre-
viously, and began to count once more, one-two-three. Ah ! this time
the cards shewed themselves more propitious, and carried her off to the fairy
realm of hope. “Some one loves you,” they said in that particular language
of their's which Mademoiselle Lenormand, so deftly expounded for the
benefit of the Great Napoleon, predicting Jena and Austerlitz, and warning
him of Waterloo and St. Helena. “Ay, some one loves you--loves you
very dearly. You will go on a journey; a letter will reach you from a dark
young man-a young man who is very wealthy.”
This young man was personated by the knave of clubs. “Always the
same," muttered Rose, “always that dark young fellow--fate wills it.
How can I resist?” At the same time, rising to her feet, she drew from a
crack in the wall above the fireplace a letter, folded into a little square, and
greatly soiled and rumpled, for it had been perused over and over again.
For the twentieth time indeed since the previous afternoon she read as
follows :-
“MADEMOISELLE, I have seen you and I love you-on my word of
honour! The filthy den where you now hide your beauty is no fit place for
you. A charming apartment-lemon wood and ebony furniture-awaits you
in the Rue de Donai. I am always plain spoken in business matters–the
lease will be made out in your name. Think it over, make any inquiries
you like, my references are all first rate. I am not yet of age, but I shall be
so in five months and three days from now, and shall then be able to do as
I please with the property left me by my mother. Besides, my father is
old and infirm, and by careful strategy we might have him pronounced by
the courts to be unfit to manage his fortune.
"Shall I warn the dressmaker to be in readiness ?
“During the next five days I shall--from 4 till 6 p.m.-await your de-
cision in my carriage at the corner of the Place du Petit Pont.
“GASTON DE GANDELU."
This ridiculous, revolting letter, well worthy of one of those young idiots
whom the Parisians at that time contemptuously called “ petits crevés,” did
not at all seem to shock Rose. On the contrary she thought it delightful-as
charming, indeed, as any sonnet addressed by Petrarch to Laura. “If I
dared !” she muttered longingly. “Ah ! if I only dared."
For a moment she remained pensive, her forehead resting on her hand,
when suddenly a lithe quick step resounded on the creaking stairs. “He !"
she exclaimed, affrighted, “Paul !” and with a movement of alarm,
cat-like in its speed and precision, she slipped the letter back into its hiding-
place.
She was none too quick, for the very next moment Paul Violaine entered
the room. He was a young man of three-and-twenty or thereabouts, of
slender build, but in height admirably proportioned. His oval face was of
that clear pale cream colour peculiar to certain races of the south. A small
silky moustache shaded his upper lip, just sufficiently to impart an air of
manhood to his expression. His fair hair curled naturally above an intelli-
gent forehead, and, as a contrast, lent additional lustre to his large black
eyes. His handsome features-of a more striking character, perhaps, than
even those of Rose-were enhanced by a distinguished air, which rightly or
wrongly is supposed only to pertain to those of noble birth. Mother
Loupias always pretended that the tenant of her attic impressed her as
much as if he were a prince in disguise. At this moment, however, he was


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
but a sorry prince indeed. Clean as his clothes were they told a painful story
of poverty-not that poverty which shows itself in the sunlight and lives
on public charity, but that far more cruel want which blushes when com-
miserated, which tries to hide itself and is ashamed to speak. In this arctic
temperature he wore a flimsy black dress suit-all but thread-bare with use
and brushing. True enough, he had in addition a light overcoat, but at
the most it would have been at only for suinmer wear, having about as
much consistency as a spider's web. His shoes no doubt were superbly
blackened, but they had plainly trudged far and wide in search of fortune.
As he entered the room he laid or rather dropped on the bed a roll of
paper, which he had been carrying under his arm. “Nothing !" said he
in à tone of bitter disappointment, "still nothing." ..
Forgetting her cards on the carpet, the young woman started to her feet.
The sinile which had lighted up her face, anon, was gone, and she wore a
look of utter weariness. “What !” she exclaimed, feigning surprise which
she was far from feeling, “what, nothing? Not after all you told me when
you went out this morning ?”
6. This morning, Rose, I hoped. I hoped and told you to believe. But I
have been deceived, or rather I deceived myself. I looked on common-
place assurances as positive promises. Here, in Paris, folks are not even
charitable enough to answer you with a downright. no.' They listen to
you with an air of interest, place themselves at your disposal, but as soon
as you are out of their sight they forget you. Words—mere words ! That's
the only coin at the service of the wretched in this God-forsaken city!"
There was a long pause. Paul was too absorbed with his own thoughts
to note the conteinptuous manner in which Rose stood watching him. She
seemed indignant to find him so helplessly resigned. “Well, we're in a
nice position and no mistake,” she said at last. “What is to become of us ?”
“Ah ! do I know?"
“ Then it's all over. Yesterday, while you were away-I didn't tell you
of it so as not to worry you needlessly-mother Loupias came up and asked
for the eleven francs rent we owe her. If she isn't paid in three days
she'll bundle us out of doors-s0 she declared ; and she'll keep her word,
you may depend on it. Yes, she'll turn us out, and all the more cheerfully
as she longs to see me in the strtets, for she hates me, the hideous old hag."
"To be alone in the world,” muttered Paul, “alone, abandoned, without
a relative or friend--without any one to assist me!”
“We haven't a copper left," resumed Rose, with ferocious persistency.
“ Last week I sold the last clothes I had, save these on my back. There's
no firewood left, and we haven't had a morsel to eat since yesterday
morning."
Paul only answered these words, which seemed like so many stinging
taunts, hy clasping his forehead with both hands as if trying to press from
his brain some idea that might save them.
“Ah! it's a fine state of affairs,” continued Rose, with imperturbable
determination. “For my part, I think it would be as well to find some
means, to devise some expedient, anything, no matter what—".
Hearing this, Paul hastily threw off his overcoat. “Here,” said he,
“ take this to the pawnshop."
But the young woman did not budge. “Is that all you can think of to
help us out of our difficulties?” she coldly asked.
• They'll lend you three francs on it. We shall, at least, have enough to
buy some wood and some bread.”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
" And when the wood and bread have gone ? "
“ When they've gone? But before-we'll see—I'll reflect, devise some-
thing. Everything depends on gaining time. I shall end by breaking
through this fatal circle. Success will follow, and with success a fortune.
But we must learn to wait.”
"Wait! How can we wait?"
“No matter-do what I tell you, and to-morrow_"
Had Paul been less absorbed, he would have divined from the expression
on Rose's face that she was determined to provoke him. “ To-morrow !”
said she, with increasing bitterness of irony. “To-norrow! Always to-
inorrow! Why we've lived on that word for months. Come, Paul, you
are a mere child ; it's time you had courage enough to look the truth in the
face. What will they lend me on this old coat? Not more than three
francs, if that. Now, how long can we live on three francs ? Say three
days. And then? Don't you understand? You are too poorly clad to be
well received. Well-dressed folks are the only ones who are listened to.
When a man wants to obtain anything, he ought to look as if he didn't need
it. Now, where can you go in your swallow tails without an overcoat?
You would look ridiculous—why you wouldn't dare shew yourself in the
street.”
“Be quiet, I beg you,” interrupted Paul. “Ah! I see it only too
clearly now ; you are like everyone else. You look on failure as if it were
a crime. Formerly you had confidence in me; you did not speak like this."
“Ah! formerly I didn't know_”
“No, Rose, no-it wasn't a question of knowledge, but one of love-you
loved me then. Good Heavens ! have I not tried everything? I have
gone almost from door to door offering my compositions—those melodies
you sung so well. I have tried to find pupils on every side. What more
would you have done if you had been in my place? Come, tell me."
As he spoke, Paul grew more and more animated, whilst Rose, on the
contrary, affected an irritating air of calmness. “I don't know," she said
at last ; “and, yet, it seems to me that if I were a man I should never allow
the woman I said I loved to lack the merest necessaries of life-no, never.
I would find work-
"I am not a mechanic, unfortunately,” rejoined Paul ; “I have no
manual calling."
“ Then I would learn one. What can one earn by carrying a mason's
hod ? Its hard work, no doubt, but it's not difficult to learn. You have
great talents according to your own account I don't deny it; but if I
were a great composer, and had no bread at home, I should go and play in
the streets and cafés, go and sing in the court-yards. At all events, I would
procure money somehow or other, no matter what it might cost me."
“Rose, you forget that I am an honest man.”
“Really! You think I want you to steal ! Dear me, that answer of
yours is just fit for those who fail to make their way, simply because they
lack skill or nerve. They go about dressed in rags, with empty stomachs
and aching hearts, but they draw themselves erect to say, 'I am an
honest man.' As if the men who are wealthy were all of them arrant
knaves. As if no one could make his fortune without being a rascal !
Come, you are really too ridiculous !”
She spoke in a ringing voice, and infernal boldness glittered in her eyes.
Plainly enough she was one of those redoubtable, wilful creatures, strong in
the spirit of evil, who can lead a weak man to the edge of a precipice, push


10
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
him over, and forget him, before he has even reached the bottom. Her
sarcasm roused the worst side of Paul's nature. The hot blood of anger
mounted to his brow. “Why can't you do something yourself ?” he asked.
" Why don't you work?”.
“I? Oh ! that's a very different matter. I wasn't made to work !”
With a gesture of rage, and with uplifted hand, Paul sprang forward.
“ You wretch !” he cried—“you miserable wretch !”
“No—not a wretch,” she answered. “I am only hungry.”
Having reached this point, it seemed certain that the quarrel would have
some fatal finish, when suddenly an unexpected sound was heard, and
caused the young couple to turn round. Their attic door was open, and on
the threshold stood an old man, who was watching them with a paternal
smile. He was tall, but slightly bowed. His nose was very red, and his
prominent cheek bones were almost as highly coloured. But little else
could be seen of his face, for he wore a long, uncared-for, grizzly beard. His
eyes, moreover, were hidden behind common coloured spectacles, a black
ribbon being twined round the iron mountings. Everything in his appear-
ance indicated misery and slovenliness. His greasy, shapeless coat, with
its large ragged pockets, bore traces of all the walls it had rubbed against
whenever its wearer had imbibed a drop too much. The old fellow was
apparently one of those careless bibbers who sleep as comfortably in their
clothes on the ground as on their pallet. Paul and Rose recognised him at
once. They had often met him on the stairs, and they knew that he lived
in the neighbouring garret, and was known as Father Tantaine.
At sight of him, Paul remembered that every word could be heard from
one attic to the other, and the idea that the old fellow had been listening
fairly exasperated him. “What do you wish, sir?” he asked roughly.
“And who gave you permission to come in here without knocking ?”
Threatening as was the young fellow's tone, it did not at all scem to
offend or disconcert the old man. “I should be speaking an untruth,” he
answered, “if I didn't admit that, happening to be at home, I just heard
you two settling your private affairs,
“Sir!”
"Wait a bit, impetuous youth! As I was saying, I heard you begin to
quarrel, and really, now, I wasn't so much surprised. When there's no
hay in the rack, why the best bred horses will fight together. I'm old
enough to know all that."
He spoke in a most benignant tone, and seemed quite oblivious of the
fact that he was intruding on his neighbours' privacy.
“Well, sir,” said Paul. “Then, now you know to what depth of abase-
ment an honest man, when pressed by poverty, may fall. Are you
satisfied ?"
“Come, come,” replied the old fellow. “There you are, losing your
temper. If I dropped in, like this, without warning, it was because I felt
that neighbours ought to assist one another-especially in such positions as
ours. As soon as I heard what your little worries were, I said to myself,
'I must help those young folks out of their trouble.'”
This declaration, this promise of help coming from such a seedy old
raggamuffin, seemed so supremely absurd to Rose that she could not repress
a smile. She thought, no doubt, that their old neighbour was about to
open his purse, and offer them a franc or two-half his fortune, perhaps.
Paul had a similar idea ; but he, at least, was touched by this simple and
yet generous kindness, knowing that the value of money depends upon


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
11
circumstances, and that the single franc which keeps a pauper alive for a
couple of days is a million times more precious than a thousand franc note
to a wealthy man. “Ah," said he, plainly softened, “what can you do
for us, sir?"
“Who knows !”
"You see how destitute we are—we need everything. Are we not
utterly wrecked ?"
Father Tantaine raised his arms to Heaven, as if Paul were guilty of
blasphemy. “Wrecked ?” said he. “Ah! the pearl lying in the far sea
depths—ignorant of its own value-is lost, no doubt, unless indeed some
hardy diver finds it. The divers certainly are poor, and not accustomed to
adorn themselves with pearls ; but then they know their worth, and dis-
pose of them to dealers in precious stones." He finished with a little
laugh, the sense of which naturally escaped these young folks, who, albeit
eager and covetous, with the seed of evil instincts in their minds, were yet
destitute of experience, and ignorant of the ways of the world.
"Well, sir," resumed Paul, “I should be showing misplaced foolish
pride if I refused your generous offer.”
“Quite right; and as that is the case, the first thing to see to is to pro-
cure a good meal. You must have firing as well, for it is bitterly cold
here, My old bones are half frozen. By-and-by we'll think of the clothes
you need."
“ Ah ! all that,” sighed Rose, “would require a large sum of money."
“Well, and who says I can't provide it ?" So speaking, Father Tantaine
unbuttoned his coat, and from the inner pocket drew forth a dirty strip of
paper, which was pinned to the lining.
* A five hundred franc note ! ” cried Rose in amazement.
“Precisely, my beauty," answered the old man triumphantly.
Paul did not speak; but had he seen one of the rails of the chair he was
leaning against blossom forth in flowers and foliage, he would not have
been more astonished. How did such a large sum happen to be in this old
raggamuffin's possession? How had he obtained this note? The idea of a
crime, of at least a theft, was so natural under the circumstances, that it
occurred to both the young folks at the same time. They exchanged a
painfully significant glance, and Paul, losing countenance, flushed scarlet
to the ears. The old man had divined their suspicions. “Ah ! ah !”
said he, without appearing in the least degree shocked, “wicked ideas,
eh? It's true that five hundred franc notes don't as a rule crop up
spontaneously in pockets like mine ; but I came by this one honestly, I can
promise you."
Rose was not listening-indeed what did she care for the explanation ?
The note was there, and that was all she needed. She had taken it in her
hands and fingered it as if the touch of the crisp paper imparted the most
delightful sensations.
“I must tell you,” added Father Tantaine, “ that I am employed by a
lawyer."
"Indeed."
“Yes, and you ought to feel flattered. People are not often assisted by
a lawyer's clerk. My mission, as a rule, is to grind money out of folks,
not to help them. I collect debts for several of my master's clients, and it
so happens that I often have large sums by me, with a long interval before
me to account for them. It can't inconvenience me then to lend you five
hundred francs for a certain time.”


14
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
table lay the change out of the bank-note, a little pile of gold and silver,
seemingly inexhaustible in a moment of gay illusions. As for Rose, she
could not cease laughing at the thought of the old clerk, whom she set down
in her mind as a grotesque old idiot. “Courage, my pretty ones," muttered
Father Tantaine, “courage ! Laugh while you can. 'Twill perhaps be
the last time you'll laugh together."
So saying, and with infinite precautions, he descended the rough, rickety
stairs, groping his way as best he could in the darkness, for Madame
Loupias only lighted the gas on Sundays, mindful of the fact that it
cost threepence the cubic yard. Father Tantaine did not at once gain
the street. Glancing through the glass door of the landlady's room, he
perceived her preparing a stew at her stove, and, accordingly, with
a timid knock and a low bow he went in. His abject attitude was that
of a man accustomed by poverty to the worst of all receptions. “I
come to pay you my fortnight's rent, madame,” he said, at the same
time depositing eleven francs on a side table. Then while Loupias, who
could write after a fashion, was scrawling a receipt, he began to talk of his
affairs, relating that he had unexpectedly come into possession of a small
fortune which would bring him ease and comfort during his declining
years. To support these assertions the old fellow, with the pride born of
extreme poverty, which fears misbelief, drew forth his pocket-book and
exhibited several bank-notes. The sight had such a strong effect on the
landlord and landlady, that when the worthy old fellow retired Loupias in-
sisted on lighting him to the door, holding the lamp in one hand, and his
cap in the other.
Father Tantaine, however, seemed quite indifferent to these attentions,
and was evidently absorbed in thought. Reaching the street he looked
round him, glancing at the neighbouring shops, and suddenly making up
his mind, walked straight towards a large grocery at the corner of the Rue
du Petit Pont and the Rue de la Bâcherie. The owner of this establishment
was singularly popular in the neighbourhood, thanks to a certain wine he
sold—a wine prepared for him by a chemist at Bercy, and retailed at the
wonderfully low price of fourpence halfpenny the quart. He was a red-
haired red-whiskered man, this grocer, short and fat, and exceedingly
irritable and pompous. He was, moreover, a widower, and a sergeant in the
National Guard, and answered to the sweet grocer-like name of Melusin.
In these poor districts at winter time, five o'clock is the shopkeeper's
busiest hour. The workmen are then returning from their daily toil, and the
housewives must hasten their preparations for supper. Monsieur Melusin
was therefore so busy among his customers, watching his assistants and
lending them a helping hand every now and then, taking down orders and
giving change, that he did not even notice Father Tantaine, as the latter
entered the shop, and even had he done so, he would certainly not have
troubled himself for such a beggarly looking individual. But on leaving
the Hôtel du Pérou, the old man had divested himself of his humble,
benignant bearing, and stepping at once to the least crowded corner of the
shop, he called, in a most imperative tone, “Monsieur Melusin !"
The grocer, much surprised, ran to obey the summons. “Why, the man
knows me !” he said to himself, not reflecting that his name shone in gilt
letters, six inches high, above the doorway. Father Tantaine gave him no
time to speak. “I believe," said he, with an air of authority, “that a young
woman came here about an hour ago to change a bank-note for five hun-
dred francs?"


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
15
“Certainly, sir, certainly she did," answered Melusin ; “but how did
you know it?” He paused abruptly, clapped his hand to his forehead, and
resumed, “I have it !-a robbery has been committed, and you are on the
track of the thief. And I must acknowledge that I suspected something
was wrong, when this girl, who certainly looked very poor, came here to
change the note. I watched her carefully, and I saw that her hand
trembled.”
“Excuse me," interrupted Father Tantaine, “I have not said one word
to you of any theft. I merely wish to ask you if you would know this girl
again ?'
"As well as I should know myself, sir. A superb creature she was, I
assure you, with hair such as one rarely sees. I have some reason to believe
that she lives in a low lodging place in the Rue de la Huchette."
The Parisian shopkeeper is by no means favourably disposed towards
those agents of police who report him for any non-observance of regulations,
and yet, when it is a question of rendering a service to society by facilita-
ting a criminal investigation, he usually shews himself willing enough, and
to promote an important capture will even become heroic-neglecting may-
be his best customers, and allowing them to go off in a huff, when they find
themselves unattended to. This was what happened in the present case.
“Pray sir,” resumed Melusin, “shall I send one of my boys to the nearest
police station for you?”
“By no ineans," answered Father Tantaine ; "and I shall be infinitely
obliged to you if you will keep my inquiries secret, until you hear from me
again."
"Ah! yes, I understand ; an indiscretion just now would alarm them,
and put them on their guard."
“Precisely. Only I wish you to allow me to take the number of the note
if you have preserved it, and I also wish you to enter this number on your
books with to-day's date and a note of the circumstances. If possible, I
wish to--"
“Yes, yes, I understand," interrupted the grocer, “you may wish to
produce my books in court. That is often done-a merchant's books are
unimpeachable testimony. You see, sir, I am quite familiar with such
matters. Excuse me for a moment; I will return to you instantly."
Everything was done precisely as Father Tantaine had asked, and with
the greatest possible rapidity; and finally Melusin made him a low bow
and wished him a courteous “Good evening." He even escorted him to
the door, and tarried on the threshold watching his unknown visitor as he
strode away. - He was supremely happy, the worthy grocer, happy in the
consciousness that he had rendered an important service to a high official
of the Préfecture de Police who had chosen to disguise himself as a beggar.
But what did Father Tantaine care for Melusin's opinion? Having
reached the Place du Petit Pont-he looked eagerly round him as if in
search of some one. Twice he made the circuit of the Place, peering into
all the secluded corners, when suddenly he uttered an exclamation of satis-
faction ; he had perceived the person he was hunting for. The latter was a
knavish-looking young fellow of twenty or thereabouts, but who appeared
at the most fifteen or sixteen years old, being extremely slight of build.
He had no chest, and very little shoulders, and his long ungainly legs
almost conveyed the impression that he was mounted on a pair of stilts.
He was standing at the corner of the bridge known as the Petit Pont, un-
blushingly asking alms of the passers-by, and squinting every now and


16
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
then to the right and left to make sure that no policemen were in view.
At the first glance he could be recognised as one of those fungi of our cor-
rupt civilisation, an overgrown “ gamin de Paris," an ex-urchin of the
gutter, who had begun "life" at eight years old drinking potato spirit, and
smoking cigar stumps, picked up outside the cafés. His mud-coloured hair
was already scanty, and his complexion of a sickly hue ; cynical “ cheek”
glittered in his eyes, and an ironical sneer curved his hideous, long, thin
lips. He wore a dirty blouse, and having turned up the right sleeve, ex-
hibited a twisted, half withered arm, seemingly deformed and horrible
enough to excite the compassion of the passers-by. At the same time he
chanted a monotonous refrain in which one could distinguish the words,
“Poor mechanic-an old mother to take care of-unable to work-injured
.by machinery."
Father Tantaine walked straight towards this lad, and with a cuff on the
head sent his cap flying. The young beggar turned at once, evidently
enraged, but on recognising his aggressor, he seemed much abashed and
dolefully murmured,“ Caught !" At the same time, swiftly contracting
the muscles of his right shoulder, he untwisted his apparently deforined
arm, which proved as sound and healthy as the other one, rolled down his
sleeve, picked up his cap, and setting it on his head, awaited further orders.
"So that's how you discharge the duties you are intrusted with," said
Father Tantaine, severely.
“What duties? They've been discharged long ago.”
“That's no excuse ! Thanks to my recommendation, Monsieur Mas.
carot procured a good position for you, didn't be? I have often put you in
the way of earning money, and you really want for nothing. You pro-
mised you would beg no more.”
“Forgive me, sir, I meant to keep my promise ; but how could I kill
time while I was waiting. I must be doing something, sir. It's not my
nature to be idle, and at all events, I've earned seven sous.",
“Toto-Chupin," said the old clerk, solemnly, “you will certainly come
to a bad end; I see this very clearly, and warn you in due season. But
let us come to the point. What have you seen?”
They had left the corner of the bridge, and were walking slowly along
the deserted quay, past the old buildings of the Hôtel Dieu. “Well, sir,"
replied the young scapegrace, “I have seen just what you told me I should
see. At four o'clock a carriage drove into the Place, and stood waiting in
front of the hairdressers. Upon my word, I thought it had taken root
there! My eyes though, what a turn-out it was! As handsome a
brougham as ever I've seen, with a high stepper between the shafts and a
coachman in pigskins, and with such a collar ! on the box.”
“Go on ; was there no one in the carriage ?'
“Of course there was. I knew him too, by the description you gave
of him. Dressed in fine style. Such a hat, such a brim ! Light pants cut
like umbrella cases, and a coat-a coat, well as short as nothing ; but all
in the latest fashion, you understand. To make quite sure that I was right,
and as it was growing dark, I went close up and took a good squint at him.
He had got out, you understand, and was strutting up and down the foot-
way. I noticed the cigar in his mouth wasn't lighted, so up I go, strike a
match and say, 'Have a light, prince ?' He gave me a ten sou bit, and I
had another good look at him. There was no mistaking him. Knock-kneed,
shrivelled, short and ugly-a face I should like to pummel, with a bar-
nacle in one eye--a monkey, to cut it short.”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
17
When Toto-Chupin began a narrative, it was best to let him have his
say. It was by far the shortest way of obtaining the information one de-
sired. At last, however, Father Tantaine became impatient. “Well,
well! what happened ?” he asked crossly.
“Not, much, to be sure. The swell looked hardly pleased at having to
wait. Poor dear! He walked up and down, twirling that cane of his,
and staring all the women in the face. My nerves could hardly stand it.
The conceited whipper-snapper ! I wanted to kick him ; and if ever you
took a fancy to let him have a hiding, remember, Father Tantaine, I'm your
man. I don't believe he's half as strong as I am.”
“Go on, Chupin ; go on."
“Very good. Well, then, he, or rather I should say we, had been wait-
ing there fully half an hour, when suddenly a woman whisked round the
corner, and came right up to my dandy. Whew I wasn't she a beauty !
Never in your life did you see such eyes : I stood just dazzled. But she
was in rays. They spoke to each other in a whisper, and—”.
“And you did not hear?”
“What do you take me for, sir? The beauty said: You understand
then-to-morrow. The dandy answered : 'You promise positively?'
And then she said : 'Yes, on my word, at noon.' Thereupon they parted.
She went back to the Rue de la Huchette, and the other jumped into his
carriage. The coachman whipped up his horses, and was off in two shakes.
Now, give me my five francs."
This demand seemed in no wise to astonish the old man. He at once
presented the young scamp with a silver crown, saying, at the same time :
When I promise I pay ; but remember my prediction, Chupin, you will
end badly. And now good night, my lad; our paths lie in different
directions."
Father Tantaine tarried, however, on the Place until Toto had dis-
appeared in the direction of the Jardin des Plantes, and it was only when
the young rascal was out of sight that he turned round and proceeded to
cross the bridge. He walked very fast, and seemed highly satisfied with
everything he had accomplished. “I have not lost my day,” he muttered.
“I have foreseen everything, even what's improbable. Flavia will be
pleased.”
THE establishment of Father Tantaine's powerful friend was situated in
the Rue Montorgueil, within a stone's throw of the Passage de la Reine de
Hongrie. B. Mascarot kept an employment office, for employés and
servants of either sex. Manuscript bills--on two large boards, nailed on
each side of the door of the house--acquainted passers-by with the applica-
tions and offers of the day, and above them appeared the announcement, in
gilt letters, that the establishment, founded in 1844, was still in the hands
of the original proprietor. It was unquestionably to this long continuance,
in a proverbially unremunerative profession, that Mascarot owed his reputa-
tion, and the high esteem in which he was held, not merely in the neigh-
bourhood, but throughout Paris. It was asserted that no one had ever
had any reason to complain of the servants he provided, and in their turn
the servants themselves declared that he sent them to the best of places,
where they had every comfort and privilege. Clerks and office hands, also,
VOL. I.


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
knew that, thanks to his extensive connection and business relations, he
had always a good berth for any one who would take the trouble to please.
But Mascarot had still further claims on public esteem. In 1845 he first
conceived the idea of organising a society known as “ Les Gens de Maison,"
the object of which was to provide shelter for servants out of place.
Defrauded of his idea and programme, he consoled himself by taking a
partner named Beaumarchef, and by accommodating, in the same house as
his office, all the servants out of place he took an interest in, liberally pro-
viding them with board and lodging on credit. If these various enterprises
had been of use to the world, they had also benefited Mascarot, who was
said to be part owner of the house he lived in-at the door of which, by
the way, we meet at noon, on the appointed day, our young friend, Paul
Violaine.
He had utilised his old neighour's five hundred francs, and was dressed
with very creditable taste. In fact, he was so handsome in his new clothes,
that the women who passed by half turned to look after him ; but he gave
them little attention. He had been full of anxious thought since the
previous evening, and was beginning to doubt the power of this unknown,
mysterious personage, who, according to Father Tantaine, could make the
fortune of anyone he chose. “An employment office !” he muttered con-
temptuously. “Surely, at the most he will offer me some situation at a
hunilred francs per month !”.
He was naturally somewhat disturbed at thought of the impending inter-
view, and before entering the house studied its external appearance with
no small degree of interest. It was much like the others round about.
The employment office, and the entrance to the servants' lodging place
were at the back of a courtyard, and within the porte cochère stood a pert
looking young chestnut vender, with his furnace and various utensils.
" Come,” said Paul to himself, “I musn't remain here like this ;” and
summoning all his resolution he crossed the court, climbed the stairs which
faced him, and reaching the first floor, paused in front of a door, on which
the word “ Office" was inscribed. He gave a loud knock, to which a gruff
voice immediately answered : “Come in !” The door was not shut, but
simply held in place by a sliding weight at the end of a rope, so Paul at
once pushed it open..
The room he entered was precisely like all other employment offices in
Paris. On three sides round ran a low oak bench, blackened and polished
by time and use, while at the further end was a kind of compartment, shut
in by a grating and a curtain of green serge, so as to resemble a Confessional
Box, by which name, indeed, the habitués of the place usually knew it.
On a placard between the two windows, moreover, there ran, in large
letters, the inscription : “Register fees payable in advance.”
At a square table, in one corner of this apartment, sat an individual,
who, whilst jotting down entries in a quarto volume, carried on a conversa-
tion with a woman standing in front of him.
“Monsieur Mascarot?" asked Paul, timidly.
“What do you want of him?" rejoined the writer, without rising from
his seat or even looking up. “Do you wish a situation? Will you register
your name? We have at this moment applications for three book-keepers,
a cashier, a corresponding clerk, and six other good positions. Are your
references satisfactory ?”
These words were spoken with such mechanical rapidity that one might
have supposed them learned by heart. "I beg your pardon," interrupted


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
19
Paul. “I should like to speak to M. Mascarot himself. I am sent here by
one of his friends."
This simple statement seemed to impress the indifferent gentleman, who,
becoming almost courteous, answered : “My partner is engaged for the
moment, but he will soon be at leisure : kindly take a chair."
Paul saw no chair, but seated himself on the bench, and, having nothing
better to do, examined the man before him. Tall and athletic, radiant
with health and good living, Mascarot's partner wore his hair very short,
and under a hooked nose, with wide-spread nostrils, sported a fierce
moustache, waxed to a wonderful degree, and stiffened, moreover, at either
end into a sharp point. Complexion, carriage, hair, and moustache, all
revealed that he had once been a soldier. In fact, he had served, so he
said, in a cavalry regiment, where he had gained the nickname he was
generally known by-Beaumarchef-his real patronymic being Durand. He
was now some forty-five years of age, but this did not prevent him from
enjoying the reputation of still being a handsome man.
The woman he was talking with was, judging from appearances, either a
cook or a market woman. Of buxom build, and with a rubicond nose, she
spoke with the Teutonic accent of Alsace, and punctuated each phrase with
repeated pinches of snuff.
* Come,” said Beaumarchef at last, “ do you really wish for a situation ?”
“Yes. I do mean it, and no mistake.”
“But you said the same thing the last time you were here, six months
ago. We found a good place for you, and being engaged, three days after-
wards you threw down your apron, and went off.”
“Ay, but then I was in a position to do as I liked.”
“ And now?”
“And now it's different. I have nearly come to the end of my savings.”
Beaumarchef laid down his pen, and looked at the stout woman with a
shrewd expression, as if he were seeking for confirmation of some previously
conceived suspicion. “You have been guilty of some great folly !” he
slowly said.
She turned away her head, and without answering him directly, began
to complain of the hardness of the times, of the meanness of employers, and
of the rapacity of young married ladies, who did not allow their cooks to
do the marketing, and thus secure their little perquisites, but preferred to
make all their purchases themselves. Beaumarchef nodded affirmatively,
precisely as he had done half an hour previously, when a lady had com-
plained to him most bitterly about her servants. His intermediate position
entailed on him this kind of diplomacy.
Meanwhile the stout woman had finished grumbling, and, producing a
well-filled purse, drew from it the amount of her fee, laid it on the table,
and said : “ Please, good Mr. Beaumarchef, register my name, Caroline
Schimmel, and try and find me a good place. But it must only be in the
kitchen, you understand. I must do the marketing myself, and I won't
have the mistress dogging at my heels."
“Very well ; we will see what we can do.".
“Ah! if you would only find me a rich widower, that would suit me, or
a young woman with a very old husband. However, please look out for
something, and I will call again to-morrow." Thereupon, taking a larger
pinch of snuff than any previous one, she withdrew.
Paul, who had listened, was altogether confounded and humiliated.
What could Father Tantaine have meant in introducing him to such com.


20
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
pany? No good could certainly befall him in such an office, and really it
was not worth his while to wait. He was seeking some decent and plau-
sible pretext for withdrawal, when the door at the end of the room was
thrown open, and two men appeared, finishing their conversation before
separating. One of them, young and well dressed, had that air and
carriage-a certain dash of free and easy ways—which some people mistake
for good breeding. The rosettes of several foreign orders decorated his
button-hole. The other person, who was an old man, looking like a
lawyer, wore a heavy quilted dressing-gown of brown merino, fur shoes,
and a velvet cap, embroidered, no doubt, by well loved hands. His thick
beard was carefully trimmed, a white choker spanned his neck, and a
certain weakness of vision compelled him to wear blue spectacles.
“Then, my dear sir,” said the young man, “I may venture to hope, may
I not? Do not forget how pressing the situation is.”
“I have told you, Monsieur le Marquis,” answered the man with the
white cravat, “that if I were the only master the answer would certainly
be yes ; but then I am not alone, and must consult my partners."
“Then, my dear sir,” rejoined the marquis, “I rely on you.”
Paul rose, reconciled to the house by the sight of this young nobleman.
The other, thought he, who looks like a lawyer, is no doubt Mascarot him-
self.
The marquis had withdrawn, and Paul was about to present himself,
when Beaumarchef approached the man of legal mien and said, respectfully:
“ Whom do you think I have just seen, sir ?
“Who, eh?-speak,” rejoined the other impatiently,
“Why, Caroline Schimmel. You know "
“What! the Duchess de Champdoce's former servant?"
“Precisely."
M. Mascarot uttered a joyful exclamation. “That is a positive blessing !"
he cried. “Where is she living now?".
This question, natural as it was, overwhelmed Beaumarchef with con-
sternation. He who never failed-since it was one of the rules of the house
-to note the addresses of all whose names figured in his books, had ab.
solutely forgotten to ask Caroline for her's.
The acknowledgment of this omission so enraged M. Mascarot that he
quite forgot himself, and uttered an oath that would have shocked even a
London cabman. “Good heavens !” he exclaimed, “how can a man be
such a confounded fool ? Here is a woman who for five months we have
been chasing from pillar to post-whom I have been searching for through-
out the length and breadth of Paris ! You know this as well as I do my-
self; and yet, when the merest accident brings her here, you let her slip
through your fingers and disappear again.'
“She will come back, sir ; she said so. She will not care to throw away
the money she paid for her inscription fee."
“She ! what does she care for ten sous or ten francs ? She will come back
when she takes the notion, unless— But no; a woman who drinks, and
who is half crazy the best of times—”
But Beaumarchef, inspired by a sudden hope, had hurriedly taken up his
hat. “She has only this very moment gone,” he exclaimed ; “she can't
be far, and no doubt I shall be able to overtake her.”
He was starting off when M. Mascarot detained him. “You are not the
keenest of bloodhounds, my dear fellow. Take Toto-Chupin with you ; he
is sharp enough, and is outside now with his chestnuts. And if you over-


ESCOLE
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
21
take the woman, don't speak to her, but let Toto follow her unseen, with-
out losing sight of her. I want to know hour by hour what she does.
Nothing is too trifling, you understand, to be reported to me.”
Beaumarchef disappeared, and Mascarot continued to vent his ill humour.
“Such a fool!” he muttered. “Ah! why can't a man only do everything
for himself. Here I have been wearying myself for months seeking the key
to a riddle. That woman knows the truth, I'm sure of it, and yet that
idiot Beaumar must let her escape !!
By this time Paul realised that his presence had been unnoticed. Annoyed
by his involuntary indiscretion he coughed, so as to attract attention ; and
at once Mascarot turned round with a threatening look on his face. “Pray,
excuse me," said Paul.
But the agent had already regained his benignant expression. “Ah!”
said he, courteously, “ you are Paul Violaine, I believe !"
The young man bowed. “Excuse me for a moment,” resumed Mascarot;
“I will return shortly.” So saying he disappeared through the door at the
end of the room, and Paul had hardly time to collect himself, before he
heard his name called. “Come this way-I have no secrets for you!"
Compared to the outer room, Mascarot's private office was a most luxuri-
ous and superb apartment-for it was quite apparent that the windows
were occasionally washed, that the wall paper had been recently renewed,
whilst, in addition, there was a carpet on the floor. It was seldom, how-
ever, that clients, even those of the highest social standing, were admitted
into this sanctum. Current business was usually transacted round Beau-
marchef's table in the outer room, while more private affairs were talked
over in the twilight of the “confessional box.”
Ignorant of the customs of the place, Paul could by no means appreciate
the extraordinary distinction with which he was received. When he
entered, Mascarot, seated in a comfortable arm-chair, was warming himself
before a bright wood fire, his elbow resting on his writing-table. Such a
table! A world in itself—its aspect plainly indicating that its owner was
a man of a thousand different occupations. Books, portfolios, and papers
in files rose mountain high, while a larger space was occupied by innumer-
able small squares of cardboard, on each of which figured a name in large
letters, with memoranda in a smaller and almost illegible hand underneath.
With a paternal gesture Mascarot pointed to a chair opposite to himself,
and in a bland, encouraging voice exclaimed: “Now let us talk.”
It was clear that B. Mascarot's patriarchal appearance was altogether
natural. The most skilful actor could not have feigned his honest and
benevolent expression, the mirror undoubtedly of a pure, untroubled con-
science. At sight of him well might a young man exclaim : “I should like
to trust my future to his care."
Paul was greatly impressed by this air of honesty and rectitude, experi-
encing the attraction which is always exercised by strong natures over
weak ones. He now fully understood Father Tantaine's enthusiasm, and
thanked heaven he had not gone off abruptly as he had thought of doing a
few minutes before.
“I am told,” began Mascarot, “that your resources are insufficient for
your support, or, rather, that you are totally without any, and that you are
anxious to obtain a position which will inake you independent. That, at
least, is what I hear from my unlucky friend Tantaine.”
"He has been, sir, a faithful interpreter of my wishes.”
“Very well. Only before thinking of the future and entering into a dig.


22
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
cussion in regard to the present, we will, if you have no objections, recap-
itulate the past.” Paul started, as Mascarot must have noticed, for he
added quickly : “You will excuse the possible indiscretion of this pro-
gramme, but it is absolutely essential that I should understand exactly
what responsibility I am about to assume. Tantaine says that you are a
most charming young man-honest, sensible, and well brought up. Now
that I see you, I am sure that he is correct in his estimate. But of course
I can only deal with certainties, and you will understand that I must be
certain of you before I can answer for you to third parties.”
“ Exactly, sir,” interrupted Paul, “and I am ready to answer any ques-
tions, for I have nothing to conceal.”
A faint smile, unnoticed by the young man, curved Mascarot's lips, and
with a gesture to which all who knew him were accustomed, he adjusted
his spectacles. “Thanks,” he said. “As to concealing anything from me
--well, that is not so easy, perhaps, as you think.”
He took from his table several of the cardboard squares we have men-
tioned, and shuffling them through his fingers as if they were a pack of
cards, resumed : “ You are named Marie-Paul Violaine ?” Paul bowed.
“You were born at Poitiers, in the Rue des Vignes, on the 5th of January,
1843. You are consequently in your twenty-fourth year, I believe?”
“ Yes, sir.”
“ You are a natural child ?”
The second question had surprised Paul; this last one fairly stupefied
him. “It is true, sir,” he answered, without seeking to conceal his aston-
ishment. “But I really had no idea that Monsieur Tantaine was so well
informed. I suppose the partition which separated our rooms was even
flimsier than I imagined."
Mascarot took no notice of this neat little epigram, but continued to
shuffle his bits of cardboard and examine them. "If Paul had been nearer,
he would have seen his own initials, P. V., inscribed in the corner of each.
“ Your mother,” continued Mascarot, “kept a little thread and needle
shop during the last fifteen years of her life?"
“Precisely."
“But what is such an enterprise worth in a place like Poitiers ? Not
much, to be sure. Fortunately, she received for your support and educa-
tion an annual allowance of one thousand francs.”
This time Paul fairly started. He was sure that Tantaine had not learned
this secret at the Hotel du Pérou. “Good heavens !” he stammered, “who
can have acquainted you, sir, with a secret I have never spoken of since I
reached Paris, and which even Rose is quite ignorant of ?”
Mascarot shrugged his shoulders. “You may easily understand," he
answered, “ that a man in my position is obliged to obtain all possible in-
formation. If I did not take considerable pains in doing so, I should hourly
be the victim of deception, and, in my turn, find myself unwillingly deceiv.
ing others.”
An hour had not elapsed since Paul had crossed the threshold of the
establishment, but he had already learned how much of M. Mascarot's in-
formation was obtained ; he remembered the directions given to Beaumar-
chef concerning Caroline Schimmel.
“Although I am inquisitive,” continued Mascarot, “I am also discreet.
So do not fear to answer frankly. How did this annuity reach your
mother?”
“Through a notary in Paris.”


24
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
assured that I am perfectly well aware of everything that concerns you.
You ask how? That again I cannot tell you. Put it down to chance.
Chance, you know, has a great deal to answer for.”
Up to this moment Paul had been siinply puzzled. But these ambiguous
words caused him such absolute fright that his face wore a ghastly look.
“Are you alarmed?" asked Mascarot, straightening his spectacles, through
which he saw wonderfully well.
“Frankly, sir," stammered Paul, “I am somewhat disturbed."
“Why? I ask you what a man in your position can possibly have to
fear. You need not rack your brain any longer; you will soon find out what
you wish to know, and you had best, therefore, quietly give yourself up to
me, for I have no desire but to be of service to you."
He said this in the sweetest and most reassuring manner, and then re-
seating himself in his arm-chair, added : “Now let us speak of yourself.
Thanks to the devotion of your mother, who was, as you justly say, a good
and holy woman, you were, at the price of numberless privations, enabled
to study at the college of Poitiers, like any lad of family and position might
have done. At eighteen you passed the bachelor's' examination success-
fully. Then for a year you idled under the pretence of waiting for an in-
spiration from heaven as to your future career, and finally, as nothing turned
up, you entered a lawyer's office as clerk-am I not right?”
“Precisely_"
“But your mother's dearest dream was to see you established near at
hand, at Loudon or at Civray. Perhaps she hoped for further aid from the
friend who had already done so much for you."
“I always thought so,” said Paul.
“Unfortunately for her hopes, however," continued Mascarot, “you had
110 leaning towards writs and red tape-"
Here Paul smiled, and in doing so seemingly offended Mascarot, for the
latter added severely : “I said unfortunately.' And I think you have
suffered enough by this time to be of my opinion. Instead of engrossing at
your desk, you did what? You trifled away your time dabbling in music;
you composed songs, and even an opera, I believe ; and were not far from
considering yourself a genius of the first water."
Paul, who had so far submitted to everything without rebellion, was sorely
touched by this sarcasm, and tried to protest, but in vain.
" In short," continued Mascarot, “one fine morning you abandoned the
office, and declared to your mother that, while waiting until your fame as a
composer was established, you meant to give lessons on the piano. But you
could not obtain any pupils, and you were a simpleton to think you could.
Look at yourself in a mirror and tell me frankly if you think you are of an
age or appearance that would make it wise to intrust young ladies to your
charge-
Here Mascarot stopped, as if he feared to trust his memory, and proceeded
to consult his notes. ** Let us continue,” he said at last. "Your departure
from Poitiers was your crowning folly. The very day after your mother's
death, you gathered together all you possessed--some three thousand francs
or so—and took a railway ticket for Paris.”
“At that time, sir, I hoped—”.
“What? To arrive at Fortune by the road to Glory? Madman ! Why,
each year a thousand poor devils, who have been intoxicated by the praise
of their native villages, reach Paris intoxicated by similar hopes. Do you
know what becomes of them ? At the end of ten years, ten at the most have


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
:fa"
made their way, five hundred have died of hunger and disappointment-
and the rest are enrolled in the vast army of criminals and reprobates."
Paul had said all this to himself over and over again, and admitting its
truth could urge nothing in reply. “But,” continued Mascarot, “you did
not come alone. At Poitiers you had fallen in love with a young work girl,
named Rose Pigoreau, and you thought it wise to run away with her—"
“Ah! sir, if you would only allow me to explain-"
“It would be quite useless, I assure you. The result speaks for itself !
In six months your three thousand francs were exhausted. Then came
distress and hunger; and at last, stranded at the Hôtel du Pérou, you were
thinking of suicide, when you were saved by old Tantaine.”
These cruel truths were hard to bear, and Paul half felt inclined to show
his anger; but then, good-bye to the protection of the powerful agent, and
so, on second thoughts, he controlled himself. “I admit it, sir,” he said,
somewhat bitterly. "I was a fool, and half crazy, but misfortune has
taught me wisdom. I am here, and this fact should convince you that I
have renounced all my wills o' the wisp."
“Then you also renounce Rose Pigoreau ?”
At this cutting question Paul turned pale with anger. "I love Rose,"
he observed, curtly ; "I think I told you so. She has faith in me, and
courageously shares my ill fortune. I am sure of her affection. Some day,
sir, Rose will be my wife.”
Mascarot raised his velvet cap, and, without the slightest shade of irony,
in fact, most seriously, bowed low, saying as he did so: “I beg ten thousand
pardons." However, it was plainly not his intention to insist on this point.
** You wish employment,” he resumed, “and at once. What is your speci-
ality? You have none, no doubt. Like all college educated young fellows,
you can do a little of everything, and nothing thoroughly. If I had a son,
and an income of millions, he should still learn a trade."
Paul bit his lips, recognizing only too well the justice of B. Mascarot's
remarks. Had he not, only the evening before, envied the lot of those who
earned their bread by the sweat of their brows?
“And yet,” continued Mascarot, “I must come to your assistance. You
are my friend, and I don't leave friends in the lurch. Come, what should
you say to a situation with a salary of twelve thousand francs a year?”
This sum was so much in excess of Paul's most sanguine hopes that he
fancied the agent was poking fun at him. “It is not very generous on your
part, sir, to laugh at me," said he.
Mascarot was not in jest, however; and yet it required a full half hour
to convince his young client that he was entirely in earnest. Perhaps, after
all, this result would not have been attained had he not suddenly thought
of saying: “You wish for proofs. Very well-shall I advance you your
first month's salary?” with which words he proferred a thousand franc
note, drawn from his strong box.
Paul pushed the note aside, but he realised the full force of this powerful
argument, and asked if he were capable of fulfilling the duties of so highly
remunerated an office.
“Should I make the proposal,” answered Mascarot, "were I not certain
of your abilities? Just now I am terribly hurried, or I would explain to
you the whole matter; as it is, I must defer doing so until to-morrow. So
be here at the same time as you came to-day.”
Bewildered as Paul was, he understood that it would be an intrusion on
his part to remain any longer, so he rose to take his leave.


26
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
"One moment," exclaimed Mascarot. “You cannot, of course, remain
any longer at the Hotel du Pérou. Find yourself a decent room in this
neighbourhood, and let me know your new address. Now, good-bye until
to-morrow, take care of yourself, and learn to bear prosperity.”
For a minute Mascarot stood at his office door listening attentively to
Paul's retreating steps. Heavy indeed was the young man's footfall-in
fact, as Mascarot divined he was staggering beneath the weight of his con-
flicting feelings. As soon as the agent was sure that he had left the house,
he hurried to a glass door at the rear of his private room, opened it and
called : “Here! Hortebize! Doctor! You can come now. He has
gone."
A well dressed man immediately made his appearance, and hastily drew
a chair to the fire. “Brou ! my feet are blocks of ice!” he exclaimed.
“If any one cut them off, I doubt if I should know it. Your bed-room,
Baptistin, is a refrigerator. Another time, please let me have a fire."
But Mascarot was not to be diverted from his train of thought. “Did
you hear ?” he asked.
" I heard everything and saw everything as well as you did.”
“ Then what do you think of this youth?”
“I think that Tantaine is a man of sense, and that in your hands this
handsome fellow will be like wax.”
III,
DR. HORTEBIZE, the intimate of "the agency," who thus familiarly
called Mascarot by his Christian name of Baptistin, was fully fifty-six years
of age ; but he only admitted forty-nine, and was wise in doing so, for he
carried their weight so lightly that people even supposed him younger still.
He bore himself with a jaunty air, his thick sensual lips were still
ruddy, his hair black, and his eyes full of fire. A man of the world, re-
ceived in the best society, elegant in his manners, keen in his wit, he con-
cealed under a certain light sarcasm of speech the most monstrous
cynicism, in fact, if he had but few faults, he could count several appall-
ing vices. He was much liked and much courted. His epicurean manner
did not prevent him, it was said, from being in reality a true savant and dis-
tinguished physician. Still he was far from being a hard worker, and prac-
tised as little as possible. Some few years previously, with the view, so he
declared, of getting rid of his patients who pestered him, he had actually
espoused homeopathist doctrines, and had started a medical journal called
the Globule, which came to an end after the fifth number. His conversion
made every one laugh, he, however, laughing the loudest, and this, of
course, proved the sincerity of the philosophy he professed. However, Dr.
Hortebize never wished, nor was able, to take anything seriously, and
Mascarot, well as he knew his friend, seemed annoyed and wounded by his
jesting tone.
“If I wrote to you to come here this morning," he said, reproachfully,
“if I asked you to conceal yourself in that room -”.
“Where I froze !” interrupted Hortebize.
“ It was,” continued Mascarot, “because I wished for your advice. We
have started on a terrible enterprise, Hortebize ; an enterprise full of peril
to you as well as to myself.”
“Pshaw! As you very well know, I have blind confidence in you.


28
THR SLAVES OF PARIS.
ceived as much as ourselves, has grown wealthy. And this is the principal
reason of my distrust--our interests are no longer the same. He comes
here every month, but only to draw his third. He condescends to accept
the profits of our enterprise, but avoids the risks. It is two years since he
brought us any business. There is no reliance to be placed in him what-
ever. No matter what we propose to him, he declines to act. He sees
risks and danger in everything."
“ But he is incapable of betraying us."
Mascarot did not reply at once ; he was reflecting. “I think,” he
answered, finally, " that Čatenac is afraid of us. He knows that the fall
of one of the three would necessarily bring the two others to grief. This
is our only safeguard. But if he does not dare to betray us openly he is
quite capable of working against us. Our partnership worries him. Do
you know what he said to me the last time he was here? He said we
ought to shut up shop and retire. Retire! Ah, well, how should we two
live then? For, if he is rich we are poor. What are you worth,
Hortebize ?"
The doctor, the brilliant physician, who was believed to be a millionaire,
had taken out his purse and was counting its contents. “I have precisely
three hundred and twenty-seven francs," he answered with a laugh.
“And how do you stand ?”
Mascarot made a wry face. “I,” he replied “am as bad off as you are;"
and with a sigh he continued, half-speaking to himself—“Besides I have
sacred obligations, whereas you have only yourself to think of.”
For the first time since the beginning of the interview Dr. Hortebize
looked worried. “Good heavens !” he exclaimed. “I depended on you
for a thousand crowns, which I pressingly need.”
The physician's uneasiness caused a quiet smile to flicker over Mascarot's
face. Be easy,” he said, “I can accomodate you with that. There are
still some six or eight thousand francs in the safe.”
The doctor breathed more freely.
“ But that is all," continued Mascarot. “It is the end of our common
funds of the money belonging to us collectively. And this, too, after
twenty years labour, peril, and suspense.”
“And there are not twenty years more before us."
“Precisely," returned Mascarot, “we are growing old. So all the more
reason for making one grand stroke to assure our future. If I were to fall
ill to-morrow, it would be all UP.”
" That is quite true," said the doctor with a shudder.
“One thing is certain—that we must speedily make a grand coup. I
have said this for years and years, and now it must be done. I have long
been preparing a net which ought to bring us a rich haul. And now, per-
haps, you understand why in this emergency I apply to you rather than to
Catenac. Do you understand why I spent two hours this morning explain-
ing to you the plan of a couple of operations I have in view ?"
“If one of them only should succeed, our fortune is made."
“ Precisely. Now the question to decide is, whether our chances of suc-
cess are great enough to warrant our going on with these enterprises.
Think it over, and give me an answer.”
Dr. Hortebize, in spite of his frivolous manners was an acute observer,
skilful and inventive moreover in devising expedients, and at the same
time a safe counsellor in moments of emergency, for never, under any cir-
cumstances, however perilous, did he lose his smiling sang froid. B. Mas-


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
29
carot was aware of this when he insisted on having his opinion. Driven to
the wall and compelled to choose, as one might say, between the contents
of the medallion and the prolongation of his luxurious existence, he lost
soine of his gaiety, and seemed to reflect. Leaning back in his arm-chair,
with his feet on the fender, he analyzed the various combinations which
had been laid before him, as carefully as a general might have studied the
plan of a battle on which the fate of an empire depended. His analysis
was favourable to the projected enterprises ; for Mascarot, who was atten-
tively watching him, at last saw a smile steal over his thick lips.
After a prolonged pause the doctor at last spoke. “We must make an
attack,” he said. “Do not let us deceive ourselves. Your projects are
excessively dangerous, and a mistake would ruin us. At the same time,
we may find ourselves in a most unpleasant position if we wait for an affair
that is perfectly safe. Here we have twenty chances against us, but we
have eighty in our favour. Under these circumstances, and, above all, as
necessity knows no law, I can only say, go ahead !” He rose to his feet
as he spoke these words, and offered his hand to his honourable friend,
saying: “I am your man!”
This decision delighted Mascarot. He was in that state of mind, when
no matter how strong and self-reliant a man may generally be, he is in
momentary doubt of himself, and when the approbation of a competent
friend is of immense value. It is the weight that turns the trembling scale.
“ You have weighed everything,” insisted the agent; "examined every-
thing? You know that of these two matters, only one is ripe, that of the
Marquis de Croisenois—"
“ Ỹes, yes ; I know."
“As to the other, that of the Duc de Champdoce, I have still to gather
together various elements, which are indispensible to insure success. The
duke and the duchess have a secret, of this there is no doubt; but what is
this secret? Is it what I suspect? I would wager anything that I am
right; but more than suspicions are necessary--more than probabilities-
we must have, of course, absolute certainties to depend upon.”
“No matter," exclaimed the doctor, “I maintain what I have said."
He thought, perhaps, that there was an end to the matter for the time,
but he was mistaken. “Now,"continued Mascarot, “this brings us back to
my previous question. What do you think of this youth, this Paul
Violaine ?"
Hortebize took several turns up and down the room, and finally stationed
himself opposite his friend with his elbow on the chimney-piece. This was
his favourite position when, in a salon, after being duly urged, he related
one of those somewhat questionable anecdotes, his specialities—which are
only acceptable on account of the witty manner in which they are related.
“I think,” he answered, “ that this youth has many of the qualities we
desire, and that it is doubtful if we could find a better person. Besides,
he is a natural son, and knows nothing of his father, which leaves a door
wide open for suppositions ; for every bastard has the right, if he chooses,
to believe himself the son of a king. In the second place, he has neither
family nor any known protectors, which assures us that, come what will,
we shall have no account to render to any one. Besides he is poor. He has
no great amount of sense, but is possessed of a certain brilliant varnish and
of any amount of egregious vanity. Finally, he is a wonderfully handsome
fellow, which, in itself, will smooth away many difficulties ; only-'
“Ah! there is an only,' then ?”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
31
myself—" He paused abruptly and listened : “I fancied I heard some-
one knocking,” he said at last. “Hark!”
Yes, there was a knock at the door ; and the doctor, rising to his feet,
prepared to regain his hiding-place. But Mascarot detained him. “It is
only Beaumarchef," he said, and he touched a gilt bell on his desk. The
next moment indeed, Beaumarchef entered the room. With an air of
mingled respect and familiarity, he saluted the doctor and the agent in a
military fashion, his hand to his forehead and his elbow raised to the height
of his eyes.
“ Ah?” said the doctor, gaily, “80 you still take your little drops of
brandy neat"
“Only a few, sir, very few," he answered modestly.
"Too many, Beaumar, much too many. Do you think I can't see ; your
inflamed complexion, your nose, and your eyelids all tell the story."
“ And yet, sir, I assure you "
“You know what I said to you, that you were threatened with asthma.
Note the movements of your pectoral muscles—your lungs are obstructed.”
" That is because I have been running, sir."
This conversation was not to the taste of Mascarot, and so he hastened to
interrupt it. “If he is out of breath,” he said, “it is because he has tried
to repair a very great piece of carelessness on his part. Well, how did
you succeed, Beaumar?”
“We have got her, sir," he answered triumphantly.
“ That's capital,” responded Mascarot.
“What are you talking about?” asked the doctor.
With a finger on his lips, Mascarot gave his friend a warning glance, and
then, in an off-hand tone that was by no means habitual, he answered :
“Beaumar has been after a woman named Caroline Schimmel, an old
servant of the Champdoce family, who has a little matter of business with
me. Go on, Beaumar-So you have found her?”
“Yes, thanks to an idea that came to me.”
“Pshaw? Are you going to have ideas at this time of life ?”
Beaumarchef looked vastly important. “It was like this,” he continued.
« On going out with Toto-Chupin, I said to myself—the woman went up
the street to be sure, but, knowing her habits, it is quite impossible she
went as far as the Boulevard without entering a wine-shop."
“Well reasoned,” nodded the doctor approvingly.
“In consequence, Toto and I, just looked into every shop we passed ;
and true enough, as we reached the Rue du Petit Carreau, we found Caroline
in a tobacconist's shop where liquors are sold.”
“And Toto is looking after her now?”
“He swore to me, sir, that he would walk in her shadow until you said
enough!' And, besides, he promised to let you have a report every day."
Mascarot rubbed his hands. “I am pleased with you, Beaumar," he
said, “very much pleased indeed.”
The compliment appeared to delight the assistant-partner, who wiped his
brow, but did not withdraw. “That's not everything, sir," he resumed.
“What else, then ?”
“Downstairs, I met La Candèle, on his way back from the Place du Petit
Pont, and he had just seen--"
“Ah, indeed! What had he seen?"
“ That young woman, sir, driving away in a brougham with two horses.
Of course he followed, and she is now installed in the Rue de Douai, in a


32
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
most gorgeous apartment, so the door-keeper of the house says. And it
seems, sir, that the girl is a great beauty. La Candele went on like a mad.
man about her. He says that her eyes are extraordinary.”
The doctor looked up quickly. “Our friend Tantaine was correct in his
description, then ?”.
Mascarot frowned austerely. “Perfectly so," he answered, “and this
proves, Hortebize, the justice of the objection you made a short time ago.
Such a conspicuously beautiful girl is a danger, and the fool who has
carried her off may himself even become a nuisance, under her influence.”
Beaumarchef here ventured to touch Mascarot's arm; he had got
another idea. “ If you wish to get rid of that dandy," he said, “I can tell
you how.”
“How, pray?'
Instead of answering, the ex-noncommissioned officer fell into the atti-
tude of a fencing-master. “One, two-parry--thrust-parry='nother thrust
and all over."
"A Prussian quarrel," murmured Mascarot. "A duel! That would
not do us any good. The girl would still be on our hands; and violent
measures are always more or less compromising.” He reflected for a
moment, and then, taking off his spectacles and wiping them slowly, he
looked intently at the doctor. “Suppose,” said he, “suppose we pressed
some epidemic into our service. What do you say, doctor, to this girl
having the small-pox? Then her beauty would be gone."
The physician looked pensive. “ Under certain circumstances,” he
answered, “we might call disease to our aid; but even if Rose were dis-
figured she would still be dangerous. It is her love for Paul that we have
to fear, not his for her, and with a woman, fidelity is always in proportion to
her ugliness,"
“That is a point for discussion," rejoined Mascarot. “In the mean-
while, we must protect ourselves from present danger. A short time ago,
Beaumarchef, I told you to draw up a statement of this Gandelu's affairs.
What is his situation ?”
“He is overwhelmed with debts, sir, but his creditors do not press be-
cause of his prospective fortune-"
“You are a fool, Beaumar," interrupted Mascarot. "A fellow like
Gandelu, head over heels in debt and head over heels in love, can surely be
trapped somehow or other. Among those creditors of his, there must
certainly be two or three of our set, ready to act as I desire. Obtain infor-
mation on that point, and report it to me this evening—and now leave us."
Once alone, the two friends remained for some time absorbed in silent
reflection. The moment was a decisive one. They were still uncommitted
to any course of action, but, if once they put their hands to the plough, they
must go forward without hope of retracing their steps. Now, although
their natures were strong enough to enable them to look the matter straight
in the face and decide accordingly, the doctor's sempiternal smile faded
gradually away, as he pursued his train of thought, and it was with a
feverish hand that he rattled his medallion. Was he hesitating? Perhaps
so. However, Mascarot, at all events, was deterinined. “Let us deliberate
no longer," he said. "We will close our eyes and march on. You heard
the promises made by the Marquis de Croisenois. He gave us our task, but
with certain conditions. He must marry Mademoiselle de Mussidan."
“I doubt whether he will."
“He must, I say, since we wish it, and it shall be so. In proof of this,


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
33
before a couple of hours are over, the projected marriage between Made-
moiselle Sabine and the Baron de Breulh-Faverlay will be broken off.”
· The doctor sighed. “I understand Catenac's scruples," he murmured.
"Ah! if I only had a million like him."
During these last few minutes Mascarot, going to and fro from his sleep-
ing-room to his private office, rapidly changed his clothes. “Are you
ready ?” he asked Hortebize.
“Yes, since there is no retreating.”
“Then let us be off.” And opening the door the agent called out,
“Beaumar, send for a cab.”
IV.
If there is one quarter of Paris more highly favoured than others it is surely
that which lies between the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré on one side,,
and the Seine on the other, which commences at the Place de la Concorde,
and ends at the Avenue de l'Impératrice. In this delightful district of the
great city millionaires grow and blossom spontaneously like rhododendrons
at certain altitudes. There stand their superb mansions with spacious
gardens, where the lawns are always green, the flowers always blooming,
and the tall trees always tenanted by carolling birds. Among all these
magnificent mansions, none surely are more desirable than the Hôtel de
Mussidan, the last work of poor Sévair, the architect, who died just as the
world was beginning to recognize his merit.
Standing between a wide gravelled courtyard and a shady garden, the
Hôtel de Mussidan offers an aspect of mingled grandeur and elegance.
There is but little carving around the windows and along the cornices, no
encrusted or tessellated colour-work on the façade, but the proportions are
admirable and each line is calculated to impart effect. A broad flight of
steps in white marble, with a double balustrade and sheltered by a lightly
built marquise in bronze, leads to the grand entrance. Of a morning,
at seven o'clock or so, the wayfarer who glances through the open iron-
work of the gateway fronting the street-the Rue de Matignon-will see
the servants passing to and fro in the courtyard, where everything shows
that this is the abode of a noble and wealthy fainily. There stands the
ceremonial barouche, waiting to be washed, or the count's phaeton, or the
quiet brougham which the countess uses when she goes out shopping. And
that superb chestnut thoroughbred, so sleek and glossy, which a groom is
carefully saddling, is Mirette, the favourite, often mounted by Mademoiselle
Sabine, of a morning before breakfast.
It was a short distance off, at the corner of the Avenue Matignon, that
Mascarot and his worthy friend stopped their cab, and paying the driver
dismissed him. As they walked up the street, Mascarot, with his black
clothes, his white cravat, and his blue spectacles, might readily have been
taken for some grave magistrate. As for the physician, although a little
paler than usual, he was as smiling as ever. “Now," said Mascarot, “let
us make our last arrangements. The count and countess consider you a
friend."
" By no means. A mere physician, whose ancestors were not among the
crusaders, could hardly aspire to the friendship of the Mussidans.”
“But the countess knows you. She will not refuse to hear you, nor call
for help when you open your lips. By entrenching yourself behin some
VOL. I.


