It was a Thursday evening, the fifteenth of October; and although only
half-past six o’clock, it had been dark for some time already. The
weather was cold, and the sky was as black as ink, while the wind blew
tempestuously, and the rain fell in torrents.
The servants at the Hotel de Chalusse, one of the most magnificent
mansions in the Rue de Courcelles in Paris, were assembled in the
porter’s lodge, a little building comprising a couple of rooms standing
on the right hand side of the great gateway. Here, as in all large
mansions, the “concierge” or porter, M. Bourigeau, was a person of
immense importance, always able and disposed to make any one who was
inclined to doubt his authority, feel it in cruel fashion. As could be
easily seen, he held all the other servants in his power. He could
let them absent themselves without leave, if he chose, and conceal all
returns late at night after the closing of public balls and wine-shops.
Thus, it is needless to say that M. Bourigeau and his wife were treated
by their fellow-servants with the most servile adulation.
The owner of the house was not at home that evening, so that M. Casimir,
the count’s head valet, was serving coffee for the benefit of all the
retainers. And while the company sipped the fragrant beverage which had
been generously tinctured with cognac, provided by the butler, they all
united in abusing their common enemy, the master of the house. For the
time being, a pert little waiting-maid, with an odious turn-up nose, had
the floor. She was addressing her remarks to a big, burly, and rather
insolent-looking fellow, who had been added only the evening before to
the corps of footmen. “The place is really intolerable,” she was saying.
“The wages are high, the food of the very best, the livery just such
as would show off a good-looking man to the best advantage, and Madame
Leon, the housekeeper, who has entire charge of everything, is not too
lynx-eyed.”
“And the work?”
“A mere nothing. Think, there are eighteen of us to serve only two
persons, the count and Mademoiselle Marguerite. But then there is never
any pleasure, never any amusement here.”
“What! is one bored then?”
“Bored to death. This grand house is worse than a tomb. No receptions,
no dinners--nothing. Would you believe it, I have never seen the
reception-rooms! They are always closed; and the furniture is dropping
to pieces under its coverings. There are not three visitors in the
course of a month.”
She was evidently incensed, and the new footman seemed to share her
indignation. “Why, how is it?” he exclaimed. “Is the count an owl? A
man who’s not yet fifty years old, and who’s said to be worth several
millions.”
“Yes, millions; you may safely say it--and perhaps ten, perhaps twenty
millions too.”
“Then all the more reason why there should be something going on here.
What does he do with himself alone, all the blessed day?”
“Nothing. He reads in the library, or wanders about the garden.
Sometimes, in the evening, he drives with Mademoiselle Marguerite to the
Bois de Boulogne in a closed carriage; but that seldom happens. Besides,
there is no such thing as teasing the poor man. I’ve been in the house
for six months, and I’ve never heard him say anything but: ‘yes’; ‘no’;
‘do this’; ‘very well’; ‘retire.’ You would think these are the only
words he knows. Ask M. Casimir if I’m not right.”
“Our guv’nor isn’t very gay, that’s a fact,” responded the valet.
The footman was listening with a serious air, as if greatly interested
in the character of the people whom he was to serve. “And mademoiselle,”
he asked, “what does she say to such an existence?”
“Bless me! during the six months she has been here, she has never once
complained.”
“If she is bored,” added M. Casimir, “she conceals it bravely.”
“Naturally enough,” sneered the waiting-maid, with an ironical gesture;
“each month that mademoiselle remains here, brings her too much money
for her to complain.”
By the laugh that greeted this reply, and by the looks the older
servants exchanged, the new-comer must have realized that he had
discovered the secret skeleton hidden in every house. “What! what!” he
exclaimed, on fire with curiosity; “is there really anything in that? To
tell the truth, I was inclined to doubt it.”
His companions were evidently about to tell him all they knew, or rather
all they thought they knew, when the front-door bell rang vigorously.
“There he comes!” exclaimed the concierge; “but he’s in too much of a
hurry; hell have to wait awhile.”
He sullenly pulled the cord, however; the heavy door swayed on its
hinges, and a cab-driver, breathless and hatless, burst into the room,
crying, “Help! help!”
The servants sprang to their feet.
