M. Casimir, the deceased Count de Chalusse’s valet, was neither better
nor worse than most of his fellows. Old men tell us that there formerly
existed a race of faithful servants, who considered themselves a part
of the family that employed them, and who unhesitatingly embraced its
interests and its ideas. At the same time their masters requited their
devotion by efficacious protection and provision for the future. But
such masters and such servants are nowadays only found in the old
melodramas performed at the Ambigu, in “The Emigre,” for instance, or
in “The Last of the Chateauvieux.” At present servants wander from one
house to another, looking on their abode as a mere inn where they may
find shelter till they are disposed for another journey. And families
receive them as transient, and not unfrequently as dangerous,
guests, whom it is always wise to treat with distrust. The key of
the wine-cellar is not confided to these unreliable inmates; they are
intrusted with the charge of little else than the children--a practice
which is often productive of terrible results.
M. Casimir was no doubt honest, in the strict sense of the word. He
would have scorned to rob his master of a ten-sous piece; and yet
he would not have hesitated in the least to defraud him of a hundred
francs, if an opportunity had presented itself. Vain and rapacious in
disposition, he consoled himself by refusing to obey any one save his
employer, by envying him with his whole heart, and by cursing fate
for not having made him the Count de Chalusse instead of the Count de
Chalusse’s servant. As he received high wages, he served passably well;
but he employed the best part of his energy in watching the count. He
scented some great family secret in the household, and he felt angry and
humiliated that this secret had not been intrusted to his discretion.
And if he had discovered nothing, it was because M. de Chalusse had been
caution personified, as Madame Leon had declared.
Thus it happened that when M. Casimir saw Mademoiselle Marguerite
and the count searching in the garden for the fragments of a letter
destroyed in a paroxysm of rage which he had personally witnessed,
his natural curiosity was heightened to such a degree as to become
unendurable. He would have given a month’s wages, and something over,
to have known the contents of that letter, the fragments of which were
being so carefully collected by the count. And when he heard M. de
Chalusse tell Mademoiselle Marguerite that the most important part
of the letter was still lacking, and saw his master relinquish his
fruitless search, the worthy valet vowed that he would be more skilful
or more fortunate than his master; and after diligent effort, he
actually succeeded in recovering five tiny scraps of paper, which had
been blown into the shrubbery.
They were covered with delicate handwriting, a lady’s unquestionably;
but he was utterly unable to extract the slightest meaning from them.
Nevertheless, he preserved them with jealous care, and was careful
not to say that he had found them. The incoherent words which he had
deciphered on these scraps of paper mixed strangely in his brain, and
he grew more and more anxious to learn what connection there was between
this letter and the count’s attack. This explains his extreme readiness
to search the count’s clothes when Mademoiselle Marguerite told him to
look for the key of the escritoire. And fortune favored him, for he not
only found the key, but he also discovered the torn fragments of
the letter, and having crumpled them up in the palm of his hand, he
contrived to slip them into his pocket. Fruitless dexterity! M. Casimir
had joined these scraps to the fragments he had found himself, he had
read and re-read the epistle, but it told him nothing; or, at least, the
information it conveyed was so vague and incomplete that it heightened
his curiosity all the more. Once he almost decided to give the letter
to Mademoiselle Marguerite, but he resisted this impulse, saying to
himself: “Ah, no; I’m not such a fool! It might be of use to her.”
And M. Casimir had no desire to be of service to this unhappy girl, who
had always treated him with kindness. He hated her, under the pretence
that she was not in her proper place, that no one knew who or what she
was, and that it was absurd that he--he, Casimir--should be compelled
to receive orders from her. The infamous slander which Mademoiselle
Marguerite had overheard on her way home from church, “There goes the
rich Count de Chalusse’s mistress,” was M. Casimir’s work. He had sworn
to be avenged on this haughty creature; and no one can say what he
might have attempted, if it had not been for the intervention of the
magistrate. Imperatively called to order, M. Casimir consoled himself
by the thought that the magistrate had intrusted him with eight thousand
francs and the charge of the establishment. Nothing could have
pleased him better. First and foremost, it afforded him a magnificent
opportunity to display his authority and act the master, and it also
enabled him to carry out his compact with Victor Chupin, and repair to
the rendezvous which M. Isidore Fortunat had appointed.
Leaving his comrades to watch the magistrate’s operations, he sent M.
Bourigeau to report the count’s death at the district mayor’s office,
and then lighting a cigar he walked out of the house, and strolled
leisurely up the Rue de Courcelles. The place appointed for his meeting
with M. Fortunat was on the Boulevard Haussmann, almost opposite
Binder’s, the famous carriage builder. Although it was rather a
wine-shop than a restaurant, a capital breakfast could be obtained there
as M. Casimir had ascertained to his satisfaction several times before.