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
zameless rascal you can even save your own reputation. I, in my turn, will
interview the count.”
“Be careful,” said the doctor, thoughtfully. “The count is frightfully
violent. He is a man who, at the first word he doesn't like, would not
hesitate to pitch you out of the window.”
Mascarot shrugged his shoulders. “I can bring him to terms,” he said,
disdainfully.
“Be on your guard, nevertheless.”
The two friends were now passing the Hôtel de Mussidan, and the
physician having briefly explained its internal arrangements, they continued
to walk on.
"I will manage the husband," said Mascarot, "and you will take care of
the wife. I shall insist on the count withdrawing his word from M. de
Breulh-Faverlay, but I shall not mention the name of the Marquis de
Croisenois. You, on the contrary, must come out with the Croisenois side
of the affair, and scarcely speak of M. de Breulh.”
“ Be easy, my lesson is learned ; I shall not forget it."
“The beautiful part of the business, my dear doctor, is that the husband
will be very anxious as to his wife's opinion; while she, on her side, will
wonder what her husband may say. When they meet after we have left
them, the first who suggests breaking off the marriage with M. de Breulh
will be astonished to find the other quite agreeable.”
This idea so tickled the doctor's fancy that he laughed aloud. “And as
we approach them from such different directions,” he said, “they will
never suspect any complicity between us. Decidedly, friend Baptistin, you
are more ingenious than I supposed.”
“Wait awhile, and compliment me when the battle's won."
As they reached the Faubourg Saint Honoré, Mascarot espied a café and
walked towards it. “Go in there and wait for me, doctor, while I make a
certain call you know of. I will call for you on my return. If the answer
I bring be 'yes,'I will go at once to see the count, and twenty minutes later
you must call on the countess."
The clocks were striking four, when these honourable partners shook
hands and separated. Dr. Hortebize entered the suggested café while B.
Mascarot followed the Faubourg St. Honoré beyond the Rue du Colysée,
when sighting a wine shop he opened the door and walked in. The land-
lord of this well-known, we might almost say celebrated, establishment, had
not considered it necessary to have his name painted above his door, but
throughout the neighbourhood he was known as Father Canon. The wine
he served to passers-by and chance customers over the metal counter was,
as he himself honestly admitted, about as bad as it could be; but then he
held in reserve for his usual patrons—the coachmen and footmen of the
neighbourhood-a special vintage from the vicinity of Mâcon, which in
addition to other qualities had that of rising rapidly to the head, so that
more than one servant, having too freely imbibed of it, had received warn-
ing from his master or mistress.
On seeing so well-dressed, and especially so solemn a looking gentlemen
as B. Mascarot enter his shop, Father Canon condescended to come forward
and take his order in person. In France, the land of smiles, a grave coun
tenance is the best of passports. “What do you wish, sir ?" asked the
wine vendor, with immense suavity.
“I should like," answered Mascarot, “to speak to a man named Florestan."
“In the service of the Comte de Mussidan, I believe?”


· THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
"Precisely. He made an appointment with me here—"
“He is below in the music-room," said Father Canon. “I will send for
him.”
“Oh! do not trouble yourself, I will go down myself;" and without
waiting for a rejoinder, Mascarot went toward a staircase leading to the
cellars.
“It seems to me," muttered Father Canon, “ that I have seen this
lawyer before."
The stairs were sufficiently wide, not over steep, and in default of light
there was at least a hand rail. Mascarot descended a score of steps, and
reaching a door, thickly padded on either side, hastily pushed it open. At
once-like gas streaming through a crack-strange, fantastic sounds darted
up the stairs into the shop above ; but Mascarot was neither terrified nor
astonished. He descended three more steps, pushed open another door,
padded like the first one, and reached the threshold of a large vaulted room,
arranged as a café, and lighted by gas, with tables and chairs all round,
and numerous Jeameses gaily imbibing the noted Mâcon wine.
In the centre of the room, two men in their shirt sleeves and with puffed
out crimson faces, were blowing on huge hunting-horns of the approved
Dampierre pattern, while near them an old fellow, wearing long leather
gaiters buttoning above the knee, a scarlet vest and a broad undressed
leather belt secured by a buckle bearing a coat-of-arms, was whistling an
air, which the horn-blowers tried to imitate. But a general hush ensued as
the agent hat in hand bowed round the room.
“Ah! it's Papa Mascarot,” exclaimed a superbly whiskered young fellow,
in velvet breeches and white stockings and pumps. “Welcome ; I expected
you, and a clean glass is here in readiness.".
Mascarot, without waiting to be urged, took a seat at the table and poured
out a glass of wine, which he drank with evident satisfaction.
“Was it Father Canon," resumed this young man, who was the Florestan
the agent had asked after, “that told you I was here? It is a very good
place to be in ; don't you think so ?”
“I do indeed."
“The police, as you know, don't allow horns to be blown in Paris ; so
Papa Canon has just settled us in this cellar, where we can blow away as
much as we like. We can't be heard outside, for the doors are padded and
there are no windows; but we receive a supply of air from the two pipes
you can see there above."
The two musical students having resumed their lesson, Florestan was
obliged to carry his two hands to his mouth to serve as a kind of speaking
trumpet, and shout with the full force of his lungs. “That old man,” said
he, " is an old huntsman in the Duc de Champdoce's service. He has not
his equal with a horn. I have taken only twenty lessons of him, and I can
already do wonders. Would you like me to sound you a 'stag found,' a
'full cry,'a' change of scent,' a 'hallali,' or—"
"Thanks,” cried Mascarot, seeking to hide his terror. “Some day,
when I have more time, I shall be delighted to hear you exhibit your
acquirements ; but to-day I am somewhat hurried, and besides, I am anxious
to have a few words in private with you."
"I'm agreeable ; but I fancy that you would prefer another place for our
conversation. Let us go up-stairs and ask for a private room,”
Father Canon's private rooms were not very luxurious, nor were they
particularly secluded, being merely separated one from another by thin


36
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
partitions fitted with windows of dull glass. Still they were usually discreet
as regards the conversation they heard, providing the speakers moderated
their tone; and this was, after all, the important point. “ Ah, if these walls
could talk, what strange stories they would have to tell :” Thus spoke
Florestan as he sat down opposite Mascarot, at a small table, whereon
Father Canon speedily placed a bottle of wine and two glasses.
"I dare say,” said Mascarot; " but I care little for scandal. I asked
you to meet me here, Florestan, as you are in a position to do me a small
favour."
“Anything in my power,” answered the young man.
“Now, then, we will begin by a few words about yourself. How do
you get on with your Count de Mussidan?”.
A startling familiarity of speech and address was one of Mascarot's
characteristics. . This revolted many of his clients, but Florestan was not
of the number. “I am not pleased with my situation there,” he answered,
“and in fact I've already asked Beaumarchef to find me something else.”
“I can't understand that. All your predecessors in the count's service
say that it is perfectly satisfactory.”
“Try it yourself, then," interrupted the valet. “In the first place, he is
awfully stingy."
Mascarot made a gesture implying what contempt he entertained for
such a failing.
"Then,” continued Florestan," he is as suspicious as a cat. He never
leaves anything about, not a letter, not a cigar, nor a louis. He spends
half his time unlocking the cupboards and drawers, and locking them up
again, and actually sleeps with his keys under his pillow.”
“I admit that such distrust is very galling."
“ Indeed it is : and, in addition, he is frightfully violent. His eyes flash
for nothing, and he looks as if he was going to kill you or knock you down
twenty times in the day. To tell you the truth, he frightens me.”
This sketch, coming after Hortebize's warning seemed to render Mascarot
thoughtful. “Is the count always like this, or only occasionally ?” he
asked.
“He is always bad enough, but when he has been drinking or gambling,
he is ever so much worse. He never comes home till four in the morning
-even when he comes home at all.”
“And what does the countess say to that.”
Florestan laughed and looked at Mascarot as if he half thought him a
simpleton. “Madame? She doesn't trouble herself much about her lord
and master, I can tell you. Sometimes they don't see each other for weeks :
all she cares for is to have plenty of money to spend. You should just see
the creditors swarming round the house."
“But the Mussidans are very rich."
“Enormously rich ; but nevertheless there are times when there isn't a
franc in the house. Then madame is like a tigress. She sends round to her
friends to borrow, no matter what—a hundred fancs, fifty, even ten, and at
times she is actually refused.”
“But that's very humiliating.”
“Not to her. But when really a large sum is required, madame sends
to the Duc de Champdoce, and he never says no. And yet she doesn't
waste words on him."
Mascarot smiled. “One would think,” he said, “ that you knew what
the countess writes when-


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
37
6 To be sure! I like to know what errands I'm sent on. Well, she
simply writes to him, “My friend, I need so much,' and he sends it her
without flinching. Of course it's easy to see that there is, or has been,
something between them.”
“I should certainly think so."
"Of course; besides, when iny master and mistress do meet, it is only to
quarrel. And such quarrels ! In a mechanic's home, when the husband
has drank too much, he thrashes his wife, who screams and cries. But
that's nothing. They go to bed, kiss and make up, and it's all over. But
these people say things to each other in cold blood that neither can ever
forgive.”
Mascarot listened to these particulars with such an absent air that one
might have believed him previously aware of them. “Then,” said he,
“ there is only Mademoiselle Sabine who is a pleasant person to serve."
“Oh, she is always kind and civil.”
“So you think her fiancé, M. de Breulh-Faverlay, will be a happy man?”
“ Happy enough, I suppose ; but that marriage will perhaps—"
Florestan paused as if seized by a sudden scruple. He looked round the
· room as if to make sure that no one could overhear him, and then in a low
voice, and in a most mysterious manner, continued, “ Mademoiselle
Sabine has been so left to herself, that she is as free as if she were a young
man. Do you understand ?”
Mascarot became very attentive. “Do you mean,” he asked, “ that the
young lady has a lover ?”
“Precisely.”
“But that's quite impossible ; and allow me to say it's very wrong for you
to repeat such slander.”
This remark seemed to excite the valet to an extraordinary-degree.
“Slander!” he exclaimed. “I know what I know. If I talk of a lover
it is because I've seen him with my own eyes-not once, but twice."
From the manner in which Mascarot hastily took off his spectacles,
wiped and replaced them, Florestan saw that his listener was interested to
the highest degree. “Tell me," said the agent, “ tell me how this hap-
pened.”
“Well, the first time was at church one morning, when my young lady
went alone to mass. It began to rain suddenly, and Modeste, her maid,
begged me run round with an umbrella. So off I started; and on entering
the church what did I see? Why, Mademoiselle herself standing near the
benitier, and talking with a young man. Naturally, I slipped behind a
pillar and watched.”
“But this is not what you call a certainty, is it?"
“Why, of course it is ; and that's how you would call it, had you seen
the way the two looked at each other.”
“What sort of person was the young man?”
“Handsome, about my height, and well built, with a distinguished air."
"And what about the second time?”
“Ah! that's a long story. However, one day I was told to accompany
mademoiselle, who was going to visit a friend living in the Rue Marbeuf.
Very good ; but at the corner of the Champs Elysées mademoiselle
motioned me to approach, and then said, Florestan, I forgot to post this
letter ; run as quick as you can to the post-office. I will wait here for you.'
So saying she handed me a note.”
“ And you read it?"


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
39
On hearing this plebeian name of Mascarot, which sounded as much out
of place as a drunkard's oath in the room of some pure young maiden, M. de
Mussidan quickly raised his head. He was seated at the further end of
the room, reading by the light of several wax tapers standing in candelabra
of exquisite workmanship. Letting his paper fall on his knees, he settled
his glasses on his nose, and looked with infinite surprise at Mascarot, who,
with his hat in his hand, and his heart in his mouth, slowly came for-
ward, babbling unintelligible apologies. This examination availed him
little, and the count half rose, as he asked, “Whom do you wish to see,
sir ?
“ Yourself, the Comte de Mussidan,” stammered Mascarot; "and I
trust, sir, that you will kindly excuse me if, unknown to you— "
With an imperious gesture, the count cut these apologies short.
“Wait !” said he, in a peremptory tone. This time he rose altogether,
limped with evident pain to the mantelpiece, gave a tug at the bell rope
hanging there, and then resumed his seat.
Mascarot stood silent in the centre of the room, asking himself if he were
going to be kicked out of doors. A moment later the door re-opened, and
the valet who had ushered the agent in appeared on the threshold
“ Florestan," said the count, in a calm, cold voice, “this is the first
time you have shown any one in here without my orders to that effect.
If this happens a second time, you will leave my service."
“I assure you, sir-"
“That suffices; I have told you what you may expect.”
While the count was speaking, Mascarot studied him with all the atten-
tion that personal interest could impart. The Comte Octave de Mussidan
was in no wise the man one would have imagined, judging by Florestan's
description. Already in Montaigne's time, one could only put half faith in
the portrait of a master drawn by one of his servants. The count, who
then was barely fifty, looked fully ten years older. He was somewhat above
the average height, and seemed withered rather than thin. He was almost
completely bald, while his long whiskers were snowy white. The sorrows
or the passions of life had printed deep wrinkles on his face, the expression
of which, more suggestive of bitterness than haughtiness, showed him to
be a man who, having drunk life to the dregs, was in nowise minded to re-
plenish the cup.
As Florestan left the room, M. de Mussidan turned towards the agent,
and, in the same icy tone, exclaimed, “Explain yourself, sir.”
Mascarot had often been received in the most mortifying fashion, but
never to such a degree as this. Wounded in his vanity, for he was vain
like all who pride themselves on possessing a mysterious power, he longed
to wreak vengeance on the count. “You pompous old fool !” he said to
himself, “we'll see if you'll still be as proud as this by-and-bye." How-
ever, he did not allow his features to betray his feelings. His attitude was
as servile and his smile as obsequious as ever. “Monsieur le Cointe,"
he said aloud, “ does not know me, and must allow me to introduce myself.
Monsieur le Comte has heard my name ; as for my profession, I provide
servants for noble households, and at the same time, when occasion requires,
I act as a general business agent.”
Long practice had enabled Mascarot to speak in such honeyed tones, and
affect such an air of humility, that the count was quite deceived, and had
neither a suspicion nor a presentiment; he did not divine the threatening
glance directed at him from behind those blue spectacles. “Ah !” he


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
answered with a wearied look, "you are a business agent, are you? One
of my creditors has sent you to me, then, I suppose, Monsieur—”
“Mascarot, Monsieur le Comte. Mascarot."
“Mascarot, then-very well, sir—these people are absurd, as I have often
told them. Why do they disturb me when I pay, without a frown, such
extravagant interest? They know they are safe. They know that I am
rich, and have no doubt told you so. In fact, I possess a large fortune, in
landed property. If I have so far neither sold nor mortgaged-which last
I consider the most ruinous thing a man can do-it is simply because I
have not chosen to do so. Why the Crédit Foncier would advance me a
million francs to-morrow merely on my property in Poitou ; but I don't
wish to raise money in this way.”
The best proof that Mascarot had recovered his self-possession was, that
instead of trying to bring the count to the point, he listened most atten-
tively to this digression, hoping to profit by what he heard
" You may carry back what I say,” added the count, “ to the people you
are acting for.”
“I beg your pardon, Monsieur le Comte ; but,"
“But what?"
“I must allow myself—"
" Allow nothing it would be useless ; what I have promised I will
adhere to. When it becomes necessary for me to furnish my daughter's
wedding dowry, I will pay all my obligations, but not one moment be-
fore. I will simply add, however, that before long, my daughter will
marry Monsieur de Breulh-Faverlay. That is all.”
These last words clearly signified, “You may go !” Nevertheless,
Mascarot did not budge. Ås swiftly as a fencing master adjusts his mask,
he settled his spectacles on his nose, and in an assured voice, exclaimed,
“ It is precisely this marriage that has brought me here."
The count could not believe he had heard aright. “What do you say?"
he asked.
“I say,” repeated the agent, “ that I am sent to you, Monsieur le Comte,
on business relating to the marriage of M. de Breulh with your daughter,
Mademoiselle Sabine.”
Neither Dr. Hortebize nor Florestan had exaggerated when speaking of
the violence of the count's temper. On hearing his daughter's name thus
mentioned by this unknown suspicious man of business, he turned crimson,
and his eyes fairly flashed fire. “Be off !” said he sharply,
But Mascarot had no intention of doing anything of the kind. “It is a
matter of great importance,” he resumed.
The count became altogether exasperated on finding that the agent pre-
sumed to disobey him. “ Ah ! so you are determined to stay,” he cried,
and at the same time he hobbled once more towards the bell rope.
But Mascarot divined his intention. “Have a care!” he replied. “If
you ring, you will repent it for the whole of your future life.”
This threat was too much for M. de Mussidan. Abandoning the bell
rope, and snatching up a cane, placed near the mantelpiece, he positively
raised it as if he intended striking his visitor. But without raising an arm,
or retreating an inch, the latter exclaimed in a steady voice, “No
violence, count. Remember Montlouis !”
When in reply to Dr. Hortebize's warnings, Mascarot had declared he
had a ineans of mastering the count, he was not really conscious of the full
extent of his power. On hearing this name Montlouis, M. de Mussidan


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
became ghastly pale, and recoiled to the table, dropping the cane from his
suddenly nerveless hand.
It was as if he had unexpectedly perceived some dreaded phantom.
“ Montlouis !” he murmured, “Montlouis!”
However, Mascarot, who after thus trying his weapons now felt sure of
success, had already resumed his original humble mien. “Believe me,
Monsieur le Comte,” said he, "nothing but imminent danger would
have decided me to mention a name which must awaken such painful re-
collections in your mind.”
M. de Mussidan scarcely seemed to hear. He sank helplessly into his
arm-chair.
"It was not I,” resumed the agent, “who ever thought of using such an
unfortunate-accident against you. I am merely here as an inter-
mediate negotiator between people I despise and yourself, for whom I
entertain a profound respect.”
By this time, and by a great effort of energy, the count had regained his
self-possession and customary air. “I really do not understand you, sir,"
hesaid, with affected carelessness. “My emotion is only too easily explained.
One day, whilst hunting, I had a terrible misfortune. I accidentally killed
a poor young man, my secretary, who bore the name you have mentioned.
A court of law was appointed to inquire into this unhappy event, and after
hearing the witnesses, decided that the young man had been the victim of
his own carelessness, rather than of mine.”
Mascarot's smile was so satirical, that the count paused. “The persons
who have sent here," observed the agent, “are perfectly acquainted
with the evidence which was produced in court. Unfortunately, they also
know the real facts, which two honourable men had sworn to conceal.”
The count started, but Mascarot seemingly unconscious of the effect he
had produced, calmly proceeded. “Your witnesses, Monsieur le Comte, did
not willingly betray their oath. Providence, in its mysterious designs-"
“To the point, sir,” interrupted the count, with a shudder. “To the point.”
So far Mascarot had remained standing, and now seeing that there was
no intention of offering him a seat, he familiarly drew up an arm-chair and
installed himself in it. At this audacity the count quivered with anger,
but he dared not open his lips, and this alone should have sufficed to dis-
pel all the agent's doubts of success, supposing he had any remaining. “I
am coming to it," he replied “The event we allude to was witnessed
by two persons-one of your friends, the Baron de Clinchan, and a groom
of yours, named Ludovic Trofin, now in the service of the Comte de Com-
marin.”
“I did not know what had become of Ludovic.”
“I daresay, but our people know. This Ludovit, when he swore to
you eternal secrecy, was a bachelor. On marrying, a few years later, he
told the whole story to his young wife. This woman turned out badly, she
had several lovers ; and it was through one of these that the truth at last
reached those who send me here."
“ And it is on the word of a groom," cried the count, "and the tattle of a
worthless woman that they dare accuse me !—me !"
Not one word of direct accusation had been spoken, and yet M. de
Mussidan defended himself. Mascarot noticed this, and smiled as he re-
plied, “We have other testimony besides Ludovic's.
"Ah!” rejoined the count, who felt certain of his friend's fidelity,
"you do not pretend to say that the Baron de Clinchan has spoken ? '


42
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
The mental disturbance of this man of the world, usually so acute and
well versed in the social art of dissimulation, must have been great indeed,
for he did not perceive that each word he uttered furnished his adversary
with new arms against him.
“No," answered the agent, “he has done worse, he has written."
“It is false !"
Mascarot was not abashed. “The baron has written,” he repeated, “but
he thought he was only writing for himself. The Baron de Clinchan, as
you are well aware, is the most methodical man in the world, minute and
orderly in trifles to a puerile degree.”
“I admit it; go on,”
“Consequently, you will not be surprised to learn that from his boyhood
he has kept a journal in which he notes each evening full particulars of the
day's events, even to the variations of the temperature and of his health.”
The count was fully aware of this peculiarity, for which his friend had
often been chaffed in their earlier days, and now he began to see his peril.
“On becoming acquainted with Ludovic's revelations," continued Mas-
carot, “my employers decided that if the story was true, mention would
surely be found of it in the baron’s diary. Thanks to the ingenuity and
courage of certain parties, they obtained for four-and-twenty hours pos-
session of the volume recording the baron's life in 1842."
“Infamous !” murmured the count.
“They searched, and found not only one, but three distinct stateinents
bearing on the event in question.”
M. de Mussidan started to his feet with so threatening an aspect. that
the worthy Mascarot pushed back his chair in terror. “Proofs !” ex-
claimed the count. “Proofs !”
“Nothing has been forgotten. Before returning the volume to its place,
the three leaves concerning this event were torn out-"
“Where are these pages?”
Mascarot immediately assumed an indignant air of insulted honesty. “I
have not seen them,” said he, “but they were photographed, and a set of
proofs was intrusted to me, so that you might examine the writing."
At the same time he produced three proofs, admirably executed and
wonderfully clear. The count looked at them for a long time with careful
attention, and at last in a tone of utter discouragement, remarked, “Yes,
that is Clinchan's handwriting.”
Not a muscle in Mascarot's face indicated the pleasure with which he
heard these words. “Before going on with the matter,” he said, quietly,
“I consider it indispensable to master the Baron de Clinchan's narrative.
Do you wish to read this to yourself, Monsieur le Comte, or shall I read it
aloud ?”
“Read," answered the count, adding in a lower voice, “I cannot sec.”
Mascarot thereupon drew his own chair nearer the light. “I should
judge," said he, " that this entry was made the night of the accident.
This is it: '1842, Oct. 26th. Early this morning I went out shooting
with Octave de Mussidan. We were accompanied by Ludovic, the keeper,
and by a youtg fellow named Montlouis, whom Octave has been training
to act some day as his estate agent. The day opened gloriously. At noon
I had bagged three hares and four brace of partridges. Octave was in the
best of spirits. About one o'clock we made for the woods near Bivron.
I was about fifty steps in front of the others, with Ludovic, when hearing
soine shouting we looked round. Octave and Montlouis were having a


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
43
violent dispute, and we saw the count strike his future agent. I started
to run to them, when Montlouis came to meet me. “What is the matter?"
I asked, but instead of answering me, the foolish fellow turned again to-
wards his employer, threatening him and calling him by a name which,
applied to a young married man like Octave, was in the highest degree
insulting. Octave heard him. He had a loaded gun in his hand, and took
aim and fired. Montlouis fell. We rushed to him, but he never breathed
again. The ball had gone through his heart. I was overwhelmed with
consternation ; but I never saw anything so terrible as Octave's despair.
He tore his hair, and fell on his knces beside the body. Ludovic was the
only one of us who retained his coolness. “We must call this an accident,"
he said, promptly. “My master fired into the wood, supposing Montlouis
to be in another direction.” We therefore studied the ground, carefully
arranged a statement, and swore to each other not to swerve from it. It was
I who went before the justice of the peace at Bivron and filed the affidavit,
which was received without the least suspicion. But what a day! My
pulse has been beating eighty-six to the minute. I am dreadfully feverish,
and shall probably not sleep all night. Octave is almost crazy, and God
only knows what will happen !''
Extended almost in his low easy-chair, the count had listened to this narra-
tive without evincing the least emotion one way or the other. Was he over-
whelmed ? Was he seeking for some means of consigning to oblivion this
phantom of the past which had so suddenly risen before him, terrible and
threatening. Mascarot watched him keenly, anxious as to the effect the
narrative might have. Suddenly the count straightened himself up, for all
the world like a man who, on waking, realises that he has been terrified by
mere nightmare. “This is utter nonsense,” he said, calmly.
“Very clear nonsense, at all events," murmured Mascarot. “Nonsense
which might easily deceive the wisest of men. Nothing could be plainer
or more precise."
“Suppose I could prove to you," resumed the count, “ that this narrative
is not merely absurd, but false; that it is the outcome of a lunatic's hallu-
cinations."
Mascarot shook his head sadly. “We must not allow ourselves to be
deceived by false hopes,” he sighed ; “ for our awakening would be all the
more terrible.” He boldly spoke in the plural, thus associating himself,
Mascarot, the obscure agent, dabbling in dark dishonourable dealings, with
the proud Comte de Mussidan, who traced his title back to half-
forgotten centuries. And strange as it may seem, the count, far from
looking indignant, all but smiled. “We might maintain," continued
Mascarot, “ that the Baron de Clinchan made this entry in a moment of
temporary insanity, were it not for the fact that it is followed by other
entries. Let me read them.”
“Very well, I am listening.”
"Three days later," resumed B. Mascarot, “when M. de Clinchan had
had time to recover in some measure from the shock he had experienced, he
nevertheless wrote as follows :— 1842, Oct. 29th.-My health renders me
very anxious. I feel neuralgic pains in all my joints"; this utter disturb-
ance of my system comes from all this trouble about Octave. I have been
obliged to appear before an investigating magistrate. He has such a pierc-
ing look, one might fancy he could read one's thoughts. I notice with
terror that there is some variation between my first statement and my
second one. So as not to contradict myself, I must put my evidence down


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
45
own."
anxiety. It seemed as if he had come to some decision, and was prolonging
the discussion merely so as to gain time. “Well," he said, “I relinquish
this theory. But who will tell me that these papers are not forged ?
Handwriting is easily imitated now-a-days, and even the Bank of France
occasionally has a difficulty in separating counterfeit notes from among its
“Oh,” replied B. Mascarot, “ the identity of the handwriting can be
verified. And, besides, it will be found that three leaves are missing from
the Baron's diary for 1842.”
“But that proves nothing."
“I beg your pardon, it proves everything. Let me show you that this
new system of defence is worth as little as the other. Of course, I know
as well as you that the Baron de Clinchan will say whatever you may bid
him say."
"Pray, proceed.”
“Suppose the torn-out leaves should accurately fit into the volume.
Would not that evidence be satisfactory?"
The count smiled ironically as if he held in reserve a powerful argument.
“Is that really your opinion?” he asked.
“Indeed it is,"
“Then I suppose all I can do is to confess ?”
“Oh! with such proofs against one it isn't a question of confession, but
one of conviction.”
“Very well, then-it is true Montlouis was killed by me, precisely as
Clinchan has said. And Clinchan, although frightfully imprudent, is
nevertheless a man of honour. He knew the reasons which so enraged me
during my discussion with Montlouis, but he rightly made no mention of
them in his narrative.”
B. Mascarot greeted the count's acknowledgments with a sigh of relief,
and yet he felt somewhat nervous on account of the turn the interview
was taking, and was surprised by M. de Mussidan's easy, indifferent tone.
“However," resumed the count, “your employers are great fools to
think that they can use this immense misfortune as a weapon against me."
So saying, he took a weighty tome from one of the book shelves, searched
through it for a moment, and then placed it open in front of Mascarot.
“ This,” said he “is the Criminal Investigation Code. Come, see here-
read clause 637. Criminal action, and the civil action resulting there
from, for a crime punishable by death, or imprisonment for life, shall be
barred after the lapse of ten years.""
The count evidently expected that these few words would crush the
bland personage seated before him. Not in the least! Far from looking
surprised, Mascarot smiled more blandly than ever. “Ah !” he answered
“ I, too, know something of law. The first day that I was spoken to on
this matter, I turned to that same clause, and read those very words
aloud.”
"Well, and what did they say ?”
“Why this, We know all about the Code. If there were no prescrip.
tion we shouldn't need your services. We should simply call on the count,
and he would only be too pleased to offer us half his fortune.'"
Mascarot's air and tone of assurance were such that the count realised
that some infallible means had been devised of utilizing against him this
crime of earlier times. What means it was he could not say, but he
realised that it must certainly exist. And yet, although his heart sank


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
within him, he at least contrived to master all outward signs of emotion.
“ Come,” said he “so I have saved half my fortune ; for I suppose your em-
ployers will not be so exacting, now that these scraps of paper stolen from
my friend have become absolutely worthless."
** Worthless, do you say?"
“Certainly, for it seems to me that on this point the law is sufficiently
precise.”
Mascarot adjusted his spectacles, as he always did when he was about
to say something serious.
“ You are right, Monsieur le Comte,” he replied. “No one thinks of
reaching you by any judicial prosecution. You cannot be punished in any
way, for this murder which was committed twenty-three years ago.”
. Then ”
“Excuse me. The people for whom I so unwillingly act, and for whom
indeed, I blush, have planned a little scheme which will, I fancy, prove as
disagreeable to you, not to say disastrous, as to your friend the baron.”
“And might I ask you to explain this extremely ingenious scheme?”
“Certainly : it was to give you this explanation that I came here to-
day." He hesitated for a moment, as if seeking for the proper terms in
which to expose his plan, and then continued: “Let us first admit that you
will reject the request I shall have to make to you."
“Dear me, do you call this making a request.”
“ Pshaw ! we need not quibble over words. Well, I will suppose you
decline a compromise. Now, what happens? Why to-morrow my clients
-I am ashamed to call them thus—will prevail on a well-known news.
paper to print M. de Clinchan's touching narrative under the title of “ The
Story of a Shooting Party." The names will not appear in full, so far as
the baron and yourself are concerned ; but the reader will easily be able to
identify you, and, besides, there will be some additional particulars.”
“You forget, sir, that there are courts, and that proof is not admitted
in a case of defamation of character."
The agent shrugged his shoulders. “Oh! my people forget nothing,
and, in fact, their plan is based on this very point. For the reason you
mention they will introduce into the story a fifth personage, one of them.
selves, an accomplice, whose name will be printed in full. As soon as the
article appears, he will create a disturbance, and bring an action against the
paper. He will declare he has been infamously slandered, and insist upon
proving in a court of justice that he was not even present at this shooting
"And then?”
'". Then, this same individual will summon the Baron de Clinchan,
Ludovic the groom, and yourself as witnesses before the court, to prove
that he was not with you. He will employ an advocate, a member of his
own band, already retained, and the advocate while speaking on the
question of damages will naturally say something to this effect: 'It is
clear that M. de Mussidan is a murderer, and we know that the Baron de
Clinchan has committed perjury, for we have it in his own handwriting.
Ludovic moreover was their accomplice, but my client, an honourable man,
must by no means be confounded with these three culprits.' Have I
explained myself clearly ?”
Alas, yes ! so clearly and with such pitiless logic that escape seemed
hopeless. At one glance the count realised the future. He divined the
disgrace, the scandal such a suit would cause. He pictured all France
party.


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
47
gloating over the details. And yet such was his character, and so impatient
was he of all constraint, that he was more desperate than crushed. He
knew life and men. He realised that the wretches who threatened him
must have reason to dread the sharp eyes of the law, and said to himself
that if he refused to listen to them, they would probably not dare to ac-
complish their purpose. If the question had only concerned himself he
would assuredly have run all risks, and resisted to the bitter end ; and as
a beginning, would have given himself the satisfaction of inflicting corporal
punishment on the impudent scoundrel before him. But could he expose his
devoted friend Clinchan, already so compromised, to the consequences a
refusal might entail ? Clinchan was timid and nervous by nature, and
would not long survive such exposure. These thoughts and many others
flashed through his mind while he paced up and down the library. He
was undecided whether to submit, or to throw the agent out of the
window.
His excited air and nervous ejaculations, furnished ample proof of the
contest raging in his mind. It needed indeed an amount of impudence
approaching to heroism to brave a man of his kind-a man who, when his
blood was up, shot a fellow creature like a rabbit. But Mascarot was
familiar with peril; and whilst asking himself whether he would leave the
room by the door or the window, he twirled his thumbs with an air of quiet
unconcern.
At last, recovering his self-control with a great effort, the count decided
to follow the course which prudence indicated. Pausing abruptly in front
of the agent, and without in the least degree hiding his contempt, he curtly
said, “Let us end this. How much do you want for these papers ?”
Mascarot had assumed the aggrieved air of an honest man, wrongly sus-
pected. “Oh! Monsieur le Comte,” he began, “ you cannot believe me
capable_"
M. de Mussidan shrugged his shoulders. "At least,” said he, "credit
me with as much intelligence as you yourself possess. , What amount do
you demand?"
For the first time the agent seemed somewhat embarrassed, and hesi-
tated. “It is not money that my clients desire,” he said, at last.
“Not money!” replied the count, in astonishment.
“No,' but a thing which is nothing to you, and yet of the greatest
possible importance to those who send me. I am charged to tell you that
you may rest in peace if you will consent to break off the marriage now
projected between mademoiselle, your daughter, and Monsieur de Breulh-
Faverlay. The leaves from the baron's journal will be handed to you
whenever your daughter marries any other person you may select.”
These singular conditions were so much at variance with the count's
expectations that he could hardly believe his ears. “But this is absolute
madness,” he muttered.
“It is sincere, nevertheless," was the reply.
Suddenly the count started-an atrocious suspicion had flashed through his
mind. “Do you intend,” he asked, “as your next step, to impose on me
a son-in-law of your own choosing ?”
Mascarot drew himself erect. I have enough knowledge of character,"
he answered, “ to feel certain that, even to save yourself, you would never
consent to sacrifice your daughter."
" But-"
“You are mistaken in regard to the motives of my clients. They


48
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
threaten you, it is true, but it is really M. de Breulh whom they wish to
reach. They have sworn he shall never marry an heiress like your
daughter."
So great was the count's amazement, that he unwittingly gave an entirely
different turn to the interview. He still resisted, but in a dispassionate
manner, answering rather the objections which occured to himself, than the
remarks of his strange visitor. “Monsieur de Breulh has my word,”
he said.
“An excuse can surely be found.”
“But the countess, my wife, is in favour of the marriage ; she talks of it
constantly, and I should meet with great opposition from her.”
The agent thought it wiser not to answer this objection.
“ Then,” continued the count, “my daughter will probably feel regret at
this rupture."
Thanks to Florestan, Mascarot knew how much importance to attach to
this. “Oh !” said he, “Mademoiselle Sabine, with her age, position, and
education, is not likely to have any decided preference."
For another quarter of an hour the count continued struggling. It was
a sore humiliation indeed, to have to comply with the dictates of these
scoundrels. But he realised that he was at their mercy, and so at last he
yielded. “Well, let it be so," he finally exclaimed; my daughter shall
not marry Monsieur de Breulh.”
Mascarot had triumphed, and yet his expression did not change. He
walked backwards as he retired from the room, bowed to the very floor,
and exaggerated each mark of respect. Once on the stairs, however, he
rubbed his hands together. “If Hortebize has been as successful on his
side," he muttered " we may consider the game as won.'
VI.
THE expedients which Mascarot had been obliged to resort to, in seeking a
private interview with the Count de Mussidan, were not needed by Dr.
Hortebize in reference to the countess. As soon as he presented himself,
five minutes after the agent's arrival, the two footmen yawning in the hall
received him with fitting respect. They recognised the man of the world,
admitted to the acquaintance, if not to the intimacy, of their master and
mistress. And yet their tone, and the glance they exchanged as they
jointly answered, “Yes, Madame la Comtesse receives,” would have given
à less initiated visitor something to think about. Plainly they were sur-
prised to be able to say that Madame de Mussidan was at home. Their
surprise was natural enough, for, as a rule, the countess might be met in
the Bois, at the races, or at the Academy; at some restaurant or theatre, or
in some shop; at some lecture perchance, or at the rehearsal of a new
opera ; in the studio of a fashionable artist, or in the drawing-room of a
professor of music, listening to the first efforts of some newly discovered
tenor-in short, anywhere and everywhere excepting at home. Her's was
one of those restless, erratic natures always on the alert, excitable to a
degree, finding no pleasure or satisfaction save in the stir and bustle of
society. She scarcely ever gave a thought to her husband, her daughter, or
her home. She had other cares to occupy her mind. She collected for the
poor after mass. She presided over a society for the relief of repentant
unfortunates, she patronised an almshouse for old men. Good works how-


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
49
ever, occupied but a portion of her time. Her extravagance was unparal-
leled. The largest fortune would have failed to satisfy her whims. People
asked themselves if she had ever the faintest notion of the value of money.
Handfuls of gold melted between her fingers as handfuls of snow might
have done. What did she do with all this precious metal? No one knew
-she herself could scarcely have answered the question.
To these failings was attributed the estrangement which prevailed be.
tween herself and her husband. The count had to bear the burden of
matrimony without reaping any of its advantages. He resided in a splendid
mansion, admirably appointed, with a score of servants ready to obey his
bidding, and yet he really had no home. For years and years, it was said, he
had waited for his wife at lunch and at dinner. Sometimes she had chosen
to turn up, but more frequently she never put in an appearance. At last
M. de Mussidan, worn out by repeated struggles, relapsed on his side into
bachelor life, lunched at the Café Riche, and dined at his club.
Dr. Hortebize knew all this and many other things as well; so in no wise
disturbed, he followed the footman whose duty it was to announce his visit.
In the vast reception-room, magnificently upholstered, and yet as cold and
dreary as all rooins which are seldom if ever occupied, the Countess de
Mussidan reclined on a lounge near the fireplace. She was reading. At
sight of the physician, however, she hastily rose to her feet, and with evi-
dent pleasure exclaimed, “How kind of you, doctor, to come and see me."
So saying, she motioned the footman to advance an arm-chair.
The countess was forty-five, but, tall and slender, she had almost the figure
of a young girl. Her hair, remarkably abundant, was extremely fair, and
thus the silvery threads, scattered through it here and there, were all but
imperceptible. Her person exhaled a refined aristocratic perfume, and her
eyes, of a light almost milky blue, expressed intense pride and cold disdain.
“Really, doctor," she resumed, “ you know how to time your visits. I
am dying of ennui. I am wearied of books ; for no matter what I read, I
find I have read it before in one form or another. In calling on me so ap-
propriately, you must really have signed a compact with chance.”
The physician had indeed signed a compact, only the name of his chance
was Mascarot.
“I receive so seldom," continued Madame de Mussidan, “ that no one
now-a-days condescends to visit me. I must really set apart one day in the
week for my friends. As it is, whenever I stay at home, the solitude and
loneliness is something frightful. For two mortal days I have not been out
of doors. I have been taking care of the count."
This assertion was so singular and so bold that it would have surprised
even a better informed man. But the doctor smiled right pleasantly, and
ejaculated, “ Really !” in just the proper tone.
“Yes,” continued the countess ; “Monsieur de Mussidan slipped on the
stairs, the day before yesterday, and really hurt himself severely. Our
medical man says it is nothing ; but I seldoin believe anything that doctors
say."
“I know that by experience, madame.”
“Oh, as to that, doctor, it's quite a different matter. I assure you that
I used to have great faith in you. Only I admit it, I felt frightened after
your conversion to homopathy."
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “That school is as good as the other,”
he said.
“You think so ?"
VOL. I.


50
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“I am sure of it."
Madame de Mussidan was pleased to smile. “I am strongly tempted,”
she said, “now that you are here, to ask your advice.”
“You are not indisposed, madame, I hope?”
“I? no, indeed! Heaven be praised that would really be a blow.
But I am very anxious respecting my daughter's health.”
“Ah !” ejaculated Hortebize. The countess's maternal anxiety was on a
par with her conjugal devotion, and the doctor's “Ah!” was quite as good
as his “Really."
“Yes, indeed. · For a month, doctor, I have scarcely seen Sabine, I have
been so much occupied. Yesterday, however, I met her, and I was really
shocked to find such a change in her.”
“Did you ask her if she was suffering in any way?”
“Certainly, and she said no-in fact, that she was perfectly well."
“ Perhaps she has had some little annoyance ?”
“She? “Why she is one of the happiest girls in Paris. But I should like
you to see her, nevertheless." So saying she rang, and a servant at once
appeared. “Lubin,” said the countess, “ask Mademoiselle Sabine to
come down here."
“Mademoiselle Sabine has gone out, Madame la Comtesse."
“Indeed, and how long ago ?”
“Mademoiselle went out at about three o'clock."
" And who was with her ?”
“Her maid, Mademoiselle Modeste.”
“ Did mademoiselle say where she was going?”
“No, Madame la Comtesse."
“ Very well, that will do."
The servant thereupon bowed and retired.
Now imperturbable as the doctor usually was, he could not help feeling some-
what astonished at finding that Sabine de Mussidan, a girl of eighteen,
was as free as this. She had plainly gone out without warning, no one knew
whither, and yet her mother considered it all quite natural.
“It is really annoying,” resumed the countess, “very annoying! How-
ever, let us hope that the indisposition I fear will not delay her marriage."
Hortebize was delighted. The countess had broached the very subject
to which he had feared he must lead with infinite precautions and trouble.
“ Is Mademoiselle Sabine to be married, then ?” he asked with an air of
respectful interest.
Madame de Mussidan raised a finger to her lips. “Hush !” said she,
“it is a great secret, and nothing is absolutely settled. But you are a
physician, that is to say, as discreet as a confessor by profession, and I feel
I can trust you. It is more than probable that before the end of the year
Sabine will be Madame de Breulh-Faverlay.”
It is certain that Hortebize was less audacious than Mascarot, whose
plans had indeed often made the doctor turn pale and recoil. But once
consenting, he could be relied on, and went straight to the point without
compunction or hesitations. “I must acknowledge, madame, that I have
heard of this before,” he answered slowly.
“Indeed; folks talk about us?”.
“A great deal. And here, let me say, that it was not chance, as you
supposed, that brought me here to-day. In fact, I came to speak to you
about this very marriage."
Madaine de Mussidan liked Dr. Hortebize, and had often enjoyed his


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
51
witty conversation and the social gossip he was always ready to relate. She
saw no reason why she should not receive him from time to time, and in-
deed, she willingly talked to him in a familiar way; but she considered that
she had conceded him enough, and felt indignant that he should presume
to meddle with the family matters of such a high and noble dame as herself,
Comtesse de Mussidan by marriage, and a daughter by birth of the noble
house of Sauvebourg. “Really, doctor,” said she, “you confer a very
great honour on the count and myself by thus interesting yourself in this
marriage.”
These simple words were accentuated by such a stinging glance, that the
least sensitive person would have felt wounded in his self-esteem. But Dr.
Hortebize was there for other purposes than to lose his temper. He had
come to say certain things in a certain way. He had studied and prepared
his part in advance, and was not to be turned from his purpose by any.
thing the countess might say. In explanation and repartee he was greatly
Mascarot's superior, for the agent was far less proficient in the art of con-
versational shading and finessing, in allowing things to be understood with-
out saying them outright-in fact, in fully expressing what he wished to
convey without wounding his listener's susceptibility. Mascarot fully re-
cognised Hortebize's superiority in these respects, and no doubt envied it.
“ It is a question of birth,” he would say to himself. “Hortebize belongs
to a good family, he has received an excellent education, and has always
moved among the upper ten; whereas I only know what I have taught my-
self-I am a self-made man." .
But let us return to Madame de Mussidan's drawing-room. Hortebize,
for the time being, submitted the countess's affront with all due meekness of
spirit. "Believe me, madame," he answered, "when I accepted the
mission which brings me here, I did so inspired by the most respectful de-
votion for you and yours.”
“ Ab!” rejoined the countess, in a supercilious tone, “ah! so you are
devoted to us?”
“ Yes, madame; and I am sure, after you have heard all I have to say,
that you will have still greater reasons to be of that opinion !”
He said this in such a singular tone, that Madame de Mussidan started as
if she had received a shock from an electric battery.
“For twenty-five years,” continued the doctor, “I have been the con-
stant recipient of family secrets. I have had to listen to most horrible
revelations, I have often and often been in most trying and difficult posi-
tions, but never in my whole life have I been so embarrassed as at this
moment.'
“What! it's so serious as that?” observed the countess, forgetting to be
impertinent.
Perhaps so. However, if I come to you from a madman, as I hope is
the case, I shall make you, as in duty-bound, the most humble apologies,
If, on the contrary, what the person who has come to me, asserts is true-
if he has in his possession the absolute proofs he pretends—"
" Then, doctor?”
“Then, madame, I can only say, make use of me; for there is one man
who will serve you unto death, and I am he."
The countess laughed with as much sincerity, no doubt, as the heir to some
large fortune would weep. “Really,” said she, “your funereal aspect and
solemn voice will kill me—with laughing."
The doctor reflected. “She laughs too loud and too soon,” thought he,


52
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“Mascarot is right. Let us be prudent." Accordingly he replied aloud,
'“I trust, madame, that I may laugh, too, at my own chimerical fears.
But whatever happens, allow me to remind you of what you said a few
moments since : 'A physician is a confessor.' That is true, madame. Like
the priest, the physician hears secrets only to forget them. He must also
learn to comfort and console, with more ability, too, than the priest, for his
profession brings him more directly in contact with the passions and
temptations of life. He understands and excuses the impulses, the
fatalities—"
"And, doctor, you must not forget to add," interrupted the countess,
“that, like the priest, he preaches too." She launched this arrow with a
comic air of affected gravity, but it elicited no smile from Hortebize, who
became in fact more solemn than ever. “I may be absurd,” he said :
“and, indeed, I had better be that than re-open some painful wound which
you had supposed closed for ever.”
“Oh! don't fear that, doctor."
“ Then, madame, I will begin by asking if you retain any recollection of
a young man of your own circle, who in the early years of your married
life enjoyed a certain social reputation in Paris. I speak of the Marquis
George de Croisenois.”
Madame de Mussidan had thrown herself back on the settee, with her
eyes raised to the ceiling, and her brow contracted, as if vainly endeavour-
ing to recall the name. “The Marquis de Croisenois," she murmured.
“ It seems to me—wait a moment. No, doctor, I really do not remember
any such person.”
Her hearer thought it his duty to quicken this rebellious memory.
“ The Croisenois, I speak of,” said he,“ had a brother, Henry, whom you
certainly know, for I saw him this winter dancing with your daughter at
a ball given by the Duc de Sairmeuse."
“Ah, yes; you are right. I do recall the name now." The countess
spoke with admirable self-possession, and an air of utter indifference.
“Then, perhaps, you also remember that some twenty-three years ago
George de Croisenois, suddenly disappeared. This disappearance caused
a terrible stir at the time--it was the event of the season. The Minister of
the Interior was even questioned in parliament concerning it.
“Yes, I fancy I recollect.”
“George was seen for the last time at the Café de Paris, where he dined with
some friends. At nine o'clock he rose to leave ; one of his friends offered
to accompany him, but he refused. He was asked if they would see him
later, and he answered, perhaps so, at the opera; but at all events they
were not to count upon him.' It was, therefore, supposed that he was
going to some rendezvous.”
“Ah! his friends thought that?"
“Yes for although he was a man of fashion, a lion' as people said in
those times, he was yet more carefully dressed than usual. However, at all
events, he went away alone, and was never seen again."
“Never again," added the countess, a little too gaily, perhaps.
The doctor remained unmoved. “Never again," he repeated. “The
first two or three days his friends thought it extraordinary; at the end of a
week they grew anxious.”
“You are most precise in your details, doctor.”
“They are all true, madame. I knew them all at the time, but had
forgotten them, and they were only this morning brought back to my mind.