“Make haste!” continued the driver. “I was bringing a gentleman
here--you must know him. He’s outside, in my vehicle----”
Without pausing to listen any longer, the servants rushed out, and the
driver’s incoherent explanation at once became intelligible. At the
bottom of the cab, a roomy four-wheeler, a man was lying all of a heap,
speechless and motionless. He must have fallen forward, face downward,
and owing to the jolting of the vehicle his head had slipped under the
front seat.
“Poor devil!” muttered M. Casimir, “he must have had a stroke of
apoplexy.” The valet was peering into the vehicle as he spoke, and his
comrades were approaching, when suddenly he drew back, uttering a cry of
horror. “Ah, my God! it is the count!”
Whenever there is an accident in Paris, a throng of inquisitive
spectators seems to spring up from the very pavement, and indeed more
than fifty persons had already congregated round about the vehicle. This
circumstance restored M. Casimir’s composure; or, at least, some portion
of it. “You must drive into the courtyard,” he said, addressing the
cabman. “M. Bourigeau, open the gate, if you please.” And then, turning
to another servant, he added:
“And you must make haste and fetch a physician--no matter who. Run to
the nearest doctor, and don’t return until you bring one with you.”
The concierge had opened the gate, but the driver had disappeared; they
called him, and on receiving no reply the valet seized the reins and
skilfully guided the cab through the gateway.
Having escaped the scrutiny of the crowd, it now remained to remove the
count from the vehicle, and this was a difficult task, on account of the
singular position of his body; still, they succeeded at last, by opening
both doors of the cab, the three strongest men uniting in their efforts.
Then they placed him in a large arm-chair, carried him to his own room,
and speedily had him undressed and in bed.
He had so far given no sign of life; and as he lay there with his head
weighing heavily on the pillow, you might have thought that all was
over. His most intimate friend would scarcely have recognized him. His
features were swollen and discolored; his eyes were closed, and a dark
purple circle, looking almost like a terrible bruise, extended round
them. A spasm had twisted his lips, and his distorted mouth, which was
drawn on one side and hung half open imparted a most sinister expression
to his face. In spite of every precaution, he had been wounded as he was
removed from the cab. His forehead had been grazed by a piece of iron,
and a tiny stream of blood was trickling down upon his face. However,
he still breathed; and by listening attentively, one could distinguish a
faint rattling in his throat.
The servants, who had been so garrulous a few moments before, were
silent now. They lingered in the room, exchanging glances of mute
consternation. Their faces were pale and sad, and there were tears in
the eyes of some of them. What was passing in their minds? Perhaps they
were overcome by that unconquerable fear which sudden and unexpected
death always provokes. Perhaps they unconsciously loved this master,
whose bread they ate. Perhaps their grief was only selfishness, and they
were merely wondering what would become of them, where they should find
another situation, and if it would prove a good one. Not knowing what to
do, they talked together in subdued voices, each suggesting some remedy
he had heard spoken of for such cases. The more sensible among them were
proposing to go and inform mademoiselle or Madame Leon, whose rooms
were on the floor above, when the rustling of a skirt against the door
suddenly made them turn. The person whom they called “mademoiselle” was
standing on the threshold.
Mademoiselle Marguerite was a beautiful young girl, about twenty years
of age. She was a brunette of medium height, with big gloomy eyes shaded
by thick eyebrows. Heavy masses of jet-black hair wreathed her lofty but
rather sad and thoughtful forehead. There was something peculiar in
her face--an expression of concentrated suffering, and a sort of proud
resignation, mingled with timidity.
“What has happened?” she asked, gently. “What is the cause of all
the noise I have heard? I have rung three times and the bell was not
answered.”
No one ventured to reply, and in her surprise she cast a hasty glance
around. From where she stood, she could not see the bed stationed in an
alcove; but she instantly noted the dejected attitude of the servants,
the clothing scattered about the floor, and the disorder that pervaded
this magnificent but severely furnished chamber, which was only lighted
by the lamp which M. Bourigeau, the concierge, carried. A sudden dread
seized her; she shuddered, and in a faltering voice she added: “Why are
you all here? Speak, tell me what has happened.”
M. Casimir stepped forward. “A great misfortune, mademoiselle, a
terrible misfortune. The count----”
And he paused, frightened by what he was about to say.
But Mademoiselle Marguerite had understood him. She clasped both hands
to her heart, as if she had received a fatal wound, and uttered the
single word: “Lost!”
The next moment she turned as pale as death, her head drooped, her eyes
closed, and she staggered as if about to fall. Two maids sprang forward
to support her, but she gently repulsed them, murmuring, “Thanks!
thanks! I am strong now.”
She was, in fact, sufficiently strong to conquer her weakness. She
summoned all her resolution, and, paler than a statue, with set teeth
and dry, glittering eyes, she approached the alcove. She stood there for
a moment perfectly motionless, murmuring a few unintelligible words; but
at last, crushed by her sorrow, she sank upon her knees beside the bed,
buried her face in the counterpane and wept.
Deeply moved by the sight of this despair, the servants held their
breath, wondering how it would all end. It ended suddenly. The girl
sprang from her knees, as if a gleam of hope had darted through her
heart. “A physician!” she said, eagerly.
“I have sent for one, mademoiselle,” replied M. Casimir. And hearing
a voice and a sound of footsteps on the staircase, he added: “And
fortunately, here he comes.”
The doctor entered. He was a young man, although his head was almost
quite bald. He was short, very thin, clean-shaven, and clad in black
from head to foot. Without a word, without a bow, he walked straight to
the bedside, lifted the unconscious man’s eyelids, felt his pulse, and
uncovered his chest, applying his ear to it. “This is a serious case,”
he said at the close of his examination.
Mademoiselle Marguerite, who had followed his movements with the most
poignant anxiety, could not repress a sob. “But all hope is not lost,
is it, monsieur?” she asked in a beseeching voice, with hands clasped
in passionate entreaty. “You will save him, will you not--you will save
him?”
“One may always hope for the best.”
This was the doctor’s only answer. He had drawn his case of instruments
from his pocket, and was testing the points of his lancets on the tip
of his finger. When he had found one to his liking: “I must ask you,
mademoiselle,” said he, “to order these women to retire, and to retire
yourself. The men will remain to assist me, if I require help.”
She obeyed submissively, but instead of returning to her own room,
she remained in the hall, seating herself upon the lower step of the
staircase near the door, counting the seconds, and drawing a thousand
conjectures from the slightest sound.
Meanwhile, inside the room, the physician was proceeding slowly, not
from temperament however, but from principle. Dr. Jodon--for such was
his name--was an ambitious man who played a part. Educated by a “prince
of science,” more celebrated for the money he gained than for the cures
he effected, he copied his master’s method, his gestures, and even the
inflections of his voice. By casting in people’s eyes the same powder as
his teacher had employed, he hoped to obtain the same results: a large
practice and an immense fortune. In his secret heart he was by no means
disconcerted by his patient’s condition; on the contrary, he did not
consider the count’s state nearly as precarious as it really was.
But bleeding and cupping alike failed to bring the sick man to
consciousness. He remained speechless and motionless; the only result
obtained, was that his breathing became a trifle easier. Finding his
endeavors fruitless, the doctor at last declared that all immediate
remedies were exhausted, that “the women” might be allowed to return,
and that nothing now remained but to wait for the effect of the remedies
he was about to prescribe, and which they must procure from the nearest
chemist.
Any other man would have been touched by the agony of entreaty contained
in the glance that Mademoiselle Marguerite cast upon the physician as
she returned into the room; but it did not affect him in the least. He
calmly said, “I cannot give my decision as yet.”
“My God!” murmured the unhappy girl; “oh, my God, have mercy upon me!”
But the doctor, copying his model, had stationed himself near the
fireplace, with his elbow leaning on the mantel-shelf, in a graceful,
though rather pompous attitude. “Now,” he said, addressing his remarks
to M. Casimir, “I desire to make a few inquiries. Is this the first time
the Count de Chalusse has had such an attack?”
“Yes, sir--at least since I have been in attendance upon him.”
“Very good. That is a chance in our favor. Tell me--have you ever heard
him complain of vertigo, or of a buzzing in his ears?”
“Never.”
Mademoiselle Marguerite seemed inclined to volunteer some remark, but
the doctor imposed silence upon her by a gesture, and continued his
examination. “Is the count a great eater?” he inquired. “Does he drink
heavily?”