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
53
They are to be found, with many others, in the report of the minute legal
inquiry, which took place. De Croisenois' friends had searched after him
themselves, and meeting with no success, they called in the assistance of
the police. The most skilful detectives were put on the track. The first
suspicion was one of suicide. George might have gone to some wood
near Paris and have blown out his brains there ; but then he was in a
prosperous position, his fortune was ample, and his evident happiness and
ease of mind showed that this supposition was groundless. Then, the idea
of a murder gained ground, and the investigations were conducted on that
basis. However, nothing was discovered-nothing !”
The countess stifled a yawn of doubtful sincerity, and repeated, like an
echo, “Nothing !"
“ The police were as disconcerted as possible, when three months later,
one of George's friends received a letter from him."
“Ah! he was not dead then?”
The physician made a mental note of the countess's air and tone to
analyze them at his leisure. “Who knows?” he answered. “In this
letter, dated from Cairo, George said, that weary of life in Paris, he
was about to explore the interior of Africa, and that no anxiety need be felt
in regard to him. As you may suppose, this letter seemed suspicious. A man
does not start off on such an expedition without proper funds; and it was
proved that the marquis had not more than a thousand francs about him,
more than half that sum being in Spanish onzas, which he had won at cards
before dinner. The letter was, therefore, regarded as a forger's ruse.
However, the most renowned experts pronounced the writing to be Croise-
nois' and so two agents were at once dispatched to Cairo, but neither
there nor along the route had any one seen aught of the missing man-not
a trace, not a clue.”
Hortebize spoke as leisurely as possible, watching the countess, all the
while, but her face never changed.
“Eh !” said she as he paused. "Have you already finished ?"
Hortebize's eyes met hers before he answered. “ Perhaps not. A man
who called to see me yesterday morning pretends that you, madame, can
tell what became of George de Croisenois.”
In moral resistance a strong man is weaker than a feeble woman. How-
ever vigorous minded he may be, however bold and hardened, he will
allow his inner feelings to be divined, whilst a woman will undergo any
amount of mental torture with a smiling face. In dissimulation a young
girl is the superior of expert diplomatists, even where they blend the cun-
ning of Fouché with the genius of Talleyrand. Crushed by the weight of
evidence, a man falls upon his knees, but a woman holds her head still
higher, and fights on to the bitter end. God said to Cain, “ What hast
thou done with thy brother Abel ?" and Cain was overwhelmed. A
woman, on the contrary, would have denied and argued. At the mere
name of Montlouis the Count de Mussidan had turned pale, and tottered as
if struck by a mallet; but the countess met Hortebize's formal charge with
a peal of laughter, loud and clear and fresh, such thorough laughter in-
deed, that it seemed to prevent her from replying.
“Oh, doctor !” she said at last, “your little tale is. most interesting ;
but I really think you ought to consult a somnambulist, rather than me,
in regard to the fate of M. de Croisenois.".
Hortebize, as we have said, was expert in repartee, and played his "parts"
with consummate skill. Accordingly, far from looking surprised or dis-


54
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
concerted at the countess's hilarity, he drew a long breath, as if relieved
from a heavy burden, and ejaculated with intense delight: “Heaven be
praised! I have been deceived."
He spoke so naturally, with such an honest intonation, that the coun.
tess was thoroughly deceived. “However," she resumed, “I should be
glad to know the name of the practical joker who pretends I possess such
wonderful knowledge ?”
“Pshaw !" answered Hortebize, “what is the good ? He has made a
fool of me, and made me run the risk of displeasing you, madame : that is
quite enough. To morrow, if he presents himself, my servant will treat
him in accordance with his deserts. Indeed, if I followed my inclination,
I should enter a complaint-"
,6 What are you thinking of?” interrupted Madame de Mussidan.
“ Enter a complaint ? That would transforın utter nonsense into an im-
portant matter. However, tell me the name of your mysterious personage.
Do I know him ?”
"No, madame. That is impossible ; he is so far beneath you. His
name will teach you nothing. He is a man whom I doctored once—now
long ago. If I am not mistaken he is a lawyer's clerk. He is called Father
Tantaine."
"Tantaine?”
“A mere nickname, no doubt. The old fellow is wretchedly poor, a
kind of cynical philosopher, with considerable intelligence; and it was pre-
cisely this last fact that troubled me. I said to myself that, plainly enough,
he did not come from his master the lawyer, that he was rather the instru-
ment of some dangerous folks, who preferred to remain in the back-
ground, and whom one might be unable to capture.”
The countess could not help thinking that the doctor was too easily
re-assured. “But Dr. Hortebize," she insisted, "you spoke to me of
threats and proofs, and some mysterious power—"
“Certainly, madame; but I simply repeated Father Tantaine's words.
The old fool said to me, 'Madame de Mussidan knows the fate of the
marquis. It is clearly shown by the letters she has received from him, as
well as from the Duc de Champdoce.""
This time the physician's dart reached home. The countess started to
her feet as if impelled by a spring; she was deadly pale, her eyes dilated
with horror, and her lips quivered, as in a hoarse voice she exclaimed,
“My letters !"
A stranger would have pitied Hortebize, so utterly overwhelmed did he
seem by the consternation he had caused. “Your letters, madame?” he
answered with evident hesitation, “why that rascal Tantaine pretends he
has them in his possession "
Madame de Mussidan shrieked like a lioness bereft of her cubs. "The
villain !” she gasped at last; and then turning suddenly away, without
further thought of Hortebize, she rushed from the room. Her rapid foot-
fall could be heard on the stairs, with the frou-frou of her silk skirts
against the balusters.
Left to his own devices, the doctor rose. "Look !” he murmured,
with a cynical smile_“look, search, and you will see that the birds have
flown." He went to one of the windows, and tapped with his finger-tips
on the glass. “It is said,” he reflected,' “ that Mascarot never makes a
mistake. It is impossible not to admire his infernal penetration, his im-
placable logic. Taking the most trivial circumstances as his guide, he


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
reasons out a whole lifetime, just as the savant who, on glancing at the
leaf blown to his feet by the autumn wind, says what tree it has grown on,
and describes its blossom and fruit. Ah! if he had but applied his won-
derful ability, his extraordinary activity, his audacity, proof against all re-
buffs, to some noble end !” At this thought his brow grew dark, and he be.
gan to pace the room, pursuing his soliloquy. “But no,” he continued, “at
this moment he is upstairs occupied in martyrizing De Mussidan, while I, in
this room, am set to torture the countess. What a profession! And to
think this has been going on for five-and-twenty years. Ah! there are
days when I feel that I have paid dearly for my apparently easy life.
Without counting”-here he fingered his medallion-"without counting
that the day may come when we shall find our masters--and then the
end !"
He paused : the countess was on the threshold. A nervous quiver shook
her limbs, she was ghastly pale, and her eyes had a strange fixity of expres-
sion, such as often shows itself in moments of mental derangement. “She
was plainly terrified. “I have been robbed,” she exclaimed in a loud
voice, so troubled and pre-occcupied that she forgot she had left the door
open behind her, and that the servants in the hall might easily overhear her.
Fortunately, however, Dr. Hortebize had a cool head. With the ease of
an actor remedying a property man's forgetfulness, he walked to the door
and shut it. "What has been stolen ?” he asked.
"My letters - I cannot find them.” Then sinking on to the settee, she re-
sumed, in the curt, grating tone which consciousness of imminent peril
usually imparts, “And yet these letters were in an iron casket, fastened
by a secret lock, and this casket was hidden at the bottom of a deep drawer,
the key of which never leaves me. How can the letters have been stolen?
There were no outward signs of robbery.”
Hortebize had resumed his air of consternation. “Tantaine spoke the
truth then ?” said he.
“He spoke the truth,” replied the countess. “Yes, I am at this
moment the veriest slave to people whose names I do not know. They
are my masters—I cannot hope to resist them." As she spoke, she hid
her face in her hands, as if through pride she wished to conceal her
despair.
« Are these letters so overwhelming then?” asked the doctor.
“I am lost,” she answered.
The doctor looked as though he were racking his brain to find some loop.
hole of escape for the unfortunate woman before him.
“Ah!" continued the countess, “I was guilty-I was foolish in those old
days. I knew nothing of life—I hated, I sought vengeance. And all the
weapons prepared for others are now turned against me. I dug a pit for
my enemies, and now I must lie buried in it myself.”
Worthy Dr. Hortebize took care to offer no interruption. The countess
was in one of those moods of utter despair, when all that is in the depths of
the soul rises to the surface, like sea-weed to the crest of the waves during
a tempest. “I would far rather die!” she moaned—“yes, die, rather
than see these letters in my husband's hands. Poor Octave ! . Have I not
occasioned him sufficient suffering already? Ah ! I learned to know and
appreciate him only too late. And now, doctor, what am I threatened
with—with exposure, of course. These letters will be given to my husband
if I do not consent to what? It is money they want, of course; a great
deal of money. How much?”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
The doctor shook his head.
“Not money?" exclaimed the countess. “What then? Pray speak
-don't torture me in this needless fashion."
When alone with his conscience, Hortebize confessed that his specula-
tions were abominable, admitted the great risks he incurred, and not
having a naturally cruel mind, often pitied his victims. But the game
having begun he forgot his cares, nerved himself against compassion, and
went on without faltering to the bitter end. “What is asked of you,
Madame la Comtesse,” he replied, “ is either very little or else a great deal.
Everything depends on the way you look at it."
“What is it-I have strength to hear !”
"Well these fatal letters will be returned to you on the day Mademoi-
selle Sabine marries Henri de Croisenois, George's brother."
Madame de Mussidan's astonishment was so great that she stood motion-
less, as if rooted to the spot.
"I have been commissioned to inform you,” continued the doctor, “ that
you will be allowed any delay you may ask for to modify present plans.
But pray be careful, for I am quite certain that should your daughter
marry any one else than the Marquis de Croisenois, your letters would at
once be delivered to your husband.”
As he spoke, Hortebize watched for the effect of his words out of the
corner of his eye. His expectations were surpassed, for the countess rose
so faint and dizzy that she had to lean on the mantel-shelf for support.
" Then there is nothing more to be said,” she exclaimed. “It is out of
my power to grant what is asked of me. Perhaps it is better so. I shall
have no agony of suspense to bear. My fate is sealed. Go, doctor, go and
say to the scoundrel who stole my letters, that he can take them to the
count.”
The countess's tone was so decided that Hortebize scarcely knew what
to think. Was there really some insurmountable obstacle to the plans
which Mascarot had matured ?
“It is true then," continued Madame de Mussidan, “there are scoundrels
vile enough to trade on the shames and sorrows they discover, scoundrels
who earn a livelihood and make their fortunes at this business. I had
heard speak of it before, but I had never believed it. I said to myself
that such an idea had its sole foundation in the unhealthy imagination of
novelists. I was mistaken, it seems. Nevertheless, these infamous
scoundrels must not rejoice too swiftly. They will not profit by their
villainy. There is one refuge left to me-a refuge beyond the tomb."
“Madame!"exclaimed the doctor, imploringly, “Madame la Comtesse !"
But his entreaties were fruitless ; she was beyond all possibility of heed-
ing or even hearing his remonstrances. She continued speaking, her tone
increasing in violence, as she recapitulated all she had suffered. “Do the
villains think that I fear death ? Ah ! for years I have implored it as a
crowning mercy from the God I have offended. I long for the rest of the
grave ! Ît surprises you, perhaps, to hear me speak like this, I who was the
beautiful, the fattered Diane de Sauvebourg, Countess de Mussidan-happy
no doubt in the world's judgment! But at the time of my most splendid
fêtes, when my triumphs excited so much jealousy, I had already drained
the cup of suffering. And since then-ah! now-a-days my best friends,
surprised at my conduct, ask themselves if I am not deranged-mad. Ah!
I wish I only were. Those who are astonished by my feverish restlessness
and life of perpetual excitement, don't know that I am ever and ever seek-


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
57
ing to forget the presence of a phantom by my side-a phantom which
never leaves me, which follows me everywhere without relenting! They
cannot divine that solitude terrifies me—that I dare not be alone-that I
must have distraction at any cost. But, alas ! I have learned by this time,
that nothing, not all the noise of the universe, can stifle the murmur of my
own conscience !”
She spoke like a woman who has nothing more to hope for, whose final
sacrifice is made. Her clear, ringing voice resounded through the room;
and Dr. Hortebize turned pale, as he heard the servants, busy with prepara-
tions for dinner, pass constantly to and fro across the hall.
“How have I been able to endure such a life?” continued the countess.
“Simply because through the mists of the future I fancied I could de-
tect a glimpse of the light of hope. I often despaired, often thought of
giving up the struggle. And it would, perhaps, have been better had I done
so; for the light I saw was but a will o'the wisp. You have proved that
to me this very day. All hope has vanished. I see only thick darkness
before me ; and to-night, for the first time for many years, Diane de Mussidan
will repose in a calm and dreamless sleep!”
The countess was in such a state of excitement, that the doctor asked
himself in terror how he might subdue this explosion, which he had not
foreseen. The countess's loud voice would eventually startle the servants,
and they might summon the count himself, at that very moment under
Mascarot's knife. What would happen in that case? Why the whole
plot would simply be discovered and everything lost. Seeing that Madame
de Mussidan was about to rush from the room, that words had no power to
stop her, Hortebize summoned all his courage, and catching her by both
wrists, compelled her almost by force to sit down. “In the name of
heaven, madame !” he said in an unctuous, persuasive voice, “in the name
of your daughter, listen to me. Do not yield so weakly. Am I not here?
Am I not ready to serve you? If I have consented to act as the agent of
those scoundrels, who inspire me with horror, surely it is because I hope
to save you. Should I be here, if I thought that everything was lost?
Count on me-on the devotion of a man who knows something of the
world, and who is by no means devoid of heart. Cannot we two so com-
bine our energies as to ward off the storm ?"
The doctor talked on for some time in this persuasive manner, making as
strenuous efforts to reassure the countess as he had previously made to sur-
prise and overwhelm her. He was a medical man, remember, and
knew how to staunch the blood and soothe the quivering flesh after per-
forming a frightful operation. Soon he had the satisfaction of finding
that his efforts were not thrown away. Madame de Mussidan listened
to his rapid flow of words, and if she failed to grasp their meaning,
at least they calmed her. She subsided into that state of nervous pros-
tration which so often follows great excitement. At the end of a quarter
of an hour, thanks to prodigies of skill, the doctor had succeeded in induc-
ing her to look the situation fair in the face, and discuss its bearings. He
breathed freely once more; and as he wiped the perspiration from his brow,
felt that he had won the day. For if the countess accepted discussion she
must be surely vanquished.
And yet she still repeated, “It is infamous ! absolutely infamous ! ”
“Precisely, madaine," rejoined the doctor with alacrity; “but that does
not alter the facts. Answer one question, if you please. Have you any
special objection to Monsieur de Croisenois ? "


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
59
countess, to convince her that she was terrified by mere chimeras, that she
could not possibly be a stranger to her husband, and that her daughter
did not hate her. He was so insinuating and so persuasive, he so expatiated
on the result his devotion might yield, that at last a ray of hope penetrated
into her desolate heart. “Oh, doctor !" said she in a trembling voice, “it
is only in the hours of misfortune that we learn to know our true friends."
Like her husband, the countess had at last laid down her arms; her resist-
ance had been more prolonged, but the result proved the same-under com-
pulsion she surrendered. She promised she would set to work the next day,
do her best to break off the projected marriage, and as soon as occasion
offered, name M. Henri de Croisenois as an acceptable suitor for her daughter
Sabine's hand.
The doctor could hope for nothing better. On his side he declared he
would keep Tantaine quiet, and bring the countess intelligence from time
to time of any steps taken by her adversaries. At last, these mutual
promises having been exchanged, Hortebize withdrew ; his interview with
the countess having lasted fully a couple of hours. How glad he was to
find it over! He was Mascarot's partner no doubt, and Mascarot may have
had superhuman qualities ; but he, Hortebize, was at least a man. Although
the weather was very cold, the outdoor air seemed perfectly delicious to
him ; and as soon as he was in the street, he drew several long breaths, with
the happy consciousness of having accomplished a disagreeable duty. He
walked slowly up the Rue de Matignon, turned into the Faubourg Saint
Honoré, and at last entered the café where he and his honourable partner
had agreed to meet. Mascarot was there, in a corner, seated before an un-
touched glass of beer, and hidden behind a huge newspaper which he pre-
tended to be reading. In point of fact, he was dying of impatience, and
started nervously each time a fresh customer opened the door. A thousand
apprehensions troubled him, and he asked himself if Hortebize had en-
countered some unforeseen and insurmountable obstacle-one of those im-
perceptible grains of sand which, as Bossuet tells us in the memorable case
of Cromwell, disarrange the most perfect combinations.
“Well ?" asked he impatiently, as soon as the doctor appeared.
66 Victory!” answered Hortebize, but as he sank on a chair, he added,
“ However, it has been a terrible task, and no mistake."
VII.
It will be remembered that on taking leave of B. Mascarot, his new pro-
tector, Paul Violaine stumbled down the stairs of the Employment Agency
with the unsteady step of a tippler the worse for liquor. He was well-nigh
as stunned by his sudden, unexpected good fortune, as if a paving-stone had
fallen on his head. In a moment, without any transition so to say, he had
passed from abject misery, haunted by thoughts of suicide, to a position of
twelve thousand francs a year. Ay, the agent had said twelve thousand
francs, a thousand francs per month, and he had offered to pay the first
month in advance! It was certainly enough to bewilder a inan, and it
seemed to Paul that he was losing his senses. He could think of nothing
but that handsome salary, so incredibly large under the circumstances; and
dazzled, fascinated so to say, he did not pause to examine and analyse the
various incidents which had conducted to this wonderful result. And yet
they were strange enough, and well worthy of scrutiny. That old lawyer's


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
thumb, and his brushes in his hand. He was a tall young fellow, admirably
built, and very dark, with close cropped hair, and a full, silky, curling black
beard. Compared with Paul, André was certainly not handsome. But
the young painter had all what was lacking in the face of Mascarot's pro-
tégé : his countenance was full of expression, once seen it was not easily
forgotten, his brow was broad and proud, his mouth firinly curved, and
his frank smile and honest eyes bespoke at once his loyalty, intelligence,
goodness of heart and energy.
One singularity immediately struck Paul. André, who had evidently
been painting, wore no artist's blouse, but was dressed with extreme care,
if not in the latest style. On recognising Paul, the young artist laid down
his palette, and came forward with extended hands. “Ah!" said he, “I
am glad to see you. I could not imagine what had become of you.”
This friendly greeting annoyed and embarrassed Mascarot's protégé. "I
have had a thousand disappointments,” he began, “a thousand cares—".
" And Rose?” interrupted André; “ you bring me good news of her, I
hope. Is she as pretty as ever ?”
to Just the same," answered Paul, indifferently. “But you must excuse
me,” he added, “for having vanished so entirely from your view. I come
to thank you now, and to return your loan.”
The young painter shrugged his shoulders in differently. “Pshaw !” said
he, “ you were the only one of us two who could have remembered such a
bagatelle. Don't stand on ceremony with me--don't let this give you any
inconvenience.”
These words displeased Paul. His vanity was offended. He fancied
this seeming generosity concealed a desire to humiliate him. However, he
had at all events a delightful opportunity of showing his superiority.
“On," he answered, conceitedly, “it gives me no possible inconvenience.
I was, I admit, very poor at the time you obliged me, but I am now in
receipt of a salary of twelve thousand francs.”
He thought the artist would be dazzled, and allow some envious ex-
clamation to escape him ; but he found himself mistaken, and was obliged
to add, “At my age it is very pleasant.”
“Magnificent, I should call it. And may I ask, if it is not an indiscre-
tion, what your employment is ?”
This question was perfectly natural under the circumstances; but as
Paul could not answer it, for he was as yet in utter ignorance of his future
duties, it wounded him as if it had been a premeditated insult. “I work !"
he answered, straightening himself up.
His manner was so singular that André, a thousand leagues from the
truth, could not conceal his surprise. “As for myself," he answered, “it
seldom happens that I reinain idle."
“No doubt,” rejoined Paul, “but I am obliged to exert myself more
than you, as I have no one to interest himself in my future, neither friend
nor protector !” The ungrateful fellow had forgotten Mascarot.
His words seemed to furnish André considerable amusement. “Pro-
tectors !" quoth he. “Do you imagine that the State provides foundlings
with protection ?”
Paul looked amazed. “What !” he asked, “are you—”.
"A foundling? Yes. And I make no mystery of it. For though it
might give me occasion to weep, it surely has never made me blush. All
my comrades know that such is the case, and I am surprised you are
ignorant of it. I am simply a foundling from the Vendôme hospital,


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
where, by the way, I must have left the reputation of being a little good-for-
nothing."
“You?”...
“Yes, I; and frankly I don't feel the least remorse. But to explain
myself. Until I was twelve years old I was the happiest of children, for my
teachers were pleased with me. I worked all day in the garden along the
Loire, and in the evening I wasted a vast amount of paper, for even then
I had determined to be an artist. But there is nothing lasting in the
world, and one day the Superior took it into her head to apprentice me to
a tanner.”
Paul was seated on the divan, and as he listened, he rolled a cigarette.
He was about to light it, when André hastily exclaimed, “I beg your
pardon, but you will oblige me by not smoking here."
Without asking the reason for this request, for the painter was an in-
cessant smoker himself, Paul tossed his match aside. “All right,” said
he; “but pray go on with your story.”
“Oh! willingly; it is not very long. This trade of a tanner was dis-
agreeable to me from the first moment; and on the second day an awkward
workman upset a kettle of boiling water, which scalded me so cruelly that
I still bear the marks.” As he spoke, he turned up his right sleeve and
showed a large scar extending from his elbow to his shoulder. “Disgusted
and scalded, I implored the Superior, a terrible woman with spectacles, to
apprentice me to some other trade; but my entreaties were useless. She
had sworn that I should be a tanner ! ”
“That was hard.”
“ Harder than you think! However, from that day my mind was made
up. I determined to run away as soon as I had saved a trifle, and accord-
ingly I became a most industrious and attentive apprentice. At the end of
a year, thanks to prodigies of economy and industry on my part, I had
saved up some forty francs. I decided this would do ; and so, one fine
April morning, furnished with a shirt, a blouse, and a pair of shoes in a
bundle, I started on foot for Paris—""
“And you were only thirteen?”
“Not quite thirteen. Fortunately, I had received from Heaven a fair
dose of will, such as some persons call head-strong folly. I had sworn
that I would be a painter-
“ And you have succeeded in becoming one."
“Not without infinite difficulty. Ah! I can see now the inn where I
slept that first night I arrived in Paris. It was at the top of the Fau.
bourg St. Jacques. I was so worn out, that I slept fifteen hours on the
stretch. When I woke up I ordered a good breakfast; and then, seeing
that my funds were very low, I said to myself, "To work, my boy, to
work ! »»
Paul smiled. He remembered his first days in Paris, his troubles and
disappointments. And yet he had been far more fortunately circumstanced
than André. The latter was then but thirteen, and had only forty francs
in his purse, whereas he, Paul, had already reached manhood and could
hear a hundred and fifty gold napoleons jingling in his pockets.
“You wished to find some employment?" asked Mascarot's protégé.
“ Yes, and something more. I said to myself, that to know anything
I must learn it thoroughly, and if I passionately longed to make money it
was to enable me to pursue my studies. Fortunately, while I was eating, I
noticed a stout man sitting near me, who was breakfasting as well. "See,


64
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
sir,' said I, look at me. I am only thirteen, but I am much stronger than
my years; I can read and write ; I am not afraid of work. What shall I
do to earn my living?'"
He looked at me from head to foot, and then in a rough voice said,
“Go, to-morrow morning, to the Place de l'Hôtel de Ville, where the
masons meet to be hired. You'll perhaps find some master-mason who'll
engage you."
* And you went?”
“Yes, fortunately for me. At four o'clock the next morning I was
wandering among the groups of workmen, when suddenly I saw my stout
friend of the day before. He came towards me at once. “Boy,' he said,
'you please me. I am a contractor for ornamental sculpture ; will you be
my apprentice ?' To learn sculpture-I thought Heaven was opening
before me ! Certainly I will,' said I. No sooner said than done. This
worthy man was Jean Lantier, the father of my present master.”
“But your painting ?”
“Oh, that came much later. As I wished to obtain a certain education,
I studied in all my leisure time. I went to school in the evening regularly,
I learnt drawing properly. I bought books, and on Sundays I even employed
a teacher for myself alone."
“Out of your economies ?”
“Precisely; and it was a long time before I ventured to indulge myself
with a glass of beer. 'Six sous,' I said to myself; 'put it by, André.'
However, at last, the day came when I made my eighty or hundred francs
a week, and then I ventured to indulge in painting."
“And you have never thought of returning to Vendômne ?"
“ Yes I have often thought of it, but I sha'n't do so until I'm in a
position to furnish a sum of money to bring up some poor abandoned
youngster like myself.”
If André had purposely wished to wound and mortify Paul, he could
not have expressed himself differently. Each of his words was full of
bitterness for Mascarot's protégé, who, albeit, realised that in mere polite-
ness he must make some complimentary remark. After an effort, there-
fore, he exclaimed, “With such talent as your's, success becomes a
certainty.”
Then, as if seeking for confirmation of his opinion, he rose, and ap.
parently examined the sketches on the wall. In reality, however, he was
strongly attracted by the heavily-framed picture, so carefully screened by the
green baize curtain on the easel before him. While André had proceeded
with his narrative, Paul, annoyed as he was, found his thoughts turn with
strange persistency to this painting. He remembered the indiscreet
babble of Madame Poilever, the old concierge, on the subject of a thickly
veiled young lady, who, accompanied by her maid, was in the habit of
visiting the painter. Besides, when he had knocked at the door on his
arrival, he had only been tardily admitted. Had he not heard the easel
moved and the curtain drawn? And then why was André so carefully
dressed? why had he asked him not to smoke? "Judging by all this, Paul
decided that André was in momentary expectation of the lady's arrival,
and that the portrait was unquestionably her likeness. He therefore de-
termined to see it, whether André gave his consent or not. Consequently,
as he went around the room admiring each sketch and study, with ohs!
and ahs ! of approval, he maneuvered so as to approach the easel in a
gradual, natural style. Reaching it at last he paused abruptly, and point-


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
often exhibit in the satisfaction of a petty vengeance a tenacity they fail
to apply to more important matters." He had waited a good half hour,
when suddenly a cab drew up at the door of the house he was watching.
Two women alighted, one of them, young with a most distinguished air,
the other clad like a lady's inaid in an aristocratic family.
Paul approached them without the least hesitation, and although the
younger woman wore a thick veil, he was easily able to recognise her as
the original of the photograph he had seen in André's room. "Ah, well!”
he said frankly, “I prefer Rose ; and the proof is, that I am going at once
to find her. We will pay Mother Loupias, and leave that abominable
Hôtel du Pérou, for good.”
VIII.
B. MASCAROT S protégé was not the only person who had been playing the
spy. On hearing the cab wheels, Madame Poileveu, albeit the most dis-
creet of concierges, advanced to the threshold and fixed both eyes on the
young lady. As the latter entered with her maid, Madame Poileveu had
an inspiration. She advanced into the street and spoke to the driver.
“ Bad weather," said she “I don't envy you your seat in winter time."
“Don't speak of it,"answered the man ; "my feet are quite frozen.”
“ Your two fares have perhaps come some long distance.”
“I should say so, indeed! I took them up in the Champs Elysées, near
the Avenue de Matignon.”
“ Is it possible !"
“Yes, and only four sous gratuity. Ain't it disgusting? Heaven
preserve me from respectable women !”
“Ah! respectable, are they?".
“Oh, yes, I'll answer for them. The others are more generous by far.
I know both sets.” At the same moment, delighted to have given this
proof of his penetration, he whipped up his horse and drove away.
The concierge regained her quarters, only half pleased. “However,”
she muttered, “I at least know what neighbourhood the damsel lives in.
The next time I will offer something to the maid, and she will tell me
everything."
But this hope was a false one, for the maid in question was absolutely
devoted tu her mistress. She was indeed by no means pleased with the
persistent glances the concierge gave her on each occasion ; and as she
climbed the stairs, she bitterly complained to her mistress of what she called
the “creature's insolence." "She would certainly complain,” she said,
“to Monsieur André, and he would soon put a stop to the woman's
impertinence.”
But the mere idea of any complaint startled the young lady, who, turning
towards her maid, firmly responded, “No, Modeste, do not open your
lips to André on the subject."
“But, mademoiselle"
“Hush! Remember what I say, and obey me. Come, we must make
haste, for he is waiting.”
Yes, he was waiting in all that delicious agony of suspense known only
at earlier manhood. After Paul's departure, André had been unable to sit
still; it seemed to him that each second was an eternity. He had opened
the door of his studio, and at each time he heard the slightest noise he ran


THẾ SLAVES OF PARs.
67
to the stairs. At last he really heard her ; a harmony like that of the
celestial spheres was the rustling of the loved one's robe. Leaning over
the bannisters, he caught a gliinpse of her. Yes, it was she; she had reached
the second floor-now the third- and at last she entered his studio, the
door of which he closed behind her.
“Good evening, André,” she said, offering her hand; "you see that I
am punctual.”
Pale with emotion and trembling like a leaf, André took hold of the
little hand and pressed it respectfully to his lips, as he stammered :
“ Mademoiselle Sabine, oh ! how good of you. Thanks !"
It was indeed Sabine, the only descendant of the old powerful house of
De Mussidan, who had come to see André, the foundling of the Vendôme
Hospital. It was Sabine, the maiden naturally reserved and timid, taught
to respect all social conventionalities, who thus risked what was most
precious to her in the world-her honour and reputation. It was she who,
despite all the prejudices of her education and race, thus came from the
Rue de Matignon, to the distant studio in the Rue de la Tour d'Auvergne.
Reason finds no excuse for such daring conduct, but the heart easily
explains it.
For more than two years Sabine and André had loved each other. They
had met for the first time at the Château de Mussidan, brought together by
a succession of trifling incidents, which set at defiance all the precautions
of human prudence. Man conceives and combines project after project,
but above him rules Providence-fools say chance ; and the far-seeing eye
and omnipotent hand of the Almighty order everything for the accomplish-
ment of His impenetrable designs.
At the end of the summer of 1865, André, whose constant application to
work had somewhat injured his health, was thinking of travelling, when,
one evening, his master, Jean Lantier, sent for him. “If you would like
comparative rest,” said he, “and at the same time make some three or four
hundred francs, now's your chance. An architect asks me for a sculptor
to execute something in the country-in a superb place, with magnificent
scenery all about. Would you like to undertake the work?”
The proposal was so acceptable to André, that by the end of the week he
was on his way, with the prospect of a month's absence from the turmoil of
Paris. On his arrival at Mussidan, he made an examination of the work
intrusted to him, and saw that he could accomplish it with perfect ease.
It was simply to restore some ornaments over a balcony which had been
recently repaired. The whole could be completed in a fortnight. However,
he did not hurry. The surrounding country delighted him; he made a
number of charming watercolour sketches; and with open air and sunshine
his health speedily returned. There was yet another reason why he inade
no haste-but this reason he dared not acknowledge even to himself. In
the park he had caught a glimpse of a young girl whose eyes, as she
glanced at him, had filled his heart with a new and delightful emotion.
Now, this young girl was Sabine.
At midsummer the count had started for Germany, the countess had
taken refuge at Luchon, and between them they had decided the wisest
thing to do was to send their daughter to the old family mansion, under
the protection of an aged relative, Madame de Chevauché. The story of
these two young people, André and Sabine, was that of all those who have
been truly young, and who have loved with sincerity. They exchanged a
word or two one morning, and the next day Sabine went out on the balcony


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
69
destinies, far apart as they seemed, had certain points of resemblance.
With a father and mother who held “home” in equal horror, Sabine was
well nigh as abandoned as André !
Their days now passed rapidly away. Forgotten by the whole world,
apparently sequestered in this isolated château, they were free as the
summer breezes ; for Madame de Chevauché never troubled them, Regu-
larly after breakfast the old lady begged André to read her the Gazette, and
regularly, also, between the twentieth and thirtieth lines, she sank into a
sleep which no one ever dared to disturb. The two young people slipped
away on tiptoe, gaily laughing like truants from school; and they wandered
through the wide avenues of the park, in the shade of the ancient oaks,
or else in the full sunlight skirted the russet-hued rocks of Bivron. At
times on board an old worm-eaten boat, which André contrived to utilise,
they drifted down the little river, past the creepers and iris and among the
reeds and water-lilies.
Two months thus slipped away-two entire months of enchantment-two
months of intoxication and love, although the word, love, never once leaped
from their hearts to their lips. After having long fought against a passion
from which he could see no happy issue, André had ended by casting re.
flection aside. He refused to think of the future, in the same way that a
consumptive refuses to think of her inalady. He vaguely anticipated some
great calamity which would separate them, but while awaiting it, each
night he thanked God on bended knees that He had granted him another
day of happiness. “No,” he said to himself, “it cannot last, I am too
happy ;” and he was right.
Anxious to justify his lingering at Mussidan, André, after completing the
task that had brought him there, decided to add to the decorations of the
house a chef-d'ouvre of modern art. He determined to throw over the
stone of the old balcony a garland of leaves and flowers—clematis and creep-
ing virginia blended, so to say, in one. Each day, 'while everyone else was
yet sound asleep, his task advanced. One morning while he was on the
balcony occupied with the creepers, the old valet who usually waited on
him carne to say that Madame de Chevauché wished to speak to him. “She
begged me to hurry you, sir, saying it was a matter of importance.”
The young artist had a presentiment of impending misfortune. He
divined that his dream of bliss was over, and followed the old servant with
the uncertain, hesitating steps of a condemned man. As they paused in
front of the drawing-room where Sabine's aunt was waiting, the valet
whispered, “Take care, sir, take care ! Madame is in such a state of
mind. I never have seen her like it since the day my master died."
The old lady was indeed in a terrible temper; and, despite her rheuma-
tism, was walking up and down the room, her high cap askew, gesticulat-
ing and rapping on the floor with her tall cane. When André appeared,
she paused abruptly, threw back her head with a haughty gesture, and in a
loud, masculine-like voice-such as women of the old aristocracy keep in
reserve for special occasions-began, “Ah, ah ! my fine fellow ! you have
had the impudence, I am told, to make love to my niece !”
She addressed him precisely as she might have spoken to a farm servant,
thinking, no doubt, that she would thus awaken in him a more vivid sense
of the enormity of his offence. Pale as André had previously been, he now
flushed scarlet. “Madame ! ” he stammered.
“Good heavens ! man, do you intend to deny what I say, when your
very face tells the truth?” cried the angry old lady. “Do you know you


70
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
are an impudent knave, to presume to lift your eyes to Sabine de Mussidan?
How can you have been so audacious ? Because I was over kind to you, I
suppose. Did you mean to seduce her, or did you think of asking for her
hand in marriage ?”
“I swear to you, madame. Upon my honour-"
“Upon your honour? To hear you, one would suppose you were a born
nobleman. If my husband had been alive, he would have broken every
bone in your body ; but I must simply content myself with ordering you
from the premises. Get your tools together, my man, and be off !”
André did not move. He stood as if turned to stone. Sensitive as he
usually was, he now hardly noticed the indignity with which he was treated
-hc only realized that he should never see Sabine again; and as the full force
of this misfortune swept over him, he turned deadly pale and staggered to
a chair. His manner was so unexpected, his bitter grief so apparent, that
the old lady seemed actually touched, and resumed in a softer tone, “I
have, perhaps, been very severe with you, sir; but I am, unfortunately, very
quick-tempered. This lamentable affair is my fault in a very great degree.
As the Cure of Bivron told me early this morning, I am so old that I had
forgotten how young people were likely to conduct themselves when left
alone. I was the only one it seems who was ignorant of your goings on ;
for the whole district has been chattering about you and my niece.”
André started to his feet with so threatening a gesture, that had the six
hundred inhabitants of Bivron seen him, they would certainly have fled in
terror. "Ah!” cried he, “if I only had the wretches by the throat!”
“Good !” exclaimed Madame de Chevauché, by no means displeased with
this energetic language. “Good ! but you can hardly expect to cut out
every malicious tongue. Fortunately, the harm is so far not irreparable ; so
go away and forget my niece."
“Go away and forget!”she might as well have bid André destroy him.
self. “Madame,” he began, in a despairing tone, “pray listen to me. I
am young, and full of courage and hope !”
His despair was so intense, his voice so heart-broken, that the old lady
positively pitied him. “What is the use of saying that to me?" she asked.
* Sabine is not my child. All that I can do is never to mention this matter
to my niece's father and mother. Good heavens ! if Mussidan only knew
it, what a stir he would make! Come, now, go away! You have made
me ill, and I don't believe I shall eat a mouthful for the next two days."
André left the room, supporting himself against the wall. The floor
seemed to heave and roll like a ship's deck in a gale. His mind was whirl-
ing too, and he could barely see where he was going. In the hall, however,
he realised that some one grasped his hand; and after a vigorous effort to
collect his thoughts, he perceived Sabine, pale and statue-like, beside him.
“ I have heard everything, André, everything," said she.
“Yes," he stammered. It is all over ; I am driven away."
“Where are you going?”
“God only knows! I do not care."
Sabine laid her hand on his arm. “You are desperate,” she whispered.
He looked at her with eyes that terrified her, and answered, in a husky
voice, “Desperate, indeed!”.
Never had Sabine been so lovely. Her eyes sparkled with generous de-
termination, her expression was sublime. “But, supposing," said she,
“supposing I showed you some gleam of future hope, what would you do
then?”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
71
“What would I do?” cried André, with delirious exultation. “Why,
everything in the power of man. Let obstacles be multiplied around us,
I would dash them aside. No matter how difficult the conditions im-
posed upon me, I would fulfil them. If a fortune is wanted, I will make
it-a name, I will win it !”.
“You have forgotten one thing that is needed-patience."
“Ah! mademoiselle, I have that too. Don't you understand, that with
one word from you I can live on hope?"
Sabine raised her right hand, as if calling on heaven to hear her.
“Work,” she said, “work and hope, André ; for I swear before God that I
will be your wife, or die unmarried. If there must be a contest, then-"
A loud noise at the end of the hall interrupted her. Old Madame de
Chevauché was rapping on the door with her cane. “Still here !” she
cried in a ringing voice.
André turned and fled. His heart was beating wildly. Ah ! now he had
a hope which would enable him to bear all trials without a murmur. What
happened after his departure between Madame de Chevauché and her
niece? The servants remarked that, after a long conference together,
they both had red and swollen eyes. It is possible that Sabine coaxed the
old lady round to her way of thinking : for two months later, when
Madame de Chevauché diel, she bequeathed everything she possessed
directly to Sabine, her will being so drawn up that Mademoiselle de
Mussidan was to receive the revenues as long as she remained single, and
the entire capital on the day of her marriage, “ with or without her parents'
consent." This clause made Sabine's mother remark, “Our poor aunt
lost her mind at last."
No, she had not lost her mind. Sabine and André understood her per-
fectly, and sincerely mourned the excellent woman, whose last desire was
to smooth their path.
They were then both in Paris, André hard at work, Sabine true to her
promises. In Paris she was even more mistress of her time and actions
than when at Mussidan. She was guarded only by her faithful maid,
Modeste, who was absolutely devoted to her. Thus after corresponding
with André, she had at last granted him several interviews, and finally,
yielding to his entreaties, she had consented to visit him at his studio, al-
ways accompanied, be it understood, by Modeste. And here, it may be
added, that never a sovereign, visiting her devoted subjects, never a
madonna borne in procession through a crowd of worshippers, was the ob-
ject of more respectful adoration, than that offered to Sabine in the artist's
humble home.
IX.
Of course, Mademoiselle de Mussidan had absolute certainty of being
treated with boundless respect before she decided to visit André.
When she entered his modest studio, pervaded as it was with thoughts of
her, she seemed to breathe the incense that had burned in her honour.
She was so calm and self-possessed, that no one would have imagined she
was conscious of having ventered on the most hazardous step a young girl
can possibly take. After giving André her hand, she slowly took off her
bonnet, handed it to Modeste, and then inquired, “How do I look, my
friend?"


72
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
The artist's passionate answer made her smile, and she gaily added, “I
meant to say, am I as I ought to be for my portrait ?”
Sabine was beautiful ; but to compare her beauty with Rose's as Paul
had done, was foolish in the extreme. Rose's beauty was of the kind that
take the senses captive, and wins the light admiration of a libertine ;
Sabine's was of a different character, refined and idealized. Rose chained
the body to this earth ; Sabine raised the soul hea venwards. To judge
Mademoiselle de Mussidan it was necessary to know her, to be worthy of
her so to say. There was nothing dazzling about her chaste beauty. An
expression of placid resignation, somewhat mingled with reserve, greatly
attenuated the impression she was likely to cause on a superficial observer.
She could have passed unnoticed, like some forgotten Raphael, coated with
dust, and hanging in an obscure village church. But when attention was
once really attracted, no one could tire of admiring her broad brow, with
its crown of braided chestnut hair ; her large soft eyes, her exquisitely
curved lips, and her transparent complexion. She had adopted for her
portrait a coiffure, long out of fashion, but which suited her wonderfully ;
and it was in connection with this coiffure that she had asked, “How do
I look ?'
“Alas !” said André, “when I see you, I realize all my lack of skill.
An hour ago, I said to myself, the portrait is finished ! But now, I can't
conceal the truth, my work is most imperfect.”
He had drawn aside the baize curtain, and Sabine's portrait stood with
the light full upon it. It was by no means a work of extraordinary merit.
André was but twenty-four, and while studying, he had been compelled to
toil for his daily bread. Still the picture was not wanting in originalty ;
and although lack of experience was apparent, here and there there was a cer-
tain charm even about its very faults. Sabine stood for a moment looking
at it in silence, and then in a tone of sincere conviction said, "It is
beautiful.”
The young painter was too discouraged to accept this praise. "No
doubt it is not unlike you,” he replied, slowly ; “but the photograph you
gave me was an excellent likness, better even than this. I have achieved
but a sorry result, for I have been unable to impart the least reflection of
your inner self. It is but a superficial sketch. However, I will try again,
and then-"
Sabine interrupted him with a gesture of denial. “You will not try
again,” she said, in a sweet but firm voice.
" Why not?” he asked in surprise.
“ Because, my dear friend, this visit will be my last.”
“ The last," staminered André. “What have I done that you should
punish me so cruelly ?”
“I am not punishing you, André," answered Sabine. “You desired my
portrait; I yielded to your entreaties, and do not regret having done so.
But listen, now, to the voice of reason. Don't you understand that I have
no right to trifle in this way with my reputation ? Have you thought what
the world would say if it ever became known that I have come here like
this, day after day?”
He did not reply: he was trying to recover from this heavy blow. “Be-
sides," resumed Mademoiselle de Mussidan, “what is the use of a picture
that must be hidden like a bad action? Do you forget that our future-
our marriage depend on your rapid success ?"
“No, surely I don't forget it.”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
73
" Then hasten your endeavours André. It is not enough for me to say my
choice is not an ordinary one-you must prove the truth of my words by your
works.”
" And I will do so!”
“So I believe, dear friend. But remember what I said a year ago :
* Become celebrated, and then go to the Comte de Mussidan, my father, and
ask him for his daughter's hand. If he refuse--if my prayers do not move
him-I will leave his house on your arm.'”
“You are right!” replied André. “Let us leave the portrait on one
side : I should be a fool to sacrifice a future life of happiness for a brief
space of present joy. To hear you, moreover, is to obey.”
Mademoiselle de Mussidan reclined in the great arm-chair ; André drew
forward a carved oak stool, and in his turn sat down. “Now," resumed
Sabine, “as we agree so well, let us discuss our common interests, for it
seems to me we have been neglecting them."
These common interests simply resolved themselves into the question of
André's success, and he at once began to relate what had happened since
their last meeting: “I am really embarrassed," he began. "The day be-
fore yesterday Prince Crescenzi, the celebrated amateur, came to visit my
studio. One of my sketches pleased him, and he ordered a picture, agree-
ing to pay me six thousand francs.”
* But that is a great stroke of luck!"
“To be sure : but, unfortunately, he wants it at once. Then, again,
Jean Lantier, overwhelmed with work, offers to transfer to me the ornamen-
tation of a large house in the Champs Elysées, which he is building for a
contractor, M. Gandelu. He proposes I should engage the necessary work-
men, superintend the whole affair, and thus net some seven or eight thou-
sand francs profit."
“But how are you embarrassed ?"
“Let me explain. I have seen M. Gandelu twice: he wishes me to be-
gin at once. Now, I can't undertake both of these enterprises. I must de-
cide between them.”
Sabine thought for a moment. "I should do the picture,” said she.
“And I should agree with you, if it were not for-
The young girl knew her lover well enough to divine the cause of his
hesitation. “Ah !” she murmured, “Will you never love me well
enough to forget that I am rich ? Our plans would quickly have a good re-
sult if you would only consent-"
André turned pale. “Ah ! cried he, “ do you wish to poison our love ?”
She sighed, but did not insist. “Well," she said, “let it be as you
desire. Leave the prince's picture on one side, and make arrangements to
proceed with M. Gandelu's work."
It was now striking five o'clock, and Sabine rose. “Before leaving, my
friend,” said she, “I ought to inform you of an annoying matter. There
has been some talk of marrying me to Monsieur de Breulh-Faverlay."
“ The millionaire who keeps a racing stable?”
“Precisely. If I resisted my father's desires, an explanation would be
necessary, and I am by no means desirous of one just now. I therefore
propose speaking frankly to Monsieur de Breulh. I know him ; he is an
honest and straightforward man, and will withdraw. What do you think
of this plan?”
“Alas !” exclaimed André, “I think that if he withdraws, it will be
only to make room for some one else."


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
75
" Pshaw !" cried Rose, “what difference does a name make? The im.
portant thing is to persuade this gentleman, who is a friend of mine, to
come home and dine with us !” and without awaiting a reply, she gaily
but roughly pushed André into a brilliantly lighted vestibule.
"'Pon my word,” cried the young swell, “ 'pon my word, I call that
rather stiff ! However, our friend's friends are our friends, no doubt. In-
deed, of course they are.”
André, who was quite disconcerted by this unlooked for onslaught, tried
to excuse himself, but Rose, anxious to show her new-born power, placed
herself on the doorstep, and repeated again and again, “ You must dine
with us; I insist on it. You shall dine with us ; you must, you shall !”
Then, as she prided herself on her good manners, she took in her own
Gandelu's and André's right hand. "Monsieur André," said she, “I
must introduce to you M. Gaston de Gandelu. M. de Gandelu—M. André,
the artist."
The two young men bowed. “André !” said Gandelu. “I have heard
the name before; and the face is familiar-ah, yes! I have it; it was at my
father's. Are you not, sir, in charge of the sculpture on his new house?
Then you belong to us. We inaugurate Zora's new apartment to-night!
Lots of fun you know. And the more we are, of course the merrier."
André still resisted. “I cannot accept,” he said; “I have an important
engagement."
* Well, break it then. You are here, and we mean to keep you."
André hesitated. He was out of spirits, and felt a strong desire to escape
from himself. “After all,” he thought, “why should I decline? If this
young man's friends are like himself, I shall not lack amusement."
" Come,” said Rose, hastening to the stairs, “it's decided.” André was
about to follow her, when Gandelu held him back, whispering with a
delighted air, “Was there ever such a woman ! and wait a bit, you don't
know her yet. Let me form her a little. I haven't my equal for starting
a woman you know. Just you ask Auguste at the Café Riche. He'll tell
you that I'm A 1."
" That is easily seen,” replied André, seriously.
“ To be sure ! First, you see, I understand business. I'm straight, and
square, and fair-Zora--a fine name, don't you think so? I chose it. Zora
is not very swell to-night, but only wait a bit and you'll see. This after-
noon I ordered six dresses for her-six dresses from Van Klopen. You know
him of course ?”
“Not in the least.”
6 What! is that really so? You amaze me. Van Klopen, my dear
fellow, is a dressmaker-a man dressmaker. He is an Alsatian, without
his equal. Such taste ! such invention ! such chic!”.
Reaching her apartment by this time, Rose called impatiently, “ Are
you never coming ?”.
" Quick !” said Gandelu to André; “let us go up at once. When she
is angry, she has terrible nervous attacks. She won't own it, but I know
that such is the case. There's no deceiving me. I'm well acquainted with
women's natures.”
Rose and Paul were not fitted to understand each other; they were far
too much alike. If the new lady of Chantemille had so particularly insisted
on retaining André to dinner, it was because she wished to dazzle him with
her magnificence. As a beginning, she exhibited her two servants, her cook
and her maid-and then André had to visit each room, and admire each


76
· THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
article of furniture. He had to fall into ecstacies on beholding the ever-
lasting and horrible buttercup and blue hangings of the drawing-room ; was
compelled to feel how thick and glossy the stuffs were, and how admirably
the lounges were padded. Gandelu triumphantly opened the march, holding
aloft a huge candelabrum, the eight candles of which besprinkled him with
way. He extolled the exquisite taste of everything, and invariably
chronicled the price in the tone of an appraiser. His chatter was most dis-
jointed, and André had no little difficulty in following it. “This clock,"
the young swell said, “cost a hundred louis--a mere nothing, you under-
stand. It is so singular that you should know my father. Hasn't he a clear
head ? That jardinière cost three hundred francs, one might as well say
nothing. Be very careful with my father, he is extremely cunning. He
was determined on my becoming a working man, but I would rather have
died. No, that was by no means dear, that table; it only cost twenty louis.
At first, you see, I did not know that he was in bad health, but the
physicians now say that in six months—” He paused, for at this moment
à loud noise was heard in the ante-room. “Here come my guests !” he
cried, and placing the candelabrum on the table, he hurried out of the room.
André was supremely astonished. He had heard speak of these young
swells, the delight of the Boulevard and the turf, but he had so far never
mingled in their society. His look of stupefaction must have flattered Rose.
“As you see,” she said, “I have left Paul. To begin with, he wearied me
inexpressibly, and at last he hadn't a sou to buy me bread.”
“He! you are jesting; for to-day he came to my rooms, and told me
that he was making twelve thousand francs a year.”
“ Twelve thousand falsehoods ! Unless-well, at all events, I can only
say that a fellow who accepts five hundred francs from people he does not
know_” She stopped short, but signed to André that she had a great deal
more to tell him.
Young Gandelu was now entering the room with his friends, whom he
duly introduced. “My lads," said he, “ The whole spread comes from
Potel's. We'll have some fun, and by-and-bye a little gambling, just for
the sake of our healths.”
The guests seemed fully as ridiculous as the host; and André was be-
ginning to congratulate himself on having come, when a servant, with a
white choker, threw open the door of the salon and announced, “Madame
la Vicomtesse is served !”
WHENEVER B. Mascarot was asked what was the chief condition of success,
he invariably replied, “ Activity-activity--activity.” He had, it must
he admitted, one great superiority over most men-he put into practice the
maxims he professed ; and so we need not be surprised if on the morrow of
his expedition to the Hôtel de Mussidan, he was already in his office and at
work, at seven o'clock in the morning. Although a thick fog lay over the
city, and little if anything could be distinguished out of doors, the outer
office was already thronged with clients. But the honourable agent did not
trouble himself about these matutinal visitors, mostly composed of cook-
shop servants, who after purchasing their daily provisions at the Central
Markets hard by, dropped in on the chance, perhaps, that handsome M.
Beaumarchef might have some better situation for them. Experience had


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
77.
taught Mascarot that servants of this class, who seldom leave their kitchens,
knew but little of what transpired in the eating-houses where they were
employed, or even if they did know anything, it was not of the slightest
value to him. Mascarot, therefore, relinquished these early applicants to
Beaumarchef, and only disturbed himself when by chance he recognized,
through the glass window, some face he was familiar with, that of a maitre
d'hôtel or butler in some noble household. Otherwise he paid as little atten-
tion to the hubbub in the outer apartment as a minister of state pays to the
crowd in his ante-room. He was busy classifying a number of those small
squares of card-board, which had so puzzled Paul, and, as often happens in
moments of preoccupation, he allowed his thoughts to exude in a flow of
words.
“What an undertaking!” he muttered, “and yet what a result ! I
alone, it is true, bear the burden of this enormous task. I alone still hold
the threads which, for twenty years, with the patience of a spider weaving
his web, I have fastened to so many puppets. At a motion from me they
are all alert. And to look at me, who would believe it. When I go down
the Rue Montorgueil, the neighbours say, "There goes Mascarot. That is
Mascarot, who keeps an employment office for all the sexes !' They laugh,
and I let them laugh. Secret power is always the strongest. The powers
men know of are attacked, and oft-time overthrown; but no one knows
me-no one."
A more important card than the others now passed under his eyes. He
rapidly traced a line or two on its margin, and in a moment or two spoke
again. “I may run aground, it's true. Some fine day the meshes of my
net may snap, and some of the prey escape—and what then? That fool,
the Count de Mussidan, asked me if I knew the laws of my country. I
should say I did ! No one has studied them more thoroughly; and I know
that there may be found in the penal code, Book the Third, Chapter II.,
a certain clause, No. 400, which seems to have been specially drawn up
with the view of hampering my operations. Hard labour for a term of
years, if you please ; and if a cunning magistrate knocks me over with
Article 305, it becomes a question of hard labour for life !” As he spoke
these words, a cold shiver passed down his spine ; but it was of brief
duration, for what a triumphant smile he resumed, “Yes, but to send
B. Mascarot to breathe the air at Toulon, B. Mascarot must be trapped
first, and B. Mascarot is no fool. Danger in the air, and Mascarot melts,
vanishes, evaporates. He may be looked for, and he won't be found. As
for those timid gamesters, my associates—Catenac, the miser, and Horte-
bize, the epicurean-I have kept them out of danger. Croisenois would
hardly be suspected, and, besides, he would prefer suicide to confession.
Who would be prosecuted then? whom would the police net ? Why
merely Beaumarchef, La Candele, Toto-Chupin, and two or three other
poor devils. They would be magnificent prizes, and no mistake-prizes to
be proud of! However, even they could say nothing, for the very best of
reasons, they know nothing.” And Mascarot, pleased with his own
reasoning, laughed aloud. Then with a haughty gesture, he adjusted his
spectacles, and added, “I will march straight to the end I have in view.
Through Croisenois I shall make, at one blow, some four millions of francs.
Paul shall marry Flavie, that's settled; and so that Flavie may be happy and
envied, she shall be a duchess with three hundred thousand francs a year."
His squares of card-board were by this time in order; and he now drew
from a secret drawer a small address book. He opened it, added two or


78
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
three names to those already inscribed, and as he consigned it to its hiding
place, threateningly exclaimed, “You are all there, my good friends-all
of you, and you don't suspect it. You are rich, all of you-honoured, and
coinparatively happy; for you flatter yourselves you are free. But you
are mistaken, there is a man whom you belong to, body, soul and property,
and this man is B. Mascarot, of the Rue Montorgueil. You hold your
heads high, no doubt; and yet whenever he chooses you will crawl to his
feet, and dispute for the honour of tying his shoe-strings. And it happens,
my friends, that Papa Mascarot has worked quite enough, and would like
to retire from business ; so between you, you will have to furnish him with
a comfortable income.”
He stopped short, hearing a knock at the door. He touched the bell on
his table, and it had hardly ceased to tingle when Beaumarchef appeared
on the threshold. “Would you believe it, sir,” said the retired military
man. “Do you remember telling me to complete the papers respecting
young Monsier Gandelu.”
“ Yes ; what then?”
“Why, sir, it so happens that the cook he has engaged for his little
lady is in our lists. She owed us eleven francs, and has come to bring
them; she is outside now. Her name's Marie. Isn't it lucky now?”
Mascarot shrugged his shoulders. “You are an idiot,” said he coldly,
“ to be so pleased and astonished at this. I have often explained to you
that luck or chance, as you may call it, is simply a field for labour like any
other, more extended, possibly, and requiring careful tillage. Now, for
twenty years I have sowed crop after crop in this field ; and it would be
strange indeed, I think, if there were never any harvest !”
Beaumarchef listened to his master open-mouthed in silent wonder at his
astuteness.
“Who is this cook?" asked Mascarot.
“Oh! as soon as you see her, sir, you will recognise her. For a long
time she has been on the lists in class 'D'-that is, as a cook for a house-
hold of a questionable reputation.”
Mascarot was reflecting. “Well,” said he at last, “ fetch me this girl ; "
and as Beaumarchef turned to obey, he added, as if answering some ob-
jection in his own mind, “It would be foolish to neglect the slightest
precaution. Experience has shown me this.”
But the cook of “class D” was already before him, extremely proud of
her admission into the inner sanctuary. At the first glance, it was easy to
see why Beaumarchef had placed her in the category he had mentioned.
She was received by Mascarot with the unctuous urbanity he was so famous
for. “Well, my girl," said he, “ so you have found a place to your
liking, and where your merits will be appreciated ?”
“I hope so, sir; but I have only been at Madame Zora de Chantemille's
since two o'clock yesterday afternoon."
"Ah ! she calls herself Zora de Chantemille, does she ?"
“You understand, sir, it is only a name she has taken. She quarrelled
about it, too, with my master. She wished to call herself Raphaele, but
he insisted on Zora."
“ Zora is pretty-very pretty," said Mascarot, gravely.
“Yes, that is just what her maid and I told her. She is a very beauti-
ful woman; and, my eyes ! doesn't she make the gold fly! I assure you,
sir, she has spent more than thirty thousand francs already."
• Indeed ! *


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
79
" Yes, sir ; and all on credit, mind you. Monsieur de Gandelu hasn't
a sou in the world—so a waiter from Potel's told me, and he knew what
he was saying. But his father, it seems, is rolling in wealth. Yesterday,
for a house-warming, as they called it, they had a dinner--and such a
dinner! It cost more than a thousand francs, with the wines.”
As Mascarot saw no way of utilizing this woman, he was about to dismiss
her, when she, divining his intention, exclaimed, “One moment, I haven't
told you anything worth knowing yet."
Mascarot did not expect anything from this source ; but he was patient,
and had learned to hold himself in subjection when necessary. He knew
too that it is unwise for an ambitious man, however far up the ladder he
may be, to refuse assistance, no matter however trivial it may seem, so
he threw himself back in his chair, and assuming an expression of great
interest, exclaimed, “Go on, if you please.”
“Well,” resumed the cook, "we had a great dinner; eight guests, and
madame the only lady. Ah, sir, what handsome men they were ! so witty
and distinguished, and so beautifully dressed; but my master was the best
dressed of all.”
“Indeed,” drawled Mascarot, lifting his eyebrows.
"By ten o'clock, they were all pretty tipsy, and then what do you think
they did ? They sent to the concierge, and told him not to let any one
pass through the courtyard, as they intended to throw the dinner-service
out of the window. And they did it, too. Dishes and plates, glasses and
bottles, all flew pell-mell. It seems its, an aristocratic practice. The
waiters from Potel's told me it was a fashion introduced into Paris by some
Russian princes.”
Mascarot closed his eyes in despair behind his spectacles. The most
heroic resignation has its limits, and so he asked, “Well, well, what did
you notice at all curious ?”
"Well, sir, among these gentlemen there was one who was tall and
dark, badly dressed, and who said nothing. You might have really
thought that he was laughing in his sleeve at all the others. However,
madame was as sweet as honey to him. She offered him all the delicacies
on the table. Will you take this ? and will you take that? You are not
drinking, and so on. After dinner, while the others were playing cards,
he sat down by my mistress and began to talk with her.”
“And could you hear what they said ?”
“Of course I could : they were near the bedroom door, and so I set it
ajar and listened to them.”
“That was not very honourable," said Mascarot, in a shocked tone.
“Who cares? I always like to know the private affairs of the people I
serve. They were talking of a gentleman madame had known before, a
friend of the dark man's—his naine, ah! his name, dear me, I've forgotten
it-wait a bit!"
Beaumarchef, who had been in the background long enough, thought it
was now time to show his admirable memory. “Paul Violaine,” said he.
“Precisely," answered the cook, “ that was the name !" But after a
moment, she exclaimed, in astonishment, “How do you happen to know it?"
Mascarot raised his spectacles and gave his associate a withering glance.
“ Beaumarchef knows everything," he replied, carelessly. “That is his
business.”
This explanation was not, perhaps, altogether satisfactory to the
estimable cook, but, nevertheless, she resumed her narrative. “Well,”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
83
as this. “It is absolutely incredible,” he muttered. "Where the devil
did Croisenois pick up this fellow? Can it be that the marquis is stronger
and wiser than I have hitherto fancied ?"
An inexplicable anxiety, a vague and confused presentiment, disturbed
his mind. “Is it possible,” he continued, "that this individual is not a
real servant ? I have made so many enemies in my time that they are
numerous enough to form an avalanche. However skilfully I hold my cards,
some one may have seen my hand." This idea made him tremble. Some
schemes are so perilous, that as the decisive moment approaches everything
furnishes cause for distrust and fear. Mascarot had almost grown afraid
of his shadow, and his anxiety was well-nigh unbearable. However, after
a moment's thought, he seemed to shake off his most oppressive fears.
“No, no,” he said, shaking his head, “I am a little cracked, and my brain
is misty with chimerical suspicions. If there were a man skilful enough to
have penetrated my plans, patient enough to assume the Croisenois livery
to watch my movements with greater facility, he would certainly never
have been so simple as to excite attention by such singular manners and
deportment.
He said all this with the view of reassuring himself, no doubt; and yet,
in reality, he was in the position of the coward who whistles in the dark in
the hope of dispelling his fears. However, surely among all his expedients,
ainong all his means of investigation, there must be some way of discovering
this servant's antecedents, and he began to reflect what might be done with
that object in view. He was still puzzling his brain, when Beaumarchef ap-
peared once more on the threshold in a great state of excitement. “You
here again !” exclaimed Mascarot, harshly. “Am I to have one moment's
peace to-day?"
“Sir, that young fellow is here."
" Paul ?”
“ Yes, sir."
“At this hour? I told him to come at noon. Something must have
happened to him—"
He stopped short, for the door which Beaumarchef had left ajar was at
this moment fully opened by Paul Violaine. Plainly enough, something ex-
traordinary had befällen the agent's protégé. He was deadly pale, and his
eyes had the peculiar, hunted expression of an animal who has been a long
time pursued. His clothes were unbrushed, and his general appearance
told of a night passed in aimless wanderings. “Ah ! sir-_” he began.
But with an imperious gesture Mascarot imposed silence. “Leave us,
Beaumar,” said he ; “and you, my child, sit down.”
Paul seated himself, or, rather, fell on the nearest chair. “My life is
finished,” he murmured; “I am dishonoured-lost.”
The estimable agent looked as bewildered as if he had fallen from the
clouds ; but, in point of fact, his great stupefaction was feigned. He knew
why Paul came to him in this condition ; for, like a dramatist who conducts
his personages from prologue to finish, he had himself prepared the events
which had so disturbed his protégé. If he was surprised, it was only at the
prompt and violent effect of his combinations. With all one's experience,
it is sometimes difficult, when charging a mine, to calculate the results with
absolute precision. It was, however, with the air of an amiable and sym-
pathetic listener that he drew his chair nearer, and said, “Be calm, my
dear boy; have every confidence in me, and open your heart. What in the
world has happened ?'


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
85
" And you made no attempt at denial, at defence?”.
“I had lost my head entirely ; I only realised that what had occurred
justified the suspicion. The evening before Madame Loupias had askerl
Rose for money, and was told we had none, and had no idea where to get
any. Now, you see, on the morrow I appeared in new clothes and paid my
debts, while Rose had gone off some hours previously.”
"It is natural that these coincidences should strike your landlord as very
singular."
" The worst was that Rose had changed the five hundred franc note lent
us by Father Tantaine at a grocer's shop, kept by a man named Mélusin, and
it was this scoundrel who started the report about us. He even dared to say
that a detective, who was charged with arresting us, had called upon him
to make inquiries."
· Mascarot knew all this even better than Paul, and yet he thought fit to
prolong the explanation. “Come,” said he, “I fail to grasp your meaning,
or to understand the precise cause of your grief. Has there been a robbery
committed ?"
“How can I tell? I have never seen Monsieur Tantaine since that day,
and he has never returned to the hotel. It is said he has been robbed,
that a large sum has been stolen from him, and that, as it belonged to his
employers, he is now in prison."
" Why did you not tell the truth?”
"What good would it have done? It can be proved that Monsieur
Tantaine was no friend of mine, not even an acquaintance. Folks would
have laughed in my face had I said, 'Last evening he came into my room,
and then and there presented me with five hundred francs.'"
For a moment Mascarot looked puzzled, as if trying to solve some riddle.
“Ah! I have it," he said at last, “and my theory corresponds entirely
with Tantaine's character."
Paul listened as if his life depended on every word. “Tantaine," re-
sumed Mascarot, “is the most honest man I know, and has the kindest of
hearts, but he has cobwebs in his brain. He was rich once, but was ruined
by his generosity. He is as poor as Job now, but he has the same longing
as before to be useful.”
"But"
“Let me finish. The misfortune is, that in the place where he is em-
ployed, and which he owes to me, he has the handling of some small amount
of funds. Overwhelmed with pity at the sight of your despair, he disposed
of other people's property as he would have done of his own. Suddenly
called upon to hand in his accounts, and finding himself face to face with
a deficit, he lost courage, and declared he had been robbed. Inquiries
were no doubt made. It was ascertained you and Rose had been living in
the next room to him, you were seen with money you did not account for,
and so suspicion was excited against you.”
This was all indisputable. Paul shivered, and his brow was moist with
a cold sweat. He already in imagination saw himself arrested, judged, and
condemned. “However,” added he, “M. Tantaine has my promissory note,
which is a proof of my good faith.”
“Poor child ! Do you think that if he hoped to save himself by accus-
ing you, he would venture to produce your note ?”
« But, fortunately, sir, you know the truth."
Mascarot shook his head sadly. “Should I be believed ?” he asked.
“Justice is but a human institution, my friend—that is to say, it is sub-


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
87
Paul sighed. “Rose !” he murmured; “I cannot forget Rose!"
The worthy agent frowned at this name. “What !” he cried. “Do
you still think of that creature? There are folks I know, who console
themselves readily enough after finding out that they have been dupes and
playthings; their love increases, in fact, with each new treason. If you
are made of this facile clay, we shall never understand each other. Run
and find your pretty, faithless mistress, throw yourself at her feet, and
implore her to forgive your poverty."
Under the stroke of irony, Paul straigthened himself up. "I will be re-
venged on her one of these days,” he eagerly replied.
“That is a very easy thing to do. Forget her.”
In spite of Paul's determined tone, a certain amount of hesitation was to
be read in his eyes—a hesitation which was extremely displeasing to Mas-
carot. “Have you no ambition ?” he asked.
“Yes, sir; I have.”
"No, sir, you have not, or you would never think of embarrassing your-
self with a woman like Rose. You should keep your arms free, my boy,
if you wish to make any use of your elbows in the battle of life. What
would you say of a runner who, hoping to gain the prize, fastened a cannon
ball to his leg? You would, of course say, 'He is mad !' Very well,
that is precisely your condition."
“I will follow your advice, sir," said Paul, this time without an after-
thought.
"That's proper speaking. Believe me, the day is not far off when you
will thank heaven for inspiring Rose with the idea and the means of de-
serting you. You can easily climb higher !”
For thirty years Mascarot had speculated on human passions and weak-
nesses ; le understood men thoroughly. With ten words he had gained a
decisive influence over Paul.
"Then, sir,” the young fellow began, “this situation at twelve thou-
sand francs a year-
“There has never been any such situation, my friend."
Paul turned deadly pale. He saw himself sent away penniless, reduced
once more to live in some hole like the Hôtel du Pérou, and this time
alone. “But sir,” he stammered, “you allowed me to hope for—"
“What! twelve thousand francs ? Be easy. You shall have that, and
more ; but you will remain with me. I am growing old, I have no family,
and you shall be my son."
At this proposition, Paul's brow grew dark. The idea that his life would
be passed in this office was revolting to him ; the thought of answering
the questions and inscribing the names of the numerous applicants was
humiliating to his vanity.
Mascarot read this impression with perfect ease, from behind his
spectacles. “And the fool is without bread and butter. Ah !” he mused,
" if it were not for Flavia-if it were not for the Champdoce affair !” Then,
aloud, he resumed, “Do not imagine, my dear child, that I wish to con-
demn you to the hard unpleasant labours of an employment agent. By
no means, I have other views for you, far more worthy of your merits.
You please ne, and I promise myself the very great pleasure of realizing
your ambitious dreams. To carry out my plans, you have every requisite,
save those which are generally lacking in young people-prudence and
steadiness of purpose. Ah, well, I must be prudent and steady for you."
He paused for a moment, as if to impart additional weight to his words,


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THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
and then added, “I was thinking much of you yesterday, and I planned
in my mind the edifice of your future. He is poor, I said to myself ; and
this, at his age, with his tastes and ideas, is cruel. But why shouldn't I
marry him to one of those heiresses who bring a million or two in their
aprons to the man who touches their hearts ?”
" Alas !"
“Why 'alas !' pray? Are you still thinking of Rose ? "
“By no means. I merely wished to say,"
“When I speak to you of heiresses, it is because I already know of one,
and my friend Dr. Hortebize would soon introduce you to her. Rose is
pretty, but she is nearly as pretty as Rose, and is, besides, well born, well
educated, and clever. She has distinguished family connections, and if
her husband were a man of talent--a poet, or composer-he might easily
rise to any position.”
Paul's face flushed. He had himself often fancied all this, in days long past.
“Knowing your illegitimate birth,” continued Mascarot, “I wove the
most beautiful romance for you. Before '93, you know, every bastard was
regarded as a gentleman, for the very good reason that he did not know
who his father might be. Who can say that your's does not bear one of the
grandest names in France, and is not possessed of untold wealth ? Perhaps
at this very moment he is searching for you to give to you his fortune and
his name. Would you like to be a duke?”
“Sir," stammered Paul, “sir-".
B. Mascarot burst out laughing. “As yet,” said he, "we are only
talking of suppositions and wishes."
The young man did not know what to think. " Then what do you wish
me to do, sir ?” he asked.
The agent grew very serious. “I wish and claim absolute obedience,”
he replied—"an obedience at once prompt and unreasoning, that asks no
questions and makes no comments."
"I will obey you, sir, but I implore you not to trifle with me.”
Instead of making any reply ; Mascarot rang his bell for Beaumarchef,
who promptly appeared. “I leave you alone,” he said ; “I am going to
Van Klopen's." Then, turning towards Paul, he added, "I never trifle,
and to-day you shall have the proof of my assertion. Now, we will go to a
restaurant to breakfast; I wish to talk with you, and afterwards — ” he
paused, the better to enjoy Paul's surprise, and then added—" afterwards
I will show you the young girl I intend for you. To begin with, I am
anxious to know if she pleases you."
XI.
Young Gaston de Gandelu, the model of Parisian chivalry, had ex-
cellent reasons to be astonished on finding that André, a genre painter, was
ignorant even of the very existence of M. Van Klopen ; for the reputation
of this extraordinary man has travelled through Europe. One may con-
vince oneself of this by glancing at his bills, decorated with engravings of
innumerable medals gained at International Exhibitions. On one side may
be read the words, “ Under the High Patronage of Her Catholic Majesty
the Queen of All the Spains," and on the other. “By Special Appoint-
ment to the courts of Russia, Denmark, and Sweden." Van Klopen was
not an Alsatian, as Gandelu, who, perhaps, regarded Germany as a province


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
91
able kind of toilette. Each sketch had its inscription, such as, “ Toilette
of Madame de C-- for a dinner at the Russian Embassy.” “State robes
for the Arch-duchess W-- of Austria.” “Ball dress for the Marchioness
de V ." “Negligée for Mademoiselle S-- B-4,” “Seaside costume
for Madame H-- de R-- at Trouville.” “ Confirmation dress for Made-
moiselle D--" It was Van Klopen himself who had devised this means
of bequeathing his conceptions to posterity.
Such as the salon was, it nevertheless astonished Paul by its brilliancy
of colour and profusion of gilding, and, somewhat abashed, he lingered on
the threshold -indeed, not daring to advance, since he perceived no un-
occupied chair to sit down upon. But Mascarot's coolness was enough for
both. Catching his protégé by the arm, he drew him to a sofa, whispering
in his ear, “Look out! the heiress is here."
Men so seldom entered this feminine sanctuary, where a dozen élégantes
patiently awaited the good pleasure of Fashion's sovereign, that the ap-
pearance of B. Mascarot and Paul Violaine positively created a sensation -
à sensation all the greater on account of Paul's good looks, which were
really enhanced by his air of bashful timidity. The buzz of conversation
suddenly ceased, and under the fire of twelve pair of eyes, Paul felt his
cheeks burn, and began to play with his hat, like a peasant before a magi-
strate, not daring even to raise his eyes. His confusion by no means
suited Mascarot. He had brought his protégé there for a purpose, and he
wished him to look about the room. He himself was by no means in-
tijnidated by this brilliant throng. As he entered, he bowed all round,
with the superannuated graces of a dandy of 1820, and now, seated on the
sofa, he seemed as much at his ease as in his own office, in the midst of his
cooks and footmen. His inperturbable assurance was due, it must be ad-
mitted, to his profound contempt for human nature, and still more to his
spectacles. If people only knew how useful coloured glasses are in con-
cealing inner emotions, they would be worn by the entire universe. How-
ever, considerately enough, the worthy agent desired that his protégé should
have a few minutes to recover himself, and grow accustomed to the heavy,
perfumed atmosphere of the salon ; but finally, seeing that Paul still kept
his eyes cast down, he touched him lightly on the arm. “Is this the first
time,” he whispered, “ that you ever saw ladies in grand toilette-are you
afraid of them ?”
Paul made an effort to show a bold front.
“Look to the right,” continued Mascarot. “Between the window and
the piano_there she is !”
Near the window, with her maid standing beside her, sat a young girl,
apparently not more than eighteen years old. She was not, perhaps, as
pretty as Mascarot had said, but there was something very striking in her
face--a singular expression that struck an observer at the first glance.
She was slender, frail, and delicate looking, and very dark. Her features
lacked regularity, but her black hair was wonderfully glossy and abundant,
and her eyes of a dark blue tinge were full of tenderness. The purple of
her lips bespoke a sanguine temperament, and her bossy forehead indicated
remarkable obstinacy to the phrenologist. Everything about her spoke of
passion ; or, rather, she seemed the incarnation of passion itself.
Paul's eyes were irresistibly drawn to the corner of the room where she
sat. Their glances met, and both started at the same moment as if they
had received a shock from the same electric battery. Paul remained motion-
less, absolutely fascinated ; while as for the young girl, so great was her


94
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“Yes ; but you know that with this lady you run no risk. Her hus-
band "
“Ah! yes ; her husband,” cried Van Klopen, warming up. “Husbands
amuse me very much! If you happen to see them when you go with
patterns to their houses, they are dreadfully civil and complimentary, for
they like fine clothes worn in their honour. But when the bill is presented,
it is quite another matter. They roll their eyes, and talk of pitching you
out of the window."
Despite this rejoinder, and with the best faith in the world, Paul went
on pleading the cause of the poor woman outside. “But husbands are
often deceived,” said he.
“That's rubbish. They know well enough. At all events in their
position they ought to take their precautions. But no; they find it
pleasanter to feign ignorance. When they have given their wives a hun.
dred louis per month, they look on themselves as free, and pretend not to
be surprised at all the gorgeous dresses their wives wear. Now, cominon
sense should tell them that their wives must get the dresses on credit To
tell the truth, they know what they are about. Madame begins by open-
ing an account, and by-and-bye monsieur disputes the bill, and insists on
a reduction, I know the game.”
The tailor seemed so angry, that Mascarot concluded that his inter-
vention was advisable. “I think that you have been a little hard,” he
said.
Van Klopen gave him a significant glance. “Pshaw!” he replied, “I shall
be paid to-morrow-I know who'll pay me, too. Then I shall receive
another order, and the whole farce will be acted over again. I had my
reasons for answering as I did.”
These reasons were perhaps not such as would bear the light of day, for
he did not give them aloud, but drew Mascarot into a recess, where the
pair whispered together, laughing heartily at intervals, as if at some
capital joke. Not wishing to be taxed with indiscretion, Paul proceeded to
examine the consulting roon, as Van Klopen called it. He saw no writing
materials, but innumerable scissors, yard sticks, and measures, quantities
of samples of stuffs, and piles of water-colour sketches; while at the
further end stood six forms, clothed in paper patterns-patterns of the
newest creations of this master mind. Paul had just examined the last of
these, when the two friends, as he supposed them to be, returned to the fire-
side.
77 We are losing our time," said Mascarot. “I intended to glance over
our books, but there are too many persons waiting for you in the salon."
“And that prevents you?” rejoined the tailor, carelessly. “Wait a
moment.” He disappeared, and almost immediately afterwards could be
heard saying, “I am very sorry, ladies, very sorry, on my honour; but I
am much occupied with a silk merchant. You understand that it is all in
your interest-entirely so—unfortunately I may be some time.”
“We will wait,” replied the patient customers in chorus.
Van Klopen returned to his consulting room, with a look of triumph on
his face. It's no harder than that,” said he. “They would remain here
till night time on the chance of speaking with their little Klopen. Poor
little fools! Ah! they are true Parisians. You may run after them with
civilities, and they will scamper away. But if, on the contrary, you laugh
at them and insult them, they will literally worship you. If ever my re-
putation shows signs of decline, I shall simply shut up, nail a card on the


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
95
door, with the inscription, The publlc is not admitted here,' and on the
morrow there'll be a perfect crowd craving audience."
Mascarot nodded approval, while the tailor drew a huge ledger from a
drawer.
“ Business has never been better,” resumed Van Klopen. "In the last
nine days we have had orders amounting to 87,000 francs."
“That's good ; but let us see about the doubtful affairs. I'm in a hurry."
The High Pontiff of fashion turned over the leaves of his book. “Here
we are," said he. “Since February 14th, Mademoiselle Virginie Cluche has
ordered five evening toilettes, two dominoes, and three visiting costumes."
“ That is a great deal !"
“That's why I wish to consult you. She only owes a comparative trifle
--one or two thousand francs.”
"Too much though, if it be true, as I hear, that her protector is ruined,
Don't refuse, but avoid taking any new orders.”
Van Klopen's only answer was to inscribe various cabalistic letters on the
margin of his book.
“On, the 6th of the same month the Comtesse de Mussidan sends an im-
portant order-important for herself, I mean. Also a plain dress for her
daughter. Her account has become very heavy. The count does not pay ;
in fact, he warned me that he wouldn't.”
“No matter, go on. You may even offer her more credit.”
Another marginal note.
“On the 7th a new client opened an account. Mademoiselle Flavia
Martin Regal, the daughter of the banker, no doubt."
At this name Paul started, but the worthy agent did not seem to notice
his protégé's perturbation. “My dear fellow," said he addressing Van
Klopen, “ keep that young lady's name carefully in mind. No matter
what she asks for, were it even your whole house, grant it at once ; and,
remember, the most absolute deference. The least levity of manner might
cause trouble. She is now in the salon ; let her come here as soon as we
have gone.”
By Van Klopen's look of astonishment, Paul judged that Mascarot was
not given to this kind of recommendation. “You shall be obeyed," answered
the ladies' tailor, and he turned once more to his ledger. “On the 8th, a
young gentleman, named Gaston de Gandelu, was presented here by Mon-
sieur Luper the jeweller. His father is very rich, it is said, and he him-
self will receive a considerable sum when he reaches his majority, which is
near at hand. He asks for a credit of fifteen or twenty thousand francs for
a person he is protecting.”
The agent repressed a smile, and looked steadily at Paul through his
spectacles ; but the young fellow evinced no surprise or emotion. This
name of Gandelu told him nothing.
“The young woman," continued the tailor, “ came in person yesterday.
She calls herself Zora de Chantemille. The fact is, she is outrageously
pretty.”
Mascarot reflected for a few moments..
“You can't imagine,” he said at last, “how that young Gandelu worries
me. I would give something to find a means of getting him out of Paris."
Van Klopen's face became deeply suffused. The least effort at reflection,
sending his blood to his brain, always produced this effect. “Ah !” said
he, 'striking his brow, “that is easily settled. Gandelu is capable of any
folly for that girl's suke.”


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THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“So I think.”
“ Then it is all fair sailing. I will open a little account with him ; he
will give an order. I shall experiment, cut out, try on, and then, just
before delivering the goods, I will pretend to be somewhat doubtful, and
ask for two or three little notes of hand, with two signatures, you under-
stand, and promising not to negotiate them. Then we will put the youth
in communication with the Mutual Discount Society; and our good friend,
Verminet, will easily persuade him to write a well-known name at the
bottom of a piece of paper. He will bring these notes to me. I shall ac-
cept them, and then we sball have him safe!”
"A little forgery, eh? It is not quite what I would select."
“I see no other way, however, unless—” Van Klopen paused; for an
unusual commotion, a noise of voices raised in contention, could be heard
in the ante-room. The tailor seemed half annoyed, half afraid, and, rising
to his feet, listened with eagar attention. “I should extremely like to
know," he said, “who this impudent fellow is who is making a scene
here. It is, of course, some preposterous husband."
If husbands hated and feared the ladies' tailor, the latter returned the
compliment, for they were the bugbears of his existence. If heed had been
paid to his views, the institution of matrimony would have been at once
abolished..
“Go and see what it is," advised Mascarot.
“I! What! Commit myself with I know not whom ! I am not quite
so silly. I pay my servants to take such annoyances off my shoulders."
This was most wise and prudent. In another moment the noise decreased.
The salon door was opened and shut again, and then all was still once more.
“Now let us return to our affairs,” resumed the amiable Mascarot.
“Everything considered, I approve of your proposal respecting young
Gandelu. I had another idea, but no matter. A little forgery may readily
be made use of like a loaded pistol.” So saying he left his chair, and walked
with Van Klopen to the other end of the room..
After all that had been said aloud, what need could there be for this
edifying couple to whisper in secret? As their conversation had proceeded,
Paul had grown paler and paler. Ignorant as he was of life, he could not
fail to comprehend the purport of what he had heard. Already at Philippe's,
during breakfast, Mascarot had allowed him to infer that strange things
were going on around him; and since then, he had been still further en-
lightened. It was evident to him that this man, whose protection he had
so singularly accepted, was engaged in some dark and disgraceful intrigue.
All his acts and words had a fixed meaning, and tended to the same mysteri-
ous end. Analyzing what he had seen, heard, or surmised, Paul instinc-
tively divined a dark, foul plot. He divined that there was some connec-
tion between Caroline Schimel, the cook, who was so strictly watched, and
the Marquis de Croisenois, at once so haughty and humble ; between these
two and the Countess de Mussidan, who was being driven along the road to
ruin. And, moreover, Flavie, the heiress, whose hand was held out to him
as a rich prize, and Gaston de Gandelu, who was to be induced to commit
a crime, the consequences of which would be the galleys, were also plainly
connected with the same intrigue.
And was lie, Paul, to be a mere instrument in Mascarot's hands? What
abyss was he being led to, what mire must he cross? This obscure employ.
ment agent and this distinguished tailor were not two friends, as he had
at first supposed, but two accomplices. He realised from what sources


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97
Mascarot derived his power, and divined how it was that he personated re-
morse and vengeance, pursuing his terrified victims whip in hand. And
Paul realised also that he himself now belonged to this mealy-mouthed
tyrant. Too late did he awaken to a sense of connivance between Mascarot
and Tantaine. Too late, indeed. Although absolutely innocent, he had been
so cunningly accused of theft, that his guilt seemed certain. He had trusted
Mascarot and confided in him, and the agent had bound him hand and foot,
irremediably enslaved him, before he was conscious of the truth-display-
ing, indeed, as much cunning as the huge, nocturnal, forest spiders who
surprise the roosting birds and envelope them in their webs without awaken-
ing them, Could he struggle with any chance of success ? No; at the least
effort to break this fatal net he would be pulverised. This conviction filled
him with dread; but he did not feel the noble horror of honesty for crime.
To say the truth, all the bad instincts and passions hitherto dormant within
him, were now fermenting like garbage in the heat of a inid-day sun.
He was still dazzled by the splendid hopes the tempter had held before
his eyes. He remembered he had been told that his father was a great
lord, and he thought of the young heiress, one glance from whase dark eyes
had made him quiver with very passion. He said to himself that a man
like Mascarot, of such great power, setting at scorn all laws and prejudices,
strong and patient withal, was bound in the long run to achieve his ends.
" What danger should I incur, then?” Paul asked himself, “if I altogether
abandoned myself to the torrent which has already swept me away? None
whatever; for Mascarot is strong enough to keep my head, as well as his
own, above water."
Paul had no idea that each fleeting emotion that swept over his mobile
countenance was noted and carefully analyzed by the astute Mascarot. It
was by no accident that he had allowed this infamous conversation to take
place in the presence of his protégé ; he had decided that morning that, if
he were to utilize Paul at all, the young man's timid nature must at once
be brought face to face with these atrocious combinations. He had often
noticed that the most subtle theories do not achieve a work of demoraliza-
tion as readily as a number of broad facts abruptly stated. He read in the
wavering of Paul's eyes his willingness to yield, and it was with the absolute
certainty of his influence that he at last resumed his conversation with the
tailor aloud. “Now," he said, “for the postscript—the serious part of my
visit. Where do we stand now, with the Viscountess de Bois d'Ardon ?”.
Van Klopen shrugged his shoulders. “Well enough !” he answered. “I
have just sent her several most extravagant toilettes.”
“What does she owe?”
“ About twenty-five thousand francs. She has owed us much more.”
B. Mascarot fingered his spectacles as if he were enraged. “Upon my
word,” said he," she is really a slandered woman. She is frivolous and
coquettish, but nothing more. For a fortnight I have been diligently seek-
ing for information about her, and I can't lay my finger on the slightest
venial sin which can give us a hold on her. Fortunately, the debt does
that to a certain extent. Does her husband know that she has an account
here?"
“He! Of course not! He gives his wife any amount of money. And
if he imagined_”
“Very well, then, that is all right; we will first send him the bill.”
“But, my dear sir," urged Van Klopen, in astonishment, “she paid us
last week a large sum on account !”
VOL. I.


98
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“All the greater reason for activity at once; she must be low in funds !'
The arbiter of fashion had a thousand objections to bring forward, but an
imperious gesture from Mascarot closed his lips. “Listen to me," said the
agent, baughtily. “Remember what I say, and do me the favour to dis-
pense with all remarks."
Van Klopen had lost the air of arrogance which he displayed in dealing
with his fair customers.
“Are you known by Madame de Bois d'Ardon's servants ?”
“I should think I was.”
" Very well, then ; the day after to-morrow, precisely at three o'clock,
neither earlier nor later, you will call upon the viscountess. Her servants
will say that she is engaged with a visitor.
“I will wait, then.”
“ By no means. You will insist on seeing the lady at once, and you will
find the viscountess in conversation with the Marquis de Croisenois. You
know him, I suppose ?”
“Only by sight.”
“ That's enough. Don't trouble yourself about him, but draw your bill
from your pocket, and, as roughly as possible, insist on immediate pay-
ment.”
“What on earth are you thinking of? The viscountess will order me
to be thrown out of the window.”.
“ That is quite possible. But you must, nevertheless, threaten to carry
your bill to her husband. She will order you to leave the house, but, in-
stead of obeying her, you must seat yourself insolently, and declare you
won't budge until you have the money.”
“But that's atrocious conduct.”
“I quite agree with you. However, the Marquis de Croisenois will put
an end to the scene. He will throw a pocket-book in your face, and say,
*Pay yourself, scoundrel !'”
" And then I am to slink off ?”
“ Yes ; but having armed yourself previously with a well-sharpened
pencil, you will give a receipt in this form : 'Received from the Marquis
de Croisenois, so much, in payment of Madame de Bois d'Ardon's account.'"
Never did a man look so bewildered and humiliated as the all-powerful
Van Klopen. “If I could only understand," he murmured.
“That is of no consequence now-obedience is the essential point."
“I will obey, of course ; but you understand that we shall lose, not only
the viscountess's custom, but also that of all her friends."
“ Well? What of that?”
Van Klopen was about to rejoin, when the same angry voice, which a
short time before had resounded in the ante-room, was again heard ; this
time, however, in the lobby adjoining the consulting chamber. “It is out-
rageous !” cried the intruder. “I have been waiting an hour! Where is
my sword ? What, ho ! lacqueys, come hither! Van Klopen engaged, is
he? Go and tell him that I must see him at once. When he knows who
it is, he'll free himself to attend to me.”
These exclamations dispelled, as by enchantment, the clouds that darkened
the brows of the two accomplices. They glanced keenly at each other, as if
they both recognized this sharp, falsetto voice. “It is he!” whispered
Mascarot.
At the same moment the door was flung open, and in burst young
Gaston de Gandelu. He wore, that day, even a shorter coat than usual,


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
99
tighter and brighter trousers, a higher shirt-collar, and a more start ing
necktie. His face was red, and swollen with anger. “It is I!” he ex-
claimed. “Ah! you can't stomach it, can't you! I'm like that you
know; a good fellow, but straightforward—'to the point,' as Achille at
Vachette's says. Wait more than twenty minutes ! I? Oh, no. You
won't catch me at it.”
This intrusion, so out of keeping with the rules of the house, almost con-
vulsed Van Klopen with rage ; but then Mascarot was present, and had
given him orders to ensnare young Gandelu. Now the tailor knew that
Hies cannot be caught with vinegar; and so, with an all but superhuman
effort at self-control, he prepared to receive the intruder with perfect
courtesy. “Believe me, sir,” he began, “ that, had I known—"
These few words delighted the brilliant youth. “I accept your apologies," he
replied, “I shan't need my sword. However, don't let us have this again. My
horses are standing at your door, and have probably taken cold. You know
my horses, I think! Magnificent creatures are they not? To think that
Zora preferred waiting! She's in the salon now! Ah, she's very young,
but I'll style her, you shall see. One minute, I'll fetch her.” So saying,
he ran to the lobby crying, “Zora! Madame de Chantemille ! Dear
viscountess !”
The great tailor seemed as much at his ease as a man on red-hot coals.
What a disgrace to his establishment! He cast a despairing glance at
Mascarot, who was standing near the door, but the agent retained an im-
passive attitude. As for Paul, he was inclined to take this young gentle-
man, whose carriage was waiting at the door, for a refined specimen of the
graces and culture of the fashionable world, and his heart ached as he
thought of what was about to befall this interesting being. He indeed felt
so strongly on the point, that he approached Mascarot and asked him in a
whisper, “Is there no way of sparing this poor fellow ?”
Mascarot smiled one of those sinister smiles which always sent a cold
chill to the hearts of those who knew him and his ways. “ Before a
quarter of an hour has elapsed," said he, “I will ask you this same ques-
tion, leaving you to decide the point as you please!”
“In that case-"
“Hush! This is your first real test. If you are not as strong a man as
I believed-good-bye. Stand steady ; a thunderbolt is about to pass over
your head ! "
These words were trivial enough-they might mean much or little; but
the . tone in which they were spoken was so expressive that Paul was
startled, and gathered himself together. It was as well he did so ; for with
some trouble he was able to stifle an exclamation of surprise and rage at
sight of the woman who now entered the room, The Viscountess, young
Gandelu's Zora, was his, Paul's Rose-Rose clad in a toilette which, although
purchased ready made, was none the less dazzling.
She was evidently growing accustomed to her new station ; and advised
by her intelligent lover, would soon win a reputation for eccentricity. In
proof of this she wore on her nose a pair of glasses, which she had some
difficulty in keeping in position.
However, she was still somewhat intimidated, and M. de Gandelu had
almost to drag her along. “How absurd !” he cried. “What are you
afraid of ? Come on! Klopen is only angry that we have been kept wait-
ing by his lacqueys.”
As soon as Zora-Rose was installed in an arm-chair, the interesting youth


100
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
turned towards the celebrated tailor. “Well," he asked, “have you de.
cided on a toilette that will do justice to madame's beauty ?”
Van Klopen did not at once reply. With his knitted brow and eyes
fixed on vacancy, he looked like Tiresias seated on the tripod, awaiting in.
spiration. “I have it !” he cried, at last, waving his hand majestically;
"I see it before me!”
“Ah!” said Gaston, much impressed, “what a man ! "
“Listen,” continued the tailor, whose eyes sparkled with the fire of
creative genius. “Walking costume, to begin with ; a polonaise, frogged à
la pensionnaire ; body, sleeves, and underskirt of full coloured maroon.
Upper skirt of the Cheveux de la Reine tint, slashed in oval fashion.
Paniers of course—"
He might have gone on speaking for an hour, Zora-Rose heard not one
word. She had just caught sight of Paul; and despite her new born auda-
city, her terror was so great that she nearly fainted. What would come
of this unexpected meeting? How could Paul remain there motionless,
when she, who knew him so well, read the most savage threats in his eyes.
Her own emotion was so evident, that finally young Gandelu perceived
it; but not knowing Paul, indeed, hardly noticing his presence in the
room, and especially not being quick-witted, he was entirely deceived as to
the cause. "Stop i ” he exclaimed ; “stop, Van Klopen ! she is overcome
with joy. I am ready to bet you ten louis that she is about to go into
hysterics !”
During this scene Mascarot had kept his protégé well in sight; but now
seeing him all primed for an explosion, he considered it would be absurd
and unwise to prolong the trial. “I leave you," he said, turning to Van
Klopen ;“ don't forget our arrangements. Madame, gentlemen, good after-
noon.”
Knowing how to leave the house without passing through the salon, he
took Paul's arm and dragged him away. It was quite time that he did so.
It was only when they reached the stairs, and were out of hearing that
the worthy agent breathed freely again. “Well, what do you think now?"
he asked.
So painful had been Paul's self imposed restraint, so great his agony of
wounded vanity, that his teeth were ground together, and he could only
answer with a groan. "The deuce," thought Mascarot, " he takes it
harder than I expected. No matter! The fresh air will bring him to
again,”
This was not the case, however ; for, on reaching the street, Paul felt his
limbs fail him, and was obliged to lean on Mascarot for support. The
agent was sorely perplexed, when he espied a little café hard by. “Let us
go in there," said he. “You must drink something to revive you.” They
sat down in a little salon, momentarily void of other customers, and at
Mascarot's advice Paul drank a couple of glasses of rum, which speedily
brought the colour back to his cheeks. Strike the iron while it's hot,'
says the proverb; and the agent having stunned his man, now deemed it
advisable to finish him. “A quarter of an hour ago,” he said, “I promised
to remind you of your views in favour of M. de Gandelu.”
“Enough !” interrupted Paul in a violent tone, “enough!”
Mascarot smiled with paternal benevolence. "You see," said he, "what
different views we take of things, according to the position we stand in.
Now you are beginning to be reasonable,"
“Yes, I am reasonable--that is to say, I mean to be rich also. There


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
101
is no necessity now for you to urge me on, I am ready to do precisely
as you desire. I don't wish ever to be exposed again to such a humiliation
as I have undergone to-day.”
B. Mascarot shrugged his shoulders. “You are angry," he said.
“My anger will pass away, but my intentions will remain the same."
As fast as Paul now advanced, just as rapidly did the agent retreat-
such are the usual tactics in such cases. “Don't decide without mature
deliberation,” he said ; “ you are still your own master. To-morrow, if you
abandon yourself to me, you must resigu your dearly loved liberty.'
“I am ready for anything."
The agent had won the day.
“ Very good,” said he, with affected coldness. “Dr. Hortebize will pre-
sent you to Monsieur Martin Rigal, Mademoiselle Flavia's father, and a
week after your marriage, I will give you a ducal coat-of-arms to paint on
your carriage panels.”
XII.
WHEN Sabine de Mussidan told André she meant to throw herself on M.
de Breulh-Faverlay's generosity, she had consulted the impulses of her
heart rather than her strength. She recognised this fact, when she asked
herself how she could keep this promise. Her whole nature revolted at the
idea that she must ask for a rendezvous with any man, and allow him to
read to the bottom of her soul ; and in this respect she would have dreaded
' a stranger less than M, de Breulh, for it seemed to her, that as he had
asked for her hand, he had certain rights over her, even over her very
thoughts.
All the way home in the cab with Modeste, Sabine never opened her lips,
On her arrival, the dinner table awaited her presence. The bell was
sounding just as she entered the house. The meal was a dismal one,
for whilst Sabine herself was tortured with cruel anxiety, the count and
countess were oppressed by remembrance of the threats of Dr. Hortebize
and the honourable B. Mascarot. In the magnificent dining room, the ser-
vants went to and fro, fulfilling their duties with the superficial attention
and mock respect which habit imparts. What did they care for their
master's sadness, why should they take any interest in it? Were they not
well fed, well lodged and regularly paid ? They cared for little else. The
superb and well appointed establishment was really theirs. How many
houses there are in Paris where the masters seem to be their servants'
lodgers !
At nine o'clock, Sabine was alone in her own room, struggling with her-
self, and trying to reconcile herself to this interview with M. de Breulh.
She did not sleep all night, and in the morning she felt utterly worn out;
but, nevertheless, she had no idea of evading her promise, or even of post-
poning its fulfilment. She had sworn to accomplish it at once, and André
was naturally awaiting a letter with feverish impatience. The more she
studied her situation, the more imperative seemed the necessity of a prompt
determination. To let things take their own way, would be to run the risk
of encountering insurmountable obstacles.
A young girſ, it is said, cannot be married without her consent. This is
a mistake, and so Sabine knew, And she could not confide in her father,
still less in her mother. Without ever having been taken into their confi-


102
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
dence, she divined that their estrangement must have some bitter cause,
and that misfortune loomed ahead in the future. Already, on leaving the
convent where she had been educated, and returning home, she had been
conscious of being in the way-of being de trop. She now, moreover, had
the firm belief that her parents would look upon her marriage as the re-
storation of their liberty. They would then be free to separate, to fly from
each other to the uttermost ends of the earth. She was the only link that
held them together.
Realizing all this, her anguish became the greater, and she soon reached
that state of mind when young girls take the most desperate resolutions.
Yes, it seemed to her less painful, less hard, to abandon the paternal roof,
than to face M. de Breulh and tell him the whole truth. Fortunately, frail
as she looked, she had a certain amount of energy, and by force of circum-
stances had learned to depend upon herself. For André's sake, even more
than for her own, she was anxious to remain within the limits of social laws.
Unlawful happiness, which one must hide with shame, would entail any
amount of moral suffering, and provoke the sneers and contempt of hypo-
crites. What she longed for was that legitimate felicity which may be dis-
played in the open sunlight with the full approval of God and man. At
noon, yet undecided as to her course, she was still weeping and praying.
Ah ! why was she motherless? At one moment she thought of writing, but
she realised it would be folly to confide to paper words one scarcely dares
pronounce. The time passed, and Sabine was bitterly reproaching herself
for what she deemed her lack of courage, when suddenly she heard the great
iron gates being opened. A carriage was entering the courtyard. Naturally
enough, she went to the window, looked out, and gave vent to a joyful cry.
She had seen Monsieur de Breulh-Faverlay alight from a phaeton, which he
had been driving himself in spite of the excessive cold.
"God has heard me," she murmured, “and in answer to my prayers
has sent him here! The worst is over."
“What do you intend to do, mademoiselle ?” asked the faithful Modeste.
“Do you intend to speak to the gentleman here?”
“Yes. My mother has not left her dressing-room, and no one will disturb
my father in the library except by his express orders. If I stop Monsieur
de Breulh in the hall, and ask him to go into the salon, I shall have fifteen
minutes without interruption, and that is more than I need.” Then, sum-
moning all her courage, and mastering her last hesitation, she left the room.
André might well have been proud-he, the poor painter, the foundling-
to see himself preferred to the man whom the Count de Mussidan had
chosen for his daughter. The Baron de Breulh-Faverlay was one of the few
men outside of the official world whom Paris cared to talk about; and this
was not surprising, for he had been singularly favoured by fortune. He
was not yet forty; he was remarkably good-looking, endowed with superior
intelligence and wit; and finally, he was one of the richest landowners in
France. He was often asked how it happened that he took no part in public
life. “I have already enough to do," he was in the habit of answering,
“ without making myself ridiculous !” Was his modesty real or feigned?
No one could say. One thing was certain, that he seemed the last real in
carnation of the old French nobility. His loyalty was unblemished, his
courtesy chivalric, his wit exquisitely refined, and his disposition highly
generous. He had had, it was said, great success with women; however,
even if the on dits were true, he had always discreetly refrained from com
promising any one. His prestige was heightened by a mysterious cloud


104
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
me."
known to you, and it is impossible that you can be other than indifferent to
The baron looked grieved, and answered gravely, “You are mistaken,
mademoiselle, and you judge me ill. I have long since passed the age at
which a man lightly takes haphazard resolutions. If I asked for your
hand, it was because I knew how to appreciate your noble qualities of head
and heart. The man whose name you may condescend to accept will be
happy above all others.” Sabine's lips parted, as if she wished to speak,
but De Breulh went on : “And now, mademoiselle, how have I displeased
you to be so dismissed ? I do not know. Only, believe me when I tell you
that I shall deplore it as a misfortune for the rest of my life.”
The sincerity of M. de Breulh's grief was so evident that Sabine was
really touched. “You have not displeased me, sir, and you honour me far
beyond my merits," she answered. “I should have been proud and happy
to become your wife if—,”
She stopped short, choked by her tears, but M. de Breulh was cruel
enough to insist on her continuing. “If ?” he asked.
Sabine turned her head away, and in a faint voice replied : “If I had
not given my heart and promised my hand to another.”
“Ah !” exclaimed the baron.
Jealousy, accident, or intention, imparted to this ejaculation a sarcastic
tone which wounded Sabine sorely. She turned quickly, and, with uplifted
head, bravely met De Breulh's questioning eyes. "Yes, sir; another-
chosen by myself, without the knowledge of my family. Another to whom
I am as dear as he is to me.”
The baron did not speak.
“And this should not in any way offend you," continued Sabine ; "for
when I met him I was as ignorant of your existence as you were of mine.
There is, besides, no possible comparison between you. He is at the foot
of the social ladder ; you stand on the highest rung. You are noble ; he
belongs to the people. You are proud of having a title—the world speaks
of the De Breulhs as it does of the De Coucys; he has not even a name.
Your fortune is beyond all your desires ; he labours in obscurity for his
daily bread. Yes, sir, such is his position. He may have genius, but the
cares of life weigh him down to earth. To obtain the means of studying
art he learned a mechanic's trade, and if you ever take his hand you will
find it hard with toil.”
Had Mademoiselle de Mussidan purposely wished to grieve the gallant
man whom she asked to serve her, she could hardly have spoken differently.
In her inexperience, she thought entire frankness would best heal the wound
she inflicted. Never, however, had she been so lovely as at that moment,
when her whole nature was suffused by the glow of passion. Her voice had
acquired a fuller, richer ring, her soul seemed to emerge from the windows
of her eyes. “Now, sir,” she said, “ do you understand my preference ?
The wider and, to appearance, the more impassable the chasm separating
us, the greater must be my fidelity to my oath. I know my duty. A
woman, worthy of the name, must be hope and faith, the worker of miracles
for the man who loves her. I may be called headstrong, no doubt. Maybe,
even, the future has some terrible chastisement in store for me; but no one
will ever hear one word of complaint from my lips. For—.” She hesitated
for one moment, and then, with quiet firmness, added, “For I love him!”
M. de Breulh listened to her, apparently unmoved, but in reality the
most frightful of all passions-jealousy-was gnawing at his heart. He had


106
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
and as soon as you appeared, the intentions of your parents concerning my.
self and you were well known. Consequently you attracted comparatively
little attention. But to-morrow, when it becomes known that I have re-
*tired, twenty suitors will spring up in my place."
Sabine sighed, for this was the same objection that André had made.
“And, remember," continued De Breulh, “your situation will be in-
finitely more difficult. If your noble qualities are calculated to awaken
the most elevated sentiments, your great fortune is equally likely to arouse
cupidity."
Why had De Breulh used these words, fortune and cupidity ? Were
they an allusion to André ? Sabine looked earnestly at the baron, but she
read no irony in his eyes. “It is true,” she said, sadly, “my dowry is
very large.”
• What will you reply to the next person who presents himself ?"
“I don't know; but, no doubt, I shall find some plausible reasons for my
refusal. Besides, if I act in obedience to the voice of my heart and con-
science, I cannot do wrong. God will take pity upon me!”
This last phrase was a dismissal, and De Breulh, a thorough man of the
world, could not fail to understand it as such ; nevertheless, he did not
move. “If I dared, mademoiselle,” he began, “if I couid hope that you
would allow me, as a friend, to offer you a word of advice--"
“Speak sir, I beg of you."
“Well, then, why not remain on the same terms as at present? So long
as our rupture is not known, your peace is secured. It would be a very
siinple thing to postpone all decisive steps for a year, and I should be ready
to retire on the day you named.”
Was there anything concealed behind this generosity? No; and Sabine
did not for a moment doubt the baron. Still she answered, earnestly,
“No, sir, no, this would be taking a most shameful advantage of you, and
would place you in a mortifying position. Besides, reflect for a moment,
this subterfuge would be unworthy of you, of me, and of him.”
M. de Breulh did not urge the point. To his first feeling of wounded
pride had succeeded a certain tenderness-a plan worthy of his chivalric
character had occurred to him ; but his respect for the young girl was so
great, that he was anxious to word it in a way that would not offend her.
“Would it,” he began, hesitatingly,"would it be taking advantage of
the confidence you have so kindly placed in me, if I were to express to
you the happiness I should feel if I were permitted to make the acquain-
tance of the man you have chosen ?"
Sabine coloured deeply. “I have nothing to conceal from you," she
said. “His name his André; as I told you he is an artist, and he resides in
the Rue de la Tour d'Auvergne, No.-"
De Breulh made a mental note of both the name and the address. “And
now,” said he with more firmness,“ do not, I entreat of you, mademoiselle
attribute my request to mere curiosity. I have but one wish, that of
serving you. It would be very sweet to me to become your ally—to count
for something in your life. I have powerful friends and relatives who give
large sums— His earnestness betrayed him into a false step. With the
best intentions in the world, he had deeply wounded Sabine. Did he
propose to patronize André, and thus make his own superiority of position
and fortune all the more apparent? No woman could stand that.
“Thank you, sir,” she replied, coldly. “ But I know André so well.
Any offer of assistance would humiliate him frightfully. I am absurd,


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
107
you think? Excuse me, but our peculiar position requires we should be
most reserved. Poor fellow ! his pride and self-respect are his sole titles
to nobility.” So saying, Sabine touched the bell rope, wishing to bring this
painful interview to a close.
A servant at once appeared. “Have you informed my mother of this
gentleman's visit?” she asked.
“No, mademoiselle ; for both my master and mistress gave orders this
morning that no one was to be admitted.”
“ Why did you not tell me that before ?” asked M. de Breulh, sternly;
and without waiting to hear the footman's very obvious justification, he
bowed ceremoniously to Sabine, excused himself for having involuntarily
intruded upon her, and went off, allowing the servants to see that he con-
sidered they had been wanting in their duty.
“Ah!” said Sabine, to herself, “that man is worthy of some good
woman's love."
She was about to regain her own room, when hearing a noise in the hall,
she drew back. The salon door had been left ajar, and she could hear
some one insisting on seeing the Count de Mussidan, despite the objections
of the servants who politely but firmly refused to show the visitor up-stairs.
" What do I care about your orders ? " said the intruder, “They are of
no consequence to me. Am I your master's intimate friend or not? Well,
then go and tell him at once that I'm here—that I'm waiting to see him.
Tell him this, or I shall go up-stairs myself !”
The visitor's obstinacy was greater than the servants' resistance, and in
proof of this, he succeeded in entering the salon. He was none other than
M. de Clinchan, the comrade of the Count de Mussidan's earlier years, and
with Ludovic the keeper, a witness of the death of the unfortunate
Montlouis. M. de Clinchan was neither tall nor short, neither thin nor
stout, neither handsome nor ugly. His person was thorougly common-
place, just like his mind and his attire. There was but one thing notice-
able about him, and that a trifle-he wore on his watch-chain a large coral
hand. He feared the evil eye. When young, he was already of a methodi-
cal turn of mind, and as he grew older, he had become almost a maniac.
At twenty, he regularly counted the beating of his pulse, and at forty, he
daily chronicled full particulars concerning his digestion. If Paradise
were really the realization of our disappointed wishes here below, M. de
Clinchan would certainly be a clock in the next world.
For the time being he was so disturbed that he did not even bow to
Sabine. “What a shock,” he murmured ; "and to come at this time,
when I had eaten more heavily than usual. Even if I don't die of it, I shall
certainly feel its effects for the next six months."
At the sight of M. de Mussidan, who at that moment appeared, he inter-
rupted his soliloquy, and, running towards him, exclaimed, “Octave, save
us both! We are lost if you don't break off your daughter's marriage
with-
M. de Mussidan hastily placed his hand over M. de Clinchan's lips.
" Are you crazy ?” asked the count. “Don't you see my daughter?"
In obedience to an imperious glance from her father, Sabine fled from the
room. But M. de Clinchan had said enough to fill her heart with alarm
and distrust.
What was this rupture he spoke of, and with whom, and why? And
how could her marriage affect her father and his friend ?' There was some
mystery, certainly, and the eagerness with which the count had checked


108
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
his friend proved this clearly. She readily guessed that the name which
M. de Clinchan had been prevented from uttering was that of M. de Breulh,
One of those sinister presentiments, the truth of which it would be puerile
to deny, warned her that the phrase which had been so summarily dealt
with contained the key-note of her destiny. She felt certain that the con-
versation which her father and M. de Clinchan were about to have together
was destined to affect her happiness. Ah ! if it were only possible for her
to hear it. She longed to do so, not through curiosity, but tormented by
an anxious fear. But then, what means could she devise? While glancing
round, she suddenly remembered that by passing through the dining-room
she might reach one of the card-rooms, merely separated from the grand
salon by a portière. She at once acted on this inspiration, and, installed
behind the heavy curtain, found that she could hear everything that M. de
Clinchan was saying.
He was still complaining. M. de Mussidan's gesture had been so violent
that he had hurt his friend and almost made him fall. “Good heavens !"
moaned M. de Clinchan. “How violent you are! Ah! what a day this
has been ! Just fancy! to begin with, a far too copious luncheon, then a
violent emotion and a rapid journey here. Then your servants must make
me angry! I see you, feel overjoyed—but you almost knock me down, and
I lose my breath. Why, at iny age, it's ten times more than is necessary
to provoke a serious illness.”
Although the count was generally most indulgent as regards his friend's
oddities, he was not now disposed to listen to him. “To facts, if you
please,” he said, in a sharp, decided tone; “what has happened?"
“Happened !" sighed De Clinchan. « Only that the Bivron affair is
known." An anonymous letter, which I received an hour ago, threatens me
with the most frightful misfortunes if I don't prevent you from giving your
daughter to De Breulh. The rascals write that they have every proof"
“Where is this letter ? "
De Clinchan drew the missive from his pocket. It was as explicit and
threatening as possible, but it told M. de Mussidan nothing more than he
knew already.
“Have you looked at your journal ?" asked the count; " and are there
really three leaves gone?”
- 6 Yes."
6. How was it possible for them to be stolen ?"
“Ah! how? If you could only tell me."
“ Are you sure of your servants?”.
“Certainly. Don't you know that Lorin, my valet, has been in my
service for sixteen years ; that he was brought up by my father, and that I
have fashioned him to suit my requirements. None of my other servants
ever entered my private rooms. And besides, the volumes of my journal
are stowed away in an oak escritoire, the key of w. ich is always in my
possession."
“Nevertheless, some one evidently had these volumes in his hands."
De Clinchan thought for a moment, and then suddenly clapped his fore.
head. “I have it ?" he cried. “Some months ago, one Sunday, Lorin
went to a fête in the environs of Paris, and drank too much wine with some
men whose acquaintance he had made in the train. After drinking, they
all began to quarrel, and he was so ill-used by his new friends that he was
obliged to remain in bed for some weeks. He had a deep stab from a knife
on one shoulder.”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
111
understand, madame, that our daughter will not marry Monsieur de Breulh-
Faverlay.”'
This utterly unexpected declaration naturally delighted Madame de Mus-
sidan. Half of the task imposed on her by Dr. Hortebize was accomplished
without an effort on her part. Still, she naturally offered some objections.
Women invariably begin, systematically and instinctively, by opposing even
the designs they approve of. It is their way. Rightly or wrongly, they
consider that resistance and argument are bound to further their views.
“Are you jesting, sir?" she asked. “How could we ever devise a more
brilliant alliance? It was a piece of unexpected good fortune when M. de
Breulh came forward."
,“Oh! you need not be afraid,” answered the count bitterly ; " another
suitor will be furnished you.”
This phrase, prompted by the count's intense fears, almost terrified the
countess. What had he meant? Was it an allusion ? Had her husband
referred to the Marquis de Croisenois? Was he aware of the influence
which had been brought to bear upon her? However, she was a brave
woman, one of those who prefer actual disaster to unlimited suspense, and
so she determined to ascertain the truth at once. “What other suitor do
you mean?" she asked with affected carelessness. “Has any one come
forward, and how? And besides, may I ask, who presumes to dispose of my
child without consulting me?”
“I do, madame.”
The countess smiled contemptuously, and the count, who was watching
her, now fairly lost his head. “Am I not master ?” he cried, angrily.
“Am I not driven to this exercise of authority by the threats of the
scoundrels who have ferreted out the secret of my life—my crime--and who
possess the proof they need to dishonour my name !"
The countess started to her feet, asking herself if her husband had not
lost his reason. “A crime !” she gasped. “You !”.
“Yes, I! Ah, it surprises you, and you never suspected it. And yet
it's true. You will perhaps remember that accident at a shooting party,
which saddened the first months of our married life. That young man-in
the woods of Bivron! Ah, well, it was no accident. I deliberately aimed
at him, shot him, murdered him in fact. And it is known now; the truth
can be revealed and proved.”
The countess, white with terror, recoiled with extended arms, as if to
ward off danger.
“Ah, you are shocked, are you?” sneered the count. “I inspire you
with horror, possibly. But don't tremble, there is no blood on my
hands !”
And pressing them to his heart, as if he could barely breathe, he continued,
“ It is here that the blood is, and it stifles me. I have endured this for
twenty-three years, and even now I wake in the dead of night-I wake,
bathed in sweat, for in my dreams I have heard the poor fellow's death-
rattle."
Madame de Mussidan sank on a chair. - "How horrible !” she gasped.
“Yes ; but you do not yet know why I killed him. Do you know what
he dared to tell me? why, that the young wife I worshipped had a lover.”
The countess started up with vehement denials on her lips, but as her
husband coldly added, “ And it was true--I learned the facts later," she
fell back half fainting, hiding her face with her hands.
“Poor Montlouis," continued the count, slowly, “ he was really loved


112
TIIC SLAVES OF PARIS.
loved by a little grisette, who toiled each day for the bread she ate. Still
she was by nature a hundred times more noble than the haughty heiress
whom I had married, and who was of the Sauvebourg race.”
“ Octave, Monsieur !”
“Ah! yes, and she proved it-Montlouis had seduced her. Still he
meant to marry her ; he told me so. Everyone believed her virtuous, but
on her lover's death her shame became known—a child was born. People
in small towns are pitiless. When she left the hosiptal with her infant in
her arms, the old women pelted her with mud. She had to fly for safety.
But for me she would have died of starvation. Poor child! It was little
enough that I gave her, and yet, by dint of privations, she brought up her
son decently. He is now a man, and, whatever happens, his future is
secured, for I am there."
In such situations as that which now presented itself, the mind is too
absorbed to pay attention to surroundings. M. de Mussidan and his wife
were so wrapped up in their own sensations, that they did not hear the
stifled sobs proceeding from the card-room where Sabine was concealed.
According to her own account the countess had often had to suffer from her
husband's violence. But he had never before shown such contempt for re-
straint. It seemed as if he could not control himself; or maybe, he took
pleasure in giving course to the bitter feelings which had gathered in his
heart during so many weary years.
“Now tell me, madame," he resumed, “ tell me if it would not be the
height of injustice to compare this poor girl to yourself. Have you ever
listened to the voice of conscience? Have you ever trembled at the
thought that God will certainly punish you some day-you, who were
guilty as a daughter, criminal as a wife, and selfish and unworthy as a
inother?”
Ordinarily, the countess held her ground with her husband, and was
utterly indifferent to his reproaches, however well merited they might be ;
but to-day she lost courage.
"With you,” continued the count, “shame and misfortune entered into
my life. Who could have suspected the truth, when seeing you so gay and
girlish, without a care on your brow, rambling under the old trees at
Sauvebourg ? How many times, in the days when my dream was to win
you for my wife, did I watch you for hours without a suspicion that I was
your dupe ! Already, as a girl, you were expert in dissimulation. Your
detestable passions never once dimmed the brightness of your eyes ; who
would have looked for guilt in them? They were so clear and frank. Ah !
anyone else would have been deceived just as I was. When we entered the
church, where our unfortunate marriage was solemnized, I mentally asked
pardon for my own unworthiness. Miserable fool! Ere our honeymoon
was over, you added adultery to your crimes !”
The countess made a gesture of denial, “It's false," she inurmured ;
“they have lied to you!"
M. de Mussidan laughed a hollow laugh. "No," said he, “I have
every proof. You think it extraordinary, do you? You have always
taken me for one of those blind husbands who can be fooled with impunity.
You thought you had tied a bandage over my eyes ! You were mistaken.
I perceived, I realised the truth. You may ask why I never spoke to you
about it. Ah! it was because I loved you still. My passion was stronger
than my will, than my pride, than my self-respect. It is only those who
have never loved with the whole strength of soul and body who can laugh


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
113
at the moral cowardice of a man whose passion subsists, even when respect
has gone."
He spoke with extraordinary vehemence, and the countess listened
breathlessly, utterly confounded by his transports of passion. “I was
silent," continued M. de Mussidan, “because I knew that if I ventured to
say one word, you would be utterly lost to me. I could have killed you,
but it was beyond my power to live apart from you. No, you will never
know how many times you have been but a hair's breadth from death. At
times when I kissed you, it seemed to me as if I could distinguish on your
face the marks of other kisses than my own, and it required a great effort on
my part not to strangle you then and there. And, finally, I found it hope-
less to decide whether I really hated you, or loved you."
“Octave ! mercy, Octave ! ” gasped the countess, joining both hands.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Yes, your surprise is great," he said,
" and yet if I pleased I could surprise you still more. But, enough!”.
The countess shuddered. Did her husband know of the letters which had
been stolen from her? All depended upon that. However, she was at
least sure that he had not read them, for he would have expressed himself
very differently had he known the mystery they referred to.
« Let me tell you," she began.
“Nothing-not one word," answered her husband.
“I swear to you "
“It is useless. But I must not forget to own what was my presumption
in earlier days. You will laugh at me no doubt, but no matter. I actually
comforted myself in the belief that I could win back your heart. I said
that sooner or later you would be touched by my profound and faithful
affection. It was absurd, wasn't it? As if any affection could have
touched your cold heart!”
“Ah ! how pitiless you are !”
He gave her a glance of hatred, and coldly retorted, “And you, what are
you?"
"If you knew_"
“I know enough. I know the end that came to all my efforts. I drank
the chalice of deception to the dregs. Each day widened the chasm between
us, and at last we came to live this infernal existence which is killing me."
“You had only to say,"
"To say what? I could not act as your jailer! What would have been
the good ? I wanted your heart, your soul. It would have been a simple
matter to imprison your body no doubt, but your thoughts would still
have wandered away to some guilty rendezvous. I wonder how I had
strength to linger near you. It was not to protect your honour, for that
was gone—but simply to save appearances. With me at your side, you
could not drag our name through the mire."
Madame de Mussidan once again tried to protest her innocence, but her
husband did not even seem to hear her. " And moreover,” he resumed,
“I also wished to save something of our fortune, for your extravagance was
a whirlpool which swallowed up millions. In what fire do you con-
sume your banknotes, that not even their ashes can be found ? Credit is
refused you. Your jewellers and milliners think that I'm ruined, and it is
precisely that belief of theirs that prevents me from being ruined. If I
haven't liquidated our position it is because I don't wish to die in an alms-
house ; and, moreover, I have Sabine to think of, she must be richly
dowered, and yet,"
VOL. I.