“The count is moderation itself, monsieur, and he always takes a great
deal of water with his wine.”
The doctor listened with an air of intent thoughtfulness, his head
slightly inclined forward, his brow contracted, and his under lip puffed
out, while from time to time he stroked his beardless chin. He was
copying his master. “The devil!” he said, sotto voce. “There must
be some cause for such an attack, however. Nothing in the count’s
constitution predisposes him to such an accident----” Then, suddenly
turning toward Mademoiselle Marguerite: “Do you know, mademoiselle,
whether the count has experienced any very violent emotion during the
past few days?”
“Something occurred this very morning, which seemed to annoy him very
much.”
“Ah! now we have it,” said the doctor, with the air of an oracle. “Why
did you not tell me all this at first? It will be necessary for you to
give me the particulars, mademoiselle.”
The young girl hesitated. The servants were dazed by the doctor’s
manner; but Mademoiselle Marguerite was far from sharing their awe
and admiration. She would have given anything to have had the regular
physician of the household there instead of him! As for this coarse
examination in the presence of all these servants, and by the bedside of
a man who, in spite of his apparent unconsciousness, was, perhaps, able
to hear and to comprehend, she looked upon it as a breach of delicacy,
even of propriety.
“It is of the most urgent importance that I should be fully informed of
these particulars,” repeated the physician peremptorily.
After such an assertion, further hesitation was out of the question.
Mademoiselle Marguerite seemed to collect her thoughts, and then she
sadly said: “Just as we sat down to breakfast this morning, a letter
was handed to the count. No sooner had his eyes fallen upon it, than he
turned as white as his napkin. He rose from his seat and began to walk
hastily up and down the dining-room, uttering exclamations of anger and
sorrow. I spoke to him, but he did not seem to hear me. However, after a
few moments, he resumed his seat at the table, and began to eat----”
“As usual?”
“He ate more than usual, monsieur. Only I must tell you that it seemed
to me he was scarcely conscious of what he was doing. Four or five times
he left the table, and then came back again. At last, after quite a
struggle, he seemed to come to some decision. He tore the letter to
pieces, and threw the pieces out of the window that opens upon the
garden.”
Mademoiselle Marguerite expressed herself with the utmost simplicity,
and there was certainly nothing particularly extraordinary in her story.
Still, those around her listened with breathless curiosity, as though
they were expecting some startling revelation, so much does the
human mind abhor that which is natural and incline to that which is
mysterious.
Without seeming to notice the effect she had produced, and addressing
herself to the physician alone, the girl continued: “After the letter
was destroyed, M. de Chalusse seemed himself again. Coffee was served,
and he afterward lighted a cigar as usual. However, he soon let it go
out. I dared not disturb him by any remarks; but suddenly he said to me:
‘It’s strange, but I feel very uncomfortable.’ A moment passed, without
either of us speaking, and then he added: ‘I am certainly not well.
Will you do me the favor to go to my room for me? Here is the key of my
escritoire; open it, and on the upper shelf you will find a small bottle
which please bring to me.’ I noticed with some surprise that M. de
Chalusse, who usually speaks very distinctly, stammered and hesitated
considerably in making this request, but, unfortunately, I did not think
much about it at the time. I did as he requested, and he poured eight
or ten drops of the contents of the vial into a glass of water, and
swallowed it.”
So intense was Dr. Jodon’s interest that he became himself again. He
forgot to attitudinize. “And after that?” he asked, eagerly.
“After that, M. de Chalusse seemed to feel much better, and retired to
his study as usual. I fancied that any annoyance the letter had caused
him was forgotten; but I was wrong, for in the afternoon he sent a
message, through Madame Leon, requesting me to join him in the garden.
I hastened there, very much surprised, for the weather was extremely
disagreeable. ‘Dear Marguerite,’ he said, on seeing me, ‘help me to find
the fragments of that letter which I flung from the window this morning.