114
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
He hesitated ; what could be the reason of this hesitation after all he
had said ? Madame de Mussidan repeated his words interrogatively—“And
yet ?”
“Never !” he cried, with a fearful explosion of rage, “never once have
I kissed that child, without feeling this horrible doubt : Is Sabine really my
daughter ?"
The countess rose indignantly. No, this she could not bear. “ Enough,"
she cried, “enough! Yes, Octave, I have been guilty, frightfully guilty,
but not as you believe."
“Why do you attempt to defend yourself ?"
“Because it is my duty to defend Sabine.”
The count shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “It would have been
better to have thought of that earlier,” he answered. “It would have been
better to have watched over the development of her character, to have
shown her what was right and noble, and to have learned to read her young
heart-to have been her mother, in a word.”
The countess was in such a state of agitation that, had her husband
noticed it, he would certainly have been surprised. "Ah! Octave,” she
cried, “why did you not speak sooner-if you knew? But I will tell you
everything-everything."
However the count, unfortunately, stopped her. “Spare both of us these
explanations," he said. “If I have at last broken the long silence of years,
it is because I know that nothing you could say now could touch or move
me.”
Madame de Mussidan fell back on the sofa, realizing that there was no
longer any hope. In the card-room all was silent; the sobs had ceased;
Sabine had had strength enough to drag herself to her own room.
The count was about to take refuge in the library again, when a servant
knocked at the door. He carried a silver salver, in the centre of which lay
a letter.
M. de Mussidan hastily broke the seal; the missive was from M, de
Breulh, who asked to be released from his promise. Coming after so many
shocks, this proved the crowning blow. Unaware of his daughter's inter-
view with the baron, M. de Mussidan fancied he could again detect the
hand of that mysterious agent who had threatened him, and the power of
those unknown folks, whose slave he was, absolutely terrified him. How-
ever, he had little time for reflection ; for at that moment Modeste, his
daughter's maid, rushed into the salon, crying, “Help, Monsieur le Comte!
help, madame ! Mademoiselle Sabine is dying!”
XIV.
VAN KLOPEN, the illustrious "ladies' tailor,” knew Paris—men and things
-thoroughly. Like all tradesmen whose operations are based on a system
of extensive credit, he constantly needed information respecting people and
their fortunes-real and prospective. He never forgot anything he heard,
and by dint of research, memory, and practice, his brain had become a per-
fect post-office directory. So when Mascarot spoke to him of the father of
the pretty brunette, Flavia, whose beauty had so impressed Paul Violaine,
the arbiter of fashion unhesitatingly replied, “ Martin-Rigal? Yes, I know
him ; a banker."
And a banker Martin-Rigal was, to be sure. He lived in a superb house


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
115
in the Rue Montmartre, almost opposite the church of St. Eustache. He
resided on the second storey, whilst his offices occupied the whole of the
first floor. Although M. Martin-Rigal did not figure among the financial
princes of Paris, he was, nevertheless, thoroughly respected. He mainly
carried on business with those petty tradespeople, so numerous in the
French capital, who only subsist thanks to innumerable shifts and devices,
and remain perpetually in terror of settling days.
The banker held almost all the persons whom he did business with in the
hollow of his hand, as it were. What would have become of them had he,
some fine morning, taken it into his head to close his doors? They could
not have met their engagements; judgments would have been issued; failure
and ruin would have followed. The power he possessed was wielded by
Martin-Rigal in the most arbitrary fashion. He admitted no restraint to
his despotism. When he had settled on any measure, any one audacious
enough to ask, “Why?” was answered, “Because," purely and simply. It
was the cashier who made this reply, be it understood; for the banker
himself was hardly ever seen.
In the morning he was always invisible, shut up in his private office,
and not one of the clerks had sufficient courage to knock at the door ; be-
sides, even had they done so, no reply would have been elicited. The ex-
periment had been tried, and it was believed that nothing short of a cry of
fire would have aroused their master.
The banker was a tall man, with a remarkably bald head. His face,
with its high cheek bones, was always scrupulously shaven, and his little
gray eyes twinkled with a restless light. When he talked, if he were in
doubt respecting a choice of words, or if a wrong one escaped him, he had
a peculiar hobby, that of raising his right hand to his nose. His urbanity
was perfect. He said the cruellest things in a honied tone, and invariably
escorted to the door, with repeated apologies and bows, the unlucky appli-
cant whom he had refused to oblige with a small loan. Despite his years,
he dressed with youthful elegance, after the fashion of the rising financial
school. Apart from business, he was said to be amiable, obliging, and even
witty. It was reported, moreover, that he in no wise despised those good
things of life which enable us to travel through this vale of tears. He by
no means turned up his nose at a good dinner, or turned his back on a young
and pretty face. He was, however, a widower, and had but one serious
passion in the world-his only child-Flavia. It is true that in his passion
there is one fanatical trait-that of the Indian who crushes everything
under his idol's chariot-wheels, and is even prepared to immolate himself.
M. Martin-Rigal did not keep up a very expensive establishment; but in
the neighbourhood it was said that Mademoiselle Flavia's teeth were sharp
enough to crunch millions. The banker himself always walked, it was more
healthy, he said ; but his daughter had a carriage and two fine horses to
drive in the Bois under the protection of a duenna, half companion, half
relative, who was somewhat touched in the head. Flavia's father had never
yet ventured to deny her anything. Sometimes a kind friend pointed out
to him that this perpetual adoration might ill fit Flavia for the future;
but upon this point he was intractable, and invariably replied that he
knew what he was doing; and that, if he worked like a dog, it was
simply that his daughter might have all she needed, and a great deal more
besides.
It is certain that he did more work than all his employés put together.
After remaining since early morning at his desk, busy with figures, at four


116
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
in the afternoon he would open the door of his private room, and grant.
audience to all who might wish to see him.
Thus it happened that a couple of days after Paul and Flavia had met in
Van Klopen's salon, at about half past five o'clock, M. Martin-Rigal sat in
his private office listening to one of his clients. She was pretty, very
pretty, young, and dressed with charming simplicity ; but she looked very
sad, and her beautiful eyes were brimful of tears. “I must acknowledge
to you, sir,” she was saying, “that if you refuse to renew this note, we are
ruined. I can manage its payment in January. I have disposed of all iny
jewels, and there isn't a silver spoon left in the house."
“Poor little woman !” interrupted the banker.
These compassionate words raised her hopes. “And yet,” added she,
" our trade has never been so promising; we have finished paying for the
good-will,' and new customers are constantly coming in.”
She expressed herself in such clear terms that M. Martin-Rigal listened
with pleasure. A real Parisienne shines in a position of this kind ; less
easily discouraged than her husband, and more self-reliant, she keeps a
steady head when he would lose his.
As he heard this explanation of a situation which he thoroughly under-
stood, the banker nodded his bald pate, as if approvingly. None the less,
however, he finally exclaimed, “ All that is very well; but it does not
make the endorsements you offer me higher in value. If I had any con-
fidence, it would be in you.”
“But, sir, we have more than thirty thousand francs' worth of goods in
the establishment.”
“I don't mean that.”
He underscored these words with such a singularly expressive smile that
the poor woman coloured to the roots of her hair, and almost lost her self-
possession.
“Don't you understand," he resumed, “that your merchandise inspires
me with no more confidence than the endorsements you offer? Suppose you
fail, for instance; what would the goods be sold for? And besides, as you
know, landlords have certain privileges as creditors—"
He stopped short, for at this moment Flavia's maid, profiting by her
mistress's despotic power, entered the office without knocking. "Sir,"
said she, “mademoiselle wants you at once."
The banker rose immediately. “I am coming!” he exclaimed ; “I am
coming !” and taking his pretty client by the hand, to escort her more
rapidly to the door, he added, " Come, don't be low-spirited; we will ar-
range all these difficulties. Come again, and we will talk the matter over."
She wished to thank him, but he was already half way up the stairs.
Flavia had sent for her father so that he might admire her new toilette,
just sent from Van Klopen's, and which, after trying on, she was immensely
delighted with. The fact is, that the “Tailor to the Courts of Europe
had surpassed even his usual achievements. Flavia's dress was one of those
chefs-d'ouvre of bad taste-unfortunately fashionable—which give every
woman the same odious, doll-like aspect, and seem intended to deprive
them of all natural grace and distinction. The robe in question was a mass
of trimmings, puffs, and flounces, of various tints, oddly contrasted and all
but revolting to the artistic eye. Van Klopen had been faithful to his
system-for he has a system which can be summed up in these two axioms :
First : Cut each dress in such a way that it shall be utterly useless as soon
as slightly rumpled. Second: Employ some cheap stuff as the main


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
117
material (this is particularly pleasing to husbands), and multiply the number
of costly trimmings. More than one dressmaker has profited by the very
same theories.
Flavia cared nothing, however, for the economical side of the question.
Standing in the centre of the salon, where the chandelier was lighted, for
night was now coming on, she was studying some new steps and turns, re-
hearsing, in fact, so as to show her dress to the best advantage ; and she
was really so naturally pretty and graceful, that Van Klopen's masterpiece
failed to spoil her looks. Suddenly she turned ; for in the mirror before
her she had caught a glimpse of her father, who came in quite out of breath
from having rushed so quickly up the stairs.
“How long you have been !” she exclaimed.
Now he had not really lost a second, and still he nervously began to
apologise. “I was with a client,” he said ; “ so that,”
“ You ought to have sent him away at once.”
He attempted another explanation, but she at once cut him short, ex-
claiıning, “Never mind; but now, open your eyes wide, look at me, and
tell me frankly how you think I look.”
There was no need of the banker replying in words, for a look of absolute
unreasoning admiration appeared on his face. Nevertheless he fervently
ejaculated, “ Charming ! Divine !”
Accustomed as she was to paternal incense, Flavia appeared delighted.
" Then,” said she, “ you think I shall please himn ?”
The “ him” was Paul Violaine, as the banker knew right well. He
sighed deeply, as he answered, “How is it possible for you not to please
him?"
“Alas !” she answered with a pensive air, “if it were any one else, I
shouldn't have a doubt, nor one of these cruel misgivings that now disturb
my peace.”
M. Martin-Rigal had sat down near the chimney, and now placing his
arm around his daughter's waist, and drawing her towards him, he pressed
a kiss on her brow, whilst she, with coquettish, feline grace, glided to a
seat on his knee. “Suppose," she continued, “that he shouldn't like me.
Just think of that, father! I should die of sorrow.”
The banker turned away his head to conceal his sad impression.
“Do you love him really so much?” he asked.
She hesitated.
“ More than me?” he added.
Flavia took her father's head in her hands and shook it gently, as with a
clear bell-like laugh, she answered, “Oh, how stupid you are, poor papa !
How can I compare you? I love you first, because you are my father. I
love you, too, because you are good, because you always do precisely as 1
wish, because you always tell me you love me, because you are like the en-
chanters in fairy-land, you know--those old, old men with long beards, who
always give their god-children everything they want. I love you for all
the happiness you give me : for my carriage, my pretty horses, and my
beautiful dresses, for the bright gold pieces you give me, without counting,
for the pearl necklace round my neck, for this new bracelet-for every-
thing, in fact."
The enumeration was desolating. Each word evinced her absolute, in-
tolerable selfishness; and yet the banker listened with a smile, charmed
and delighted, in a state of unreasoning beatitude. “Well, and why do
you love him ?” he asked.:


118
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“Because,” said Flavia, suddenly becoming very serious—" because i
love him ; first, because he is himself, and then—and then I love
him!”
Her tone revealed such intensity of passion, that the poor father with
difficulty restrained a gesture of despair.
She saw the expression of his face, and burst out laughing. “You are
jealous, I do verily believe,” she exclaimed, in the tone a parent adopts
towards a child who has committed some trifling fault. “Fie for shame!
That's very naughty, sir! You don't even like that window, because I first
saw Paul from it. That's very wrong, very bad indeed !”
Still, like a scolded child, the father dropped his head.
“Ah! well,” resumed Flavia, “I love that window, for it recalls to me
the strongest, sweetest emotion of my life. It was four months ago, and
yet, father, it seems to me as if it were only this morning. I had gone to
the window, without a motive-purely by chance-yes, chance, and yet we
are told we are the masters of our own destinies. What utter nonsense! I
looked out carelessly enough, when suddenly, in a window of the house over
the way, I saw him. It was absolutely like a flash of lightning. That
one second decided my life. I, who never felt a thrill here before "— and,
so saying, she laid her hand on her heart—"now felt the most intolerable
pain, 'twas like a red hot iron.”
The banker seemed to be in agony, but his daughter saw nothing of it.
“ All day long,” she continued, “it seemed to me as if there were no air to
breathe; as if there were an immense weight on my heart, and a band of
iron round my head. It was not blood that circulated through my veins,
but liquid fire. At night I could not sleep, I shivered with cold, I was
bathed in sweat; and, without knowing why, I felt frightened."
The banker shook his head sadly. “Flavia, poor, dear, foolish child !" he
said, “why did you not confide in me then ?”
“I wanted to do so, papa, but I was afraid.”
M. Martin-Rigal raised his eyes in mute surprise to the ceiling as if
calling on heaven to witness that this fear of his child was utterly without
foundation.
" You don't understand it !” said Flavia. “You are the best of fathers,
but you are a man. Ah! if I had a mother she would understand.”
“Ah! what could your poor mother have done that I have omitted ?"
sighed the banker.
*Nothing, probably ; you may be right, for there are days when I hardly
understand myself; and yet I have been very, very firm and courageous
since then, for I swore to myself that never again would I open that win-
dow. For three days I resisted every temptation, on the fourth, I looked
out, and there he was, leaning with his forehead against the window-pane,
and looking so sad, that I turned away and began to cry.”.
The banker, the hard-hearted man of business, whom a luckless client's
misfortunes had never touched, had his eyes full of tears.
“After that,” resumed Flavia in a softer voice, “I resisted no longer.
Why struggle against destiny ? Each day I went to the window. It did
not take me long to discover what he was doing. I soon found that he was
giving lessons to two tall thin girls I had often seen in the street. Poor fellow!
I watched him each day as he went in and came out of the house. Ah !
papa, if you only knew how sad he looked ; sometimes he was so pale, and
seemed so weak, that I asked myself if he were not almost starving! Think
of it! He suffering with hunger, and I so rich! I learned the meaning of


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
119
each expression in his face, and found, when he was happy, he made this
gesture," and, so saying, she imitated one of Paul's movements with which
all his acquaintances were familiar.
“But one day, alas !” she resumed, " he disappeared. For a whole day
I remained at that window, waiting and hoping-all in vain. Then I fell
ill, as you know, and told you everything, and said besides, that I would
never marry any other man."
It was in gloom and sadness that the banker listened to this narrative,
which was by no means new to him.
“Yes,” he murmured, “it all happened just as you say. You were ill,
and as I thought dying, when I promised that I would find out who this
young fellow was—"
With a joyful impulse, Flavia flung her arms round her father's neck and
pressed kiss after kiss on his forehead. “And it was like that,” she ex-
claimed, “ that you cured me! And you will keep your word, dear papa,
will you not? Darling! I love you more for this than for anything else in
the world. And, to think that, that very day, merely with the informa-
tion I gave you, you went in search of my mysterious artist !”.
“Alas ! my child, I am your slave !”
Flavia drew herself up, and gaily shaking her dainty little fist at her
father : “What does that alas !''mean, sir?" she asked, with a pretty
affectation of sternness. “Do you regret your goodness and obedience?"
He did not answer, for she was correct in her surmises.
“I would give my prettiest necklace,” cried Flavia, “to know what
means you took to find out all about him, for you never gave me any
particulars. Come, don't hide anything. How did you discover him, and
how do you intend to bring him here without arousing his suspicions ?”
Her father smiled a kindly smile. “That is my secret, little one,” he
answered.
“Very well ; keep it. After all, I care little for the means now that I
know that you were successful ; for to-night-just think of it-to-night,
perhaps in an hour, perhaps in a few minutes, Dr. Hortebize will bring him
here, and he will sit at our table, where I can look at him at my ease. I
shall hear him speak-".
“Silly little girl," interrupted the banker. “Unhappy child."
She looked at him and answered, earnestly : “Silly-perhaps so; but
why do you call me unhappy ?"
"You love him too much,” said her father with profound conviction,
" and he will take advantage of it."
“Ah !” replied Flavia, with all the sincerity of passion, “he, take advan-
tage? Never!”
"I hope to God, my darling, that iny presentiments deceive me. But
he is not the sort of man I intended for you. He is an artist-
Flavia now really angry, rose from her father's knees. “And is that any.
thing against him? An artist ! Judging by your tone, one would think that
a crime. Why don't you reproach him with his poverty as well. He is an
artist, to be sure, but he is a genius. I can see that in his face. He is
poor, I know ; but I am rich enough for both. He will owe everything to
me—so much the better then. When my fortune is his, he will not be
compelled to give pianoforte lessons, he will be able to make a worthier use
of his talents. He will write operas, like those of Félicien David, like that
beautiful Desert, operas more beautiful than Gounod's. They will be per-
formed, and the theatres will be crowded. And I shall be in my box,


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THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
glorying in the choice of my heart. His poetry will belong to the world no
doubt, but the poet will be my own. And if I choose, he shall sing his
divine songs for me alone.”
She was in a state of such extraordinary exaltation, and seemed so con-
vinced of the reality of the scene her words had conjured up, that the ex-
citement brought on a cough which seemed to rend her delicate chest.
Her father looked at her with an expression of intense grief. Flavia's
mother had been carried away at twenty-four by that pitiless malady,
popularly known as a “galloping consumption,” which is the despair of
modern science, and which in less than a month transforms a blooming
young girl into a corpse. “Are you in pain, Flavia ?” asked the banker, in
a tone which betrayed the anxiety he felt.
“I in pain?" she rejoined, with an ecstatic look. « Can joy hurt me?"
"By the sun in heaven," cried Martin-Rigal, with a threatening gesture,
“if that wretch ever makes you shed a tear, he is a dead man !”.
The girl was startled at the fierceness of his tone. "What is the matter,
dear father?” she asked. “What have I said to make you so angry?
Why do you call Paul a wretch ?”
“Because," answered the banker, unable to restrain himself—“ because
I tremble for you. He has robbed me of my child's heart, and I can only
forgive him if you live even more happily with him than with your old
father. I am frightened, because you do not know him, whilst I do.
From the hour when you pointed him out to me in the crowd, all my
friends, all the people who are under obligations to me, have watched him.
From that moinent spies have followed him night and day. I have not
been satisfied with learning every particular of his present life; I have also
made inquiries respecting his past. He has hardly had a thought I have
not learnt, hardly uttered a word that has not been brought to me, I
have studied him faithfully, or rather my friends have studied him with the
greatest possible care; so that he has not a secret at the bottom of his
conscience which we do not know of.”
“And have you found nothing against him ?”
“No, nothing! Only, remember this, he is weaker than the veriest twig
that grows, and more inconstant than the withered leaf blown by the
faintest breeze! No, nothing! But he is one of those neutral characters,
as undecided for good as for evil, who go wherever they are bid, without
aim, energy or will."
"So much the better. My will will be his."
Her father smiled drearily. “You are mistaken, my daughter, as many
another woman has been before you. You all think that weak characters
those that are timid and vacillating—are easily governed. Let me tell you
that this is a great mistake. It is only strong characters that can really
be influenced ; it is only upon solid foundations that we lean for support.
Close your hand on a bit of marble, close it firmly, and it is still there ; but
do the same with a handful of sand, and it slips through your fingers."
Flavia did not open her lips; her father drew her again gently on his
knees. “Listen to me, little one-to your old father," he said solemnly;
" you will never have a better friend than he. You know that every drop
of blood in my veins would be gladly shed if it could do you any good.
Paul is coming; be prudent. Guard yourself against a momentary illusion,
a passing fancy-”.
* Oh ! papa."
“Very well; but heed what I say. Remember that your happiness de.


THE BLAVES OF PARIS.
121
pends upon your conduct now. Be careful and hide your feelings. Do not
let them be suspected. Men are so made that, while finding fault with
women for their duplicity, they complain still more of their frankness.
Trust in my experience ; remember that absolute security kills a man's
love, and even a woman's.”
He stopped short, for the sound of a bell was heard—that of the door of
their apartments. Flavia's heart gave a great leap, and her whole body
vibrated like the bell itself. “It is he!” she gasped ; and making a great
effort to regain composure, she added, “I will obey you, dear father ; I
will not appear until I have recovered my self-control and our other guests
have arrived. Don't be anxious ; I intend to prove to you that your
daughter can be as good an actress as other women.”
She fled as the door of the salon opened; but it was not Paul who entered.
The first arrivals were friends of the house—a stout manufacturer and his
wife, exquisitely dressed, but otherwise totally insignificant. That evening
the banker had invited a party of twenty. A great dinner more easily ex-
plained and justified Paul's invitation
. At that very moment, B. Mascarot's protégé was ringing at the door of
Dr. Hortebize, who was to act as his sponsor regarding his introduction
into society. Paul had just left the hands of a fashionable tailor, and it
was this that had delayed him. Thanks to Mascarot's influence, this tailor
had, in forty-eight hours, prepared one of these evening suits, the mere
aspect of which is more conducive to matrimonial success than anything the
most enamoured suitor could say. The glossiness of the material, the
daintiness of the cut, in fact, the perfection of the whole "get-up" greatly
enhanced Paul's natural good looks and air of distinction. "He was,
perhaps, somewhat ill at ease in this elegant attire ; but at his age, or
rather at the age he seemed to have, his embarrassment might easily be
mistaken for timidity, and this made him appear even additionally
interesting.
At all events he looked so well, so prepossessing, that, on seeing him, the
doctor smiled approvingly. “Flavia's taste is to be decidedly commended,"
he murmured. “And then, interrupting Paul, who was apologizing for being
so late, he added aloud, “There is no harm done. Sit down; I will be ready
in a moment."
Hortebize went into his dressing-room, while Paul Violaine let himself
fall on to the lounge. He was utterly worn out with fatigue-for five
nights he had had no sleep. Each night he had been seized with fever,
and had risen and paced his room, a prey to anxiety and mental torture.
This cannot be wondered at; for his situation was most unexpected, most
incredible. His honesty, which he had so boasted of to Rose, had been
weighed in the balance and found wanting. When, on leaving Van Klopen's,
Paul had said to Mascarot, “I am yours," he had but obeyed the impulse
of wounded vanity. He had, moreover, been dazzled by Mascarot's myste-
rious power, and Flavia's beauty, and fascinated by the millions of dowry
she was reported to have ; but in the evening, when again alone, he was
terrified at the remembrance of his imprudence, and thought with dread of
the demands which might be made upon him. What mysterious designs
was he to further? Would he ever recover his liberty, his self-control ?
However, on the following day he dined with Mascarot at Hortebize's
residence, and the certainty of the doctor's complicity had decided
him to stifle the last lingering qualms of conscience. It is often thus ;
according to its sphere, vice, or crime even, becomes a temptation or a


124
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
XV.
WHENEVER B. Mascarot called his partners together in solemn council,
Beaumarchef was in the habit of arraying himself in his best clothes. Not
merely on such occasions was he often called into the private room to
answer questions, and thus desired to appear to the best advantage,
but, moreover, as a retired sub-officer, he had a great respect for rank, and
realised what was due to his superiors. He reserved, therefore, for these
great occasions his most superb trousers of the hussar pattern, with a black
frock-coat showing both his chest and waist to advantage, and a pair of high
boots, garnished with gigantic spurs. Moreover, he was particularly care-
ful to stiffen the points of those long moustaches of his, which in their time
had pierced so many feminine hearts.
On this particular occasion, however, the sub-officer, although he had
received due notice of the expected meeting, still wore his everyday clothes
at nine o'clock A.M. He was seriously distressed thereat, and only consoled
himself by constantly repeating that his irreverence was entirely involun-
tary. It was the truth, moreover, for at daybreak he had been roused to
make out the bills of two cooks, who, having found situations, were about
to leave the establishment which Mascarot had organised for servants out
of place. As soon as this was settled, he hoped to have tiine to array him.
self ; but just as he was crossing the court-yard, whom should he meet but
Toto-Chupin, arriving to report himself. Beaumarchef at once went with
him into the outer office, thinking, no doubt, that the youngster's report
would, as usual, only be a matter of some few minutes. He was grievously
mistaken. There was little change in Toto's appearance. He still wore his
dirty gray blouse, his old misshapen cap, and his face had its habitual
knowing grin ; but, on the other hand, his ideas had considerably changed.
In fact, when the ex-sub-officer asked him to state briefly what he had done
on the previous day, Toto unexpectedly interrupted him with a cynical
grimace and gesture full of meaning.
“I haven't wasted my time,” he said ; “I have even made some new dis-
coveries, only before telling you one word—"
6. Well, go on."
"I wish to make my conditions."
This remark, enforced by an expressive movement of the hands, so sur-
prised Beaumarchef, that at first he could make no rejoinder. “Condi-
tions ?” he repeated at last.
"Certainly—you can do as you please, of course ; you can take it or leave
it. Do you think that I am going to work like a dog, lose my sleep and all
that, for a mere thank you? I am worth more than that.”
Beaumarchef was exasperated.
“I know that you are not worth the salt to your bread,” he exclaimed.
" All right."
" And you are an ungrateful little scamp to talk like that, after all the
kindness M. Mascarot has shown you."
Chupin burst out laughing. Kindness ! indeed!” he cried. “One
would think my employer had ruined himself for me. Poor man! I should
like to know what this wonderful kindness is.”
“He picked you up in the street one night in a snow-storm, and has given
you a room in the house ever since.”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS:
125
“A kennel, you might call it.”
“He gives you your breakfast and your dinner every day—".
“I know that, and half a bottle of wine at each meal that has been so
well watered that it can't even stain the table-cloth !”.
“You are an ungrateful boy," rejoined Beaumarchef; “ you forget that
you have also been set up in business as a chestnut vendor."
“Yes, under the porte-cochère. I am allowed to stand there from morn-
ing till night, frozen on one side and baked on the other; and what do I
earn ? Perhaps twenty sous. Come, I've had enough of that; and besides,
just now the trade isn't worth a curse."
“But you know that in summer you will have all you need given to you
to sell—fried potatoes.”
" Thank you ; I don't like the smell of the fat."
“ Then what do you wish to do?”
“Nothing; I feel that I was born to live on my income.”
Beaumarchef was at a loss for a retort. “ All right,” said he at length;
“I shall tell all that to the governor, and then we'll see.”
This threat made no impression on Toto. “I don't care a fig for the
governor,” he answered. ""What can old Mascarot do? Dismiss me?
All right; I'm prepared."
“You young scamp!”
“Scamp! Why's that? Don't you think I ever eat before I met
Mascarot? I lived a deal better, let me tell you ; and I was free. Why,
merely with begging, singing in courts, and under doorways, I made my
three francs a day. We drank them together, my pals and I, and then we
went off to sleep at Ivry in an old tile factory, where the bobbies never
showed their noses. It was jolly there in winter time, near the furnaces.
Ah! what larks we used to have; while now-"
“Well! What are you grumbling about now! Whenever you're told
off to watch anyone, don't I give you your five francs every morning ?”
“Just so. And I find those five francs ain't enough.”
"Not enough, indeed!”
“Eh ! 'taint worth while for you to get waxy. I ask for a rise and you
refuse it. All right; I'm going on strike.”
Beaumarchef would willingly have given a fivepenny bit from his own
pocket for Mascarot to have heard master Chupin's impertinence. “You're
a young rascal !” he cried. “You'll go far with the company you keep.
Oh, don't deny it! A fellow named Polyte, with a shiny cap and a pair of
Newgate knockers, not to mention a red scarf, came here the other day to
ask after you. I'm sure—".
“In the first place,” rejoined Toto, “it's no business of yours what com-
pany I keep.”
“Oh, I say it for your own sake. I give you fair warning you'll come to
grief.”
This prediction sounded like a threat to Toto. “How?” he answered
angrily ; “how can I come to grief? Do you mean that Mascarot will in.
terfere ? Pshaw ! I'd advise him to keep quiet.”
“Toto, you young scamp !”
“ Bụt, dash it all, you're beginning to play too much of the master.
Rascal' here, scamp' there, scoundrel, blackguard,' and so on. I
won't stand those names. What are you and the governor, I should like to
know? Do you really take me for a fool? Do you think I don't under-
stand your trickery? Do you think I believe all the cock-and-bull stories
i
in the think I should


123
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
you tell me? Come, come, I've eyes, and ears, and brains as well. When
you tell me to watch this one or that one for a week or more, it isn't to help
them home if they happen to fall. If ever I'm nabbed I know what I shall
tell the police, and you'll see then that a good workman is worth more than
five francs a day."
Beaumarchef was an old soldier, and a brave man to boot. He was most
expert at fencing; but in argument he was easily disconcerted. Toto's
surprising impudence led him to believe that the young scamp had been
advised by some experienced counsellor ; and if that were really the case,
it was impossible to calculate the exact meaning of these threats. Not
knowing how to act in this emergency, being wholly without instructions,
the retired sub-officer judged it best to act prudently. “Come,” asked he,
“how much do you want?”.
“Well ! I should say seven francs to begin with.”
“The devil you do! Seven francs a day! Upon my word you are cool
indeed! Well, well, I'll give them to you to-day, and advise the master to
increase your allowance for good ; so now you can begin your report.”
However, Toto received this conciliatory proposal with unmitigated dis-
dain. “My report ?” said he. “Go to blazes for it!"
“Eh ! what are you saying?”
“Saying ! why, do you think I'm going to open my mouth for your extra
two francs ? Not for Joe, oh dear no! To begin, I swear I won't say a
word till you've handed me a hundred francs !”
“A hundred francs !” answered Beaumarchef, fairly confounded.
“ Yes, just that ; neither more nor less."
“And why, pray, am I to give them you?”
“ Because I've earned them."
Beaumarchef shrugged his shoulders. “You're mad,” said he ; “ your
demand is utterly preposterous. Besides, what could you do with so much
money?"
“Never you mind that. One thing's certain : I shan't spend it in buying
pomade like you do, to put on your moustaches."
Impudent Chupin ! he dared to attack those sacred moustaches ! and so
he was about to receive the kick he so richly deserved, when a noise at the
door attracted Beaumarchef's attention. He turned and beheld our old
friend Father Tantaine. Yes, Father Tantaine, the worthy old fellow, who
looked much the same as on the evening when he befriended Paul in the
attic at the Hôtel du Pérou. He wore the same long overcoat, shiny from
long usage, and grimed with successive layers of grease and dust. His
everlasting smile was on his withered lips. “Tut, tut!” he exclaimed ;
“what does all this mean? You were getting angry, I think. Never
quarrel with the doors open.”
In his heart, Beaumarchef thanked the lucky star that had sent him this
unexpected reinforcement. He at once indignantly began : “ Toto-Chupin,
sir, pretends”
ós I have heard every word,” interrupted Tantaine in a soft voice.
At this news, Toto thought it best to put some little distance between
himself and the old clerk. He was an acute observer, this orergrown
Parisian ragamuffin. During the years that he had earned his living in
the gutter, necessity had sharpened his natural powers of observation ;
and, moreover, by dint of having to pick his daily dupes out of the crowd,
he had become no mean physiognomist, like all those whose subsistence
depends on strangers' whims. Toto-Chupin scarcely knew B. Mascarot,


128
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
The comparative darkness of the confessional enabled Tantaine to con-
ceal the intense satisfaction these words caused him. “Ah !” he answered,
with feigned indifference, “you have learned that?”
“ Yes, and several other things besides, Just listen! Yesterday, after
breakfast, Caroline began to play cards with two blokes, who had been
eating at the next table. As soon as I saw the way they shuffled the cards,
I knew they were old hands, and said to myself, Hullo, old woman ! they
are going to clean you out!' I was right, too; for after an hour's play she
hadn't even enough coin to pay her score, and offered the landlord one of
her rings as security. But he refused to take it, whereupon she rejoins,
‘All right ; I'll just go to my place, and come back again.' I saw and
heard her, for I was at the counter drinking a glass of wine."
." And did she go to her lodgings ?”
“Not she! She went out, crossed Paris as fast as a guardsman could
walk, and went straight to the finest house in the Rue de Varennes-a per-
fect palace it was. She knocked at the door, a porter opened it, and then
she went in. Of course I waited outside."
“ Well, do you know who lives in this house?”
“Of course I do. The grocer at the corner told me it belonged to the
Duc de—wait a minute—the Duc de Champdoce ; yes, that's the name,
Champdoce-a nobleman whose cellars, it seems, are brimful of gold, like
those of the Bank of France.”
Tantaine was never so indifferent in manner as when he was really in-
terested. “Go on, my lad," said he. “ Cut it short.”
Toto, who had counted on making a great impression, seemed extremely
annoyed on hearing this. “Give me time,” he muttered. “Well, in, half
an hour or so out came Caroline looking awfully lively. A cab passed by;
she scrambled in, and off she went. Luckily I've a good pair of legs, and so
I reached the Palais Royal just in time to see her go into a money changer's
and change a five hundred franc note.”
“How did you find out that?”
“By my eyes, of course. The place was all lighted up, and I could see
through the window.”
Tantaine smiled pleasantly. “You know bank notes, then ?”.
“Yes, when I see 'em ; but I never touched one. It's said they're as
soft as satin. One day I went into a changer's and asked the boss just to
let me take a thousand franc note in my hands. I only wanted to know
what it felt like. But he gave me a box on the ears, and squeaked,
• Clear out!'-'you old beast!' says I, why do you show such piles of
notes in your windows then? Is it to rile poor people ?'"
Father Tantaine was no longer listening, “Is that all ?” he asked.
“Not quite, I've kept the tit-bit for the finish. Do you know we're not
the only folks who are watching Caroline ?"
This time Toto had every reason to be satisfied with the effect he pro-
duced. The old man started so prodigiously that his hat tumbled off.
“What's that you say ?” he exclaimed.
“I say what I've seen, governor. For three days, a big chap, with a
harp on his back, has been at her heels. I didn't like the look of him at
once, and right I was. He followed Caroline to the Rue de Varennes just
as I did.”
Father Tantaine was reflecting. “A big chap,” he muttered. “A
musician-hum ! Perpignan must have a hand in that, or else I'm greatly
mistaken-I must know what it means.” Then looking at Toto, he


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
129
added. “You must drop, Caroline, my lad, and stick to this harpist.
Mind you're prudent. You can go now ; you've earned your hundred
francs.”
Chupin at once went off, and the old man shook his head. "That
lad's too intelligent by half,” he muttered ; "he will never make old
bones.”
Beaumarchef was at this moment opening his mouth to ask Father Tan-
taine to mind the office while he went to change his clothes, but the old
clerk forestalled him by remarking “Although the governor doesn't like
to be disturbed, I'm going to see him. And when the gentleinen who are
expected, come, Beaumar, inind you show them in at once ; for the pear is
getting so ripe, so ripe that if it isn't gathered immediately it will fall to
the ground and rot."
With these words, Father Tantaine walked towards B. Mascarot's private
room, and went in without knocking.
XVI.
It was Dr. Hortebize who was the first to arrive at the appointment which
B. Mascarot had given to his honourable partners. It was hard indeed for
him to rise before ten o'clock in the morning ; but after all, business was
business. When he reached the agency, the outer office was full of clients,
whereat Beaumarchef rejoiced exceedingly; for surrounded as he was by
applicants, he escaped the doctor's censure respecting his neglected attire,
as well as his usual sneer, “You've been at the brandy again, Beaumar."
“M. Mascarot is in his office," exclaimed the ex-sub-officer, as soon as
he saw the physician. “He's impatiently waiting for you. Father Tan-
taine is with him.”
There was a humourous twinkle in the doctor's eyes, but nevertheless he
answered with perfect gravity, “Indeed, I shall be delighted to see the
old fellow.”
However, on entering the agents sanctum, he found B. Mascarot alone,
as usual engaged in sorting those eternal cards of his. “Well," asked Dr.
Hortebize, w what's the news ?”
- There's none."
“Haven't you seen Paul?"
"No."
" Will he come?”.
" Yes.”
The estimable agent is generally laconic, but not to this degree.
“What's the matter?" asked the physician. “Our greeting is absolutely
funereal. Are you ill?”
“I am simply preoccupied, which is excusable on the eve of a decisive
battle," answered Mascarot. But he only told part of the truth ; there was
something more which he refrained from telling his friend. He was
worried about Toto-Chupin. One flaw, and the most solid axle ever forged
shivers to atoms. Toto might be the grain of sand which, gliding into the
machine, stops its working and renders it worthless. Now, Mascarot was
asking himself how he might get rid of that grain of sand.
“Pshaw !” said the doctor, rattling his medallion as he spoke, “we
shall succeed. What is there to fear, after all? Resistance from Paul?”
B. Mascarot shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “Paul will struggle
VOL. I.
I


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
131
The client who exposes his conscience to him belongs to him as much as
the patient to the doctor, as the fair penitent to her father confessor.
Thus Catenac's business was a lucrative one. The exercise of his specialty
had, moreover, endowed him with a frothy, diffuse redundant style of speech,
such as is essential for mediators, who, before aught else, must calm the
adverse parties.
“Here I am !” he cried from the threshold. “You summoned me, friend
Baptistin, convoked me, called for me, wrote to me, and here I come, all
haste, all obedience, all willingness to know what you require, what you
want, what I can possibly do for you."
“Take a chair," interrupted Mascarot, gravely.
“ Thanks, dear friend, many thanks—a thousand thanks; but I am in
great haste. Very busy, expected on all sides, positively bound, engaged,
without a moment to spare ; a thousand matters on hand : matters of life
and death.”
“Well,” exclaimed the doctor, “you can sit down all the same. What
Baptistin has to say to you is quite as important as any engagement."
Catenac complied with a genial smile, but at heart he was intensely
angry, and felt not a little uneasy. “What is it then?” he asked.
Mascarot had risen and bolted the door, and on resuming his seat again,
he began. “ These are the simple facts : Hortebize and I have decided to
launch the great affair which I vaguely spoke to you about some time ago.
We have an important man—the Marquis de Croisenois— "
“ My dear fellow-"interrupted the advocate.
" Wait a moment. Your co-operation is essential, and "
Catenac started up. “Enough!” he exclaimed, “sufficient, the cause
is heard. If it was to propose, to offer me an affair that you wrote, asked
me to call, you did wrong, you made a great mistake ; for I have told you,
assured you, sworn to you, repeated a hundred times”-He was already
turning, hat in hand, fully determined on retreat, but between the door
and himself stood worthy Dr. Hortebize, who was looking at him in the
most singular fashion.
Catenac was certainly not easily frightened ; but Hortebize's attitude
was so significant, and Mascarot's frigid smile so threatening, that he was
fairly taken aback. “What do you mean?” he stammered. “What do
you wish-what can I do for you?"
“We wish, first of all," said the doctor, speaking very slowly and dis-
tinctly, “that you should take the trouble to listen when you are spoken to.”
“I am listening, I should say.”
"Then resume your seat, and open your mind to our friend Baptistin's
proposals.”
Catenac's face in no wise revealed his impressions. He had so drilled
every muscle, and so exercised himself in self-control, that a slap on the
face would hardly have brought a drop of blood to his cheeks. However, as
he sat down, he made a gesture with his right hand, which showed how
irritated he felt at being treated in this fashion. “Well, let Baptistin ex-
plain himself,” he said.
Mascarot's only movement had been to raise his hand to his spectacles as
if to make sure that they were safely on his nose ; otherwise he had not
stirred. “Before going into details," he said, coldly, “I wish first of all
to ask our worthy friend and partner if he is with us or not.”
“Why should there be the shadow of a doubt on that point?" inter-
rupted the advocate ; “ do all my assurances go for nothing ?”


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THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“Excuse me; this is not a time for mere assurances. What we now
need, is loyalty and active co-operation."
“Can it be, my friends— "
“I ought to warn you," continued Mascarot, without heeding the inter-
ruption, “ that in the enterprise we are starting on, we have every prospect
of success, and if we succeed, it will be to the tune of nearly a million for
each of us.”
Hortebize, who was not endowed with the agent's patience, now hastily
exclaimed, “Come, Catenac, give us your answer is it 'yes' or 'no'?”
Catenac, as his friend suspected, was in a cruel state of indecision. He
did not speak for a full minute. He was reflecting. “Well then—'No'!"
he suddenly exclaimed, with a violence that betrayed his agitation. “After
due consideration and proper study, having reflected and weighed every
contingency-I answer you with a square 'No.'”
B. Mascarot and Hortebize ejaculated, “ Ah!” at the same moment.
It was not so much that they were surprised, they rather experienced that
indefinable sensation which comes over a man when he finds his anticipa-
tions, even should they be of a redoubtable character, realised.
• Allow me to explain," continued Catenac, “what you will probably
call my defection– 5
"Say treason that would be more correct.'
“ Very well ; I won't bandy words. I'll be frank.”
“Oh” muttered the doctor. “ That isn't your usual style."
“But it seems to me that I have never concealed my opinion from you.
More than ten years ago I spoke to you of breaking off our connection.
Do you recall what I said? Do you remember my words? I said to you,
• Only our extreme need, our bitter poverty, justified our acts-now they
are inexcusable—'
“Yes,” remarked Mascarot, “I recollect you mentioned your scruples.
“So you see then?”
“Only your scruples have never prevented you from coming regularly to
receive your share of the profits.
“That is to say,” interrupted the doctor, “you repudiated the risks but
accepted the profits. You wished to win money without staking anything."
Although there seemed no possible reply to this argument, it in no way
disconcerted Catenac. “It is true,” he answered, “I have always received
my thirds. But didn't I do quite as much as you towards putting the
agency on its present prosperous footing? Doesn't it work now smoothly
and noiselessly like a perfect machine? Haven't we succeeded in impart-
ing a commercial aspect to our operations ? Every month a handsome profit
comes in, without the least exertion, and I, unquestionably, have a right to
a third. Let things go on, quietly, at their little jog trot and I'm your man.”
“Very kind of you, to be sure," drawled the doctor:
“But now,” resumed Catenac, “you talk of drawing me into incalculable
dangers and I cry “Stop.' I'll have nothing to do with all that.. I can read
in your eyes that you think me a fool. I hope to God that events won't
prove to you how much I'm in the right. Just think of it! Chance has
favoured us for twenty years. What is needed to make it turn against us?
A mere nothing. Believe me, it's never wise to tempt Fortune. Sooner or
later she invariably revenges herself on those who, instead of paying court
to her in a decorous manner, carry her off perforce."
“Oh, pray, don't let us have any sermons," pleaded Dr. Hortebize.
“All right, I've done. Only, once more, believe me, reflect while there's


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
133
yet time. Impunity can't last for ever. Prodigious as your hopes and ex-
pectations may be, they are as nothing in comparison with the risks you run."
This cold loquacity was more than the doctor could bear. “It is all very
well for you," he exclaimed, “to reason in this way. You are a rich man."
“I have enough to live on, I admit; apart from what I earn by my pro-
fession, I have a couple of hundred thousand francs, and if you can be in-
duced to renounce your projects by sharing this sum with me, you have but
to say the word.”
B. Mascarot, who all this time had sat in silence, leaving the dispute to
the other two, now judged it time to interfere. “Poor fellow," said he,
“have you really a couple of hnndred thousand francs ? "
“Very nearly at all events."
“And you offer us each a third ! Upon my word, you are very liberal,
and we should be inost ungrateful if we were not profoundly touched;
only_” He paused, settled his spectacles, and then in a decided tone re-
sumed, “Only if you were to give each of us fifty thousand francs, you
would still have more than eleven hundred thousand remaining."
Catenac burst into such hearty laughter that a casual observer would have
been thoroughly deceived. “Ah !” said he, “ what a pity it isn't true.”
“ And if I proved to you I was speaking the truth?" asked Mascarot.
“I should be greatly surprised.”
The worthy agent opened a drawer, drew from it a small account book,
and handed it to his partner, exclaiming, “ Well, look there ; there's an
exact statement of your fortune up to the end of last December. Since
then you have made various purchases of stocks and shares through M.
T- I have not added them to the total there, but I have a note of
them. Shall I show it you?"
Now, at least, there came some expression into Catenac's hitherto im-
passive face. He started up with his eyes flashing fire. “Yes,” he ex-
claimed, “you are right. I have precisely the fortune you mention, and
for that very reason I don't choose to belong any longer to your associa-
tion. I have sixty thousand francs a year; that is, sixty thousand excellent
reasons for not compromising myself, and I won't do so—I swear I won't.
You are jealous of my success. Of course you are; but am I to blame for
the inequality of our fortunes ? Wasn't I as penniless as you when we
began together? The only difference is, I haven't lived like you. You
have been spending money on all sides ; I've been economising. You have
only thought of the present, while I have had an eye to the future. Horte-
bize has done his best to get rid of his clients, while I, on the contrary,
have held on to mine, and attracted others besides; and now, because I am
rich and you poor, you insist on my sacrificing everything. This won't
do, my friends, it won't do! When I reach the goal of my ambition, you
expect me to turn back and crawl over the road again with you, do you?
Never! Go your ways, and let me go mine. I will have nothing more to
do with you!”
He had again risen, hat in hand, when a gesture from Mascarot de-
tained him. “Suppose I told you,” said the agent, " that your services
are indispensable to us?”
“I should simply say, 'So much the worse for you.”
“But suppose we insist-".
“Insist? And how, pray? You hold me; but I hold you as well. Try
to do me harm, and you fall with me!”
“Are you quite sure of that ? "


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THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“So sure of it, that I repeat that from this day forth I will have nothing
more to do with you."
“I think you will find yourself mistaken.”
“ Indeed-and why, pray?”.
“Because, for the last year, I have fed and clothed and sheltered a young
girl named Clarisse. Do you happen to know her ?”
It was not unintentionally that B. Mascarot had allowed his friend
Catenac to exhaust himself in struggling as fruitlessly as a fish taken in a
net. He wished to learn what were his partner's intentions, and find out
what strings he might have to his bow. If he had purposely irritated him
and encouraged Hortebize's ironical remarks, it was because he knew right
well that an angry man allows his tongue indiscreet freedom. Now, how-
ever, being sufficiently enlightened, he had again resumed the reins.
On hearing this name of Clarisse, the advocate had started back, throw-
ing out his arms-his eyes dilated with fright, and his whole frame quiver-
ing with a nervous spasm. “Clarisse!” he stammered ; “who told you ?
how can you have learned "
But the sarcastic smile on the lips of both of his companions lashed his
pride so cruelly that he almost instantly regained his self-control. “Upon
my word,” he said, “I am losing my mind. Why should I ask these men,
whom I know so well, how they learned a secret ? Haven't they the most
infamous methods always at work ?”
“I had judged you rightly,” remarked B. Mascarot.
“In what respect, pray?"
“I foresaw that the day would come when, considering yourself strong
enough to stand alone, you would attempt to break the ties that unite us.
To-day you wish to throw us over, and you would betray us to-morrow, if
you could do so without danger to yourself. But I am ready for you.”
The worthy doctor rubbed his hands together with more than customary
earnestness." That's it," said he ; nothing like being prepared.”
“However, one thing I don't understand," continued Mascarot, “and
that is, that you, Catenac, a man of more than average intelligence and
shrewdness, should have dealt us such a fine hand against yourself. What !
It only occurred a year ago ; you hated us, longed to betray us, and yet
you deliberately went and made yourself vulnerable ! Come, it's quite
incredible.”
“Yes, incredible,” repeated the doctor, like an echo.
“And yet your-folly, shall I call it? perhaps imprudence would be
the better word—is of the most ordinary description. We see and hear of
it every day. Don't you ever read the Gazette des Tribunaux ? I saw a
story in it yesterday; one might swear it was your own. An ambitious,
hypocritical man of the middle classes, supposed to be highly respectable
and honest, engages a pretty, buxom young girl from the country as his
servant, and amuses himself in seducing her. For some months matters
go on pretty smoothly ; but one fine day the girl finds it impossible to con-
ceal her situation any longer. Our good man is naturally disturbed ; for
what would the neighbours and the concierge say? Well, to make a long
story short, the child is suppressed-yes, suppressed is a good word-and
the mother thrown on the streets."
“Baptistin, have mercy ! *.
“ It's a simple thing to do, no doubt, but an awfully imprudent one.
These affairs are always found out. If Crime has its combinations and
craftiness, Justice has at its service those chances which we always call


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
135
incredible, although they turn up at each step in life. You have a gardener
at your house at Champigny. Suppose this man took a notion into his
head to turn up the earth round the well at the bottom of the garden ?
Do you know what he would find there?”
“Enough !” muttered Catenac; “I surrender."
B. Mascarot adjusted his spectacles, as he always did in decisive monients.
" You surrender, do you ? No, not yet. At this very moment you are
seeking to parry my blows."
“I assure you"
“Spare yourself the trouble. If your gardener did as I say he would
find nothing at all!”
A cry of rage escaped the advocate. He was beginning to realise what
a horrible snare he had fallen into.
“He would find nothing," repeated Mascarot slowly. “And yet, it is
nevertheless true, that, one cold night in January last year, you dug a hole
in your garden, and in that hole you laid the body of a child, rolled up in
a shawl. And what shawl? Why, the very one which you, Catenac,
bought for Clarisse, when you were trying to seduce her. You thought
that gift would make some impression on her. No doubt it did. How-
ever, you bought that shawl at the Bon Marché, and the shopman who sold
it you will identify it, if needs be. Well now, go and look for the child and
shawl, and you'll find nothing at all.”
“Then it was you, you who carried them off ? "
"By no means,” replied Mascarot, in a tone of condensed sarcasm ; “it
was Tantaine. I'm not quite so imprudent; but I know where the body
is—and you don't. Don't be troubled, however, it is perfectly safe ; but
one single act of treachery on your part, and the very next day you will
find in the morning papers, under the heading, 'Paris,' · Yesterday, whilst
excavating such and such a place, the workmen found the body of a new-
born child, which had evidently died a violent death. Active steps are
being taken to bring the criminal to justice. Yes, that's what you'll read ;
and you know me well enough to be sure, beforehand, that justice will take
its course. Besides poor Clarisse's shawl, I've added sufficient to the bundle
for the police to find you out with the greatest ease.”
Catenac's anger had given way to absolute mental prostration. This man,
whom nothing ought to have surprised, seemed as if he were stunned, as if
he had lost the power of reflection or deliberation. He did not conceal his
despair; indeed, rather the reverse, as if he actually hoped to soften the
hearts of his implacable associates.
“You are killing me,” he gasped ; “killing me at the very moment
when I was about to grasp the reward for which I have toiled and stinted
myself for twenty years !”
** That word 'toil' is good !” observed the doctor sententiously.
But there was no time to lose. Paul and the Marquis de Croisenois
might arrive at any moment, and Mascarot deemed it advisable to revive
his demoralised partner. “You complain as if we wished to hang you now
and here ! Do you suppose for a moment that we are so utterly simple as
to expose ourselves to these great perils without an almost absolute certainty
of success? Hortebize was almost as disturbed as yourself when I first
spoke of this great stroke of business to him. However, I explained it
fully, and then he was thoroughly satisfied.”
" Thoroughly satisfied," echoed Hortebize.
" I really think,” resumed the agent, “ that there is nothing whatever to


136
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
fear for any one of us—least of all for yourself ; and I trust you won't have
any resentment for what has just been said."
“Oh, I'm not angry,” answered Catenac with a forced smile. “Tell me
what you want me to do.”
B. Mascarot reflected for a inoment. “What we desire from you," said
he, “can in no way compromise you. I want you to draw up an act of
partnership on a plan I will tell you by-and-bye. You will have no osten-
sible connection with the affair."
“ Very well.”
“ But this is not everything. You have been entrusted with a most
difficult mission by the Duc de Champdoce. You are engaged in a search-"
“ What! you know that too?” .
“I am ignorant of nothing which can in any way serve our ends. For
instance, I have ascertained that, instead of coming at once to me, you
foolishly applied to the only man in the world whom we have any reason
to fear-Perpignan, who is almost as clever as we are, and a great deal
harder in his terms."
“Go on," said Catenac impatiently ; “what do you expect of me on this
point?"
• Very little. You will simply keep me informed as to the progress of
your researches, and never say a word to the duc which we have not pre-
viously agreed on."
“So be it."
The quarrel seemed to have come to an amicable termination, and worthy
Dr. Hortebize looked overjoyed. “Now,” said he, insinuatingly, “confess
that it was not worth while making as much noise as if you were being
flayed.”
I admit I was in the wrong," answered Catenac meekly; and so saying
he held out his hand to his two friends, and then with a wan smile added,
“let it all be forgotten.”
Was he sincere ? A swift glance, exchanged by B. Mascarot and the
doctor, was full of suspicion. However, a moment previously, already, a
knock had been heard at the door. Hortebize rose to open it, and Paul
appeared, bowing with respectful affection to his two protectors. “ First,
my boy,” said B. Mascarot, “ let me introduce you to one of my oldest and
best friends.” And turning to Catenac he added, “I wish to ask your
kindness for my young friend. Paul is a good fellow, who has neither father
nor mother, and whom we are trying to push on in the world.”
At these words, emphasized by a strange smile, the lawyer started from
his seat. “Good heavens !” he exclaimed, "why did you not speak sooner?”
Catenac was the Duc de Champdoce's confidant, and as such he now
understood Mascarot's plan.
XVII.
THE Marquis de Croisenois was one of the worst men in the world to keep
an appointment. In fact, his lack of punctuality formed part of a system
of his, and almost amounted to a mania. Perhaps he thought he inight
thus assert his own importance; but in this he was very much mistaken.
A man of keen perceptions doesn't trouble himself about being late or early ;
his only care is to arrive at the very moment when he is expected or desired.
To arrive then, and then only, is the secret of many a man's good fortune.
M. re Croisenois had been summoned by B. Mascarot for eleven o'clock ;


138
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
ing but one object, goes straight towards it like a bullet, crashing through
every obstacle, and turning neither to the right nor to the left.
As soon as Croisenois was seated, the agent began. “I don't intend,”
said he, “to leave you for a moment in uncertainty. Diplomacy would be
absurd between such folks as ourselves.”
This phrase, and especially the plural “ourselves," struck the marquis
as being so extraordinary, that with uplifted brows he drawled, “You
flatter me—my dear sir.”
If the frivolous marquis had been more attentive, he would have remarked
how B. Mascarot's spectacles jerked on his nose—a jerk which plainly
implied, “You poor fool.” Hortebize always asserted that the honourable
agent's spectacles were gifted with the power of speech, and he was right.
It is in vain that a man wears glasses with the view of concealing his im-
pressions. Spectacles soon become part and parcel of the wearer, and con-
fess what the eyes they hide would themselves confess were they only seen.
“I must first tell you, Monsieur le Marquis," resumed Mascarot," that
your marriage is now a certainty, providing my partners and myself agree
to help you. We are certain of the Count and Countess de Mussidan's as-
sistance; the only point in abeyance is the young lady's consent.”
Croisenois shrugged his shoulders with an air of superb conceit. “Oh !
there'll be no difficulty about that,” he answered. “I can answer for it.
Each epoch has its temptations, and I'm expert in those of nowadays. I
will promise the finest horses in Paris, a box at the Opera, unlimited credit
at Van Klopen's, and absolute liberty. No young girl could ask for more.
Yes, I shall succeed, depend upon it. Of course, I must be presented and
backed by some one whom she likes, and who enjoys a certain influence
with her parents.”
“Do you think the Vicomtesse de Bois d'Ardon would be a suitable
patron?”
“I should think so ; she is a relative of the count's."
“Very well, then, on the day we decide Madame de Bois d'Ardon will
support your pretensions and sing your praises.”
The marquis looked triumphant. “All right!” he exclaimed ; " that
decides the matter."
Paul asked himself if he were quite awake. He had been promised a
rich wife, and here was another man who seemed to be cared for in the
same way. “These people," he said to himself, “besides keeping an
ordinary employment office for servants of both sexes, seem to have a
matrimonial agency as well.”
Meanwhile the marquis gave Mascarot a questioning glance, as if he
were hesitating to say something he had on his mind. “Oh! speak out!”
exclaimed the worthy agent; "we are among friends."
“It only remains now, then,” resumed the marquis, “ to fix the amount
of-the-the commission, shall I call it?”
“I was about to broach that question.”
“ Very well, then. As I have already told you, I will give you a quarter
of the dowry; the day after the wedding I will hand you a due bill for that
amount.”
Paul now thought he had a glimmer of light. “I see,” said he to him.
self ; “if I marry Flavia, I must share her dowry with these honest gentle-
men. I now understand why they take so much interest in me.”
But the offer made by the marquis did not seem to satisfy Mascarot.
“No; that will not do."


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
139
“Not do? Well, then, I will add to that the amount of my debt to you.”
B. Mascarot shook his head, to the great despair of Croisenois, who re-
sumed, “You want a third of the dowry? Welī, take it then."
"No," said Mascarot, “it is not a third-no, nor even the half—the en-
tire dowry would not do. You may keep the whole of it, and also the
amount of your debt to us, if we can arrange everything as I desire.”
“Well, what do you want? For heaven's sake, speak !"
Mascarot assured himself that his spectacles were all right. “I will
speak,” he answered ; “ but, first of all, it is absolutely necessary I should
give you a brief history of the association I preside.”
So far, Catenac and Hortebize had listened without moving, as grave and
silent as Roman senators on their curule chairs. They thought they were
assisting at one of those comedies which B. Mascarot had accustomed them
to-comedies in which the catastrophes varied, although they were always
fatal. They took much the same pleasure in listening to the discussion as
they would have taken in watching a cat play with a mouse before devour-
ing it. But when B. Mascarot announced that he was about to disclose
their dangerous secret, they both started to their feet in mingled anger and
dismay. “Are you inad ?” they cried together.”
B. Mascarot shrugged his shoulders. “Not yet," he answered calmly ;
" and I beg you to allow me to continue."
“But you have no right—at least,” stammered Catenac, "we have a voice
in the decision.”
“Enough!" exclaimed Mascarot angrily; “I am the head of our society,
am I not?” And in a tone of bitter irony he resumed, “Do you think we
cannot speak openly before the marquis ? "
As the physician and the lawyer sank back in their chairs in a resigned
sort of way, Croisenois thought it politic and conducive to his own interests
to try and reassure them. « Between honest folks—" he began.
“But we are not honest," interrupted Mascarot; and then, in answer
to the marquis's air of stupefaction, he looked him full in the face and
added in a crushing tone, “nor are you either !'
This brutal language brought the blood to the marquis's brow. The
rules of good society do not allow people to say face to face precisely what
they think of each other. He had more than half a mind to show his
anger, but policy prevailed ; he could not throw away that chance of future
wealth which Mascarot offered him ; so, bowing his head under the insult,
he pretended to regard it as a joke. "Your paradox,” he said, “is some-
what rough.”
But the worthy agent took no notice of this moral cowardice, which
brought a smile to the doctor's lips.
“I shall be obliged to you, Monsieur le Marquis," continued Mascarot,
“ if you will lend me all your attention ;” and then turning to Paul he
added, “and you, too, my dear fellow.”
There ensued a moment of almost solemn silence, and the buzz of voices
in the outer office could be heard through the closed door. If Hortebize
and Catenac were confounded, Croisenois was so stupefied that he allowed
his cigar to go out, and Paul shuddered in advance. Mascarot seemed
utterly transfigured. He had nothing left of his usual benignant look.
The sense of power seemed to have added to his height, and his spectacles
literally flashed. “My partners and I, Monsieur le Marquis,” he began,
“have not always been what we are nowadays. Twenty-five years ago we
were young, we were honest-all the illusions of our youth were in full


140
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
force; we had that faith which sustains through every trial ; we had the
courage which inflames the soldier as he marches to the assault. We lived,
all three of us, in a miserable garret in the Rue de la Harpe, and we loved
each other like brothers.”
“How long ago it was !” muttered Hortebize. "How long ago ! ”
“Yes, it is long ago," continued Mascarot; “ and yet the lapse of years
does not prevent me from seeing things as they were, and my heart aches
as I compare the hopes of those times with the realities of to-day! We
were poor then, marquis, very poor ; and yet the world encouraged us with
vague promises and approval. The managers of all those establishments
consecrated to the development of nascent talent had murmured in the
ears of each of us those magic words : ''You will succeed-tu Marcellus
eris!""
Croisenois repressed a smile. He did not find the story exciting. “You
understand Latin, I see,” he said condescendingly.
“I understood it once, at all events. As I was saying, each of us antici.
pated a brilliant destiny. Catenac had received a prize for his thesis on
*The Transmission of Property.' Hortebize had written an essay on the
analysis of poisons that had met with the approval of the illustrious Orfila,
and I was by no ineans without my successes, having just passed my ex-
amination for the degree of 'Doctor of Sciences and Letters.' Unfortu-
nately, Hortebize was on bad terins with his family ; Catenac's people were
poor; and I-well, I had no family-I stood alone. We were, therefore,
slowly but surely dying of hunger. I was the only one of the three who
earned a penny. I prepared pupils for the examinations of Saint Cyr and
the Polytechnic School. For thirty-five sous a day I endeavoured to cram
the principles of geometry and algebra into the brains of a number of young
fellows who poked fun at my rusty clothes and my excessive thinness.
Thirty-five sous! There were three of us to feed, and besides, I had a
mistress whom I passionately loved, and who was dying of consumption."
Who would have ever thought that, of that blue-spectacled sphinx, B.
Mascarot!
“But to the point,” he resumed. “A day came when between us three
we could not raise a halfpenny; and Hortebize had just confessed to me
that for lack of substantial food, meat and wine, my poor Marie would die.
“ Well,” cried I, “wait for me, my friends ; I'll find some money some-
where.” So saying, and without knowing where I was going, I rushed
from the house! I was half mad! I asked myself if I had better beg for
a few sous, or spring at the throat of the first man I saw and demand his
purse? I wandered along the quays, talking incoherently all the while.
All at once I had a gleam of light. I remembered that it was Wednesday,
the half holiday of the Polytechnic School, and I said to myself that if I
went to the Café Lemblin or the Palais-Royal, I might, no doubt, find one
of my old pupils who would, perhaps, lend me a five franc piece. A five
franc piece ! It wasn't much, eh, Monsieur le Marquis ? but that day it
represented the life of my beloved Marie, the life of my friends, and my
own. Have you ever suffered from hunger, Monsieur le Marquis ? "
Croisenois started. No, he had never suffered from hunger ; but how
could he tell what the future might have in store for him--for him whose
resources were so nearly exhausted that, on the very morrow even, he might
have to resign his fictitious prosperity and drop to the foot of the ladder.
“ When I reached the Café Lemblin,” resumed B. Mascarot, “I did not
see a single pupil of the school. The waiter to whom I spoke looked at


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
141
me from head to foot with profound contempt, for my clothes were in rags ;
but, on learning that I was an under tutor, he condescended to say that
the young gentlemen had been there, and were coming back. I said I
would wait for them. The waiter asked if I would take anything. I
answered, “No,' and sat down in a corner.
“My brain had been on fire ever since leaving home, but for the moment
I was comparatively happy, for I had a gleam of hope. Among the names
the waiter had mentioned were those of two young fellows whom I had al-
ways found courteous and obliging, and whom I thought I could depend
upon in this cruel emergency. I had been waiting some twenty minutes or
so, when suddenly the door of the café opened and a man entered--a man
whose face I should never forget were I to live a hundred years. He was
deadly pale ; his features were contracted and his eyes haggard. He was
evidently suffering intense agony, either of mind or body. I saw this in-
stantly, and also realised that his sufferings were not caused by poverty.
When he dropped, as it were, on the divan, every waiter in the establish-
ment ran to ask what he wanted. In a hoarse voice which the waiters
could scarcely understand, he called for a bottle of brandy, and pen, ink,
and paper.”
It was a true story that Mascarot was telling, and truth makes its mark,
None of the agent's listeners dared to say a word as he now paused, and
on looking round he noted that even the ever-smiling Hortebize had be-
come gloomy and perturbed.
"The sight of this man," resumed Mascarot, “in some way consoled
me. We are so constituted that the grief of others is in some degree a
solace to ourselves. It was very evident to me that he was suffering ter-
ribly, and I said to myself with unhealthy satisfaction, 'It isn't only the
poor who curse their unhappy fates ; the rich have their share of torture
too. However, in the meantime, the waiters had placed the brandy and
the writing materials in front of the new comer. He began by pouring out
a large glassful of spirit, and swallowed it as if it had been mere water.
The effect was sudden and appalling. He turned crimson, as if he were
about to have an attack of apoplexy, and seemed all but unconscious for a
minute or two. I watched him with intense curiosity; for it seemed to me
as if the voice of conscience whispered that, somehow or other, that man
would be connected with my life. There was, it seemed, some mysterious
link between us, and a presentiment warned me that his influence would be
fatal for my future. Then a fear seized me, and I was tempted to leave
the café ; but my curiosity was too strong. In the meantime, this man had
recovered. He seized the pen, and quickly traced a few lines on a sheet of
letter paper. What he wrote did not satisfy him, however; for he sud-
denly stopped, lighted a match, and burned the paper. Then he drank
another glass of brandy. A second letter proved no more satisfactory than
the first one ; for he crumpled it up and slid it into his waistcoat pocket.
However, he began again for the third time, and as I watched him, I saw
him hesitate, then write a word, then erase one, then add another, as if he
were preparing the rough draft of some communication, each expression of
which required careful study. He had plainly lost all recollection of where
he was ; for he gesticulated, and let occasional incoherent remarks escape
him, as if he were in the privacy of his own office. At last, however, he
seemed satisfied with the draft he had drawn up, and proceeded to copy it
out on a fresh sheet of paper. This only took him a minute or so, and
then, tearing the draft into tiny picces, he flung them under the table.


142
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
Having carefully sealed and directed his letter, he summoned one of the
waiters and exclaimed, 'Take these twenty francs, and carry this letter to
its address. Bring me the answer—for there will be one—to my house.
Here's my card ; come, make haste.'
“The waiter hastened off, and the gentleman settled his score and then
immediately retired. I asked myself what drama it was that I had just
witnessed ? I divined that this must have some connection with one of
those dark intrigues carried on in private life. This man might be a dis-
honoured husband, a ruined gamester, or a father whose son had just dis-
graced his name. I tried to think of something else, but all in vain !
The little bits of white paper scattered under the table fascinated me. I
burned to pick them up, collect them together, and know— But as I said
before, at that time I was honest and honourable, and such an act shocked
all my instincts. I should, no doubt, have conquered temptation, but for
one of those trifling circumstances which often decide a man's whole life.
A door was opened, and the draught wafted one of these scraps of paper to
my very feet. I was dazed and conquered. I stooped, picked the paper
up, and at once deciphered these four words : 'Blow out my brains.'
“I was not mistaken, then. I was in presence of some terrible enigma,
with the means, moreover, of discovering its meaning. After yielding to
this first temptation I was lost, and struggled no longer. The waiters
passed to and fro, but no one paid the smallest attention to me, and so I
quietly glided to the chair where that man had sat, and, unperceived, ob-
tained possession of two more scraps of paper. On the first of them I read :
shame and horror,' and on the second : 'this very night—one hundred
thousand francs.'
“I had it all now. The secret was mine. These imperfect phrases were
clear as daylight to me. You may ask why I troubled myself any further.
I don't know; but, at all events, I certainly succeeded in finding every
scrap of that letter. I fitted them all together, and then read as follows:
Charles, -I must obtain this very night one hundred thousand francs, and
you are the only person to whom I can apply, without making the shame
and horror of my position public. Can you get this sum together in a couple
of hours ? My fate depends on your answer—“yes," or "no;" for I shall
either be saved, or else I must blow out my brains.'
“You are probably astonished, Monsieur le Marquis, by the precision of
my memory. Nevertheless, you ought to know that there are some things
one never forgets; and at this very moment I can see that scrawl before my
eyes, with its erasures, blots, and very commas. But I must continue.
Below these few lines ran the signature- a well-known commercial name,
almost a celebrated one. He who bore it, one of the worthiest of men,
found himself momentarily unable to cope with some financial difficulty,
such as often imperil a man's life and honour.”
B. Mascarot paused for a moment, as if overwhelmed by his recollections.
But still no one thought of speaking, and as for the brilliant Croisenois, he
had long since thrown down his cigar.
“I can assure you," at last resumed the agent, “that my discovery dis-
turbed me greatly. I forgot all my own anxieties and thought only of his.
Wasn't our anguish of the same kind-he at a loss for a hundred thousand
francs—and I for a hundred sous ? By degrees, however, as the conscious-
ness of my own bitter misery returned, I was seized with an infernal tempta-
tion. Might I not be able to turn this stolen secret to account? The idea
was an inspiration. I rose, went to the comptoir, and asked for some wafers


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
143
and a directory; then, having returned to the table, I affixed my scraps of
paper to a fresh sheet, looked for the merchant's address in the directory,
and left the café. This unfortunate man lived in the Rue de la Chaussée
d'Antin. For more than half an hour I walked up and down in front of his
handsome house. Was he still alive? Had this friend of his, this Charles,
answered yes? At last I decided to go in. A footman in livery abruptly
told me that his master did not receive any one at that hour ; besides, he
was at dinner with his family. This lackey's impertinent mien fairly ex-
asperated me. "Well,' said I, 'if you wish to avoid a great misfortune,
just go to your master and tell him that a poor devil has brought him the
draft of the letter he just wrote at the Café Lemblin.' Indignation made
my voice so imperious that the servant never thought of hesitating. The
effect of the announcement must have been terrible ; for the footman re-
turned almost at once with a startled look and exclaimed, “Come quick !
My master is waiting.'
“He conducted me to a large, tastefully decorated study, where I per-
ceived the gentlemen I had already seen at the café. He was deadly pale,
and looked at me in a threatening manner. For myself, I could hardly
speak; I was half stifling. “You picked up the scraps of the draft I had
thrown away?' he asked. I nodded assent, and at the same time showed
him the fragments wafered to the sheet of letter paper. What do you
want for that?' he rejoined. 'I will give you a thousand francs.' I swear
to you, gentlemen, that up to that moment I had no intention of selling this
secret.' 'In going to see this man, I had simply meant to say, 'I bring you
this paper ; some one else might have taken advantage of it. I have
rendered you a service ; in return, lend me fifty or a hundred francs.' This,
as I tell you, was what I intended to say ; but seeing how he interpreted
my conduct, the blood rushed to my head, and I retorted, 'I want two
thousand francs.' Thereupon he opened a drawer, took two notes from a
pile of others, and, throwing them in my face, exclaimed, 'Here, scoundrel,
pay yourself!'"
B. Mascarot expressed himself with extraordinary vehemence. No one
would ever have supposed that this man, usually so calm and self-possessed,
could become so excited. His usually unctuous, honey-toned voice now
rang like a bugle blast through the room. He seemed no longer to be tell-
ing a story. Perhaps he was pleading for extenuating circumstances in
favour of a lost cause-his own, trying to exculpate himself in the eyes of
his associates, to excuse, if not rehabilitate himself before the tribunal of
conscience. Paul and Croisenois trembled with apprehension as they
listened to him.
"I cannot express to you,” resumed the agent, “how bitterly I resented
this undeserved insult. I certainly lost all self-control. I was no longer
myself, and if I had committed a crime there and then, God knows I should
not have been truly responsible for it. I was, indeed, on the point of com-
mitting one. The man I speak of could never have seen death so near be-
fore. On his desk there lay a long Catalan knife, used by him for cutting
paper, no doubt. I snatched it up, and I was about to strike, when the
thought of Marie, dying of cold and starvation, withheld my arm. I threw
down the weapon, and rushed out of the house half insane. I had held my
head high on entering that cursed mansion ; I had felt proud of my honest
poverty ; but now I came away dishonoured.”
With the exception of Paul, all the men assembled in Mascarot's office
were well acquainted with the dark side of life; the mire of civilisation


144
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
had soiled their minds, familiarity with evil had steeled them against sen.
sibility, and yet they could not help shuddering as they listened to this
narrative.
“Let me proceed,” continued Mascarot. “Once in the street, the two
bank notes I held seemed positive instruments of torture. It seemed to me
as if they burned my fingers. I ran with them to the office of a money.
changer, who must have taken me either for a madınan or a murderer.
Why he did not have me arrested, I have never been able to understand.
Perhaps I frightened him. At all events he changed the notes, giving me
not gold-for gold, in 1843, was rare—but two heavy bags, each containing
a thousand francs in silver. Thus burdened, I regained our miserable garret
in the Rue de la Harpe. Hortebize and Catenac were waiting for me with
inexpressible impatience and anxiety. You must remember that day, my
friends. You knew that we were absolutely without a sou. You had seen
me go out in a state of desperation ; and it was I who, so far, had sustained
your courage. You saw that I was utterly distracted by the thought of
losing the woman I loved better than life itself; and you asked each other
if, in crossing the bridges, I should have courage enough to resist the tempta-
tion of suicide, if I should be able to restrain myself from plunging into the
Seine, and thus ending my misery. On my return, as soon as my friends
perceived me, they rushed to meet me, overjoyed to see me again, but I
roughly repelled them. “Keep back,' I said, leave me to myself ! I am
no longer worthy of your companionship; but, at all events, here is money!'
and, so saying, I threw the bags on the floor; one of them burst open, and
the silver rolled forth on every side. Marie started up on her pallet, raising
her arms in astonishment. Money!' she cried. “Money! We shall have
food, then-and I shall live!
“In those days, Monsieur de Croisenois, my friends were very different
to what you see them now. They started back in horror. They were con-
vinced I had committed a crime. "No, not a crime,' I said bitterly ; 'at
least, none that the law can reach. This money may be the price of our
honour, but no one will ever know it but ourselves !' None of us slept that
night, marquis ; but when daylight surprised us round a table covered with
bottles, we, whom the difficulties of life had vanquished, we had unani-
mously declared war against Society, we had sworn we would attain fortune
by fair means or foul ; our association was decided on, its main features al-
ready planned.”
XVIII.
As Mascarot was desirous of leaving Paul and Croisenois under the strongest
possible impression, he now rose from his seat and walked up and down the
room. If his intention had been to startle his hearers, he had unquestion-
ably succeeded. Paul was actually breathless, and Croisenois, although he
tried to struggle, was quite at a loss for one of those jocular remarks which,
in such circumstances, pass as evidence of strength of mind. He under:
stood very well that there inust be some connection between this narrative
and his own business with Mascarot; but what this connection was, he was
wholly at a loss to divine. As for Catenac and Hortebize, who thought
they fully understood their dear Baptistin, they exchanged surprised and
anxious glances, as if asking each other, “Has he been speaking in all good
faith, or is this but the prologue of some comedy, the sense of which escapes


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
145
us?” With B. Mascarot, indeed, it was difficult, if not impossible, to
divine exactly his object or intentions.
However, the agent seemned quite indifferent to the effect he had pro-
duced. Returning to his desk, he adjusted his spectacles in his usual style,
and the others were able to see that his features, all aglow with hatred and
anger a moment before, had now regained their habitually placid expres-
sion. “I hope, marquis,” said he," that you will excuse this long but
indispensable preface, which you may think sensational enough for a novel.
Now, let us turn to the practical question."
Knowing how much weight the attitude of a speaker iinparts to his
words, Mascarot again rose, and stationed himself erect with his back to
the fire. His spectacles certainly concealed his eyes; but his whole person
seemed charged like an electric battery with magnetic fluid, and he com-
manded absolute attention as he spoke.
“On the night I speak of,” he resumed, “we-my friends and I-broke
loose from all obligations of honour and morality, and shook off all the
shackles of duty. As for the plan which leaped, as it were, complete from my
brain, I can expose it in no better terms than those I used twenty years ago
when explaining it to my friends. You know, marquis, that as summer
advances, there is scarcely a cherry without its worin. The finest ones, the
largest and reddest, the freshest in appearance, are precisely those which,
when opened, show the worm within. Just so, in the highest circles of a
city like Paris, there is not one family-I say not one, and use the term ad-
visedly-that, however prosperous and wealthy it may seem, however fair
to look upon, has not some guilty secret, some shameful mystery and wound
concealed beneath the surface. Now, suppose a man gained possession of
all of these secrets? Would he not be master of the world ? Would he
not be more powerful than the most powerful monarch? Would he not be
able to manage everything according to his own fancies and interests?
Very well, then, I said to myself that I would be that man."
Ever since the origin of the Marquis de Croisenois' connection with
Mascarot, he had had shrewd suspicions of the nature of the agent's opera.
tions. “You are describing an elaborate system of blackmailing!” he ex-
claimed.
B. Mascarot bowed low with an ironical smile. “Precisely, marquis.
It is precisely what is called blackmailing. Relatively speaking, the word
may be a new one, but the thing itself is doubtless as old as the world
itself. The first day that a man, discovering some infamous act committed
by a fellow creature, threatened him with exposure unless he submitted to
certain demands, was the day that blackmailing was invented. If all that
is old ought to be respected, then blackmailing surely should not be repudi-
ated. How did the divine Aretino, who so proudly called himself the
scourge of princes, earn his living, if you please? Why, he levied black-
mail on kings! And what kings? Why, Francis the first to begin with,
and his great rival the Emperor Charles to boot. However, we live in
democratic times, and content ourselves with levying blackmail on the
people-or, I should say-on every one possessed of means.”
The avowal was so cynically impudent that a flush came to Croisenois'
cheeks. “Oh! monsieur !” he protested. “Oh ! monsieur !”
“Pshaw !” answered Mascarot, with a contemptuous shrug of his
shoulders, “are you afraid of a word ? Who hasn't done more or less of
this same blackmailing? Look at yourself. Don't you remember that night
this very winter, when you caught a young foreigner cheating at cards at
VOL. I.


146
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
your club. You said nothing to him or any one else at the time ; but you
found out that he was possessed of means, and you called on him the next
day and borrowed ten thousand francs. When do you intend to return
them?"
Croisenois fell back helplessly in his chair. “Horrible !” he murmured.
“Prodigious!”
But Mascarot had already resumed speaking. “I know,” said he, "at
least two thousand persons in Paris who have no other means of support
than blackmail. I have studied them all—from the low-born convict who
extorts money from his former companion in prison, up to the swell who
drives a tandem, and who, because chance has acquainted him with the
frailty of some unfortunate woman, compels her to give him her daughter
in marriage. If ever, one day on the boulevards, you should see the Prince
de Salorge encounter Jailesac—the man on change who has such a villainous
reputation that I wouldn't even bow to him—just keep your eyes open ; you
will see the prince, who is one of the proudest men I know of, walk straight
up to that miserable defaulter and shake hands with him most cordially.
Now why does he do that? Ah ! I haven't been able to find out; but I am
convinced that in all this there is some secret which would be worth at
least a hundred thousand francs. I know a commissionaire in the Rue de
Douai, who in five years amassed a comfortable little fortune. Guess how.
When he was trusted with a letter to take it anywhere, he invariably
opened and read it. If it contained a single compromising line he pounced
down upon the writer. There is scarcely a business enterprise without its
parasites-skilful fellows who have discovered something which will not
bear the light, and who consequently are paid to keep silence. I know one
honourable society, the directors of which having once broken their statutes,
are compelled to pay a yearly pension to a scoundrel decked with foreign
orders, because he holds the proofs of their culpability. All these matters,
it is necessary to say, are negotiated with the utmost care and secrecy, for
in regard to blackmailing the police are alert, and the French courts ex-
tremely severe.”
B. Mascarot apparently desired to thrill his hearers with every note in
the gamut. At the words “courts” and “police," they fairly shivered
from head to foot, and Hortebize and Catenac alarmed at the turn their
partner's narrative was taking, tried by sign and gesture to induce him to
discontinue. · But Mascarot paid no heed to them, nor even troubled him-
self concerning his protégé, Paul, although the latter looked fairly frightened
out of his wits. To all appearance the agent was only interested in M. de
Croisenois' demeanour, for leaving the others on one side he repeatedly
addressed him by his title as if speaking for him alone. “Our beginnings,
marquis,” he resumed, “were by no means examples of finished skill. For
a long time, too, we were sowing our crops and you come in just as we are
about to reap our harvests. Fortunately, the professions chosen by Catenac
and Hortebize were admirably adapted to further our operations ; the
former had become an advocate and the latter a medical man. Catenac
dealt with the wounds of the purse, Hortebize with those of the body.
You can easily understand that in their respective professions they naturally
became acquainted with many secrets. As for myself, the head of the
association, it was, of course, impossible for me to remain a mere looker-on
with folded arms. But then what could I do? There were several alterna-
tives, but I was undecided, and for several weeks I discussed the question
with myself. Our funds were diminishing, however, a determination be-


148
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
them brings me a thread, and I twist the cord which binds my slaves. They
come here and talk. They are malicious and indiscreet, that is all; we
listen, sift, and piece and patcb together all the information they bring, so
that each evening I have more than one useful entry to make in my note.
books. The people who serve me in this unsuspecting manner, remind me of
those strange Brazilian birds whose presence is an infallible announcement of a
subterranean spring. Wherever one of them sings, the thirsty traveller
may dig, and he will surely find the water he seeks. My birds in like
manner reveal to me the existence of a secret. It is then my business to
dig. I set my special agents to work, we search and find. And now,
marquis, I think you will understand the nature and object of our associa-
tion ?"
“I may add,” insisted Dr. Hortebize, “ that it has some years brought
us in more than two hundred and fifty thousand francs."
If Monsieur de Croisenois disliked long stories, he was by no means in-
sensible to the eloquence of figures. He was too familiar with the life of
Paris not to understand that by throwing his net every day into troubled
waters, Mascarot was bound to catch many fish--that is, acguire large sums
of inoney. And this conviction having entered his mind, it did not require
much urging to induce him to look favourably on the project. So with a
most winning expression, he now asked, “And what must I do to earn the
protection of the society ?”
B. Mascarot was too acute not to at once perceive the drift of this ques.
tion. If his lengthy explanation had obtained only this result, he would
have considered it justified ; but there was more than this. Paul, chilled
with dismay at first, had gradually recovered his equanimity as he realised
the power of the men who had taken his future in hand. He lost sight of
the infamy of the speculation in his adıniration of Mascarot's ingenious com-
binations.
“Now, Monsieur le Marquis,” resumed the agent, “ so far we have
sailed fairly. It inay seem to you that we have been rash, but in reality
we have been exceedingly cautious and prudent. We have managed our
people properly-we have driven none of them to extremities. We have
never worried an insolvent vassal, we have granted time to those who were
momentarily hard up. I sell secrets by instalments, as Jew dealers sell
furniture. And, besides, we have not always demanded money. Catenac
has secured comfortable berths for several of his relatives. Hortebize has
obtained numerous gratifying satisfactions, and I myself have not disdained
the little perquisites of self-love. No man is perfect. However, lucrative
as our profession may be, marquis, we are beginning to tire of it. We are
growing old, my friends, and I-and we need repose. We have, therefore,
made up our minds to retire ; but we wish, first of all, to turn to account
everything we have left on hand. I possess an enormous mass of documents
of all kinds, but they are, generally speaking, of a most delicate nature;
and in many instances it would be difficult to obtain the real value they
represent. However, I count on your assistance.'
At this declaration Croisenois turned pale. What! Was he expected
to go about like some highway robber, armed with compromising letters, in
lieu of pistols, to say to men whom possibly he knew, “Your purse, or
your honour !” He had no objection to sharing the profits of an ignoble
traffic, but he scarcely cared to pull the chesnuts out of the fire. “Never!"
he exclaimed, hastily'; “no-never. You must not count on me."
His indignation seemed so sincere, and his determination so firm and


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
149
decided, that Hortebize and Catenac exchanged anxious looks. But a
glance at Mascarot reassured them.
The agent siinply shrugged his shoulders and adjusted his spectacles.
“ No nonsense, if you please, sir," he said, sternly. “Wait before you
show so much decision. I told you that my documents were of a special
nature, and this is why. One of the greatest difficulties we have to con-
tend with is, that we often stumble across married people who, although
they are wealthy, have not the free disposal of their own fortunes. Hus-
bands say, it is quite impossible to take ten thousand francs from my fortune
without the knowledge of my wife. Women say, I can only procure money
through iny husband. And both are sincere. I have seen many of them
grovelling at my feet when they knew me to be the possessor of some blast-
ing secret. They have said to me, 'Have mercy-I will do all you wish.
You shall have even more than you ask if you will only find some pretext
that will enable me to obtain the money. Now I have sought for some
suitable pretext of the kind, and have found it in an industrial society which
you will start before the month is over.”
“Upon my honour !” remonstrated the marquis, “I really don't see _"
“I beg your pardon, you see perfectly well. A husband who can't give
us five thousand francs without destroying all his domestic peace, will give
us ten thousand when he can say to his wife, 'It is an investment.'
And many a wife who has not a penny herself will induce her husband
to bring us the sum we fdemand. And now, what do you think of the
idea ?”
“I think it excellent; but in what respect am I indispensable ?"
“In the sense that we need a suitable person at the head of this company,"
“But yourself ?”
“ Are you jesting, marquis? Do you imagine that I, the head of a mere
employment office, can have weight enough to start such a company as I
suggest ? I should be laughed to scorn. Hortebize, a physician, and,
worse still, a homeopathist, would fare no better. Catenac, of course, is
barred by his position and profession from all such speculations; still, he
will be our legal adviser. Now, to begin with the smallest possible chance
of success, the company must at least appear to be serious."
The marquis was embarrassed. “But I really see in myself,” said he,
“none of the qualities requisite for a financier or speculator."
“You are really very modest. In the first place, you have your title
and your name; these, I am quite ready to admit, signify very little in our
own eyes, but they would have a great effect upon the masses. Are there
not companies which pay, and pay well, for th names and titles they print
at the head of their prospectuses ? "
“But my position is singularly unfortunate, from a financial point of
view.”
“It is, on the contrary, excellent. Before starting on this enterprise
you can pay all your debts, and when that's done the world will conclude
that you are possessed of a very large capital. The fortune left by your
brother, so depreciated at present, will acquire enormous importance.
Your inarriage with Mademoiselle de Mussidan will set you on a pinnacle.
What more do you want?”
“My reputation is detestable; I am called frivolous and extravagant!"
“So much the better. The day you issue the prospectus of your society
there will be a general laugh. Men will say to each other, “What do you
think Croisenois is up to now? What on earth has put it into his head to go


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
151
lucrative post, and who can deprive him of it at a moment's notice. Good
for fifteen thousand francs.
"P--, merchant. Positive proof that his last failure was fraudulent,
and that he concealed two hundred thousand francs from his creditors.
He will bleed to the extent of twenty thousand francs.
“Madame V- Her photograph in too scanty a costume. Poor, but
will pay three thousand francs.
“Madame H-- Three letters of her mother's, leaving no doubt that
the latter was guilty of frailty before marriage. Letter from a midwife as -
corroborative testimony. Madame H-- manages her husband, and must
be made to pay ten thousand francs.
“L- A song, which is both impious and obscene, in his own hand-
writing and signed in full. Two thousand francs.
“S- Head clerk in the Company. Draft of an agreement
specifying the private commission to be paid to him on a certain contract,
Also à cooked account of his. Can be made to pay fifteen thousand francs.
“X— Part of his correspondence with L- in 1848. Three thousand
francs.
“Madame M. de M- A true accouut of her adventures with Monsieur
J- - "
This was more than sufficient to satisfy M. de Croisenois. “It's enough,"
he interrupted; “I surrender. Yes, I bow to your mysterious power,
which is more formidable than that of the police." °
“And far more serious too,” added excellent Dr. Hortebize. “We have
never examined our operations from that point of view. However, do
nothing contrary to the law, to loyalty and faith, and blackmail won't be
levied on you. So you see blackmailing, after all, is a means of moralisa-
tion.”
The Marquis de Croisenois was too disturbed to appreciate the doctor's
banter. He turned towards B. Mascarot and curtly exclaimed, “I await
your orders, monsieur."
As usual, B. Mascarot won the day. He had successively conquered the
Count de Mussidan, Paul Violaine, and Catenac, and now he had the
marquis at his feet.
A dozen times during this discussion Croisenois had been tempted to re-
fuse his co-operation, but each time the words had died away on his lips;
for he had realised that he was in the power of this strange man with the
cynical laugh and contemptuous air, who probably knew far more of his
private life than the one dishonourable transaction he had named.
Now, the marquis had enough peccadilloes on his conscience to quiver
under the look riveted on him through those blue spectacles--a look which
he realized was as keen as that of a judge questioning a criminal. His
vanity unquestionably suffered from the humiliating dependence in which
he found himself, and the few drops of honest blood left in his veins curdled
at the thought of his position. But, on the other hand, he was dazzled by
this mysterious power, now for the first time revealed to him, and was
stimulated to acquiescence by the thought that he would henceforth fight
the battle of life associated with men of such unquestionable strength and
nerve. At first he had fancied that he was to be sacrificed, but the evidence
that their interests were one had reassured him. All these considerations
had induced him to speak these words, which, an hour earlier, would have
burned his haughty lips, “I await your orders !"
This humility was needless. Only the inexperienced allow the full weight


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153
With soft and pliable natures impressions may be both keen and deep,
but not lasting. After being almost overwhelmed by emotion, Paul, al-
though still a little pale, had now recovered his sangfroid. He had al-
most succeeded in stifling the qualms of conscience, and advised by vanity,
thought of adopting a cynical tone worthy of his honourable patrons. "I
think,” he answered, in a fairly steady voice, “that you need me. So
much the better. I am not a marquis, but I will obey you without beating
about the bush like M. de Croisenois."
Paul's words in no way surprised Mascarot; but did they please him?
It was difficult to tell. A skilful observer would have detected on his face,
generally so impassive, indications of a contest between two absolutely op-
posite sentiments-lively satisfaction and intense annonyance. As for Dr.
Hortebize, he was simply wonder-struck at the cool audacity of this
neophyte, who was in some measure his pupil. The exact meaning of the
scene which had taken place now flashed into his mind, and he struck his
forehead with the astonishment of a man who wonders that so simple a
matter could have hitherto escaped his comprehension. “What a fool I
am !” he thought to himself. “Baptistin was not really addressing himself
to the Marquis de Croisenois, but to Paul. What a wonderful actor he is !
With what astonishing dexterity did he measure each word, so that it
might silence remorse or awaken cupidity in this vain young fellow's facile
nature.”
In the meanwhile Paul was disturbed by his protector's silence. If at
first he had been horrified at finding himself in the hands of this ex-
traordinary man, he now trembled at the idea of being abandoned by him
and left to his own resources. “I am waiting, sir," he said at last.
“ And for what, pray?”
“For you to tell me on what conditions I may make a name for myself,
win a fortune, and marry Mademoiselle Flavia Rigal, whom I love."
Mascarot smiled, and à villainous smile it was, too. “ You inean whose
dowry you covet, I presume,” said he. “Let us state things clearly."
“Excuse me, sir, I said precisely what I meant."
The doctor, who had not the same reasons for being serious as his
honourable friend indulged in a cynical smile. “And Rose?” he asked,
“ that pretty Rose?”
“Rose is a thing of the past," answered the young fellow. "I now
realise my simplicity, and, so far as I ain concerned, she no longer exists."
Paul unquestionably spoke the truth, even when he added, “And I am
half inclined to regret Mademoiselle Rigal's fortune, which seems to create
so great an obstacle between us.”
This declaration dispelled the clouds which darkened Mascarot's brow,
and his spectacles emitted a softer light. “Reassure yourself,” he
answered gaily, “we will conquer that obstacle, eh, Hortebize ? Only,
Paul, my boy, I must not conceal from you that the part I wish you to
play is infinitely more difficult than the one assigned to M. de Croisenois.
It is also inore dangerous by far, but at all events the reward will be in
correspondence with the risk.”
“Sustained and advised by you, I feel capable of doing everything and
of succeeding!”
“ You will need great audacity, unparalleled self-possession and exceed-
ing skill. To begin with, you must renounce your very personality.”
* Which I do with all my heart.”
“And you must become altogether another person. You must adopt his


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name, his past, his habits and ideas, his virtues and his vices. You must
forget all that you have ever done or said yourself, and must labour to con-
vince yourself that you are really the person you represent. This is the only
way in which you can deceive others into a similar belief. The task will
be a mighty one."
“Ah! sir,” cried Paul, with enthusiasm, “ do we trouble ourselves inuch
about the obstacles in our road when we walk with our eyes riveted upon
the showy light at the end ?".
The genial doctor positively clapped his hands, as if he were applauding
some actor on the stage. “Well said !” he exclaimed.
“Then,” continued Mascarot, "we have but to raise the last corner of the
veil and reveal to you your lofty destiny. This shall be speedily done--in
a few days from now. In the meanwhile summon all your courage-drill
your features, your eyes and lips so that they may never betray your
secret thoughts. Do you understand me, my lord duke?”
The worthy agent stopped short, for after three or four discreet taps at
the door Beaumarchef now presented himself. He was gorgeous to behold,
for taking advantage of half an hour, when there was scarcely anyone in
the office, he had gone to array himself in his best clothes.
“What's up?" asked Mascarot.
“Two letters, sir.”
“Thanks. Give them to me, and leave us."
As the “assistant partner,” accustomed to these brusque congés, retired,
Mascarot examined the letters. “Ah!” he said ; “news from Van Klo-
pen and the Mussidan's. Let us first of all see what the illustrious ladies'
tailor has to say.” He tossed aside the envelope, and read aloud as follows:-
* Dear Sir—Be satisfied ; our friend Verminet has executed your orders
with extreme cleverness. At his instigation Gaston de Gandelu has
imitated, on five separate notes of a thousand francs each, Monsieur
Martin Rigal's signature—the banker whose daughter you sent to me.
“I have these five notes at your disposal, and I remain, while awaiting
new orders in respect to Madame de Bois d'Ardon,
“. Your obedient servant,-VAN KLOPEN.'
“That's one of them settled !” exclaimed B. Mascarot. “He won't ever
cross our friend Paul's road with impunity.” Then opening the other
letter, he likewise read it aloud :-“I have to announce to you, sir, the
rupture of the marriage between Mademoiselle Sabine and Monsieur de
Breulh-Faverlay. Mademoiselle is very ill. I have just heard the phy.
sician say she would probably not live through the day.-- FLORESTAN."
At this intelligence, which threatened to frustrate all his plans, B. Mas-
carot was filled with such sudden fury that he brought his hand down with
a crash upon his desk. “ Thunder and lightning !” he shouted: “Is it
possible that this little fool will play us such a shabby trick as to die now?
We should be nicely situated with Croisenois on our hands. We should
have all our work to do over again."
He pushed back his chair, and walked hurriedly up and down the room.
“Florestan may be mistaken,” he exclaimed. “Why should Mademoiselle de
Mussidan's illness coincide with the rupture of this marriage? There is
some secret, which we must know, for we cannot work in the dark.”
“Do you wish me to go to the Mussidan's ?” asked the doctor.
“Yes, it would be a good idea. Your carriage is at the door, is it not?
You are a doctor, and they will let you see Mademoiselle Sabine."
Hortebize had already donned his overcoat, and was turning to leave


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155
when Mascarot stopped him. “No," said he, “I have changed my mind.
Neither of us ought to be seen near the house. I fancy, doctor, that one of
our mines has exploded; it was too heavily charged. I fancy there has
been an explanation between the count and the countess, and between the
two the daughter has been struck down.”
“But how shall we know ?”
“I will see Florestan, and by him, I may discover the truth."
Thereupon, without another word, he dashed into his room and changed
his clothes with all possible dispatch, at the same time leaving the door
open, so as to be able to continue his conversation with the doctor.
"This blow," said he, “would be nothing if I had not so much on hand
just now, but besides Croisenois I have to attend Paul. The Champdoce
matter must be hurried on; and Catenac, the traitor, has put Perpignan and
the duke in communication. I must see Perpignan and find out exactly
what has been told him, and what he has guessed. I must also see Caroline
Schimmel, and extract some information from her. Ah! why can't we
turn twenty-four hours into thirty-six.”
He was now ready, and called the doctor to him. “I am off," he said,
in a low voice. “Don't lose sight of Paul for one single moment. We are
not yet sure enough of him to let him loose with our secret. Take him to
dine at Martin Rigal's, and then make some excuse for insisting upon his
staying at your rooms to-night. See me to-morrow."
Thereupon he went out, too pre-occupied to hear the doctor's parting
words : “Good luck, good luck !"
XIX.
On leaving the Mussidan mansion after his promise to Sabine, M. de
Breulh-Faverlay did not enter his carriage which was waiting for him in
the courtyard. “Go home," said he, to his coachman, “I will follow on
foot."
As often happens after a crisis, he had an imperious longing for motion.
He wished to be alone, to tire himself out if possible, in hopes that he might
thus collect his ideas, and recover his self-possession. He was not merely
affected, but also surprised, and for long years had never experienced any-
thing approaching his present feelings. His friends would have been
amazed had they seen him striding along the Champs Elysées. He had
quite lost that superb frigidity of manner “So-English-like” which all the
young members of his club admired ; his features usually so impassive bore
signs of deep emotion, and mingled passion and stupefaction so carried him
away that as he walked along, he actually talked aloud and gesticulated.
" And this is life !” he said. “A man fancies he has turned to steel-he
calls himself blasé, aged, hardened-and lo! one look from two beautiful
eyes makes him a school-boy again ; he blushes and stammers and even -
confound it all! detects a little moisture in the corner of his eye!”
He already loved Sabine when he asked her hand of her father-but not
as he loved her, now that he knew she could not be his wife. At this mo-
ment she appeared to him to be endowed with every charming gift. Who
would ever have supposed that he, the petted idol of society, adored by all
the women who knew him, and feared by all the men as a rival, could be
refused by the girl to whom he offered his fortune and his name?
“Ah!" he said to himself, regretfully, “she is just the companion I


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dreamed of. Where else could I find such a tender nature, such an intel-
ligent mind, so much innocence and frank fearlessness ? Among the foolish
dolls around me, who dress, and chatter, and talk slang, and imitate the
women of the demi-monde ? Is there another Sabine among the senseless
creatures who look on life as a perpetual cotillon, and who take a husband
as they choose a partner, because-a girl cannot waltz alone ?” He hated
all other women at this precise moment. “What a noble expression her
face bore,” he thought, “as she spoke of him. She believes in him entirely,
and she adopts all his thoughts. With what beautiful pride she said :
*We-we are poor! We have no name!”
However, M. de Breulh tried to battle against his jealous feelings.
“Bah!” said he, twirling his walking stick. * The long and short of it
is, I shall certainly die a bachelor. My valet will be my best friend in my
old age. I shall make a god of my stomach. Baron Brisse declares that à
man can comfortably eat four meals a day. That is something to look
forward to; and to quicken my digestion, I shall have my heirs, those
cousins of mine, quarrelling round my chair."
He shivered, but added presently, with a deep sigh: “Ah, my life's a
failure !"
Meanwhile, cruel as was his deception and his wound, M. de Breulh saw
nothing extraordinary in the fact that a woman should prefer another man
to hiinself. He regretted it, but that was all. Sabine had judged
him correctly when she said to herself, that he was worthy of any
woman's love. M. de Breulh was indeed deserving of a very different
pedestal to the one on which his friends and enemies, equally idiotic, had
placed him. He was superior to his life, to his associates, and to the time
in which he lived. On the death of his uncle he had thrown himself into
what is called the whirlpool of fashionable dissipation, but he had soon
wearied of an empty restless life. This fastidious mortal was not satisfied with
possessing a victorious racing stable, with seeing his “cracks" made hot
favourites by all the sporting journals, with being deceived by some actress
whom he allowed a few hundred louis a month. For some time already, he
had been seeking for some positive aim in life, some task to which he could
devote all his energy and intelligence. He had determined that on the eve
of his marriage he would sell his race horses and altogether break away
from his old life, and now this long wished for marriage would never take
place!
When he entered his club the traces of his emotion were so evident,
that several young men around the card tables exchanged looks of dismay
and hastened to ask if by chance, his horse “Chamboran,” already a hot
favourite for the Grand Prix, were not laid up.
"No," he answered, as he hurried into one of the small saloons set apart
for letter-writing. “No, Chamboran is all right.”
“What ill luck has befallen De Breulh ?” asked one of the club men.
“Heaven only knows ! but he evidently is in great haste to send off a
letter."
He was in fact writing a note to M. de Mussidan and as it was to retract
his word and request of Sabine's hand, the task was by no means an easy
one. And, on reading his letter over, De Breulh noticed that it had an
ironical turn, and that its general tenour indicated such mortification on
his part, that inquiries as to what he really meant must necessarily follow.
However chivalrous a man may be, he is still human, and sojne germs of
evil ferment under the most generous resolutions,


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
157
“No," said the baron, “this letter is unworthy of me."
And upon this reflection, he began a second note, weighing every word,
seeking for the best reasons he could bring forward, speaking vaguely of
his life, of the difficulty of breaking up old habits, and of a liaison he could
not terminate as he had intended. This little chef d'auvre of diplomacy
brought to a conclusion, he handed it to a servant, with directions to carry
it instantly to its address.
M. de Breulh had thought that as soon as this duty was fulfilled, he
should feel free in mind and body. But he was mistaken. He took a seat
at a card-table, but at the end of a quarter of an hour, he felt that he
decidedly had enough of gambling. He ordered dinner, but he had no
appetite, and could not eat. He went to the opera, yawned, and the music
made him feel nervous. At last he went home. The day had seemed a year
long. He could not sleep, for he was still worried with thoughts of Sabine,
whose fair face was ever before his eyes. What kind of man, thought he,
was the one she preferred to him?
He esteemed Mademoiselle de Mussidan too much not to feel certain that
her choice was worthy of her. At the same time, he had too much experience
of life not to know that there are many seemingly inexplicable passions !
When so many experienced men of the world are so often deluded and de.
ceived, was it not quite possible for a young girl to make a mistake.
“What can I do for her ? ” said M. de Breulh to himself. “Can I open
her eyes in any way?” And then, to excuse himself probably, for indulg.
ing in the faintest shadow of hope after what had taken place, he added :
“ If he be worthy of her, so be it, I will help her to overcome the obstacles
in her path !”
The idea pleased him, and he took a bitter pleasure in thinking that he
might perhaps insure the happiness of the woman he loved, and who, not-
withstanding, had rejected him. Perhaps, without his knowing it, there
was mingled with this generosity a vague desire to display his generosity
to Sabine and awaken her admiration, if not her love.
At four o'clock in the morning he was still sitting in an arm-chair in front
of the dying einbers of his fire. He had almost decided to go and see
André. When a man is rich it is easy for him to find an excuse to visit a
painter's studio. M.de Breulh had no idea as to what he mightdoand say when
he got there, he left it entirely to chance, trusting, perhaps, that his experi.
ence would properly advise him at the last moment. He had made up his
mind before going to sleep, but on waking up, he again hesitated. Why
should he meddle in a matter which did not concern him? He asked him.
self this question again and again. However, he was spurred on by
curiosity, and so, at about two o'clock in the afternoon he ordered his
carriage and in a few minutes afterwards was driving rapidly towards the
Rue de la Tour d'Auvergne.
Madame Poileveu, André's discreet concierge, was leaning on her broom
at the street door when M. de Breulh's magnificent equipage drew up
before her.
The good woman was quite dazed. Never in all her life had she
beheld such showy steeds, nor seen so much silver on harness. The carriage
was brilliant with varnish, and the liveried coachman and footman gorgeous
to behold.
"Good heavens !” she thought, “he can't be coming here for us. He
has certainly mistaken the house."
But her amazement was still greater when M. de Breulh emerged from


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his brougham and asked, “Does Monsieur André, the artist, live here?”
“To be sure he does, and has been here for two years. Ah! if all artists
were only like him! Never once has he been behind-hand with his rent.
And then he is so orderly and sensible, so polite and considerate. There is
never any rioting in his rooms. In my opinion he is absolutely perfect. If
it were not for the little lady of the Champs Elysées—But there, now, my
tongue is running away with me.”
She rambled on, scarcely knowing what she was saying, so inquisitively
did she watch the owner of this magnificent equipage.
" Where is his studio ?”interrupted M. de Breulh, becoming impatient.
“On the fourth story-to the right-name on the door-can't make a
mistake,” jerked out the concierge. “But I'll show you the way, sir."
“By no means, my good woman, I won't trouble you." And M. de
Breulh went towards the stairs, leaving Madame Poileveu as motionless as
Lot's wife after her crystallisation.
“Lawk-a-daisies !” she muttered, “ coming to see Monsieur André with
all this parade! I don't understand it, for Monsieur André never puts on
any airs. Why, for four days Poileveu hasn't swept his rooms, and yet he
has never complained. But of course things can't go on like that. An
artist who has friends like these coming to see him must be taken better
care of. I must really find out who this great lord may be !” So saying
she hid her broom behind the door and turned her attention to the footman.
In the meantime M. de Breulh had climbed the stairs with great delibera-
tion. He evidently did not wish to arrive at the top entirely out of breath.
On reaching the topmost landing he was about to knock at the door on
which he read André's name, when hearing a quick, lithe bound on the
stairs behind him, be turned, and found himself face to face with a tall,
dark, young fellow, clad in one of those long white blouses which orna-
mental sculptors usually wear, and carrying a huge zinc pitcher which he
had evidently just filled at the pump in the courtyard,
“Monsieur André ? " asked M. de Breulh.
“Yes, sir, I am he.”
“I wish to speak to you,"
" Be kind enough to walk in here." And the young painter opened the
door of his studio and showed his visitor in.
M. de Breulh's first impression of André had been extremely favourable.
He had been struck by his frank countenance, clear honest eyes, and full
rich voice. But while he said, “He is a manly, good-looking fellow," he
was shocked by the costume André wore, and this although he had thrown
aside many prejudices. It was difficult for him to believe that a man
beloved by Sabine de Mussidan could wear a blouse and go to the pump
for water. However, he did not allow his surprise to be seen. In fact,
since the previous evening, he had had time to regain his usual air of
indifference.
“I ought to apologize sir, for receiving you like this,” said André.
“ But the truth is, when a man is not wealthy he is never well served except
by himself !”
As he spoke he threw off his blouse without the least embarrassment, and
placed his pitcher in a corner. His air and manner pleased M, de Breulh,
who smiled cordially.
" It is for me to apologize for my intrusion,” said he. "I was sent here
by one of my friends—" He hesitated for a name.
"Ah, yes. By Prince Crescenzi, perhaps !”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
159
M. de Breulh hardly knew the celebrated amateur, but he snatched at
the perch which was offered him. “Precisely !” he answered. “The
prince extols your talent and speaks of you with the greatest enthusiasm.
Having the utmost confidence in his taste, I said to myself that I should
very much like to have a picture by you; and I can assure you your work
will be in good company !”
André bowed, colouring as deeply as a school-girl complimented by a
bishop. “I am infinitely obliged to you for your patronage, sir,” he said, “but
unfortunately, I fear you have taken useless trouble in calling on me—"
“And why?”
“Because I have been so busy in other ways during the last few months
that I have really nothing to show you."
"Never mind," interrupted M. de Breulh, “we have the future before
us. What is not done you can do."
“ That is very true, sir, if you are disposed to place confidence in me-"
“Of course I am,” interrupted De Breulh.
“ In that case, we have only to choose a subject."
André had by this time quite conquered his visitor, who said to himself,
“I ought, of course, to hate this fellow, but upon my life, I think I like
him better than any one I ever saw !”
As he remained silent, mentally analysing his feelings, the young painter
spoke again : “I have here,” said he, * some thirty sketches in oils which
might, I hope, make decent paintings, and if one of the subjects happened
to suit you,”
“Let us examine them,” said De Breulh, courteously.
Having made his estimate of the young man's character, he now wished
to judge of him as an artist, and proceeded to examine the sketches and
cartoons on the walls with serious attention.
André did not speak, but thought to himself that this order might prove
the turning point in his fortunes, for Prince Crescenzi was one of the seven
or eight European amateurs whose fiat sufficed for the merest daub to be
valued at ten thousand francs. However, André was in no mood to rejoice,
for he was more sad and hopeless that morning than ever before in his
harassed life. Two evenings previously, Sabine had left him, saying that
she was about to take a decisive step and would write to him on the morrow.
The morrow had gone by, and now it was four o'clock on the second day,
and yet not one word had he received from her. He was on thorns-not
that he doubted Sabine, but because he had no means of ascertaining what
might have transpired at the Mussidan mansion, which he was quite unable
to enter. He was at this moment undergoing intolerable torture at the
thought that his destiny was no doubt being decided, without his being able
to influence it in the slightest degree, or even to hasten its consummation.
Meanwhile M. de Breulh had finished his examination. He considered
that André's talent was indisputable, although there was evidence of in-
experience, together with some great faults in the designs offered to view.
Still they were all full of originality, and plainly enough André was a true
artist in the broadest sense of the phrase. De Breulh's jealousy almost
revived as he felt himself obliged to make this admission. But after a brief
struggle he crushed all unworthy sentiments for good, and frankly and
loyally offered the young painter his hand.
• When I came here," he said, “I was desirous of having a painting by
you, and now I am altogether determined to have one. I am no longer in-
fluenced by a friend's opinion, I can see and appreciate your talent myself.”


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And as André did not speak he resumed : “I have chosen my subject, now
we will discuss it in detail.”
Poor, without patrons, and artistically speaking unschooled, hampered
moreover by the rude labour his poverty necessitated, André had had
neither time nor means to study in southern lands the secrets of classical
art. He contented himself with portraying what he saw and felt. Among
his sketches there was one which he called, “ Monday at the barrière.” On
Mondays the intemperate Parisian workman habitually takes an outing, and
his outing frequently ends in strife. Thus in André's sketch, in the fore-
ground, two men were fighting and a third endeavouring to separate them.
They were in their shirts, which torn apart, allowed their broad chests to
be seen. The muscles of their brawny arms stood out in bold relief. Their
features were convulsed with hatred, wine, and anger. A little to the right
lay a woman with loosened hair, unconscious and bleeding from a wound on
the temple, while two of her terrified companions leaning over her were
trying to bring her back to life. A few lookers on-children running away
in fright, and in the distance policemen hurrying to the rescue-made up
the picture. The subject was commonplace, but true--and it is truth alone in
these days that can save art. Such was the sketch that M. de Breulh
selected.
André next entered into full particulars concerning the composition, the
proportions of the figures and the dimensions of the canvas. In short,
nothing was forgotten. His visitor, with voice and gesture, approved all
he said.
“Whatever you do,” he remarked, “will be well done, of that I am
certain. Let nothing hamper you : follow your inspirations."
M. de Breulh was in an agony to get away. He keenly realised how
false his position was. André's confidence troubled him exceedingly and
he almost lost his self-assurance. When everything else was arranged it
cost him a violent effort to broach the question of remuneration. If he
looked for any false modesty and affected disinterestedness he was disap-
pointed, for he met with none.
'Monsieur,” said André, “the value of a picture is a conventional
matter. A canvas of the dimensions we have agreed on costs eighty francs ;
covered with paint, it may be worthless or priceless. Wait until it is
finished to decide.”
“Do you think,” interrupted M. de Breulh, “that ten thousand francs—"
André waved his hand in protest. “Too much !” he exclaimed, “far
too much! No, sir. As yet I have no reputation, and four thousand francs
would be handsome remuneration. However, if I succeeded beyond all
hope and expectation, I might ask you six thousand.”
is Very well,” said M. de Breulh, drawing from his pocket an elegant
Russian leather case, and laying on the table two rotes of a thousand francs
each, he added, “I will pay you as usual, half in advance.”
The young painter turned scarlet. “You are jesting, sir," he stammered.
“Not at all,” answered De Breulh, gravely. “I have certain fixed
principles in business matters which I never depart from.” And then, in
the most encouraging tone, he added : “ These notes are given instead of a
written contract, that is all."
In spite of this assurance, André's pride was hurt. “But, I can't give
you this picture for five or even six months,” said he. “I have a contract
with a rich architect, M. Gandelu, to execute the ornamental sculpture on
his house."


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
161
“Never mind,” said M. de Breulh, “take your own time."
Of course it was not possible for André to offer any further opposition,
unless he wished to look like a fool. He therefore quietly assented, and
even thought to himself, that the money came at a time when it was much
needed.
“Now,” said De Breulh approaching the door and opening it, prior to
departure, “ let me wish you success. In the meantime, if you will come
some morning and breakfast with me, I will show you a Murillo which will
gladden your heart!” And as if to confirm the invitation, he handed the
artist his card and left the studio.
A moment elapsed before André looked at the card, but when his eyes
fell upon it, the name of De Breulh-Faverlay started out like a flash of
lightning across a thunderous sky. For a moment he could not breathe,
and then he was shaken from head to foot with intense anger. He fancied
he had been cajoled, bribed-trifled with! Hardly knowing what he was
doing, he dashed out on to the landing, and leaning over the baluster called
out. “Monsieur ! Monsieur !”
De Breulh, who was now on the lower floor, looked up.
“Come back !” cried André, "come back!”
After a moment's hesitation the baron obeyed, and as soon as he reached
the studio, André abruptly exclaimed, in a voice quivering with indignation,
“ Take back your money, sir ; I will not have it !”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Simply that I have reflected. I cannot paint a picture for you.”
“Ah ! indeed-and why, pray ?”
“Why?” M. de Breulh knew perfectly well why. He instantly realised
that Sabine had spoken about him to her lover-a point he had not thought
of before. With a certain lack of generosity, he took advantage of the
young artist's difficult position.
“Because,” stammered André.
“Because is no reason,” said De Breulh, mercilessly.
André was fast losing his head. It was impossible for him to give the
reason of this sudden change of manner. He would have died rather than
pronounce Sabine's name, and considered there was but one way out of his
difficulty—“Well,” he answered, with a cold stare of disdain, “your face
displeases me! Is that a reason ?"
"Do you mean to insult me, Monsieur André ?"
“ Just as you please !”
Patience was by no means M. de Breull's distinguishing quality. He
turned white with anger and started forward, but his natural generosity
came to the rescue, and recovering himself as far as possible, he exclaimed:
“Accept my apologies, Monsieur André. I have played a part-I fear un-
worthy of you and of me. I ought, when I first came in, to have given you
my name, and told you, I know everything.""
"I do not understand you, sir," answered André in icy tones.
“ If you don't understand me, why do you doubt me then? I have de-
served your distrust, however. Cease to feign ; Mademoiselle Sabine has
spoken to me with the most entire frankness. And if you doubt my words
and require a proof of my assertion, let me tell you that the canvas there,
with its face to the wall, is the portrait of Mademoiselle de Mussidan.”
As André still did not speak, M. de Breulh smiled sadly. “I will say,
furthermore," he resumed, so that yesterday, at Mademoiselle Sabine's
desire, I withdrew my request for her hand.”
VOL. I.
L


164
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
He repeated the last word wildly : “Dead ! dead !" Then, crumpling up
the disastrous letter and throwing it on to the floor, he rushed from the
room and dashed down the stairs into the street. He had not even doffed
his white blouse, nor paused to take a hat.
Mother Poileveu was astounded. “Good heavens !” said she; "what
are we coming to ? He's mad, to be sure.” She paused and smiled, having
just perceived the crumpled letter on the floor. With bland composure she
at once picked it up, smoothed it out carefully, and read it. “And so,"
she murmured, “the little lady's name is Sabine. A pretty name, to be
sure! And she is ill, is she? I have a notion that the old gentleman, so
amiable and so badly dressed, who came here early this morning and
questioned me about Monsieur André, would give something worth having
for this letter. But no-that would never do ! *Honesty's the best policy,
as the papers say.”
XX.
WHEN Madame Poileveu came to the conclusion that her artist was mad,
she was not, perhaps, so very far from the truth. Her opinion was pro-
bably shared by all the people who met this tall young man in the white
blouse, as he rushed with almost inconceivable rapidity along the streets
leading from the Quartier des Martyrs to the Champs Elysées.
As he left his house he saw an empty cab, but he did not think of taking
it ; for could the miserable horse move as swiftly as his strong young
limbs? He threaded his way through the crowd so hastily, and had so
strange an expression, that people quickly moved aside to let him pass,
and then turned to look after him. He had no idea what to do when he
reached the Hôtel de Mussidan. Sabine was ill, dying possibly-well, if
he could not see her, at least he would be near her. In Paris, such people
are to be seen at every hour in the day ; people who hurry along without
seeing or hearing-driven onward by their passions as bullets are impelled
by powder.
It was only on reaching the Rue de Matignon that André sufficiently re-
covered his senses to reflect and deliberate. As much to regain full posses-
sion of his faculties as his breath, he sat down at a few steps from the
Hôtel de Mussidan. He had reached the spot !-and now, how should he
go to work to obtain the information he wanted ? It was dark. The gas
lamps were barely visible through one of those February fogs which always
follow sharp frosts. It was cold. The Rue de Matignon, always unfre-
quented, was now absolutely deserted. Not a single cab rolled by, and
not a single footstep was heard ; the only sound was that of the traffic in
the busy Faubourg Saint Honoré some few hundred yards off. The young
painter now realised with absolute despair that he was utterly powerless.
He could not move hand or foot without compromising the woman he loved.
Still he rose and went towards the gate of the house, as if he hoped that
its aspect would tell him something. It seemed to him that if Sabine were
really dying the very stones would break out into lamentations. But the
house was wrapped in fog, and he could hardly tell which of the windows
were lighted. Reason bade him withdraw, wait patiently and hope; but
the more imperious voice of passion said, “Wait!” And he waited.
Why? He did not know. It seemed to him that Modeste, who had
written, would divine that he was there, suffering an agony of suspense,


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
165
and that she would come to look for him. All at once a new idea flashed
through his mind. “What I can't do,” thought he, "might be done by
M, de Breulh—he might easily send and make inquiries." -
He fortunately had the baron's card in his pocket, and after deciphering
the address as best he could, he hurried away. M. de Breulh-Faverlay re-
sided in a splendid mansion in the Avenue de l' Imperatrice, where, he de-
clared, he was by no means commodiously lodged; however, his horses had
air and space; they were comfortable, and as for himself, it did not
matter. When André entered the courtyard, he perceived a carriage
waiting there. Four or five footmen were talking and laughing in the well
lighted hall. He went straight towards them.
"" I wish to see Monsieur de Breulh,” he said.
The lackeys surveyed him from head to foot with mingled contempt and
surprise. "Monsieur has gone out,” they replied at last, “and will not re-
turn till very late.”
André understood them, well enough, and having by this time recovered
his senses, he again drew forth M. de Breulh's card, and with a pencil
wrote thereon these five words. “One minute—a service-André.”
“Take this,” said he, “and give it to your master as soon as he comes
in."
He then went slowly down the steps. He was sure M. de Breulh was at
home, and would send in pursuit of him, as soon as he received the card.
He was not mistaken, for five minutes later, a valet ushered him into the
baron's library.
At sight of André, De Breulh divined that a catastrophe had occurred.
• What is it?” he asked hastily.
“Sabine is dying," answered the young painter, who at once proceeded
to recount all that had happened since he had seen the baron a few hours
previously.
“But what can I do, my poor fellow, to put an end to your uncertainty
and anxiety?"
“You, sir? Why, you can send and inqire at M. de Mussidan's house."
“Think a moment, yesterday, I wrote to M. de Mussidan to break off
my marriage with his daughter. It would be unpardonable impertinence
on my part to send now and inquire after the young lady's health. It
would really amount to saying, 'I have withdrawn, and so your daughter
is dying of grief.'”.
"You are right,” muttered André, who had not thought of all this.
M. de Breulh was almost as worried as the young painter, and asked him-
self, how it would be possible to ascertain the truth as to Sabine's con-
dition. For some minutes he remained absorbed in reflection. "Ah!
Eureka !” cried he suddenly, “I have it. I am a distant relative of a
lady, who is also a relative of the Mussidans—the Vicomtesse de Bois d'
Ardon. She will be delighted to serve us ; she is a foolish young creature,
but she has a golden heart. Come, my carriage is in the courtyard."
The footmen were amazed to see their master on such terms of intimacy
with this young man in a blouse, and when the carriage drove off at full
speed, an old, white-haired valet, the Nestor of the servants hall, expressed
his opinion that something mysterious was going on.
Not a word was exchanged by André and M. de Breulh during their
brief drive to Madame de Bois d'Ardon's mansion in the Champs Elysées.
The carriage had not fairly stopped, when the baron alighted. “Wait for
me," said he to André; “I will be back in a moment.”


166
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
In one bound he reached the house. “Is madame at home?” he asked
of the servants who knew him.
“Madame receives," was the stately reply.
Fair and dimpled, fresh and ever smiling-red haired, since red hair was
the fashion-with the lovliest eyes in the world, Madame de Bois d'Ardon
was considered one of the most charming women in Paris. She was thirty.
She knew everything, had seen everything, feared nothing, and talked in.
cessantly, with considerable spirit and cleverness, and a dash of roguish
malice as well. She spent forty thousand francs a year, on her toilette ;
but when she said to her husband, “I have not a dress to put on my
back," she spoke the truth, for she ruined everything she wore in less than
no time. She was careless even to imprudence, and scandal-mongers pre-
tended she had had a dozen lovers since her marriage ; but this was alto-
gether false, for she had never had a single one. She really adored her
husband, and was horribly afraid of him! He knew it, but kept the
knowledge to himself, for he was wise. He allowed the viscountess
to flit hither and thither like a puppet at the end of a wire ; but he
held the wire with a firm hand. Such was the woman towards whom a
footman, in a livery too showy to be in good taste, now conducted
M. de Breulh.
Madame de Bois d'Ardon was in her boudoir when the baron was an-
nounced. She had just fixed the last pin in her toilette—the fifth she had
made that day, and to kill time, she was examining a coquettish costume
of a vivandière of the time of Louis Quinze-a chef d'ouvre of Van Klopen's
—which she meant to assume on returning from the Opera,- for a fancy
ball at the Austrian embassy.
On seeing M. de Breulh she uttered an exclamation of delight. Al-
though they rarely met except in society, they were really very much at-
tached to each other. In their youthful days they had been in the habit
of passing a month each summer at the château of their uncle the old
Count de Faverlay, and now as then they familiarly called each other by
their Christian names.
"You here at this hour, Gontran!” cried the viscountess. “It is a
miracle, a dream,” The words died on her lips as she caught sight of
her visitor's pale, harassed countenance. “What is the matter ?" she
asked. “Is there any trouble !"
“Not yet, I hope; but I am very anxious. I have just heard that
Mademoiselle de Mussidan is dangerously ill.
“Is it possible ! Poor Sabine! What is the matter with her ?”
“I don't know, and that is precisely why I have come here. I want
you, Clotilde, to send one of your people at once to Mussidan's house, to
ascertain what truth there is in what we have heard.”
Madame de Bois d'Ardon stared at the baron with amazement: “ Are
you jesting ?” she asked. “Why don't you send yourself ?”
“I can't, and if you are charitable and kind, you won't even ask me
why. In the first place, I should not tell you the truth. In the next, I
wish you to promise me faithfully never to mention to anyone that I have
asked you to do this."
Although this mysterious answer keenly whetted Madame de Bois
d'Ardon's curiosity, she proved momentarily discreet, and did not ask
another question. “So be it then," said she, “I respect your secret. I
would go this moment only Bois d'Ardon would scold me for letting him
sit down to dinner alone. But as soon as the meal is over, I'll go.”


168
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
some terrible indiscretion. “Good heavens !” she exclaimed, starting
back, “I thought you were alone."
“It is the same as if I were," answered the baron gravely ; “this gentle.
man is a very dear friend from whom I have no secrets." So saying he
laid his hand on André's arm.”
“ Allow me, my dear Clotilde,” he added, “to introduce to you Monsieur
André, a painter whose name is unknown to-day, but will be famous to-
morrow.”
André bowed profoundly, but the viscountess for once in her life was
silenced. This intimate friend's white blouse utterly confounded her.
And why this peculiar introduction ?
" Then,” resumed M. de Breulh, “our information was correct." He
lightly accented the “our.” “Mademoiselle de Mussidan is really ill ?”
“ Alas!”
“ Did you see her ?” asked the baron.
“Yes, I saw her, Gontran. Had you been with me your heart would
have melted, you would have regretted this fatal rupture as well. Poor
Sabine, she did not know me. She did not even know I was in the room.
She lay in bed whiter than the sheets, as cold and as stiff as a statue, her
eyes open wide, and for twenty hours she has been in this condition. One
would have thought she was dead but for the tears which every few
minutes rolled down her cheeks.”
André had intended to repress every sign of emotion in presence of the
viscountess, but his feelings were stronger than his will. “Ah !” cried he,
"she will die ; I know it perfectly well.”
His tone was so full of anguish that the light-hearted lady was touched.
“I assure you, sir,” she said, “that you exaggerate the situation. There
is no danger-none at present, at all events. The physicians call it a kind
of catalepsy, and say it is by no means an uncommon occurrence with
nervous persons on receiving a sudden shock."
“But what shock could it have been in this case ?" asked André.
The viscountess did not reply. She turned towards her cousin, her eyes
all aglow with curiosity. What on earth had this man in a workman's
blouse to do with Sabine, and how did he happen to be there! “No one
told me," she said at last, “ that Sabine's illness was caused by the rupture
of her marriage arrangements, but I took it for granted—”.
“And you were very much mistaken," interrupted M. de Breulh, “I know
what I say, my dear cousin, and it is for this very reason that I am so much
alarmed. But you have told us nothing after all, Clotilde; what has really
happened?"
M. De Breulh's calmness and assurance, and a glance he exchanged with
André, began to enlighten the viscountess. "I asked every question I
dared," she replied, “ but the answers were exceedingly vague. Sabine
looked as if she were dead : her father and mother hovered about round
her bed like two ghosts. If they had killed her themselves with their own
hands, remorse could not have been stamped more clearly on their faces.
They absolutely terrified me—"
M. de Breulh interrupted the viscountess, impatiently. “Tell me pre-
cisely what were the answers to your questions,” said he.
“I will tell you. First, it seems that Sabine had been so agitated all
the morning, that her mother asked her if she were ill.”
“ We know that; and we also know the reason of it.”
“Ah!" ejaculated the viscountess with an amazed stare. “In the after.