I would give half my fortune for an address which it must certainly have
contained, but which I quite overlooked in my anger.’ I helped him as
he asked. He might have reasonably hoped to succeed, for it was raining
when the scraps of paper were thrown out, and instead of flying through
the air, they fell directly on to the ground. We succeeded in finding
a large number of the scraps, but what M. de Chalusse so particularly
wanted was not to be read on any one of them. Several times he spoke of
his regret, and cursed his precipitation.”
M. Bourigeau, the concierge, and M. Casimir exchanged a significant
smile. They had seen the count searching for the remnants of this
letter, and had thought him little better than an idiot. But now
everything was explained.
“I was much grieved at the count’s disappointment,” continued
Mademoiselle Marguerite, “but suddenly he exclaimed, joyfully: ‘That
address--why, such a person will give it to me--what a fool I am!’”
The physician evinced such absorbing interest in this narrative that he
forgot to retain his usual impassive attitude. “Such a person! Who--who
was this person?” he inquired eagerly, without apparently realizing the
impropriety of his question.
But the girl felt indignant. She silenced her indiscreet questioner
with a haughty glance, and in the driest possible tone, replied: “I have
forgotten the name.”
Cut to the quick, the doctor suddenly resumed his master’s pose; but all
the same his imperturbable sang-froid was sensibly impaired. “Believe
me, mademoiselle, that interest alone--a most respectful interest--”
She did not even seem to hear his excuse, but resumed: “I know, however,
monsieur, that M. de Chalusse intended applying to the police if he
failed to obtain this address from the person in question. After this he
appeared to be entirely at ease. At three o’clock he rang for his valet,
and ordered dinner two hours earlier than usual. We sat down to table
at about half-past four. At five he rose, kissed me gayly, and left the
house on foot, telling me that he was confident of success, and that he
did not expect to return before midnight.” The poor child’s firmness now
gave way; her eyes filled with tears, and it was in a voice choked with
sobs that she added, pointing to M. de Chalusse: “But at half-past six
they brought him back as you see him now----”
An interval of silence ensued, so deep that one could hear the faint
breathing of the unconscious man still lying motionless on his bed.
However, the particulars of the attack were yet to be learned; and it
was M. Casimir whom the physician next addressed. “What did the driver
who brought your master home say to you?”
“Oh! almost nothing, sir; not ten words.”
“You must find this man and bring him to me.”
Two servants rushed out in search of him. He could not be far away, for
his vehicle was still standing in the courtyard. They found him in
a wine-shop near by. Some of the inquisitive spectators who had been
disappointed in their curiosity by Casimir’s thoughtfulness had treated
him to some liquor, and in exchange he had told them all he knew about
the affair. He had quite recovered from his fright, and was cheerful,
even gay.
“Come make haste, you are wanted,” said the servants.
He emptied his glass and followed them with very bad grace, muttering
and swearing between his set teeth. The doctor, strange to say, was
considerate enough to go out into the hall to question him; but no
information of value was gained by the man’s answers. He declared that
the gentleman had hired him at twelve o’clock, hoping by this means
to extort pay for five hours’ driving, which, joined to the liberal
gratuity he could not fail to obtain, would remunerate him handsomely
for his day’s work. Living is dear, it should be remembered, and a
fellow makes as much as he can.
When the cabby had gone off, still growling, although a couple of louis
had been placed in his hand, the doctor returned to his patient. He
involuntarily assumed his accustomed attitude, with crossed arms, a
gloomy expression of countenance, and his forehead furrowed as if with
thought and anxiety. But this time he was not acting a part. In spite,
or rather by reason of, the full explanation that had been given him,
he found something suspicious and mysterious in the whole affair. A
thousand vague and undefinable suspicions crossed his mind. Was he in
presence of a crime? Certainly, evidently not. But what was the cause
then of the mystery and reticence he detected? Was he upon the track of
some lamentable family secret--one of those terrible scandals, concealed
for a long time, but which at last burst forth with startling effect?
The prospect of being mixed up in such an affair caused him infinite
pleasure. It would bring him into notice; he would be mentioned in the
papers; and his increased practice would fill his hands with gold.
But what could he do to ingratiate himself with these people, impose
himself upon them if needs be? He reflected for some time, and finally
what he thought an excellent plan occurred to him. He approached
Mademoiselle Marguerite, who was weeping in an arm-chair, and touched
her gently on the shoulder. She sprang to her feet at once. “One more
question, mademoiselle,” said he, imparting as much solemnity to his
tone as he could. “Do you know what liquid it was that M. de Chalusse
took this morning?”