170
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
pened ? 's
“Wait a moment. After Clinchan had left, Octave and his wife had a
scene. You know my cousin-his voice thundered through the house. It
was while this was going on that Sabine reached her room, more dead than
alive, and Modeste thinks she had perhaps heard something her father and
mother were saying.”
Each word the viscountess spoke strengthened De Breulh's suspicions.
“ You see, Clotilde,” he exclaimed, “ there is something strange about all
this, and you will think it so all the more when you know everything."
Thereupon, without omitting a single detail of any importance, he told her
André's and Sabine's story.
Madame de Bois d'Ardon quivered as she listened-quivered with
mingled apprehension and pleasure. She was anxious for Sabine and
André, but she was delighted to have her curiosity satisfied. “Forgive
me,” said she, holding out her hand as soon as her cousin ceased speaking,
“my reproaches and accusations were most unjust. I am indeed of your
opinion, yes, there is some strange mystery in all this."
“And something, I fear, which will put another obstacle in our friend
Andrés path.”
“Why do you say that?” asked the young painter, aghast.
“I can't tell. It is a mere presentiment. But now mark my words. At
Sabine's request I have withdrawn all pretensions to her hand, in your
favour, but I will not leave the field open to any intruder. Mademoiselle
de Mussidan would not be my wife. She must be yours.”
“Yes,” said the viscountess, “but how are we to know what has hap-
“We will discover it in some way or other—that is to say, if you are
with us, if you consent to help us.”
All women are delighted to be able to dabble in matrimonial affairs, and
the viscountess was particularly pleased to have a hand in an affair that had
opened so romantically. Far from discouraging her, the obstacles quick-
ened her interest. Would not this be an excellent opportunity to prove
once more the superiority of feminine penetration and diplomacy? She
would have to fight, intrigue, and negotiate, envelop herself in mystery.
How delightful!“I am entirely at your disposal,” she said. “Have
you arranged any plan?”
“No, not as yet, but one shall be soon adopted. So far as Mademoiselle
de Mussidan is concerned, it would be folly to act otherwise than with
the utmost frankness. Let us address ourselves to her directly. André
will write to her and ask for an explanation, and if she is better to-morrow
you will see her and give her the note.”
The proposal was certainly bold, and many women would scarcely have
cared for the suggested errand. However, the viscountess did not trouble
herself particularly about the proprieties. “I don't think that would do,"
she said, with a pretty little air of affected wisdom. “In fact I think it
would ne a very unwise thing to do.”
“Do you think so ?"
“I'm sure of it; but let Monsieur André decide."
André now came forward. While M. de Breulh and the viscountess were
conversing, he had fully recovered his self-possession. It was time he should
intervene; the moment was a decisive one. “I think you are right,
madame,” said he. “It would be imprudent to let Mademoiselle de Mussi-
dan see so suddenly that we have confided a secret which is her's, even
more than ours, to another person." .


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
171
The viscountess nodded approval.
“There is, I think, a safer and more simple plan,” resumed André. "If
to-morrow morning Madame la Viscomtesse would ask Mademoiselle de
Mussidan's maid, Modeste, to meet me at noon at the corner of the Avenue
de Matignon, she will find me there. From her I shall no doubt be able to
obtain precise information.”
“That's an excellent idea,” declared Madame de Bois d'Ardon, “Early
to-morrow I will call at the Mussidan's and deliver your message.”
She stopped short, and uttered a pretty little shriek as looking at the
clock, she perceived it was nearly midnight. “Heavens !” she cried, rising
hastily, “and I have to go to a ball at the Austrian embassy, and am not
even dressed !” Then with a coquettish gesture, she drew her shawl round
her shoulders and darted away, exclaiming as she hurried down the stairs :
“I will call here, Gontran, to-morrow, on my way to the Bois.” Her
movements were so rapid, that before M. de Breulh could ring, or even
follow her, she was gone.
Now, somewhat easier in mind, André and his host talked for a long time
over the fire with all the freedom of friends, who having suffered together,
had a common object in view. They had only known each other for a few
hours, but they parted like two old comrades, whose affection, founded on
mutual esteem, took no account of services rendered and received. M. de
Breulh wished to send André home in his carriage, but the young artist
refused. However, the baron prevailed on him to accept the loan of a hat
and an overcoat. “To-morrow,” murmured André as he walked home,
“to-morrow Modeste will tell me everything, that is providing that kind"
hearted, though frivolous, Madame de Bois d'Ardon does not forget her
promise during the night.”
But Madame de Bois d'Ardon could be in earnest sometimes. When she
returned from the ball at the Austrian embassy, she did not go to bed, lest
she might not awake in time to be at the Mussidans' before ten o'clock,
and so when André reached the rendezvous, he found Modeste awaiting
him. Her pale face and reddened eyes showed how she suffered for her
young mistress. “Sabine,” said she, “had not regained consciousness,
The family physician did not express any anxiety, but he had asked for a
consultation.”
That was everything. André pressed Modeste with questions, but she
could tell him nothing more; she had in reality imparted all the informa-
tion she possessed to the viscountess. However, it was agreed between the
young artist and the maid that they should meet each morning and
evening at the same spot.
For two days longer Sabine's situation remained unchanged, and André
grew desperate. He spent all his time in hurrying to the Rue de Matignon,
and thence to M. de Breulh's, where he often met Madame de Bois d'Ardon.
On the third day, when he met Modeste in the morning, he found her in
great despair. The cataleptic attack was over, but Sabine was now strug-
gling against a nervous fever,
The faithful maid and André were so absorbed in their grief that they
did not notice one of the Mussidan servants who passed them that very
valet Florestan, who was on his way to the post with a letter for B.
Mascarot. "Só Modeste,” said André, in a low voice, “she is in danger,
you say-very great danger ?”
“The doctor declared it would be decided this evening whether she
would live or die. Be here at five to-night.”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
173
Florestan assumed the wise look of a diplomatist, and chuckled softly.
“Oh! you know all about him, then?" asked his patron.
“To be sure I do,"answered the valet. “The day before yesterday I was
smoking my pipe outside the gate of the house when I saw this young gaine-
cock come down the street, but he didn't hold his crest high, I assure you.
However, I knew what it meant-if my young lady, for instance, was
ill, I should drag one foot along after the other just as he did. Well, I
thought as I had nothing else to do I would just find out who he was, and so
I strolled after him with my hands in my pockets. He walked and walked
till he quite tired me; but at last he entered a house, and I, too, close
at his heels. I went to the concierge, pulled my tobacco pouch out of my
pocket, and showed it her, saying 'I have just picked this up-that
gentleman who has just come in dropped it. Do you know him?'
“Of course I do,' she answered, he is an artist on the fourth floor-
Monsieur André.".
“ But that was in the Rue de la Tour d'Auvergne ?” interrupted
Mascarot.
“Precisely !” rejoined the valet somewhat abashed; and he added
sulkily, as though he thought he had been trifled with, “ you are better
informed than I am, it seems."
Mascarot was too surprised to make any rejoinder. He was struck by
the strange persistence with which this same young artist came across all his
plans and combinations. When the cook in the employment of Rose—now
Vicomtesse Zora de Chantemille, by the grace of Gaston de Gandelu-had
spoken to him of an artist, who was acquainted with the liaison of Rose
and Paul Violaine, he had made it his immediate business to find out who
that artist was. Tantaine had made inquiries, and even interviewed
Madame Poileveu, the discreet concierge of the Rue de la Tour d'Auvergne,
and now Mascarot discovered that this same artist was Mademoiselle de
Mussidan's lover. What a strange and ominous coincidence. “Well,”
said Mascarot at last, “you took your tobacco pouch back from the con-
cierge again, didn't you?”
“Why, no, sir,” answered Florestan, “I said I had found it,and of course
I had to leave it with her.”
“Imprudent ! most imprudent!”
“But why?” asked Florestan. “ What harm can it do?”
Mascarot hesitated, and finally answered, “Oh, none at all, of course."
He did not care to tell the fellow the truth, and yet, he was intensely
annoyed that this proof of an unordered investigation should be left in
Madame Poileveu's hands. The merest trifle suffices to put astute persons
on the track of the most complicated intrigue. Wasn't it a mere scrap of
paper which had been wrapped round a candle, that enabled Canler to ferret
out the band of the Rue Saint Denis ? Wasn't it a thimblefull of cigar
ashes found on a mantleshelf that betrayed Corvinsi to M. Lecoq? “Such
trifles," muttered Mascarot to himself, “ often ruin a man."
But André now attracted all his attention ; the young artist appeared to be
himself again, and was speaking with great animation. Modeste seemed
horror-struck; for she shrank back and raised her arms to heaven.
“But who is the other man?” whispered Mascarot,“ he looks like an
Englishman'
“Why, don't you know him ? It's M. de Breulh-Faverlay.”
“Bless my soul! Do you mean the man who was to have married
Mademoiselle Sabine ?"


174
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“Of course I do."
Now, B. Mascarot was one of those adventurers whom nothing discon-
certs or astonishes as a rule, and yet, on making this discovery, he instinc-
tively shuddered as with alarm, and swore a frightful oath. “By the
thunder of heaven!” he cried at last, "are De Breulh and this painter
friends?”
“That's more than I know ; you are very curious, it seems to me.”
That Mascarot was not altogether himself was shown by this very
question, for it was perfectly evident that the pair were on terms of the
closest intimacy. Modeste had now left them, and they themselves turned
in the direction of the Avenue de l'Impératrice, walking arm in arm.
“It looks as if M. de Breulh had easily consoled himself for his dismissal,”
remarked Mascarot.
“Dismissed !” said Florestan, “ he wasn't dismissed ! it was he who wrote
and withdrew his suit.”
This time Mascarot had strength enough to conceal what a blow the
valet's information was. He even laughed as he asked some trifling questions
of Florestan before they separated. But he was in reality absolutely upset.
He had looked on his game as won, and now he saw it, not lost, but at all
events frightfully compromised. “What!” muttered he, clenching his
hands with rage. “Shall a lad's foolish passion stop me now, when I am
so near the goal? By no means. Let him beware. If I find him in my road,
so much the worse for him ! "
XXI.
DR. HORTEBIZE had long since ceased to dispute the will of his admirablə
partner. Baptistin ordered, and-he obeyed! He had been bidden not to
lose sight of Paul; and he complied with the instructions to the letter. He
had gone with him to M. Martin Rigal's—where they had dined, although
the banker himself was absent—thence to his club, and he had insisted on
offering Paul hospitality for the night. The physician and his ward having
retired at a late hour, were also late in rising, but shortly before eleven in
the morning, having washed and dressed, they were about to do justice to
an excellent breakfast, when M. Tantaine was announced, and made his
appearance, bowing and smiling as usual.
At the sight of this man, who had first impelled him towards crime, Paul
felt his blood boil, and started furiously to his feet. “I have you, sir, at
last,” he exclaimed. “We have an account to settle together!"
Good old Tantaine looked as if the skies had opened. “We ! an account?”
he asked, in a bewildered sort of way.
“Yes, sir, yes! Was it not owing to your perfidious conduct that I was
accused of theft by Madame Loupias?”
“ Well, what then?”
“Was it not you who came to me in my garret?”
The old clerk shrugged his shoulders. “I thought,” said he, in the
blandest tone, “that Monsieur Baptistin had explained everything to you,
and concluded that you wished to marry Mademoiselle Flavia. I was told
that you were a young man of extraordinary intelligence and penetration !"
The doctor burst into a hearty laugh, and Paul realising the folly of his
indignation at this late hour, dropped his head in due confusion, and turned
away.


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
175
"If I disturb you, doctor,” resumed old Tantaine, “I am very sorry,
but I was sent here specially by the governor.'
“Is there anything new ?"
“ Yes. First of all, Mademoiselle de Mussidan is out of danger. M. de
Croisenois can pursue his plans now without any fear. An obstacle has
turned up but it will be suppressed.”
The doctor swallowed a glass of his excellent Bordeaux, smacked his lips,
and exclaimed: “Well, here's to the conjugal felicity of the marquis and
Mademoiselle Sabine !"
“Amen!” answered Tantaine. " Another word, if you please. I am
told to beg M. Paul not to leave M. Hortebize, but to send for his effects at
his hotel, and install himself here." The doctor looked so annoyed that
Tantaine hastened to add, “Only temporarily, of course. I am com-
missioned to find an apartment for this young gentleman-and directed to
furnish it. He can't remain in lodgings. It's too compromising.
Paul made no attempt to conceal his satisfaction at this new arrangement.
To be surrounded by his own goods and chattels would be a tangible proof
of prosperity.
* Very good !” cried the doctor, gaily. “And now that you have executed
all your commissions, Tantaine, you can stay and breakfast with an easy
conscience.”
But Tantaine shook his head. “Many thanks for the honour; but I have
already breakfasted. Besides, I have no time to spare. That business of
the Duc de Champdoce presses us frightfully just now, and I must see that
scamp Perpignan as soon as possible.”
He here made a little sign which Paul did not see, and Hortebize rose
and accompanied him into the ante-room.
“Don't leave that boy,” said Tantaine, in a whisper, “I will see him to-
morrow. In the meantime, warm him up, prepare him-
“I understand,” rejoined the doctor. *** Trust him to me;" and as he
resumed his seat he called out to Tantaine--at that moment opening the
outer door : “My regards to that dear fellow, Perpignan!”
That dear fellow, Perpignan, whom Mascarot had suspected of hovering
round about Caroline Schimmel, the cook, and whom Father Tantaine was
now going to see, was well known in Paris—and as some folks said, too well
known. His name had been set down in the baptismal register as Isidore
Crocheteau, but he had adopted the name of his native town. In 1845 or
thereabouts, he had met with a disaster. Head cook at a restaurant in
the Palais-Royal he had been detected in a flagrant system of dishonesty in
connection with the trades people who supplied the establishment, was
arrested, tried, convicted, and sentenced to three years' imprisonment.
During his incarceration, however, he was able to mature a grand scheme,
by which he thought he could enrich himself without the smallest risk. A
week after being set free he issued the following prospectus :
[Private and Confidential.]
I. C. PERPIGNAN.
Private Inquiries. Searches and Surveillance.
SECRECY GUARANTEED.
SIR, -Everyone at some time of life has needed a skilful and discreet
agent to whom he could confide certain investigations of a delicate and
mysterious nature. Creditors anxious to discover absconding debtors,
fathers anxious as to the conduct of their prodigal sons, families wishing for


176
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
information concerning one of their relatives, in one word, all who desire to
investigate moral investigations, justifiable inquiries and searches, may
apply in all confidence to M. PERPIGNAN, whose ability is universally
acknowledged, and whose honourability is above all question.
Terms by private contract.
By this impudent circular Perpignan announced the creation of one of
those shameful private police establishments, which are only employed by
knaves and fools.
Perpignan wished for a specialty-he had one. He became the Provi.
dence of jealous husbands! The ex-cook's scheme succeeded so well that
at the expiration of the first year he was employing no fewer than eight of
those odious spies called “ fileurs" in the Rue de Jerusalem. It is true
that he played a double game, unscrupulously selling his merchandise twice
over. Whenever he was charged with watching some suspected wife he
would call on her and say : “I am promised so much if I discover and tell
the truth. Now, what will you give me if I agree to furnish only such in.
formation as you choose ?"
It was in the field of private inquiries and investigations that on two or
three occasions Perpignan's men had rubbed against Mascarot's agents.
There was never any real conflict between them, for each side was afraid of
the other, and by a tacit agreement as it were, they decided in future to
avoid working the same tracks. But, while the ex-cook-badly served by
his light-paid spies—had never succeeded in penetrating any of Mascarot's
mysteries, the latter, on the contrary, admirably seconded by his volunteers,
was by no means ignorant of Perpignan’s affairs.
Mascarot, had, at the outset realised, that the receipts of the Private
Inquiry Office could not possibly cover Perpignan's expenses, for he lived in a
brilliant style "protecting” a young woman of the corps de ballet, and
hiring a brougham by the month. He also affected artistic tastes, which
revealed themselves in the form of wonderful waistcoats and superfluous
jewellery. He, moreover, admitted his partiality for good living, could
never dine without drinking the best wines, and seldom, if ever, turned
a cold shoulder on a gambling table. He delighted to exhibit himself,
was always to be seen at the races, and in the Bois-frequented the best
restaurants, and was invariably present at the first performances of the new
pieces at the theatres. .
“Where does his money come from?” wondered Mascarot, determined not
to rest until he knew. And the worthy agent had immediately set to work,
and thanks to his special means of investigation had speedily learnt the truth.
“That's how we told him," mused Father Tantaine, as leaving Hortebize's
house, he turned in the direction of Perpignan's Private Inquiry Office in
the Rue du Four. “Ay, we hold him, luckily for us, for master Perpignan's
a dangerous rascal and might at any time do us harm if we could not
threaten him with a nice little pleasure trip to Cayenne."
The old clerk had reached the ex-cook's door, (decorated with a huge
brass plate) and rang the bell. A low-looking, stout old woman, at once
answered the summons : “Monsieur Perpignan is out,” said she.
“And when will he return?"
“Not before night, I think.”
“Then will you kindly tell me where I may hope to find him, as it is of
importance to him, as well as to me, that we should see each other as soon
as possible?"


178
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
plexion, the result of unlimited libations, and a pair of ferret's eyes gleam.
ing with cruelty and cunning. She wore a coloured kerchief on her head,
and in one hand held a wooden spoon with which she stirred some horrible
mixture simmering in an immense cauldron. On a pallet in one corner, a
little urchin, some ten years old, lay shivering. Against the ragged pillow-
case, black with dirt, his face of a death-like palidity appeared in bold
relief. His little hands were painfully thin, and fever glittered in his big
black eyes. At times his sufferings made him moan, but at once the old
hag turned round and threatened him with her wooden spoon.
“Shut up, will you, you young rascal !” she cried.
“But I am in such pain,” sighed the boy, with a marked Italian accent.
“I am really very ill-”
“Well, why didn't you work as you were bid? You wouldn't have had
A thrashing if you had brought some money home. And if you hadn't been
beaten you wouldn't be lying there !"
6 Oh me! I'm sick—I'm cold—I want to go away- I want to see mam-
ma !”
Old Tantaine had seen much misery in his life, and was not easily moved,
but even he was touched by this scene. He coughed to announce his
presence, whereupon the old woman turned round with a snarl like that of
à hungry dog disturbed over a bone.
“Who do you want?" she growled.
" The governor."
“He hasn't come yet."
"Will he be here?”
“Perhaps—it's his day; but he's not by any means regular. However,
you can see M. Poluche."
“Poluche! Who's he?"
The old woman gave Tantaine a contemptuous glance. It seemed to her
most extraordinary that such ignorance could exist. “He's the professor,"
she answered.
“ And where is he?"
“He? Why, upstairs in the schoolroom, of course,” And turning to
her cauldron, the contents of which were boiling over, she added, “That's
enough questioning. Just show me your heels, please.”
This curt dismissal did not seem in any wise to offend Tantaine. How.
ever, before climbing the stairs he examined them, and noticed that the
bannisters had been torn away, and that they were altogether in a most
rickety condition. But Father Tantaine was brave, and so he cautiously
climbed them, keeping as closely as possible to the wall. The higher he
went the more distinct became certain strange sounds which he had already
heard in the court-yard. It seemed as if a number of cats were mewing
whilst a knife-grinder busily plied his calling. Every now and then there
came a dead silence, followed by a loud oath and cries of pain. However,
this charivari did not seem to astonish Tantaine, who, on reaching the floor
above, found himself in front of a door hanging loosely by one hinge. He
pushed this door open, and entered what the old hag downstairs had called
the schoolroom. It was an immense apartment; in fact, all the rooms on
the floor had apparently been thrown into one, the partitions having been
torn down. There were five windows with but three panes of glass intact;
the others were cracked and broken; some of them covered with rags and
paper, and all absolutely begrimed with filth. On the white plastered walls
figured innumerable inscriptions and rough drawings, often obscene, whilst


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
179
the room had a sickly disgusting smell which caught one at the throat and
almost provoked nausea. The only article of furniture was a broken chair,
across which lay a stout riding-whip.
Father Tantaine had met with some strange sights in the course of his
wanderings through the low quarters of Paris, and yet he paused on the
threshold of this room, fairly thunderstruck. All round against the wall,
a score of young urchins, from seven to ten years old, were ranged-all of
them clad in rags and tatters, and filthy beyond description. Some of
them were arrayed in old frock-coats, the tails of which dragged on the
floor, whilst others had trousers, the waistbands of which well nigh reached
their throats. None of them wore such a thing as a shirt, socks were ap-
parently unknown to them, and several were absolutely bare-footed. They
mostly carried violins in their hands, a few of them supporting harps taller
than themselves. On the violins Țantaine noticed a number of chalk-lines
at regular intervals.
In the centre of the room stood a man of about thirty-straight, slim,
and erect as a candle; excessively ugly, with flat features, and greasy black
hair falling over his neck behind. His coat, originally olive-green, hung on
his shoulders as if on a couple of pegs. Like the children, he held a violin,
and Father Tantaine at once divined that this must be Professor Poluche
giving his lesson.
" Attention!” cried the maëstro. “Now each in turn. Ascanio, just
play the refrain of the Chapeau de la Marguerite over again, and in measure,
mind.” So saying the professor began to sing and play, whilst the child hé
had named scraped his violin in desperation, and with the nasal twang of
Piedmont screeched, “Ah, mon Dieu ! mon Dieu ! qu'il est beau, le chapeau
de_"
“Rascal !” interrupted Poluche. “Haven't I told you a hundred times
that at the word chapeau' you must place your left hand on the fourth
notch and draw your bow. Begin again."
The child began: “Ah, mon Dieu ! mon Dieu ! qu'il est _"
“Stop!" shouted the professor in a threatening voice. “Stop! I believe
you do it purposely. Now begin again, and if you don't repeat the whole
refrain correctly, look out, that's all. Go on."
"Ah, mon Dieu—"
Alas! Ascanio had forgotten his instructions and again made a mistake.
The professor laid down his violin, quietly took up the riding-whip lying
across the chair, and in all calmness, without the slightest semblance of
anger, cut the child five or six times across the legs, with the result that
the luckless urchin at once set up a lamentable roar. “That'll teach you,"
said Poluche, “ to pay more attention to what I say. When you have got
through your howling you can begin again, and if you don't do better, you
shan't have a mouthful of soup to-night. This is a fair warning. Now,
instead of braying like an ass, open your eyes and ears and look at your
neighbours. Now, Giuseppe, it's your turn."
Although two or three years younger than Ascanio, Giuseppe was far
more skilful both with his instrument and voice, and he played and sang
the whole refrain without a single mistake.
"Good !” said Poluche ; "and now, if you improve as much in the next
two or three days as you have done during the last week, you shall go out.
You would like to go out, I suppose ? "
“Oh! yes, indeed, sir,” answered the child with great delight. “I should
like to bring in a few sous, too."


180
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
But the conscientious professor did not mean to waste his valuable time
in vain converse. He turned to another of his pupils. “Fabio,” he cried,
“it's your turn, and in time, remember.”
Fabio, a tiny little fellow, not more than seven, whose black eyes were
as bright as a mouse's, did not evince particular haste in obeying this order.
The fact is, he had just caught sight of Father Tantaine on the threshold,
and he thought it more imperative to call the professor's attention to this
intruder. “Oh! master,” he exclaimed, “a man!”
Poluche at once turned, and found himself face to face with Tantaine,
who now came swiftly forward, his hat in his hand. A spectre darting up
through the floor could not have made the professor feel more nervous. He
had, indeed, especial reasons for being afraid of strangers. “What do you
want?” he asked in a startled voice. “Who are you?"
The maëstro's evident alarm delighted worthy Tantaine, for he looked on
it as a favourable augury respecting the result of the hazardous mission he
had undertaken ; and, moreover, it showed him what tone he had best adopt
in speaking to Perpignan when the latter arrived. Such being the case, it
pleased him to prolong the perplexity of the situation, and for a good
ininute at least he remained smiling blandly at the discomfited professor,
who was each instant becoming more anxious. However, at last he re-
lented. “Be at ease, my good sir,” said he. “I am one of your patron's
intimate friends, and have only taken the liberty of calling here because I
have important business affairs to discuss with him.”
Poluche breathed more freely. “If that's the case, sir,” he said, offering
the visitor the only chair in the room—the very rickety one aforesaid,
“ take a seat; the master will soon be here."
But Father Tantaine refused, politely protesting that he was afraid of
intruding, that he did not care to sit down, and that he would withdraw
rather than interrupt such an interesting lesson.
“Oh! the lesson's as good as over,” replied the professor. “It is time
for Mother Butor to give these scamps their porridge." And turning to
his pupils, who had not dared to move, he added, “Enough for to-day. Be
off with you."
. The children did not wait another second. They laid down their instru-
ments, and, like schoolboys eager for play, bounded out of the room and
down the rickety stairs at the risk of breaking their necks. Perhaps they
hoped that their master, occupied by his unwonted visitor, would forget
certain threats he had made. The hope was vain ! Professor Poluche,
severe, but just, was endowed with an extraordinary memory. He went
out on to the landing and called down the stairs, “Hallo ! Mother Butor!”
“What's up?” asked the old hag in the kitchen.
“You will give no porridge to Morel, please, and Ravouillat is to have
only half his allowance.”
Having given these important orders, he returned to the schoolroom with
the self-satisfied air of a person who has thoroughly performed his duty.
“Our youngsters from Piedmont and Calabria, "said he to to Father Tantaine,
in explanatory fashion, "get on well enough ; but those make-believe
Italians from Batignolles and Montrouge whom the governor has been re-
cruiting lately, give me no end of trouble. He says they're cheaper, but
they'll really kill me with worry. They are puffed up with pride and im-
pertinence, and as vicious as if they were men. As for their heads, they
are as hard as stone, and besides they've no taste for music, nothing
musical in their natures.”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
181
Tantaine's eyes were wide open behind his spectacles. All this was
new to him; and as he believed in the maxim that 'tis never to late to
learn, he listened to Professor Poluche with due attention. “Your's is a
difficult task,” he said. “It must be very trying to teach music to chil-
dren so young."
The professor raised his eyes to heaven in despair. “Would to God,”
he cried, “that I could teach them the divine art, its first principles, all so
dear to my soul. But no ; the master doesn't wish it, in fact he would
dismiss me if he caught me doing anything of the kind.""
“But it seems to me you were teaching when I came in."
“Let me explain myself. You have heard, I presume, of those old
women who train singing birds with reed-organs and whistles, and
so on.”
No; Tantaine had never heard of them, and confessed his ignorance in
all humility. “Ah, well,” resumed the professor with a bitter smile, “I
teach boys instead of birds, that's all-teach them not by rule, but by ear
so to say-that is much as you teach a parrot to talk. It's a sad business,
sir, for a man of any imagination. There are days when I envy the parrot
teachers. Ah! what patience I need to be sure.”
The gentle Tantaine smiled and pointed to the riding whip, “And
this?” he asked.
Poluche shrugged his shoulders. “I should like to see you in my place
for twenty-four hours.” said he. “The master picks up a boy, and he
brings him here. Well, what then? The child's in despair, nervous and
worried and so on, and yet in a couple of weeks or three, at the most,
I must teach him to play something. Perhaps he never saw a violin
before ; at all events he knows nothing of music. Never mind. I must
teach him, mechanically, the 12 or 15 positions which the simplest tune re-
quires. Naturally the young beggar resists, and I as naturally insist on
obedience. Can you drive a nail into a board without a hammer? No.
Very well, my whip’s my hammer, and with its help I drive the tunes into
my pupils' memory. But don't imagine for a moment, that these imps are
afraid of punishment. By no means. They thrive on blows as other
children thrive on caresses. They howl if they are touched-indeed as soon
as ever I raise my arm, but not a real tear ever falls from their eyes. I
find other modes of punishment vastly more effectual than the whip. I
manage them through their stomachs. I suppress a quarter, a third, or
half of their porridge, and sometimes, but not often, the whole of it. It is
astonishing how swiftly fasting sharpens their faculties. If they are
especially obstinate, I keep them at work at night time. There's nothing
like that. In a single night an obstinate young imp will learn more than
at four lessons in the daytime. The method's infallible. It was given to
me by the manager of a circus who employed it successfully in teaching a
horse to play the hurdy gurdy."
Tantaine, during this long explanation, had felt a cold chill creep down
his back. His prejudices were not strong, but he felt that this system of
education was not altogether satisfactory.
“Ah,” resumed the professor. “if I could only do as I choose about
the tunes.”
“Eh?” asked Tantaine.
“Why, don't you understand ? I have 40 pupils who start out each
morning, and never come home before midnight. . As soon as I have drilled
them to play some tune, it becomes popular. Now lately I've been teaching


182
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
them the Chapeau de la Marguerite' and, come, don't you hear it played
and hummed wherever you go ?”
Tantaine now understood how it happened that certain tunes were at
different intervals heard through the length and breadth of Paris.
“Ah!" resumed Poluche, "Ah! if the governer would only let me, I
would give the French a taste for good music. But then he has no mind
for art. He won't have it. Why, he almost dismissed me one day, when
I played these young beggars an air from one of my own operas."
Time was passing, but Tantaine showed no signs of weariness. “From
one of your own operas?” said he.
"Yes," answered Poluche, in a different tone to that in which he had so
far spoken. “There isn't a musical theatre that hasn't an opera of mine
in its archives. One of my friends, who went crazy from absinthe, wrote
lovely librettos for me. No, don't laugh. I received a first prize at the
Conservatoire. I had illusions in those days, and wanted to become famous ;
I drank water and worked all night. But the day came when I grew
weary of waiting for fame, and then I tried to give lessons. Alas! I was
so ugly and disagreeable that no boarding school would engage me. I was
literally dying of hunger when I met the governor. He tempted me, and I
yielded. I have five francs a day regularly, and two sous more for each
pupil. It's a disgraceful trade, no doubt, I loathe it, and myself too, but
at all events, I don't starve."
He stopped short, listened for a moment, and then uneasily exclaimed,
“Here comes the master ! I know his step. If you wish to see him, go
down and meet him. He never comes up, for he's afraid of the stairs.”
XXII.
PROFESSOR POLUCHE's master might be judged at a single glance. He was
plainly enough a rascal_not an ordinary one, far from it, for he combined
in his appearance the air of a charlatan, a hair-dresser, a police spy, and a
horse-dealer. Physically Perpignan was a short, apoplectic looking man,
very stout and red, with an impudent mouth and a cynical eye. He over-
dressed himself and to look at him one might have imagined that he had
pillaged a jeweller's shop, and adorned himself with the spoils. When he
spoke, he drew a sepulchral bass voice from the innermost depths of his
stomach, where his mind was apparently situated. He looked as snobbish
and as vulgar as ever, as Tantaine—now carefully descending the rickety
stairs-caught sight of him in the hall below.
Poluche had felt anxious on seeing the old clerk, and Perpignan his
master, looked positively frightened. However, their reasons were not the
same. The ex-cook knew that Tantaine was Mascarot's right arm.
“ Thunder !” he said to himself. “If this old fellow has taken the
trouble to come here for me, it must be for some powerful reason. I must
be careful.” And feigning a smile, he offered Father Tantaine his hand.
“ Delighted to see you ! ” he said aloud. “How can I serve you? For I -
sincerely trust you have come to ask me some service.”
“Oh! the merest trifle," answered Tantaine, returning the smile.
“So much the worse, then ; for I am really very fond of Monsieur Mas-
carot—very fond indeed.”
This friendly parley had taken place in the hall, and the shouts and the
laughter of the children, devouring the contents of Mother Butor's cauldron,


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
183
could be plainly heard, coupled with repeated groans and sobs. “A
thousand thunders !” shouted Perpignan in a voice which would have
shaken every pane of glass in the windows, had there been any. “What's
up, now—who's complaining ?”
As no answer came from the kitchen, Professor Poluche deemed it right
to speak. “The urchins who are blubbing there," said he, "are a couple
of our Parisians whom I have put on short allowances. They shan't have
a mouthful until they have learned—”
He stopped short, struck dumb by his master's threatening look. "On
short allowances !” repeated Perpignan-“ do you dare, under my very
roof, without my knowledge, to deprive these poor children of an ounce
of their food ? It's infamous simply infamous, Monsieur Poluche! What
on earth do you mean by such audacity?”.
“But, master," stammered the professor, “ you have told me a thousand
times-
“Told you? Told you what? That you were a fool, eh? So I have,
and I've always added, that you'd never be anything else. Now hold your
tongue, and go and tell Mother Butor to give those cherubs their grub."
The scene was a regrettable one, irreparable in every sense, and yet, al-
though inwardly enraged, Perpignan tried to seem calm, and taking Father
Tantaine by the arm drew hiin to the end of the passage. “I presume
you came to see me on business," he said. “Very good. Well come into
my office here."
He thereupon opened the door of a dirty little room, dingy and dilapi-
tated like the rest of the house. Three chairs, a deal table, and some
shelves on which lay three or four ledgers, composed the furniture. Tan-
taine and Perpignan sat down, and for a moment looked at each other
without speaking, each seeking to penetrate the other's secret thoughts.
Two duellists sword in hand, awaiting the signal of their seconds, could
never have been more watchful. However, so far as these preliminaries
were concerned the advantage was entirely on the side of Tantaine, who
was so to say, entrenched behind his goggles. Perpignan, therefore, was the
first to speak, “How did it happen, that you learned of my little estab-
lishment?” he asked.
"Oh! by the merest accident,” answered Tantaine, carelessly. "A
person who goes about as much as I do naturally hears of a good many
things. For instance, we know very well that you have taken every pre-
caution to avoid being compromised."
• What do you mean?”
“Just what I say. You are, of course, the promoter, the master in
reality, but apparently you are nothing at all. To the outside world a
man named Butor, your cook's husband, is the manager, and the lease of
the house is in his name. Now if anything disagreeable happened, you
would disappear, and the police would only be able to lay their hands on
Butor, your man of straw. Such tactics usually succeed, unless a man has
an enemy skilful enough to render his precautions useless, by producing ab-
solute proofs of collusion."
The ex-cook was too quick witted not to understand this threat. “ These
- people know something," he thought: “I must find out what it is.” And
he added aloud, “The best way after all, is to have a clear conscience ; as
for myself, having nothing to conceal, I have nothing to fear. You have
seen my establishment—what do you think of it?”
“ It seems to me well started."


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
185
sort to in view of encouraging their lads to work. Did you hear about that
master who sometimes fastened his boys on an iron bed, and left them a
day, two days, and even three days, without food. What was he sentenced
to 's
Perpignan, who was by this time wretchedly ill at ease, now hastily rose
to his feet. “Do I know?” he cried. “What do I care for these stories?
Never once have I committed a single act of cruelty.”
Tantane settled his spectacles. «A man may have the kindest heart in
the world, and yet be the victim of circumstances,” he answered.
The decisive moment was evidently approaching as Perpignan instinctively
realised : “I don't understand you,” he said once more.
“Well, then, let me give you an example. Suppose you had reason to
complain of one of your cherubs to-night. What would you do with him ?
Shut him up in the cellar, perhaps. Where would be the harm? Well,
you would go to bed and sleep, with a quiet conscience, like a log. But in
the night, say the rain pours down in torrents. A pile of sand or stones
stops up the gutter in your street, and all the rain water flows into your
cellar. `In the morning, when you go to let your cherub out, you find him
stiff and dead. He has been drowned.”
The ex-cook's usually red face had now become absolutely livid. “And
what then?” he asked.
"Ah! here it is that the annoyance begins. Naturally, it would be
difficult to decide on what course to pursue. It would be a simple thing to
send for the police, but then an inquiry would take place, and the attention
of the public prosecutor would be called to your establishment. So after
all, it's better to dispose of the body. No one knows that the child's there.
A hole's dug, the body's buried, and there's an end to the matter. Come,
hasn't anything of the kind ever happened?"
Perpignan had gone to the door, and was leaning against it as if to pre-
vent the old clerk from retreating. “You know too much, Monsieur Tan-
taine,” he said, “a great deal too much !”
There was no mistake about the ex-cook's tone of voice, and besides, his
attitude, in front of the door, was more significant than any explanations.
However, Tantaine did not seem to notice his hostile manner. Quite the
contrary. He smiled benignly, as pleased with himself, apparently, as a
child is after some frightful piece of mischief, the extent of which he is abso-
lutely ignorant of, whilst its consequences he cannot calculate.“ After all,”
said he, “it's a mere nothing. At the utmost, manslaughter by imprudence
and the public prosecutor would have to be awfully clever to obtain a severer
sentence than five years' imprisonment. Still, if certain antecedents were
raked up--a certain journey to Nancy, for instance"
This was too much for Perpignan, who forthwith exploded. “A thousand
thunderclaps !” he cried. “Explain yourself—what do you want of me?"
“A little service, as I said before."
“Indeed! and is it for a little service that you intimidate and threaten
me in this way, as if you meant to blackmail me?"
“My dear sir—"
“You forget one thing, and that is, I am not easily intimidated—”.
" Allow me to make an observation. Was it not you yourself who first
spoke of your well, we will call it business, if you like! I didn't mention
it to you."
“Then it was merely by way of making yourself agreeable that you have
been telling me all these absurd tales ?"


186
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
Tantaine shrugged his shoulders.
“Well," resumed Perpignan, trying to control his voice, “shall I tell
you, in my turn, what I think?”
“By all means, if it doesn't trouble you too much.”
“I will tell you, then, that you have come here on an errand that no
man should undertake alone. To come and say to anyone, face to face, the
things that you have said to me, you ought to be younger and of a
different build. It wasn't a prudent thing to do, to venture into such a
house as this,”
.“ But-heavens and earth! what could happen to me?”
Perpignan did not answer. His face was convulsed, his eyes were blood-
shot, and his lips white with rage. He was in one of those fits of passion
when a man neither knows nor cares what he does. He had slipped his
hand into his pocket; but Tantaine, indifferent as he seemed, had watched
each movement he made, and as Perpignan was about to draw his hand out
again-his eyes shining the while with fiendish hate—the old clerk started
from his seat and sprang forward. The ex-cook, with his bull's neck, was
of uncommon strength, but as the old fellow clutched hold of him he
staggered. However, a great effort enabled him to draw himself to-
gether, and he struggled desperately, lunging out with his one free fist
at hap-hazard. But it was all in vain. Tantaine had caught him by
the neck-tie, had twisted it round, and was so fairly throttling him,
that a rattle came from his throat. The struggle was soon over. With
wonderful vigour for a man of his age and appearance, Tantaine twisted his
adversary round, making him spin like a top, and then suddenly clutching
hold of him again, on either side below the ribs, lifted him off the ground,
and flung him on to a chair. That was all ; not a cry, not a word. No
one, however, would have recognised worthy Father Tantaine ; he seemed
transfigured, and in lieu of a benign expression, his features now wore a
look of unutterable contempt and disgust. "Ah, you wanted to stab me,
did you ?” said he to Perpignan, who was trying to regain breath, “you
wanted to kill an inoffensive old man who had never harmed you. Did
you think I was simple enough to venture into your lair without any pre-
cautions ?” And producing a revolver he added sternly, “Now, throw
your knife down !"
Tantaine was right. It was a sharp-pointed knife that Perpignan had
tried to open in his pocket, but he was now so demoralised, so cowed, that
he obediently tossed the weapon into the corner without more ado.
“Good !” said Tantaine, approvingly. “I'm glad to see that you are
becoming reasonable. Is it possible that a sensible man like yourself-
Come, you hadn't reflected. I came here alone, to be sure, but plenty of
people knew I had come. If I hadn't returned home to-night, do you sup-
pose iny master, M. Mascarot, would have been satisfied. To-morrow
morning he would have felt anxious, and in forty-eight hours, at the most,
you would have been under lock and key. It's lucky for you I prevented
you from stabbing me; I've saved you from the police, imprisonment,
and the scaffold, and now I've a fair right to insist on your doing as I
bid you."
The ex-cook looked intensely mortified and humiliated. He had been
beaten and laughed at; two things that to the best of his recollection had
never happened to him before. “Oh! the weaker man must go to the
wall,” he said, sulkily.
“ Exactly. But you should have realised that before.”


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
187
“I was excited and angry, and you threatened me. I foresaw you meant
to exact something-something"
“You are quite mistaken," rejoined Tantaine. “In point of fact I came
here to propose a magnificent stroke of business to you."
“Indeed—But why did you begin talking as you did ?" asked Perpignan.
“Because," answered Tantaine, with an imperious wave of the hand,
“ because I wished to prove to you, to your own satisfaction, that you be-
long to Mascarot more entirely than your poor Italians belong to you.
They are your serfs, you are his slave. You are at his mercy, my man ;
he holds you in his hand, and can crush you like an egg whenever he
pleases. He knows all about you, and has every possible proof.”
“Your Mascarot is the devil himself, I believe ; nobody can resist him!”
nuttered the ex-cook.
“Ah! then, as this is your opinion, we can talk sensibly, at last.”
Poor Perpignan straightened his collar and neck-tie, and seated himself
at the table." Come," muttered he, trying to turn the whole affair into a
joke, “you've made a halter of my neck-tie, and I'm at your mercy. Do
what you like with me, abuse me and insult me. I can't retaliate."
But Tantaine was not the man to take undue advantage of a victory.
He had arranged his plan of action before entering the house, and as events
had somewhat belied his expectations, he reflected before resuming opera-
tions. “Now,” said he, “let us forget what has just happened, and begin
at the beginning. For some days you have been watching a woman named
Caroline Schimmel.”
“I?”
“Yes, my innocent son-you! You employed the eldest of your cherubs
as a spy to follow her—a fellow of sixteen, who plays on the harp, and
answers to the name of Ambrosio, which is not his own."
“It's true enough.”
“That youngster's not to be trusted, let me tell you. He accepts an
offer of a glass of wine too willingly; and besides the drink soon gets
into his head. The other evening as we were afraid his absence might make
you uneasy, we were obliged to hoist him into a cab, and send him as far
as the Rue des Anglaises -a stone's throw from here."
The ex-cook clapped his hand to his forehead as if suddenly enlightened.
.“ Then it's your people," cried he, “who have been watching this woman
as well.”
“Have you waked up to that conclusion ?”
“I knew well enough that I was not the only one who was tracking her.
But what could I do about it?"
“You can tell me, now, at all events, why you are watching her.”
“Why? Because-confound it all! You know the motto on my circu-
lar, celerity and discretion. You are after a secret which isn't mine,
which, in fact, has been entrusted to my honour.”
Tantine lifted his eyebrows. “Why do you talk of discretion,” said he,
“ when you follow Caroline entirely on your own account, hoping to arrive,
through her, at the solution of a mystery, only a very small portion of
which has been confided to you."
The ex-cook was astonished, and yet, he still tried a little finessing.
" Are you sure of that?” he asked.
“So sure that I can tell you, that the client, whom this mystery con-
cerns, was brought to you by a lawyer, M. Catenac."
Perpignan was altogether defeated ; his features now expressing, not


188
TIE SLAVES OF PARIS.
mere surprise, but absolute confusion and alarm. “Thunder and lightning!”
cried he, “What a wonder that Mascarot is. 'Pon my word he knows
everything! everything !”
Tantaine had produced the desired effect, and pulled at his spectacles
with evident jubilation. “No," said he. « The governor doesn't know
everything, and in proof of this, I have come to ask you to tell me what
took place between Catenac's client and yourself. This is the service we
expect from you."
to Oh you may rely on me, dash it all ! Mascarot knows what he's after,
and I bet on him. Come, I'll be frank. This is the whole story: One
morning, some three weeks ago, I had just got rid of a dozen clients at my
place in the Puue du Four, when my woman brought me a card. I looked
at it and read, Catenac, Advocate.' 'Don't know him,' said I, 'but let him
in all the same.' He came in, and after a little conversation he asked me,
if I thought I could find a person who had been lost sight of for several
years. Of course I said I could. Thereupon he asked me to be at home
the next morning at ten, as a person would call upon me in reference to
the matter. The next day, at the hour appointed, a respectable, but some-
what impoverished-looking man made his appearance. He was about sixty
-in an old frock-coat, carefully brushed, and a hat rather the worse for
wear. At first sight, he looked like some old fellow of the civil service,
living on a scanty pension-a case of shabby gentility in fact. However, I
took a squint at his linen-bless my soul ! it was as white as snow, and as
fine as satin. Then I looked at his boots and saw they had plainly come
from one of the best shops in Paris. As for his hands and nails, they
were admirably cared for. "Ah! ha!' I said to myself. “You thought
to catch me, did you, with this disguise, you innocent old man? But I am
too smart for you, by far.' However, I politely gave him my own arm-
chair, and he at once proceeded to disclose his business. 'Sir,' he said,
I have not had a very happy life, and at one time I was so poor that I
was obliged to send to a Foundling Hospital a little boy who was very
dear to me-my own by a mistress whom I adored, and who is dead. This
happened twenty-four years ago. Now I am old and alone. I have a
moderate income and would give, willingly give, half my fortune to find
this child again. Now is this possible ? »»
Although he had been a cook, and was now the head of that flock of
Italian boys, Perpignan was an eloquent speaker. He was highly flattered
by the close attention with which Tantaine followed his words, and was by
no means sorry to prove to him that in some respects he was quite equal
to the redoubtable Mascarot. He, therefore, chose his words and enunci.
ated his syllables with extreme care.
“You understand, my dear sir," he resumed, after a pause, “ that this
story interested me extremely. I said to myself, that all I should pro-
bably have to do would be to go to the hospital where the child had been
left, and that the man must be poor indeed, if half of his fortune did not
prove ample reward for a trifling expenditure of time and money. Accord-
ingly I said I would undertake the job, and promised indeed a satisfactory
result, providing I was allowed a little time. But I was rejoicing too
soon, as you will see; the old fellow was sharper than I had imagined.
After letting me talk on for a moment, he exclaimed. “You didn't let me
finish. When I have explained to you all the circumstances, you will
probably realise that the task is not so simple as you think.' Thereupon
I of course told him, that with the extraordinary resources I had at


190
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
less in thought about the search he had preposed than in wondering who on
earth he might be ; and that was the end of it."
Tantaine was convinced that Perpignan was telling the truth. However,
he noted that one essential point had been omitted. “And you took no
steps to find out this old fellow's name?” he asked.
Perpignan hesitated for an instant, but deciding that it was of no use
attempting to conceal anything from such a well-informed man as Mascarot's
envoy he frankly replied, “ My client had hardly got down the stairs, when I
put on a blouse and a cap, and followed at his heels. He walked straight
to the Rue de Varennes, and entered one of the most magnificent houses
there, just as if it were his own home.”
“And it was his own home," exclaimed Father Tantaine, “and you had
just had the honour of being consulted by the Duc de Champdoce.”
“ You are right; the duc is one of my clients, which is no doubt flatter-
ing for me. However, may the fiend strangle me, as you almost did a litt.
while ago, if I understand how you found out all this.”
“Oh!” answered Tantaine, modestly; “It was purely by chance-
fortune favoured me. But one thing I don't know, and that is what con.
nection is there between the duc and Caroline."
The ex-cook raised his eyebrows. “Then, why did you set a spy on her ?
he asked with a touch of sarcasm. My own reasons for doing so are simple
enough. I immediately found out all I could about the duc, and learned that
he was immensely wealthy and led a most regular life. He is married and
loves his wife, so I hear. They had an only son, whom they lost a year ago,
and since then they have been inconsolable. Accordingly I said to myself :
*This duc, who abandoned his child years ago, now wants to find him again,
as his legitimate heir is dead !' Don't you think my conclusion corret?”
“It is logical, unquestionably. But, after all, you have given me no
explanation in regard to Caroline Schimmel.”
Perpignan was no match for Mascarot's keen emissary, but he was neverthe-
less, acute enough, to see that he was being subjected to a series of questions
which had been prepared in advance. He did not rebel, merely because
he dared not; besides, if he made his statement full and sincere, the greater
was his chance of some tangible reward. “You may believe, Monsieur
Tantaine,” he resumed, “that whilst learning what I could of the duc's
present situation, I also inquired into his antecedents. I also wanted to find
out something about the mother of the lost child ; but I am sorry to say
that I didn't succeed.”
“What! not with all your resources?” exclaimed Tantaine with a sinile.
“Laugh at me, if you like, but out of the thirty servants in the Champ-
doce mansion, there isn't one who has been there for more than ten years.
Now what has become of the duc's former servants ? At first no one would
tell me. I was annoyed and disheartened, when one day while I was in a
wine shop in the Rue de Varennes, I heard inention made of a servant, who
was with the duc five-and-twenty years ago, and who still received a small
annuity from him. This servant was Caroline Schimmel. I found out her
address, and since then I have had her followed.”
“And what do you expect to make out of her ?"
“Not much, I admit. “And yet this annuity looks as if she had rendered
some especial service to her master or mistress. Can it be that she had any
knowledge of the birth of this natural child ?”
“ Your supposition is in the highest degree improbable," answered
Tantaine, with well affected carelessness.


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
191
“However," added Perpignan, “I have never seen hide nor hair of the
duc, since that one visit.”
“But Catenac has sent for you?”
“ Yes ; three times.”
“He must have given you further directions? Hasn't he even told
you in what hospital the child was placed ?”.
“No; and on the occasion of my last visit I told him frankly that I was
tired of being kept in the dark, whereupon he said that he himself was tired,
too, and was sorry he had ever meddled with the matter.”
This last information by no means astonished Father Tantaine. M.
Catenac had plainly made that answer with Mascarot's recent threats in his
mind. However, the old clerk judged it expedient to appear as if he shared
Perpignan's discontent. “Don't you think it rather singular that the duc
and Catenac should beat about the bush like that?” he asked.
“I'm not so surprised about Catenac. I don't fancy he knows much
more than myself. The duke is probably afraid of confiding the truth to
any one. There must be something serious about the mystery. For my own
part I should be afraid of finding the boy, no matter how much I wanted
him. He may be in prison or at the galleys by now. What else would be
likely to bappen to a boy, scamp enough, at twelve years' old, to run away
from a place where he was well treated ?"
Perpignan, the tyrannical master of forty luckless little street musicians,
was qualified to judge of the misery and iniquity likely to fall to the lot of
so young a lad. “Éowever,” he resumed, I had thought out a plan of
investigation. With money, patience, and skill, a man can do wonders."
“I agree with you."
“Well, then, let me tell you, this was my idea : I traced, so to say, an
imaginary circle round the town or city where this child was left, and I
said to myself, I will enter every house in every village, every inn, every
secluded farm or cottage, and ask, ‘Do any of you remember in such and
such a year having sheltered, lodged, and fed a child, dressed in such and
such a fashion, looking like this, and so on.' Well, at last, I should un-
questionally come on some one who would answer me, “Yes, I remember?'
Now, if once I obtained a clue, if once I reached the end, or rather the
beginning of the thread, I would engage to unravel the skein however en-
tangled it might be."
This method seemed so ingenious and so practical to Tantaine, that he
involuntarily exclaimed, “Good ! Very good !”
The ex-cook did not dare to accept this tribute of praise as genuine.
Tantaine had such a singular fashion of expressing praise and blame, that it
was difficult to decide whether he was sincere or not. “You are very kind,"
said Perpignan. “Do you want me to believe I'm a fool ? Do you really
think me an idiot? At all events, I have an occasional inspiration. For
instance, in reference to this boy I had a notion, which, if properly worked
out, might have led to something.”
“May I venture to ask what it was ?”
“I presume the idea will be safe with you. Well, I said to myself, it
would be almost impossible to find the lad, but on the other hand it would
be comparatively easy to substitute another-a lad skilfully trained so as to
answer all requirements.”
This scheme was so utterly unexpected by Tantaine, that the worthy old
fellow half bounded off his chair and precipitately resettled his spectacles,
as he always did in emergencies, desirous, perhaps, of assuring himself that


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
193
acts-even the most insignificant-to Mascarot himself. This spy was no
other than Beaumarchef's colleague, La Candele, a trustworthy youth as
Mascarot fully believed. He was told to be especially cautious, and keep
himself well out of sight. But there was small need of caution, for the
knowledge Sabine was out of danger so absorbed André that he paid little
attention to other matters. Besides, he was more hopeful than ever in
reference to the future. He had a friend now, M. de Breulh-Faverlay; a
confidante, Madame de Bois d'Ardon--two allies, whose influence properly
exercised might well be decisive. He had become warmly attached to De
Breulh ; their common anguish during the last three days had brought them
very closely together, and created a friendship between them such as time
alone generally cements.
“And now to work !” thought André. "I have lost too much time
already."
He had dined with M. de Breulh and felt in the best possible spirits.
“To-morrow," he said, as he took leave of his host, “if you should chance
to look up as you pass along the Champs Elysées, you will see me on a
scaffolding at work above you."
André was busy half the night in completing the designs he wished to
submit to M. Gandelu, the wealthy contractor. However, he rose at an early
hour, and, unveiling Sabine's portrait, wished it a cordial good-morning,
and then started out, with his portfolio under his arm, to call on the happy
father of that young rake, Gaston. The contractor, who had almost become
celebrated since he had built that charming theatre "Les Comédies
Parisiennes," resided in the Chaussée d'Antin. When André rang the bell,
the servant who appeared strongly urged him to postpone his business.
“I don't know what has come over monsieur,” said she, “but never, never,
have I seen him in such a mood, during the whole five years I have been
with him. Now just listen !"
At that very moment there came a loud succession of oaths and exclama.
tions, mingled with the crash of glass, and the dull thud of furniture thrown
on the floor in an adjoining room. "Monsieur has been going on like that
for an hour, at least," continued the servant; “in fact, ever since his
lawyer, M. Catenac, left him. So if I were you "
But André was in no mood to wait. “I must see him," said he. “Show
me in at once.”
The servant complied with evident reluctance, and opened the door of a
large, superbly decorated room, in the centre of which stood the architect,
gesticulating furiously with the back of a chair, which he held in his hand.
Although over sixty, M. Gandelu certainly did not look more than fifty.
He was a perfect Hercules-muscular and square shouldered, with hairy
hands, each well nigh as large as a shoulder of mutton. He always looked
hampered in his satin-lined coats, and seemed to regret the loose blouses of
his earlier days. He was proud of his success and fortune, which was
enormous ; and he had a right to be so, since they were the outgrowth
of two good things—work and economy. Even those who enried him were
forced to admit that not a single five-franc piece in his pocket, back to the
very first one he had earned, had a speck of mud upon it. But, proud as he
was of his wealth, he never dinned one with an enumeration of his belong.
ings as parvenus usually do; on the contrary, he delighted in conversation
to recall the days when he was poor and friendless. He was vulgar and
brutal no doubt, as quick as gunpowder, with no education whatever ; but
under this coarse husk he concealed some noble sentiments. He was
VOL. I.


194
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
generous to a fault, and his probity was above all question. He certainly
swore like a pagan, his grammar was atrocious, but he had never refused to
do any one a good turn, and ofttimes dispensed his bounties in the most
delicate fashion. To be brief, his hands were hard and horny, but not his
heart. As he perceived the door open he bawled at the top of his voice :
“ What fool is coming to disturb me now?"
“You gave me an appointment,” began André, who saw that he had done
wisely in insisting on coming in, for, on recognising him, the contractor's
brow immediately cleared. “Ah! it's you, is it? All right;” and then
in a softer voice he added, “ take a seat, if there is a steady chair left in
the room. I like you, for you have an honest face, and you look healthy
and never shirk work. You needn't blush, young man, though modesty's
no fault."
In vain did André seek to check the course of the contractor's praises.
M. Gandelu was not to be silenced. “Yes," he insisted, “ you have some-
thing in you. Any time when you want a hundred thousand francs to go
into business with, they are ready for you. If I had a daughter, she should
be your wife. I should simply say to you, 'Here, my boy, take her and
her dowry, and I'll build you a house !""
André did not know M. Gandelu well enough to understand whence this
storm was blowing from. “I am very grateful to you for your good opinion,
sir," said he ; “and as for your kind offers of assistance-well, as you may
know, I have had to learn to depend upon myself.”
" True,” said Gandelu, in a voice that was full of anguish, “ you never
knew your parents. You never knew all that a father—a kind father
would do for his son. You would have loved your father, I think ; yes,
I'm sure you would—” He paused, and then suddenly asked, “Do you
happen to know my son?”
This question was the key-note to the whole scene, and André instantly
realised that he was in presence of a justly irritated father, who took a
bitter satisfaction in comparing his unworthy son to a young man whose
intelligence and energy excited his admiration. The young painter well
remembered the dinner given by Rose, and also the language which young
Gaston had then used; but as it was no part of his business to be a “tell-
tale," he hesitated before answering M. Gandelu's question. Would it not
be better to say that he was altogether unacquainted with the young fop ?
No; the lie would probably prove a useless one. Accordingly he quietly
answered that he had only met Monsieur Gaston on two or three
occasions.
“ Gaston !” cried the contractor with an oath. “Never pronounce that
name again in my hearing. Do you really suppose that I, Nicolas Gandelu,
ever named my son Gaston ? He was named Pierre, after his grandfather
the bricklayer; but this name didn't suit the young fool-it wasn't fine
enough for him. He wanted a sweet little name, a distinguished name,
like those of the fellows who sneer and laugh at him. Pierre is common,
and smells of work and honesty ; but Gaston sounds prince-like, and smells
like pomade. Dear Gaston ! sweet Gaston!” As he spoke these last
words, imitating a woman's voice, the contractor's expression was so in-
tensely funny that André, albeit moved by compassion, had great difficulty
in repressing a smile. “But if that were all," resumed M. Gandelu, "I
should shrug my shoulders and let it go. But have you seen his visiting
cards? They bear the name Gaston de Gandelu, with a marquis's coronet
in one of the corners. Marquis, indeed! The idea! Why, I, his father,


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
195
am no duke, nor even a count, nor a baron. You know well enough that I
began life as a hod carrier.”
* Young people,” André ventured to say, "all have their little weak-
nesses.”
But M. Gandelu was not the man to be soothed by such a commonplace
remark. “No!” he thundered ; " you can't excuse him. The fellow
blushes for his father. A name that's pure and spotless isn't enough for
him, he'd prefer to be some titled reprobate's son. He talks about his
society—and what society it is ! Dissolute women and profligate men! I
know his friends—as idle and worthless as himself. They go about curled
and pomaded and scented like dolls. What caricatures they are! And it's
for their sake that he calls himself a nobleman! When a restaurant waiter
addresses him as 'Monsieur le Marquis,' the idiot flies into raptures. He
never once sees that the waiter is laughing at him in his sleeve. The fool !
Why, if these associates of his flatter him and make much of him, it isn't
on account of his wit or his good looks, as he conceitedly imagines-no,
not at all; they simply worship his father's wealth, the gold of his father
-the mason."
André's situation was becoming more and more distressing and awkward.
He would have given a great deal to have been able to withdraw ; for he
said to himself, “ These confidences are prompted by anger, and by-and-bye
M. Gandelu will feel sorry he has acquainted me with his secret sufferings."
However, the contractor still rattled on. “The young fool's only
twenty,” he said, “and yet he's utterly used up and blasé. He's old, his
eyes are bleared, and his hair's gone. He stoops as he drags himself about,
and spends his nights in drinking. But it's my fault; I've been too in-
dulgent; I've always allowed him to have his own way. If he had asked
me for my skin to make a carpet out of, I shouldn't have refused him. As
soon as he could speak, he had only to say he wanted anything to have it.
I lost my poor wife, and had only him left. Do you know what I've allowed
him here? Apartments fit for a prince, two servants, and four horses for
his own use; in addition, 1,500 francs a month for his cigars and trifles, and
he has usually wheedled me out of about as much more, and yet the scamp
goes about calling me a miser. Why, he runs into debt to such an extent
that he has already anticipated every sou of his poor mother's fortune."
M. Gandelu suddenly stopped short. Hitherto apoplectically crimson,
he now turned ghastly pale; his lips quivered, and his eyes gleamed most
ominously. The fact is, the door had opened, and who should saunter in
but young Gaston-otherwise Pierre-in person, with his hat on his head
and a cigar between his teeth. As usual, he was attired in the most eccen-
tric fashion, and his features wore an expression of intense self-satisfaction.
* Good-morning, father,” said he. “How are you to-day?”
But his father drew back. “Don't come near me," he answered, with a
shudder.
Gaston pause i, somewhat surprised, and looked at André. “Out of
temper are you? Is it the gout, father, or business worry?"
Gandelu raised the chair-back, he still held, so threateningly that André
darted between father and son.
“Don't be afraid,” said Gandelu in a gloomy voice; “I haven't taken
leave of my senses yet ;” and either to reassure the young painter, or
else because he distrusted himself, he threw his impromptu weapon into a
corner.
Gaston had undoubtedly been startled by his father's gesture ; but he


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was not a coward, and did not easily lose his assurance. “Bless my
heart !” he murmured. “ Infanticide ! I did not expect this little family
fête, as Dupuis at the Varieties says, in—"
He did not finish his sentence, for André snatched hold of him by the
wrist and fiercely exclaimed, “Not another word !”
But the gloomy pause that followed was not to the taste of M. Pierre
Gandelu. “Yes,” he resumed, “silence and mystery! However, I should
like to be informed what it all means."
M. Gandelu's reply was addressed to the young painter, not to his son.
“I will explain everything to you, M. André,” said he; “ you will pity
me and understand me. Ah ! I suppose my sufferings are the portion of
a great many fathers. It is part of our destiny to build on sand and see it
swallow up everything we had prepared for our children's future. Our
sons, who should be our glory, become, as it were, our punishment—the
punishment of our pride !"
“Not bad, not at all bad,” muttered Gaston ; “especially for a man who
hasn't studied elocution.”
Fortunately his father failed to hear this fresh piece of impertinence.
He resumed as follows in a curt, hoarse voice : “ That unhappy lad, M.
Andrè, is my son. I swear to you, by his mother's memory, that for
twenty years he has been my one thought; for twenty years my heart and
head have been full of him. I have lived for him entirely. Well, no
matter. But do you know what he did last week? Why, he made a bet-
he made a wager on my death, just as you might back a race horse."
« Oh ! come now, that isn't true," exclaimed Gaston.
His father waved his hand contemptuously. “At least," said he, “have
courage enough to own your crime. You thought I was blind, my lad, be.
cause I didn't choose to tell you, 'I can see.' And you kindly opened my
eyes for me!”
“But, father_"
“Oh! don't deny it. This morning my lawyer, M. Catenac, called on
me, and he had the moral courage which only true friends possess to tell
me the dreadful truth. I know everything."
M. Gandelu spoke in such a horrified tone, and seemed so overwhelmed,
indeed, as if happiness was never more to be his lot on earth, that André
asked himself in dread what revelation was going to follow. That it would
prove terrible seemed almost certain, for even young Gaston's superb air of
assurance now altogether failed him.
"I must tell you, M. André,” resumed the contractor, “that last week
I was seized with a terrible attack of gout, such an attack as a man seldom
pulls through-gout rising to the heart; you know the case, no doubt.
For three days the doctors thought it was all UP with me, and I thought
so myself. I had made my will, and felt myself crumbling to bits like an
old building. Well, while I was in this state my son never left me. He
remained at my bedside, looking dreadfully sad, and in spite of my intense
sufferings, his attentions made me feel happy. He loves me, I said, after
all! He has not much sense ; but, at all events, his heart is in the right
place. If I died, he'd cry for me, I'm sure of it. Yes, I said all this to
myself. Ah! what a simpleton I was! He was not watching over me to
preserve my life. He was lying in wait for my death, which would give
ħim entire possession of my fortune. If he looked sad, it was only because
he was being harrassed by creditors. And when he left me, it was only to
negotiate a loan, and to tell every one how ill I was, and that there was no


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
199
that they are the flower of modern French chivalry, although they have
even more degrading vices than the lowest of the low. He had been
amused by their follies as caricatured on the stage, but he had never
thought of the odious side of their conduct. He had no conception of the
amount of impudence and vanity, cold rascality and absolute selfishness,
embodied in the person of a "petit crevé," a "gommeux." Better than any
one else, probably, he could form an accurate estimate of Gaston's conduct,
for at thirteen he had been thrown on the world, and had often longed for
the family ties which had been denied him. However, he had now no
time for reflection, for M. Gandelu returned with a composed countenance
and air of genial roughness, acquired only by a very great effort. “Let
me tell you how things are now," he said, in a voice that quivered despite
himself. “My son is locked into his room, and an old servant of mine, a
fellow who carried his hod once upon a time, and whom he can't persuade
or bribe, has mounted guard at the door.”
“But don't you fear, sir, that in his excitement and anger-"
The contractor shrugged his shoulders. “Ah! you don't know him.
You would make a great mistake if you supposed he at all resembled any
man you know. What do you think he is doing now? Why, lying on his
bed face downwards, and howling for his Zora. Zora indeed! I ask you if
that's a name for a Christian woman? What do these creatures give these
boys to drink that deprives them of every manly quality? If his mother
hadn't been a saint on earth I should really ask myself if he were any son
of mine."
He dropped on to a chair, and laid his head on the desk in front of him.
“You are in pain, sir?” asked André.
“Yes; my heart's bleeding. However, I've been a father quite long
enough, I mean to be a man now. Catenac has told me precisely what I
ought to do. Ah! my son wants to get hold of my fortune to squander it!
We'll see about that. The law's on my side. To-morrow I shall summon
a family council, and my son will be pronounced unfit to control himself,
unfit to have the free disposal of money. Putting him under interdict'
they call it. After that he sha'n't have a penny, and he'll see when his
pockets are empty if his society will worship him and call him ‘marquis !'
Marquis indeed! As to the girl, that viscountess,' she shall pay for the
rest of them! To jail with her !” He stopped short and remained for a
moment pensive. Then in a sad tone, he added : “I have thoroughly
weighed the consequences of my complaint to the public prosecutor : they
are appalling. My son will do as he threatens-I'm sure of it. I can see him
now, sitting by the side of that infamous creature, looking at her lovingly,
telling her aloud that he adores her, glorying in his folly and shaine before
all Paris. I know that the newspaper reporters will gloat over the scene,
that they will turn it into ridicule, and that it will all reflect on me, of
course-that my name will be dishonoured"
“But is there no other course ?” André ventured to ask.
“No; none whatever. If all fathers had my courage, we should have
no profligates. In this matter M. Catenac agrees with me. Still, it is ab-
solutely impossible that this idea of the physician and the loan could have
originated in my son's brain. He is a mere child, and some one must have
advised him." The father was already seeking an excuse for his son.
“However,” resumed Gandelu, “I musn't dwell on this any longer, or I
shall become half crazy again, as I was before. I will see your drawings
another day; now let us go out.” He rose, and looked around the room.


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THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“See,” said he," the state I've put things into; such handsome furniture,
too! Whenever I saw a spot on any of it, I used to rub it with my coat-
tails ; but when I'm in a passion, I'm like a wild beast-I must destroy
something or other. Then snatching hold of André's hands, and crushing
them almost in his grasp, he added : “My dear fellow ! you probably saved
my son's life and my own. When I rushed forward, it was with murder in
my heart-all was red before my eyes I wonder I didn't have a fit of
apoplexy. I know very well that one can never repay such services, but I
shall set it down to your credit. Come with me, I want to look at my
house in the Champs Elysées, and we will breakfast on our way.”
This house, the ornamental sculpture of which had been intrusted to
André, stood at the corner of the Rue de Chaillot and the Avenue des
Champs Elysées, and was still shrouded in scaffoldings. A dozen workmen,
already engaged by André, were dotted here and there. They had been
waiting for him ever since the morning, and were surprised at his non-
arrival, as he was punctuality itself. They now greeted him right cordi-
ally, for they were all his associates. André of course responded in friendly
fashion, but M. Gandelu, although he was never reserved nor haughty with
his work people, seemed on this occasion to take no notice of them. He
rambled through the house, pretending to inspect the work which had been
accomplished since his last visit, but his mind was really elsewhere-with
his son in the Chaussée d'Antin. Soon he tired of this make-believe in-
spection, and returning to André, exclaimed : “I'm going, I don't feel
well. However, I'll see you to-morrow."
So saying, he departed, with his head bowed low, and seeming altogether
8o crushed, that his workmen remarked it. “He doesn't look right," one
said to another. “Since his attack of gout he hasn't been the same man.
He must have had a great shock, and no mistake."
XXIV.
On reaching the house André had taken off his coat and put on his blouse,
which was rolled up in his toolbox. “We must work hard," he remarked,
" to make up for lost time.” So saying, he applied himself to his task,
with considerable energy. But he had not got fairly into harness when á
young apprentice ran lightly up the scaffolding to say that a gentleman
wished to see him. “And a smart gentleman he is, too,” added the boy.
André was intensely annoyed at being disturbed, but when he reached
the pavement and saw M. de Breulh-Faverlay, his ill-humour was at once
dispelled. It was with real pleasure that he advanced to meet his new
friend, who had behaved so gallantly and generously, not merely with-
drawing from his claim to Sabine's hand, but becoming the most useful and
devoted of allies. “Ah ! this is really most kind of you," cried André.
“ Thanks for remembering me ;” and showing his hands all white with
plaster, he added. “You will excuse my appearance, I trust, but—" The
words died on his lips. He had now caught a full view of De Breulh's
face.
"What is it?" asked the young painter anxiously. “Is Mademoiselle
de Mussidan worse?-has she had a relapse ?”
M. de Breulh shook his head sadly, and his expression clearly said,
“ Would it were only that.”
However, the only bad news André dreaded was touching Sabine's


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201
health. If she were still improving, what could he have to fear? Nothing
certainly—and so he patiently waited until it pleased his new friend to
speak. “I have been here twice for you,” said De Breulh. “We must
have a brief talk ; it is most important you should come to a prompt de-
cision on a matter of great interest."
"I am entirely at your orders,” replied André considerably surprised
and troubled.
"Then come with me. "My carriage isn't here, but it will not take us
more than fifteen minutes to walk to my house.”
“I will follow you, sir. I only ask for a moment’sdelay for time to run
up four flights of stairs."
C“ Have you any orders to give !"
“None, sir.”
“Why go, then?”
“To put on a more presentable garment than this blouse."
M. de Breulh shrugged his shoulders. “Does it annoy or inconvenience
you to go out in that costume ?”
“By no means, I'm accustomed to it; it's entirely on your account."
“If that's all, then come on as you are."
“But, my dear sir, you will be stared at."
“Let them stare.”
“People will say,”
“Let them say what they please !” interrupted De Breulh, and without
waiting to hear another word from André, he passed his arm through his
and dragged him off.
The young painter's previsions were correct. The two friends had not
gone ten paces, before a dozen persons had already turned to look at this
distinguished nobleinan who was walking arm in arm with a youth in a
blouse and a grey felt cap. De Breulh had also foreseen this result. Men
occupying such a prominent position as his own rarely do things carelessly.
They are perfectly well aware that their most insignificant acts will excite
comment, and are therefore in the habit of resisting their first impulses.
So if De Breulh saw fit to take André's arm in this familiar way, it was
because it entered into his plan of action that the world should talk of their
surprising intimacy. He knew that people would at once make inquiries
about André, and he proposed to answer all curious questions in a way that
would greatly benefit the young painter's future. The baron’s conduct
seemed so premeditated to André that he was profoundly puzzled, and lost
himself in a labyrinth of conjectures, each one more unlikely than the
others. He endeavoured to question his companion, but De Breulh
answered in a tone that admitted of no second attempt in that direction :
“Wait until we are indoors."
At last they arrived, without having exchanged twenty words on their
way. They entered the library, and the door having been closed, M. de
Breulh did not allow his friend to endure further suspense. “This morn-
ing, about noon,” he began, “as I was crossing the Avenue de Matignon,
I saw Modeste, who had been watching for you for more than an
hour.”
“It wasn't my fault"
“Never mind! When she saw me, however, she came to me at once.
She was in despair at not seeing you, and knowing our friendship, she in-
trusted me with a letter for you from Mademoiselle de Mussidan.”
André shivered. This letter was the bearer of evil tidings-he felt it


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THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
instantly—and these tidings he was certain that De Breulh already knew
them. “Give the letter to me,” he whispered, hoarsely.
De Breulh handed it to him. “Courage ! my friend, courage !” he said.
With trembling hands André broke the seal, and read :-“My friend, -
I love you, and I shall never cease to love you with my whole heart and
strength; but there are duties—sacred duties—which every Mussidan must
fulfil. I shall fulfil those which fall to my lot, even should the doing so
cost me my life. We shall never meet again, and this letter is the last you
will ever receive from me. Before long you will hear of my marriage.
Pity me! Great as will be your despair, it will be as nothing compared to
mine. God have mercy on us ! Try and forget me, André. As for my-
self, I have not even the right to die. One more word-oh, my only friend,
the last word I shall ever speak to you-good-bye ! SABINE.”
If M. de Breulh had insisted on taking André home with him before de-
livering this letter, it was because he had received some hint of its con-
tents from Modeste, and feared that its perusal would provoke some violent
outburst of grief. Certainly as André read on, he became absolutely livid.
His eyes were wild for a moment, and he shook from head to foot, but
not a sound escaped his lips.
It was in automatic fashion that he at last held out the letter to De
Breulh, so that the latter might read it. The baron obeyed, more alarmed
by André's calmness than he would have been by an explosion. “Don't
allow yourself to be discouraged, my friend—” he began to say.
But André stopped him. “Discouraged ! I discouraged ? You don't
know me. When I knew Sabine to be ill—dying, perhaps, and I away
from her, I was indeed discouraged. But while Sabine tells me she loves
me, I know no such word.” De Breulh opened his mouth to speak, but
André proceeded : “What marriage is this which Madeinoiselle de Mussi-
dan announces to me as if it were her sentence to death ? Her parents must
have already intended to break with you when you took the initiative.
Can this new match be a more brilliant one? Hardly. She certainly
knew nothing of it when she confided her secret to you. What terrible
thing has happened since then? My brave and noble Sabine is not one of
those weak girls who are married against their will. She has said to me a
hundred times : ‘If they attempt coercion, I will leave my father's house
in full daylight, and never again cross its threshold;' and she cannot have
changed so quickly. No! we are the victims of some abominable intrigue.”
M. de Breulh had already indulged in these very same reflections, and
though he had told André the truth, he had not told him everything.
Modeste had purposely handed this letter to the baron. Warned in some
measure of its contents by her young mistress, the faithful girl had pictured
to herself what would most likely be André's despair, and so she had laid
in wait for M. de Breulh-had told him all she knew, and then, with tears
and sobs, entreated him to watch over André. “You are his friend, sir.
In heaven's name watch him.” This caution had induced M. de Breulh to
insist on André's going home with him.
“Of course, sir," said the young painter, “you have noticed the strange
coincidence between Sabine's illness and this despairing letter. You left
her smiling and hopeful, and an hour, or less than an hour later, she falls on
the floor as if struck by lightning. Horrible nervous convulsions bring her
to the edge of the grave. Then as soon as she has recovered her senses,
she writes this letter.” The young painter stood with his eyes fixed on
vacancy, and he seemed with his outstretched arm to be following some


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
203
shadow, or some faint glimmer of light unseen by his companion. “Do you
remember, sir,” he continued, “ that while Sabine was delirious, her father
and mother watched at her bedside in turn, and would not allow even a
servant in the room? Modeste told us that, as you know."
“Yes ; I remember she did.”
6. Very well—isn't that sufficient proof that there is some secret between
the count, the countess, and their daughter? A secret they guard as jealously
as they would their honour?”
De Breulh had also said this to himself; and his suppositions had a more
tangible foundation than André's. He knew the count and countess well.
He knew much of their domestic life, and he knew what was said of them
in society. “I have long had reason to suppose, my dear fellow," he
answered, “that one of those painful secrets which are to be found, alas !
in only too many households, likewise exists in the Mussidan family."
“What kind of secret ?"
" Ah ! I can't say ; but I am convinced there's something."
André turned away and strode up and down the room. He recalled each
interview he had ever had with Sabine. He reviewed each trivial word that
had ever dropped from her lips in reference to her parents. He even tried
to recall each syllable uttered by old Madame de Chevauché at the
Château de Mussidan. He endeavoured to connect phrases and words
together, and his work was much like that of a man, who tries to unite a
number of broken and scattered links once more into a perfect chain. At
last, after eight or ten turns he suddenly paused, and faced his host again.
“ There is a mystery,” he exclaimed, "a mystery which you and I will
penetrate ! I will leave no stone unturned until we succeed. Listen to me,
and if I advance anything which is not clear to you, or any point in which
you differ from me, pray call my attention to it. Now, are you convinced
in your own mind that Sabine loves me?"
• Entirely so.”
" Then you think that it is under imperious necessity that she writes
that letter?"
“That's clear."
“You were accepted by both the count and countess as their future son-
in-law ?”
“ Precisely."
“Now I ask if M. de Mussidan could have anywhere found a more
brilliant match for his daughter-a match that would combine such advant-
ages of person, mind and manners with such a fortune and position ?”
De Breulh could not repress a smile.
“This is no time for modesty,” said André impatiently. “Answer me."
" Very well then. I admit that, according to the judgment of society M.
de Mussidan would find it difficult to replace me."
“ Then tell me why it is that neither the count or countess made any
effort to retain you?”
Wounded pride I presume, and—”.
“No,” interrupted André; “for Modeste says that the day your letter
came, the count was about to call on you to retract his promise."
“ Yes, if we can believe Modeste, that's true.”
André started up, as if to give more weight to his words. “Then,” he
exclained, “this suitor who has appeared so suddenly on the scene, will
marry Sabine, not only against her will, but against the will of her parents
themselves! And why? Where can this man with this mysterious power come


204
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
from? His influence is too great to be of an honourable character, so if the
count and countess resign themselves to this indignity, it is because they
cannot help themselves. Moreover, this constraint must be of a purely
moral nature, for Sabine would submit to no other, I'm sure of that. Her
duty has been pointed out to her. She submits, sacrifices herself, and this
man, whatever his name, is plainly a perfect scoundrel !”
All this seemed quite logical as De Breulh admitted. “Now," he asked,
"what do you propose to do ?”
André's eyes flashed fire. “Nothing, just yet. Sabine asks me to forget
her. I shall seem to do so. Modeste has confidence enough in me to serve
me and hold her peace. I can wait. The wretch who thus wrecks my life
doesn't even know of my existence. On this I ground my hope and
strength. I shall only reveal my existence to him on the day I crush him
to the earth !”
“Take care, André !” exclaimed his friend ; " take care! The least
outbreak will ruin your cause for ever.”
The young painter threw back his head haughtily. “There shall be no
scandal, I assure you. At first I said to myself, “As soon as I know who
this man is I will go to him, insult him, and fight a duel with bim; I will
kill him or he, me!”.
" It would have been the height of madness, and would have rendered
your marriage an impossibility.”
“Perhaps ; but that is not what holds me back. I don't choose that a
dead body shall stand between me and Sabine. Blood on a marriage robe
brings misery. Besides, to cross swords with this man, if he be what I
suspect, would be doing him too much honour. No, the vengeance I shall
take will be better than that. I shall never forget that he nearly killed
Sabine.” The young artist was silent for a moment, and then resumed :
“ Yes, he must be the vilest of men to have abused his power in this way.
And men don't reach such a height of infamy at one leap. His life must
be full of shame and dishonour. I will make it my task to tear off his cloak,
and hold him up to the contempt of the world !"
“Yes, that's what ought to be done."
“ And we will do it, sir, God willing. I say 'we,' because I rely on you.
I repelled your generous offers in my studio—and I was right. But now,
after the proofs of friendship you have given me, it is very different. Í
should be a proud fool- if I did not ask you for advice and assistance. We
two, working together for a common cause, ought to succeed. We are
neither of us so wedded to luxury that we are incapable of going without
sleep or food if necessary. You and I have each known two masters whose
teachings are rarely forgotten-Poverty and Sorrow. We can keep our
own counsel, and act.” André waited, possibly expecting some objection,
but as his friend did not speak he continued : “My plan is simplicity
itself. As soon as we know the man's name, he is our's. He won't suspect
us, and we will attach ourselves to him like his shadow. There are detec-
tives who, for a small sum, undertake to ferret out a man's whole life.
Haven't we as much penetration and judgment as they have? We two can
manage this task wonderfully well, for we can operate in such totally
different spheres. You high up, and I low down. You, in your world of
clubs and salons, can pick up information that I could never hope to gain.
You will have the social, the brilliant side of our enemy, to deal with, and
I will study the other side of his life ; I will trace out his past in full detail.
I can talk to the servants in the hall, to the coachmen in the wine shops.


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
205
No one will suspect me; I belong to the people,' and my blouse and cap
are no disguise."
M, de Breulh started up in intense excitement. It was a great thing for
him to find an object of such interest to occupy his empty life. This task
would absorb the days he so often found endless and wearisome. “Yes,"
he exclaimed, “I am your's - entirely your's! If you want money, any
amount of money, remember that I am rich!"
The young painter had no time to answer, for, at that very moment, a loud
knock was heard at the library door. De Breulh frowned—“Gontran, let
me in quick !” cried a woman's voice.
“Why, it's Madame de Bois d'Ardon," said the baron hastily.
He at once drew back the bolt, and the viscountess, after her usual style,
rushed like a whirlwind into the room, and threw herself on to a low chair.
Both her cousin and André at once saw that her lovely eyes were full of
tears, and that she was excessively agitated. M. de Breulh had reason
to feel frightened, for the viscountess was not given to spoiling her com-
plexion by tears, except for some excellent reason. “What's the trouble ?"
he asked, kindly.
“The greatest misfortune in the world,” she sobbed ; "but you may be
able to help me—"
"Be sure of my willingness, Clotilde."
“Can you lend me twenty thousand francs ? "
A load was lifted from her cousin's heart. He smiled. “If that's all,”
he said, “ dry your eyes, my fair cousin.”
“But I must have them this moment"
“Can you wait half an hour ?”
“ Yes, but make haste!”
De Breulh wrote ten lines, and gave them to a lacquey, with directions to
go to his banker's like the wind.
“ Thanks!” cried Madame de Bois d'Ardon, “ infinite thanks ! But the
money isn't everything ; I want a little advice."
Supposing the viscountess would like to be alone with her cousin, André
rose to retire, but she stopped him with a friendly, gracious gesture.
“Remain, Monsieur André," she said ; “you are not de trop; besides, I
wish to speak about a person in whom you take a great interest.'
“ About Mademoiselle de Mussidan, perhaps ?”
“Precisely. And now I trust you will be willing to stay!”
The garrulous viscountess had never in all her life remained for five con-
secutive minutes in the same state of mind. She had coine into the room
in tears, but she had already dried and forgotten them, and seemed much
amused. “Upon my word,” she said, “I never heard of such an extraor-
dinary adventure as I've just had, Gontran. You owe my visit to it. Such
things never happen to any one but me, I really believe !” This is a fixed
belief of Madame de Bois d'Ardon's. She is persuaded that her life is one
long succession of events peculiar to herself.
"I am listening to you, my dear Clotilde," said her patient cousin.
“And your time will not be thrown away. This afternoon, I was just
going up-stairs to dress-it was very late, for I had had at least twenty
visitors—but at that very moment another one called, and he was so close
on the heels of the footman who announced him, that I couldn't decently
give instructions to say I wasn't at home. Now, who do you think this
person was? Guess ! ”
“I can't imagine !"


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THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
"Well, then, it was the Marquis de Croisenois.”
“ The brother of that Croisenois who disappeared so strangely twenty
years ago ? "
“Yes-exactly.”
"Is he one of your friends ?"
“No, indeed; I barely know him. I meet him in society occasionally ;
but I don't remember ever dancing with him. He bows to me in the Bois,
and that's all.”
“And yet he calls on you as unceremoniously as that?”
“You are spoiling all my points,” exclaimed the countess, with a pretty,
threatening gesture. “Yes, he comes unceremoniously like that.' As
you may know, he's very good-looking, and always well dressed, extremely
agreeable, and a witty talker. He came under the best possible auspices ;
for he brought a letter from an old friend of your grandınother and mine-
the Marquise d’Arlange."
“Not that eccentric person who is the godmother of the young Countess
de Commarin ?”
“Yes, the very same. But I delight in the old lady. She swears like a
trooper, to be sure ; and when she tells some of her youthful adventures
she is-well, not to put too fine a point upon it—she is épatante ! ”
This last word almost caused André to leap from his chair. He was very
innocent. He knew no other woman belonging to the aristocracy except
Sabine, and he sometimes thought they all, in some degree, resembled his
most perfect model. He was not aware that ladies of fashion-those, too,
who were really good and pure-tried their utmost to appear as if they be-
longed to the demi monde, seemingly fancying that they thus proved their
cleverness and freedom from prejudice. He did not know that women of
rank delighted to indulge in all such little bits of slang as came to their
knowledge, or that they were enraptured when anyone mistook them for
disreputable characters. Thus he had still a great deal to learn, as will be
seen.
However, the viscountess talked on. “In the letter Monsieur de
Croisenois brought me,” she said, “the Marquise d'Arlange stated that he
was one of her friends, and begged me to grant him, for her sake, the favour
he was about to ask.”
“ Why didn't she come with him ?”
“Because she is kept in her bed by rheumatism. Of course I told him to
take a chair, and assured him that if I could serve him in any way I would
do so. We began to talk on general topics, and he told me a most delight-
ful story about M. de Clinchan and an actress at the Variétés. I was ex-
tremely amused, when all at once I heard a dispute in the hall. I rang to
ascertain what it meant, when suddenly the door opened, and in came Van
Klopen with a very red face."
« Van Klopen?"
“Yes, don't you know him ? Van Klopen, the dressmaker. I said to
myself, 'He has come here like this because he has just invented something
especially chic, and wants to submit it to me.' But do you know what the
rascal wanted ?"
M. de Breulh did not laugh, but there was a twinkle, in his eye as he
answered, “Perhaps it was money."
This penetration fairly astounded the viscountess, and she remained for a
moment without resuming. “You are right,” she at last answered gravely.
“He brought me his bill into my very drawing-room, and presented it to


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
207
me before a stranger. He had forced his way in, in spite of the opposition
of my servants. I had never supposed that Van Klopen, who is employed
by the very best people, could have been guilty of such a piece of im-
pudence.”
. " It is most extraordinary,” answered her cousin indignantly.
“Well, I ordered him to leave the room, and took it for granted he
would obey and apologize. But I was greatly mistaken. The fellow flew
into a passion, threatened me, and declared that if I did not pay him at
once, he would go to my husband.”
M. de Bois d'Ardon was the most generous of men, and allowed his wife
a very large sum indeed for her personal requirements, it being an under-
standing that she should never run into debt. M. de Breulh was aware of
this, and so he asked, “Was the bill a heavy one ?”
"He had brought it up to nineteen thousand and several hundred francs.
Imagine my horror when I saw it. The sum was so enormous that I
humbly entreated Van Klopen to be patient, and promised him to call dur-
ing the day and pay him a certain sum on account. But my evident terror
increased his audacity, and he seated himself in an arm-chair and declared
he would remain there until I gave him the money, or until he had seen my
husband.”
" And what did Croisenois do all the time?” cried M. de Breulh, enraged
to hear that his cousin had been treated so impudently.
“Nothing, at first; but at this last insolent threat he rose, drew out a
pocket-book, and threw it in Van Klopen's face, saying at the same time,
Pay yourself, scoundrel, and be off with you !""
“ And then the scamp went away—"
“No, indeed. “I must give you a receipt,' he said, turning to the mar-
quis ; and he pulled writing materials out of his pocket, and scrawled at
the bottom of the bill, "Received from Monsieur de Croisenois, on account
of Madame la Vicomtesse de Bois d'Ardon, the sum of, etc., etc.'”
"Oh ! indeed ! really so?” ejaculated M. de Breulh in the most peculiar
tone. “Well, I suppose that after Van Klopen had left, M. de Croisenois
no longer hesitated to ask you the farour he had come about?”
The viscountess shook her head. “No, you are mistaken. I had the
greatest difficulty in making him speak ; but at last he acknowledged that
he was desperately in love with Mademoiselle de Mussidan ; and begged
me to present him to her father, and use all my influence on his behalf."
André and M. de Breulh started simultaneously to their feet, as if stung
by the same viper. “It is he!” they both exclaimed.
Their movements were so abrupt and threatening that Madame de Bois
d'Ardon gave vent to a shrill little cry of terrified surprise. “It is he ! ”she
repeated, looking from one to the other. “What on earth do you mean?”
** That your Marquis de Croisenois is a wretch, who has imposed on
Madame d'Arlange."
“Very possibly; but,"
“Listen, Clotilde; listen to our reasons."
And immediately, with extreme vivacity, the baron laid the entire situa-
tion before her, showed her poor Sabine's letter, and repeated André's de-
ductions almost word for word. Clotilde must have been deeply interested,
for she never once interrupted him. She gave an occasional nod of the head,
but that was all. However, when De Breulh had finished, with a wise little
air that was very bewitching she said, “Your reasoning is all good, except
that you start wrong. Let me have the floor now. You say there's a


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THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
mysterious suitor. If he obtains Sabine's hand how will he do so? Through
some mysterious power he exercises over the count and the countess—by
means of threats, I suppose.”
“Of course ; that's clear to any one.”
"To be sure ; but, my dear Ğontran, it is clear that this mysterious
suitor must have some sort of connection with the family he threatens-
utter strangers couldn't exercise compulsory power, you know. Now, M.
de Croisenois has never set his foot inside the Hôtel de Mussidan-he knows
Octave so little that he came to ask me to introduce him."
This remark was so specious and peremptory that De Breulh offered no
objection. “You are right,” he said, under his breath.
But André was not easily diverted from the scent. “I admit,” said he,
" that at first sight this seems to destroy our theory; but I suspect that
matters are not quite as they seem to be; and the more I reflect about the
extraordinary scene the viscountess has described, the more my suspicions
are confirmed. Allow me to ask a few questions. Didn't Van Klopen's
proceedings strike you as very odd ?”
“Monstrous, sir; revolting ! unheard of !”
“ Are you not one of his best customers ?"
“ Yes, I have spent a fortune in his establishment."
André looked as if this information pleased him.
“ But,” exclaimed De Breulh, “it isn't so very strange after all on Van
Klopen's part. Didn't he bring an action against Madame de Reversay?"
“That may be ; but we have yet to learn," said André,“that he pushed
his way into her salon, presented his bill before a stranger, and then seated
himself and refused to budge."
“And we have yet to learn," urged the viscountess, “ that she paid him
seventeen thousand francs on account last month, as I did.”
“Then his insulting conduct towards you, madame, is all the more inex-
plicable,” said André ; and turning towards M. de Breulh he asked, “Do
you know M. de Croisenois ?”
"Oh! very little. He belongs to an excellent family, I know, and his
elder brother George was highly esteemed by everyone."
“Is he rich ?”
“I fancy not; but some day he will come into possession of a large
fortune. In the meantime, he probably has more debts than income.”
“And yet he happened to have twenty thousand francs in his pocket!
That's rather a large sum for a man to carry about himn when he makes a
call; and then, too, it's rather odd that it should happen to be precisely
the sum required to pay a dressmaker's bill.” André seemed to have greatly
changed since he began speaking. The thought of Sabine's danger inspired
him with energy and swift perception, and like a magistrate questioning a
witness, he spoke imperatively, pursuing his investigation point by point.
" Then, too, there's another strange thing," said he. “Madame de Bois
d'Ardon has told us that Van Klopen received the pocket-book full in his
face. Did he say nothing ?'
“Not a word."
"He accepted the insult without a wink? He didn't even ask this
stranger why he meddled in the matter?”
“I didn't think of it at the time ; but it was certainly very odd-”
“One moment, if you please. Did Van Klopen open the pocket-book
and count the notes before he wrote the receipt ?”
Madame de Bois d'Ardon frowned, and seemed to make an urgent appeal


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
209
to her memory. “I'm not certain,” she said hesitatingly. “You know
that I was naturally much disturbed and troubled ; but I feel almost sure
that I never saw the notes in Van Klopen's hands.”
André's face was radiant. “Better and better !” he exclaimed. “He
was told to pay himself; but he didn't even look to see how much was in
the pocket-book. He simply pocketed it, and gave a receipt. Let us also
note the fact that M. de Croisenois had apparently neither card nor letter
in this pocket-book ; nothing, in fact, but the sum of twenty thousand
francs, which was precisely what was needed.”
“It doesn't seem altogether natural," murmured De Breulh.
“Wait a bit,” said André, hastily. “Your bill, madame, was not
twenty thousand francs precisely?”
“No," answered the viscountess. “Van Klopen ought to have returned
some change, a hundred and thirty or a hundred and fifty francs-some-
thing like that.”
"And he didn't ?"
"No; but then he was so much excited.”
“Do you think so, madame? And yet he recollected he had writing
materials in his pocket, and remembered to give a receipt.”
The viscountess was dumbfounded. It seemed to her that a thick fog had
been before her eyes, and was now clearing away.
“Then,"continued André, “Van Klopen wrote the receipt, bit how did
he know De Croisenois's name? How did he know who he was, unless he had
seen him before? And now, one more question: What has become of this
receipt>"
He stopped short, for Madame de Bois d'Ardon had turned very pale,
and was perceptibly trembling. “Ah !” she said, “I felt all the time
that some terrible misfortune was about to overtake me. It was on this
very point that I wanted to speak to you, Gontran, and ask your advice.”
“Go on, Clotilde."
"Well, you see, I haven't got this bill. M. de Croisenois crushed it in
his hand and threw it down on the table ; but afterwards he picked it up
mechanically, and put it in his pocket.”
André was triumphant, now. “The game's clear," he said. "M. de
Croisenois needed your influence, madame, and was determined to put a
refusal out of your power. Now, even supposing you took no interest
in him, wouldn't you feel you owed him, well, to use a vulgar phrase, 'a
good turn,' on account of these twenty thousand francs so generously
lent you by him at a moment of great necessity.”
“Yes, you are right!”
Many times in her life had the amiable viscountess risked her name, her
reputation, her happiness and her husband's, for some mere fancy-or
through sheer indolence.' She had had many a fright, but never such a
terrible one as this. “Good heavens !" she cried, "why do you alarm me
in this way? It isn't generous. What do you suppose M. de Croisenois
could possibly do with this receipt ?”
What could he do with it? She knew only too well, and yet with that
moral weakness, which is as inconceivable as it is common, she refused to
look the danger in the face, or even to admit that there was any danger at
all. “He will do nothing," said her cousin, “nothing, if you warmly es-
pouse his cause; but, just hesitate for a moment, and he'll show you that
you have no choice in the matter : that you must be his ally, for he holds
your honour in his hands.”
VOL. I.
o
.


210
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
“ And, unfortunately,” added André, "a woman's reputation has always
been, and always will be, at the mercy of a fool, or a knave !”.
"No! no !” exclaimed the viscountess, as distressed as a child who has
just been frightened by its nurse with some frightful hobgoblin tale. "You
are exaggerating-you are surely deceiving yourselves.”
“What?" answered her cousin, sadly. “You are well aware that in
these days of extravagant toilettes, there are women of fashion, who ruin
their lovers quite as adroitly as a class of creatures I don't care to speak
about. To-morrow, at his club, De Croisenois may say: 'That little Bois
d'Ardon costs me a mint of money!' And then, perhaps, he'll show your
bill of twenty thousand francs receipted in his name. "What will be the
conclusion, then?”
“ People will do me the honour to believe—"
“No, people will do you no honour whatever, Clotilde. Come, now,
who on earth would believe it to be a loan? Folks will simply say: That
little viscountess is a terrible coquette. The money her husband gives her
isn't enough, and so she's eating up poor Croisenois.' And every man in
the club will laugh knowingly. You know that, you know such things
occur every day. And a little later, mind, the story will reach your
husband's ears, considerably enlivened and embellished.”
The poor viscountess wrung her hands in despair. “It's terrible !” she
sobbed. “And do you know, Bois d'Ardon would really believe the worst.
He declares that a woman like myself, who sets the fashion in the matter of
toilettes, is capable of anything to maintain her pre-eminence and drive
other women to despair. Yes, he has often said it.” De Breulh's and
André's silence told Clotilde that they agreed with her husband. "This
mania for dress has been my ruin,” she added. “I ought to be the happiest
of women, and should be but for that. Never ! no, never will I have
another bill anywhere again ! ”
Madame de Bois d'Ardon habitually took this same heroic resolution each
time a heavy invoice reached her, but the oaths of a woman of fashion and
those of a drunkard are surprisingly alike, and thus the viscountess speedily
relapsed into her old ways. “Now, tell me, Gontran," said she, “what Í
had best do? You will help me, I'm sure. Can't you ask De Croisenois
for that wretched bill?”
M de Breulh hesitated. “I can, of course, but such a step would rather
do you harm than good. I have no decisive proofs against him, you know.
And if he's the man I believe, he will deny everything. For me to go to
him, would be to show him you have divined his intentions, and would
make an enemy of him for life.”
“And, besides,” added André, "you would put the man on his guard,
and he would escape us.”
The unfortunate viscountess looked from the one to the other in despair.
“Am I utterly lost, then ?" she cried, amid her tears ; “ am I to remain
all my life in the power of this odious being, condemned to obey him like a
slave?”
André came to the rescue. “No, madame," he answered, “reassure
yourself. I shall be able ere long, I think, to reduce M. de Croisenois to
such a position that, instead of ordering and threatening, he will have to
obey. However, one more question. What did you say when he asked
you to introduce him to the Mussidans ?”
“Nothing positive, for I thought of you and Sabine.”
“Then, madame, sleep in peace to-night. As long as he hopes for your


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
213
justified in occupying. The apartment, situated on the third floor, com-
prised a small vestibule, a dressing-room, and two chambers-one for sleep-
ing in, the other for work, both tastefully arranged, the latter having a
piano near the window. Everything was neat and clean-furniture, hang.
ings and ornaments, but nothing was new, and Paul was struck by the
fact that this apartment, rented and furnished for him only three days pre-
viously, seemed to have been long inhabited. Furniture is of course not
animated, except by spirit rappers, and yet all those goods and chattels,
the very rooms themselves, seemed palpitating with life. You might have
sworn that the tenant had merely gone out for a lounge, and would soon be
home again. The bed looked as if it were still warm, and two half burned
candles added to the general impression. Beside the bed were a pair of
slippers that had already been worn. The fire was not quite out, and on
the mantelshelf was a cigar stump; a sheet of music paper with a few bars
written down, lying on the table in the work room. Paul so fancied him-
self in another person's abode that he at once exclaimed :-“But sir, this
apartment is inhabited already"
“We are in your home, my dear boy."
" Then you bought everything as it stood, and the owner simply walked
out."
Tantaine seemed as delighted as a school-boy who has played some prac-
tical joke. “For a whole year,” said he, “ you have been the sole tenant
of this apartment. Don't you know your own home?”
Paul listened with his mouth wide open, as if confronting some mystery.
“I don't understand you,” he said, finally. “You are jesting, I presume."
“I was never more in earnest. You have lived here for more than a
year. Do you want proof of what I say?" So saying, he ran to the top
of the stairs without waiting for a reply, and shouted out: “Mother Bre-
got! Come up stairs, please.” Then turning to Paul, he added : “ The
concierge will be here immediately."
A moment later, an elderly woman, repulsively obese, with a very red
nose, and an obsequious air, belied by the expression of her eyes, twinkling
under heavy grey brows, came panting and puffing into the room.
“Good-morning, Mother Bregot," said Tantaine gaily. “I wanted to
speak to you a moment."
“All right, sir.”
Tantaine pointed to Paul. “You know this gentleman, I suppose ?"
“What a question--do I know one of our tenants ?”
" What's his name?"
66 Panl.”
“Nothing more?”
“Well sir, he's generally called Paul, and nothing else. It isn't his
fault if he never knew his father or mother.”
" What's his profession?”
“He's an artist. He gives lessons on the piano, composes and copies
music."
- What does he make in this way?”
“You ask me too much, sir, but I should say that it ought to be three or
four hundred francs a month."
“ And that's enough for him ?”
“Oh, yes ; but then he's so economical and sensible, and well-behaved !
A regular girl-at least, if I had a girl, I should like her to resemble him.
He works hard, and is always neat and well dressed.” She drew out her


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THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
snuff-box, took a copious pinch, and then in a tone of profound conviction,
added : “He's handsome too."
Tantaine's face beamed good-naturedly. “You seem to have known M.
Paul a lɔng time, as you are so well acquainted with his affairs."
“I should think I ought to know something about him and his business,
since he has lived here for nearly fifteen months, and I've attended to his
rooms all the time.”
“Do you know where he lived before he came here?”
"Of course I do, for I went to find out about him. He lived in the Rue
Jacob, on the other side of the Seine. The people over there were sorry to
have him leave, too, but he wanted to be nearer his work at the public
library in the Rue Richelieu.”
Tantaine lifted his finger. “That'll do, Mother Bregot,” said he, “now
leave me alone with this gentleman.”
Paul had listened to these extraordinary questions and answers with the
air of a man who is uncertain whether he is asleep or awake. Tantaine
stood near the open door until the concierge was down stairs again ; then
he closed it carefully, and, with a hearty laugh, returned to Mascarot's
protégé. " What do you say to that?”
It took Paul a minute or two to regain the power of speech. He
struggled to collect his ideas. He remembered what Dr. Hortebize had
said to him fully a dozen times within the last five days. “Don't be
astonished at anything, but expect the most extraordinary events. Be
prepared.” Thus mindful the young fellow wonderfully retained his self-
possession under this first attack. “I suppose,” he said finally, “that you
told this woman what to say."
Old Tantaine shrugged his shoulders in evident despair and disappoint-
ment. “Merciful heavens !” said he, with withering contempt which he
took no pains to conceal. “If that's all you understand from the scene
you've just witnessed we are far enough from the point we wish to reach.”
This tone piqued the restless vanity of Mascarot's protégé. “I beg
your pardon," he rejoined sulkily, “I understand that this scene is a pre-
face to some romance.”
These words delighted Tantaine's very soul. “Yes, my lad,” he cried,
enthusiastically, “yes ; but it's also an indispensable preface. The romance
will be revealed to you at the proper moment, and you will understand
what success awaits you if you only play your part with skill.”
" Why not tell me now?"
Tantaine shook his head. "Patience ! " he said, “patience ! impetuous
youth. Paris was not built in a day. Let yourself be guided-yield with-
out fear to your protectors, let us strengthen you for the burden. To-day
you've received your first lesson. Now think it over.”
“My first lesson?”
“Call it a rehearsal, my lad, if you choose. I preferred to put what I
had to tell you into another person's mouth, or rather into action, as it were,
thus hoping to engrave it more deeply on your mind and memory. Every-
thing that good woman said, must be looked upon by you as true. It is
true. When you have so persuaded yourself you will be ready for the
battle. Till then you must rest on your arms. Remember this, no one
impresses another with a truth he himself doubts of. There has never
been a single impostor of any celebrity who wasn't his own first dupe."
At this word " impostor," Mascarot's protégé started and tried to protest,
but with a wave of the hand Tantaine enjoined silence. “One of my


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
217
“Yes, but if M. Mascarot pleased_”.
“He does please, my good woman, and really desires to serve you. I'm
quite sure he will succeed in suppressing the inquiry, or if it must proceed
after all, he will at least secure several witnesses in your favour. Only,
you know, he expects service for service, and he must be implicitly
obeyed.”
" The dear, good man! We would pass through fire and water for him,
Bregot and I, while my daughter Euphémie, would do anything in the
world for hiin."
The old man started back, for the woman, in her enthusiastic gratitude,
looked as if she was about to throw herself on his neck. "The master
doesn't care much about this fire and water business,” said he," he only
asks you never to vary a hair's breadth in your statements about Paul. He
expects absolute discretion. If you ever breathe one word of the great secret
confided to you, he will give you up to justice, and then, as I told you,
Article 386—"
It was evident that each allusion to this clause in the Code, which en-
unciates the penalties inflicted on servants who rob their employers, quite
terrified the old woman. “If my head were under the axe,” she declared,
“I would repeat to the last gasp that M. Paul bad been my lodger for over
a year, that he's an artist, and all the rest of it. As to breathing one word
of all you tell me, I'd sooner cut my tongue out. Now do you believe
me !"
Her tone was so earnest and sincere that Tantaine recovered his usual
equanimity. “Keep to your word,” he said, “and on that condition I'm
authorised to bid you hope. Yes, the day our young man's affairs are
settled, you will receive from me a little paper, which will make you as
white as snow, and enable you to tell every one you've been infamously
slandered."
This was an absolute bargain, and Mother Bregot must have so under-
stood it. “May the dear fellow succeed quickly!” she said.
“It won't be very long, I assure you. But don't forget that in the mean-
time you mustn't take your eyes off him for a moment-
“Oh, depend on me, I won't forget.'
“And no matter who calls, I am to know it at once-boy or woman,
man or servant. Nothing is too trivial for you to report to me.”
“No one can get up stairs without my seeing and hearing them."
“ And if any one calls, except the master, Dr. Hortebize, and I, you
must come and report it at the office immediately."
“ Never fear, l'îl let you know it in five minutes."
Tantaine reflected for a moment. “I wonder if this is all I had to say ?
Ah! I remember. Note the hours this young fellow keeps. Talk to him
as little as possible, but watch him attentively, whenever you are doing
his rooms, whenever he goes out or comes home." With these words Tan-
taine turned to leave, paying but little heed to Mother Bregot's zealous pro-
testations. “Watch I watch !” were his last words. "Above all, don't
let him make a fool of himself.”
This last caution was for the time being unnecessary. Paul had no
thought of doing anything whatever. Whilst he was under Tantaine's eyes
he had froin vanity pretended to be unmoved by the strange position in
which he found himself ; but as soon as he was alone, he sank into a chair
in a state of absolute terror and bewilderment. When a man disguises
himself, assumes a false name and costume, he usually does so for a brief


218
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
interval; he knows that he will sooner or later become himself again. But
Paul was called upon to discard his personality for ever. He would per-
haps become wealthy, marry Flavia, sport a' title and a noble name ; but
wealth, wife, and dignities, would all be the outcome of a scandalous piece
of deception. Never, no never, could he become “himself” again. He
would be like an actor, like a masquerader, compelled to wear his mask
and hired costume till the day of his death. His death indeed! He re-
membered with a shudder that old Tantaine had said, “Paul Violaine is
dead ;” and in fact it seemed as if he were bereft of something already.
Had any one, before, ever been circumstanced as he was ? Ay, yes, he re-
membered now a celebrated case, which he had read about-the case of
Cognard, the bold bandit, who assumed the style and title of Comte de
Saint-Hélène, and whose martial air was admired by all Paris when he
figured at the royal reviews. Cognard had shaken off the past, and become
a nobleman, honoured and respected. So artfully had his scheme been
combined, that he had fancied hiinself secure from detection. But what
happened? Why, he was denounced by an old companion of the ball and
chain, a comrade who had known him at the bagne of Brest. The bagne-
the galleys-incarceration for life ! Paul must risk all this in the danger-
ous game he was called upon to play. Might he not be recognised by some
forgotten comrade or acquaintance, who, in the moment of triumph, would
scornfully point at him, and exclaim: "He a nobleman-a duke? Why,
his name's Paul Violaine, and his mother kept a petty thread-and-needle
shop, in the Rue des Vignes at Poitiers ! ”
What would he do then? Would he have the requisite courage and self-
possession to turn laughingly towards his accuser, and cheerfully say:
"Look at me again, my friend, and see if you are not mistaken ! for I never
saw you before."
Paul felt that he was incapable of such audacious impudence, and the
conviction of not being equal to the task increased his fright. If he had
not been already engaged and compromised, if he had known what to
do, where to go and how to live, he would no doubt have taken to flight.
But could he possibly venture on such a course ? Albeit, inexperienced, he
realised that men like Mascarot, Hortebize, and Tantaine, did not willingly
confide their secrets to the winds. The revelations they had made to him
conclusively showed that they considered him to be altogether in their
power. Paul had a clear perception of what being in Mascarot's power
signified. He felt certain that if he were to try and abscond he would never
succeed in escaping the agent's vengeance. No doubt compliance with
Mascarot's designs implied great risk and danger, but danger far ahead and
altogether uncertain. On the other hand, refusal signified immediate peril,
of a nature perfectly defined. Placed between these alternatives, Paul, not
unnaturally, chose that in which the day of reckoning seemed farthest off,
and conquering the last qualms of conscience, said to himself : “I accept;
and now, forward to the bitter end.”
It must here be acknowledged, that Paul's decision was greatly influenced
by all he had seen and heard during his five days' intimacy with Dr.
Hortebize. The worthy doctor was expert in rendering vice attractive, and
smothering conscientious scruples. In exposing his odious theories he
employed the most charming and graceful language, and if his hearer looked
shocked or even surprised, he had always innumerable examples to quote.
It was, therefore, almost impossible for a youth, whose principles were by
no means fixed, and who hankered after luxury, and all that wealth can


222
THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
is there—that they are friends. And, singularly enough, the very woman
I selected to further De Croisenois' interests has been chosen by them to
push theirs."
“Impossible !"
“That was my opinion also. But none the less, the three were closeted
together yesterday evening, and I believe they swore to prevent the
marquis from succeeding."
The doctor bounded from his chair. “What do you mean !” he asked,
feverishly. “Do you think they have already discovered De Croisenois
plans? How can they have done that?”
Father Tantaine looked discouraged. "Ah!" said he, “that's the ques-
tion. A general, you know, can't be in every point of the battle-field at the
saine time, and among his lieutenants, a certain percentage of fools or
traitors is always to be found. Now, I had planned with Van Klopen and
Croisenois a little comedy which was to have placed the Viscountess de
Bois d'Ardon at our disposal. Everything had been foreseen, combined,
and arranged. I had preconcerted each detail with the minutest possible
care, and felt absolutely sure of success. Unfortunately, however, after an
excellent rehearsal, the real performance was simply disgusting. Neither
Van Klopen nor Croisenois took the trouble to play their parts properly.
I had prepared for them a little chef d'ouvre of finessing, insisting on the
various needful transitions of tone and manner; but what did they make
of it? Why, a brutal, riotous, ridiculous farce. They thought, the fools,
that a woman could be easily deceived. They neglected a number of highly
essential particulars ; and, to make the mess perfect, the marquis, whom I
had told to be most reserved, immediately unmasked his batteries. Yes,
the simpleton actually talked to Madame de Bois d'Ardon about Sabine !
That lost us the garne altogether. The viscountess, momentarily deceived,
began to reflect, realised that Van Klopen and Croisenois had been playing
into each other's hands, scented something wrong, and rushed off to ask
M. de Breulh for help !"
The doctor was in consternation. “Who on earth told you all this?”
he gasped.
"No one-I guessed it. Not so difficult a matter, either; given the re-
sults, it is easy to go back to the causes. Yes, that is just what took place,
I'm sure of it?”
Tantaine was not the man to waste time in useless words. Whenever he
opened his mouth he had always something of importance to say, and his
words, when apparently of the simplest kind, always had a serious meaning.
Knowing this, the doctor had become more and more anxious as his com-
panion's explanation proceeded. “Why do you tell me all this?” he asked
impatiently. “Why don't you say at once, and in just as many words, that
the whole thing is knocked on the head?”
“Because I don't think it is."
“ Then what do you think?”
“I think it's seriously compromised, and that's a very different matter.
When you play écarté, and your adversary has scored four points and you
only one, do you throw down your cards and give up the game? By no
means ; you cling to them, on the contrary, and try to retrieve your posi-
tion in the last deal."
The old clerk's impassive calmness now fairly exasperated worthy Dr.
Hortebize. “But this is sheer folly," said he. “It's like suicide, like
throwing oneself out of window:”.


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
223
Tantaine whistled sarcastically. “Then, may I ask,” he said, “what
would be the best course for us to pursue in your excellency's opinion?”
"I say unequivocally, give it all up. Abandon the whole scheme and
plan another one which, if less lucrative, perhaps will also be less perilous.
You expected to win the game; you had every reason, in fact, to think so.
But now pocket your vanity, and make up your mind to lose it. You tried
to crunch something that has proved too hard. Drop it, then ; for if you
persevere you'll break every tooth in your head. We've tried these people
and found them too much for us, so let them be. After all, what does it
really matter to us whether Mademoiselle de Mussidan marries De Croise-
nois or De Breulh, or any one else? The speculation isn't there, fortunately.
The productive idea—the idea of an enterprise to which everyone of our
people must subscribe-still remains intact. We will work it up at once.
But, at the same time, let us frankly confess our defeat on this present
point, beat a retreat, and bury our dead." He stopped short, disconcerted
by the expression he noticed on Tantaine's face. “It seems to me,” con-
tinued the doctor in a wounded tone, “ that my idea is not as ridiculous as
you consider it. It strikes me as altogether reasonable."
“Perhaps so—but is it practicable ?"
“I see no reason why it shouldn't be.”
“Indeed! Then in your fright you look at the position through singular
spectacles. We are too far advanced, my dear doctor, to be altogether our
own masters. Wu must go on. The necessity for doing so is imperious.
To retreat now would be simply to invite our enemies to pursue us. We
are bound to fight anyhow, and battle for battle let us rather choose our
own ground and attack. With equal forces the aggressor has eight chances
out of ten in his favour; that's been proved.”
“ Words, mere words !” ejaculated Hortebize.
“ Words, indeed! Were our revelations to Croisenois mere words ?"
This argument struck home, for the doctor started and exclaimed :
“But you don't mean you think he'd betray us?”.
“Why not, if it were his interest to do so ? Reflect a moment. Croise-
nois is at the end of his resources ; we have dazzled him with the prospect
of a princely fortune. Do you think he'd quietly submit if we said to him :
We beg your pardon, we made a mistake. There's really nothing to be
done. You are poor ; remain so. We don't propose to help yon?'
“But it isn't necessary to say that. We could help him.”
“And what would that lead us to? Do you wish to pay his debts, and
his mortgages, defray all his expenses, and gratify all his extravagant
tastes ? Do you think he would limit his demands ? Why, now that he
has been let into our secrets, he holds us as much as we hold him. You
will find that he has grasped our theories, and can levy blackmail as well
as ourselves."
“Ah, already the other day,”rejoined Dr. Hortebize moodily, “I thought
it very imprudent on your part to tell him everything you did !"
“No; it was necessary to confide in some one. Besides, the Mussidan
affair and the Champdoce affair are linked together. I conceived both
schemes simultaneously, and they shall both of them succeed or fail," "
“Then you persist ?"
“Certainly; more than ever."
For some minutes the doctor had been rattling his medallion in an
affected manner, which had certainly caught his companion's attention.
Now, with a dreary smile, he exclaimed, “I swore long ago that our lives


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
225
“ Have you given your lesson?”
“Yes, I have just left Madame Grandorge. What a charming woman
she is. She treated me with the greatest possible kindness.” If Paul had
been utterly ignorant why Madame Grandorge received him, he would
hardly have expressed himself otherwise.
“ That being the case,“ rejoined the doctor, with a tinge of persiflage in
his voice that Paul did not catch, “I can understand your satisfaction.”
“Oh !” answered Paul, “I'm not so vain as you imagine. If I'm in
such spirits it's for a more serious reason.”
“Would it be indiscreet to ask what that might be ?"
Paul assumed the grave and mysterious expression a youth generally
affects when the love affair, which at that moment absorbs him, is touched
upon. “I am not sure I have a right to tell you," he said.
“Upon my word! An adventure already!”.
Paul smiled with consummate self-conceit.
“Keep your secret, my boy,” said Tantaine.
This of course was just the thing to loosen the youth's tongue, as the
astute old man had foreseen. “Oh! sir,” Paul protested, “ do you think
it possible for me to keep a secret from you?” Then triumphantly waving
the open letter he held in his hand ; and watching the effect of his words,
he continued : “ The concierge gave me this letter when I came in. She
said it was brought by a banker's boy. Can you guess where it comes
from? Why from Mademoiselle Flavia Rigal, and it leaves me no doubt
of her sentiments towards me.”
“Is that really so?”.
"Yes, it's just like that. Whenever I choose, Mademoiselle Flavia will
become Madame Paul."
A flush came to old Tantaine's wrinkled cheeks, but faded away almost
instantly. “And you are happy ?” he asked, with a preceptible tremor in
his voice, “very happy ?”
The young fellow threw back his coat, and adjusting his thumbs in the
arınholes of his waistcoat, carelessly replied : “ Yes, of course I am. Oh!
I didn't have much trouble, I assure you. Why, I had only been to M.
Rigal's three times when Mademoiselle Flavia owned to me that she didn't
dislike me.”
As if Tantaine did not consider his spectacles sufficient to hide his feel-
ings, he now carried his hands to his face.
“ However,” resumed Paul, “the last evening I saw Mademoiselle Flavia,
she was dreadfully reserved and cold. Perhaps you think I tried to soften
her—not at all. I said to myself, “Let her be, my boy,' and came away
much earlier than usual.” The young fellow was not telling the truth. He
had, in fact, felt frightfully uneasy." And I did wisely, as the result has
proved,” he continued. "Poor girl! her coldness hurt herself. Just
listen to what she writes." He tossed back his hair, assumed what he
thought an imposing attitude, and then read the following letter aloud :
"Myfriend - I was very naughty,and I repent. I could not sleepall night, for
I was haunted by the grief I saw in your eyes when you left. Paul, it was
a test—will you forgive me? I suffered much more than you could have
done. Some one who loves me, alas ! perhaps more than you do, has told
me, over and over again, that when a young girl shows her whole heart to
the man she loves, she risks her happiness. Is this true? I hope not,
Paul; for never-no, never can I learn to feign; and in proof of this I am
now going to tell you all. My father is the best and kindest of men, and
VOL. I.


THE SLAVES OF PARIS.
227
or at least render him powerless to thwart their designs. “As yet," said
Tantaine meditatively, “my information is far too vague for me to decide
on the best course of action. My present tactics are to show no sign of
life, and I have given directions to that effect to Croise:nois ; but I bave
hooked one of our agents on to each of our adversaries. André, De Breulh,
and the viscountess will be unable to take a step without my knowledge.
I have an ear at their doors, and an eye at their key-holes, even when they
believe themselves most secure. I shall soon see their game clearly and
then- But in the meantime trust to me and don't allow all this to worry
you!"
They had now reached the boulevard, and Tantaine stopped and drew
out his huge silver watch. “Four o'clock,” he cried, “how time flies! I
must leave you, for I haven't a moment to lose. It's no time to sleep
when one has milk on the fire. I have to go in ten different directions,
and see if our observers’ have anything to report."
“Shall I see you to-night?”
“It's scarcely likely, for I think I shall dine at one of the restaurants on
the outer boulevards."
The doctor stared.
“Not for pleasure, as you may imagine, but I have a rendezvous at the
Grand Turc with that scamp, Toto-Chupin. I must find Caroline, for I am
convinced I can ascertain the Champdoce secret through her. No doubt
she's discreet and cunning, and has been threatened with awful conse-
quences, if she ever divulges the truth. But then she's partial to a glass,
to a great many glasses, and I fancy I shall find out what's the best liquor
to loosen her tongue. And now I'mn off. I'll see you to morrow at any
rate.”
END OF VOL. L


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Mr. HENRY JAMES on "NANA."
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the story-teller's art is almost exclusively feminine, is mainly in the hands of timid (even
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