“Alas! no, monsieur.”
“It is very important that I should know. The accuracy of my diagnosis
is dependent upon it. What has become of the vial?”
“I think M. de Chalusse replaced it in his escritoire.”
The physician pointed to an article of furniture to the left of the
fireplace: “There?” he asked.
“Yes, monsieur.”
He deliberated, but at last conquering his hesitation, he said: “Could
we not obtain this vial?”
Mademoiselle Marguerite blushed. “I haven’t the key,” she faltered, in
evident embarrassment.
M. Casimir approached: “It must be in the count’s pocket, and if
mademoiselle will allow me----”
But she stepped back with outstretched arms as if to protect the
escritoire. “No,” she exclaimed, “no--the escritoire shall not be
touched. I will not permit it----”
“But, mademoiselle,” insisted the doctor, “your father----”
“The Count de Chalusse is not my father!”
Dr. Jodon was greatly disconcerted by Mademoiselle Marguerite’s
vehemence. “Ah!” said he, in three different tones, “ah! ah!”
In less than a second, a thousand strange and contradictory suppositions
darted through his brain. Who, then, could this girl be, if she were not
Mademoiselle de Chalusse? What right had she in that house? How was
it that she reigned as a sovereign there? Above all, why this angry
outburst for no other apparent cause than a very natural and exceedingly
insignificant request on his part?
However, she had regained her self-possession, and it was easy to see
by her manner that she was seeking some means of escape from threatened
danger. At last she found it. “Casimir,” she said, authoritatively,
“search M. de Chalusse’s pocket for the key of his escritoire.”
Astonished by what he regarded as a new caprice, the valet obeyed. He
gathered up the garments strewn over the floor, and eventually drew a
key from one of the waistcoat pockets. Mademoiselle Marguerite took it
from him, and then in a determined tone, exclaimed: “A hammer.”
It was brought; whereupon, to the profound amazement of the physician,
she knelt down beside the fireplace, laid the key upon one of the
andirons, and with a heavy blow of the hammer, broke it into fragments.
“Now,” said she, quietly, “my mind will be at rest. I am certain,” she
added, turning toward the servants, “that M. de Chalusse would approve
what I have done. When he recovers, he will have another key made.”
The explanation was superfluous. All the servants understood the motive
that had influenced her, and were saying to themselves, “Mademoiselle is
right. It would not do to touch the escritoire of a dying man. Who knows
but what there are millions in it? If anything were missed, why any of
us might be accused. But if the key is destroyed, it will be impossible
to suspect any one.”
However, the physician’s conjectures were of an entirely different
nature. “What can there be in that escritoire which she desires to
conceal?” he thought.
But there was no excuse for prolonging his visit. Once more he examined
the sick man, whose condition remained unchanged; and then, after
explaining what was to be done in his absence, he declared that he must
leave at once, as he had a number of important visits to make; he added,
however, that he would return about midnight.
“Madame Leon and I will watch over M. de Chalusse,” replied Mademoiselle
Marguerite; “that is sufficient assurance, monsieur, that your orders
will be obeyed to the letter. Only--you will not take offence, I trust,
if I ask the count’s regular physician to meet you in consultation.”
Such a proposal was anything but pleasing to M. Jodon, who had met with
the same misfortune in this aristocratic neighborhood several times
before. When an accident happened, he was summoned because he chanced
to be close at hand, but just as he was flattering himself that he
had gained a desirable patient, he found himself in presence of some
celebrated physician, who had come from a distance in his carriage.
Accustomed to such disappointments, he knew how to conceal his
dissatisfaction.
“Were I in your place, mademoiselle, I should do precisely what you
suggest,” he answered, “and should you think it unnecessary for me to
call, I----”
“Oh! monsieur, on the contrary, I shall certainly expect you.”
“In that case, very well.” Thereupon he bowed and left the room.
But Mademoiselle Marguerite followed him on to the landing. “You know,
monsieur,” she said, speaking rapidly in an undertone, “that I am not
M. de Chalusse’s daughter. You may, therefore, tell me the truth. Is his
condition hopeless?”
“Alarming--yes; hopeless--no.”
“But, monsieur, this terrible unconsciousness----”
“It usually follows such an attack as he has been the victim of. Still
we may hope that the paralysis will gradually disappear, and the power
of motion return after a time.”
Mademoiselle Marguerite was listening, pale, agitated, and embarrassed.
It was evident that she had a question on her lips which she scarcely
dared to ask. At last, however, summoning all her courage, she
exclaimed: “And if M. de Chalusse should not recover, will he die
without regaining consciousness--without being able to speak?”
“I am unable to say, mademoiselle--the count’s malady is one of those
which set at naught all the hypotheses of science.”
She thanked him sadly, sent a servant to summon Madame Leon, and
returned to the count’s room.
As for the doctor, he said to himself as he went downstairs, “What a
strange girl! Is she afraid that the count will regain consciousness?
or, on the contrary, does she wish him to speak? Is there any question
of a will under all this? What else can it be? What is at stake?” His
preoccupation was so intense that he almost forgot where he was going,
and he paused on every step. It was not until the fresh air of the
courtyard blew upon his face, reminding him of the realities of life,
that the charlatanesque element in his nature regained the ascendency.
“My friend,” he said, addressing M. Casimir, who was lighting him out,
“you must at once have some straw spread over the street so as to deaden
the sound of the vehicles. And to-morrow, you must inform the commissary
of police.”
Ten minutes later a thick bed of straw had been strewed across the
thoroughfare, and the drivers of passing vehicles involuntarily
slackened their speed, for every one in Paris knows what this signifies.
M. Casimir personally superintended the work which was intrusted to the
grooms, and he was about to return indoors again, when a young man, who
had been walking up and down in front of the mansion for more than an
hour, hastily approached him. He was a beardless fellow with a strangely
wrinkled face, as leaden-tinted as that of a confirmed absinthe-drinker.
His general expression was shrewd, and at the same time impudent, and
surprising audacity gleamed in his eyes. “What do you want?” asked M.
Casimir.
The young fellow bowed humbly, and replied, “Ah, don’t you recognize
me, monsieur? I’m Toto--excuse me--Victor Chupin, employed by M. Isidore
Fortunat.”
“Oh, yes. I recollect.”
“I came, in obedience to my employer’s orders, to inquire if you had
obtained the information you promised him; but seeing that something had
happened at your house, I didn’t dare go in, but decided to watch for
you----”
“And you did quite right, my lad. I have no information to give you--ah,
yes! stop! The Marquis de Valorsay was closeted with the count for two
hours yesterday. But what good will that do? The count has been taken
suddenly ill, and he will scarcely live through the night.”
Victor Chupin was thunderstruck. “Impossible!” he cried. “Is it for him
that the straw has been strewed in the street?”
“It’s for him.”
“What a lucky fellow! No one would go to such expense for me! But I have
an idea that my guv’nor will hardly laugh when I tell him this. Still,
thank you all the same, m’sieur, and au revoir.” He was darting off when
a sudden thought detained him. “Excuse me,” said he, with conjuror
like volubility; “I was so horrified that I forgot business. Tell
me, m’sieur, if the count dies, you’ll take charge of the funeral
arrangements, won’t you? Very well; a word of advice then. Don’t go to
the regular undertakers, but come to me: here’s my address”--proffering
a card--“I will treat with the undertakers for you, and take charge of
everything. It will be much better and far cheaper for you, on account
of certain arrangements I’ve made with these parties. Everything, to the
very last plume, is warranted to give perfect satisfaction. Each item
will be specified in the bill, and can be verified during the ceremony,
no payment exacted until after delivery. Well, is it understood?”
The valet shrugged his shoulders. “Nonsense!” said he, carelessly; “what
is all that to me?”
“Ah! I forgot to mention that there would be a commission of two hundred
francs to divide between us.”
“That’s consideration. Give me your card, and rely on me. My compliments
to M. Fortunat, please.” And so saying, he re-entered the house.
Victor Chupin drew a huge silver watch from his pocket and consulted
it. “Five minutes to eight,” he growled, “and the guv’nor expects me at
eight precisely. I shall have to stretch out my legs.”