“Has no one called for me?” he asked, as he went in.
“No one.”
He consulted his watch, and evinced considerable surprise. “Not yet
noon!” he exclaimed. “I’m in advance; and as that is the case, give me a
glass of absinthe and a newspaper.”
He was obeyed with far more alacrity than his deceased master had ever
required him to show, and he forthwith plunged into the report of
the doings at the Bourse, with the eagerness of a man who has an
all-sufficient reason for his anxiety in a drawer at home. Having
emptied one glass of absinthe, he was about to order a second, when he
felt a tap on the shoulder, and on turning round he beheld M. Isidore
Fortunat.
In accordance with his wont, the agent was attired in a style of severe
elegance--with gloves and boots fitting him to perfection--but an
unusually winning smile played upon his lips. “You see I have been
waiting for you,” exclaimed M. Casimir.
“I am late, it’s true,” replied M. Fortunat, “but we will do our best
to make up for lost time; for, I trust, you will do me the honor of
breakfasting with me?”
“Really, I don’t know that I ought.”
“Yes, yes, you must. They will give us a private room; we must have a
talk.”
It was certainly not for the pleasure of the thing that M. Fortunat
cultivated M. Casimir’s acquaintance, and entertained him at breakfast.
M. Fortunat, who was a very proud man, considered this connection
somewhat beneath his dignity; but at first, circumstances, and afterward
interest, had required him to overcome his repugnance. It was through
the Count de Chalusse that he had made M. Casimir’s acquaintance. While
the count was employing the agent he had frequently sent his valet to
him with messages and letters. Naturally, M. Casimir had talked on these
occasions, and the agent had listened to him; hence this superficial
friendship. Subsequently when the marriage contemplated by the Marquis
de Valorsay was in course of preparation, M. Fortunat had profited of
the opportunity to make the count’s servant his spy; and it had been
easy to find a pretext for continuing the acquaintance, as M. Casimir
was a speculator, or rather a dabbler in stocks and shares. So, whenever
he needed information, M. Fortunat invited M. Casimir to breakfast,
knowing the potent influence of a good bottle of wine offered at the
right moment. It is needless to say that he exercised uncommon care in
the composition of the menu on a day like this when his future course
depended, perhaps, on a word more or less.
M. Casimir’s eye sparkled as he took his seat at the table opposite his
entertainer. The crafty agent had chosen a little room looking out on to
the boulevard. Not that it was more spacious or elegant than the others,
but it was isolated, and this was a very great advantage; for every one
knows how unsafe and perfidious are those so-called private rooms which
are merely separated from each other by a thin partition, scarcely
thicker than a sheet of paper. It was not long before M. Fortunat had
reason to congratulate himself on his foresight, for the breakfast began
with a dish of shrimps, and M. Casimir had not finished his twelfth,
washed down by a glass of chablis, before he declared that he could see
no impropriety in confiding certain things to a friend.
The events of the morning had completely turned his head; and gratified
vanity and good cheer excited him to such a degree that he discoursed
with unwonted volubility. With total disregard of prudence, he talked
with inexcusable freedom of the Count de Chalusse, and M. de Valorsay,
and especially of his enemy, Mademoiselle Marguerite. “For it is she,”
he exclaimed, rapping on the table with his knife--“it is she who has
taken the missing millions! How she did it, no one will ever know, for
she has not an equal in craftiness; but it’s she who has stolen them,
I’m sure of it! I would have taken my oath to that effect before the
magistrate, and I would have proved it, too, if he hadn’t taken her part
because she’s pretty--for she is devilishly pretty.”
Even if M. Fortunat had wished to put in a word or two, he could have
found no opportunity. But his guest’s loquacity did not displease him;
it gave him an opportunity for reflection. Strange thoughts arose in his
mind, and connecting M. Casimir’s affirmations with the assurances of
the Marquis de Valorsay, he was amazed at the coincidence. “It’s very
singular!” he thought. “Has this girl really stolen the money? and has
the marquis discovered the fact through Madame Leon, and determined to
profit by the theft? In that case, I may get my money back, after all! I
must look into the matter.”
A partridge and a bottle of Pomard followed the shrimps and chablis; and
M. Casimir’s loquacity increased, and his voice rose higher and higher.
He wandered from one absurd story to another, and from slander to
slander, until suddenly, and without the slightest warning, he began to
speak of the mysterious letter which he considered the undoubted cause
of the count’s illness.
At the first word respecting this missive, M. Fortunat started
violently. “Nonsense!” said he, with an incredulous air. “Why the devil
should this letter have had such an influence?”
“I don’t know. But it is certain--it had.” And, in support of his
assertion, he told M. Fortunat how the count had destroyed the letter
almost without reading it, and how he had afterward searched for the
fragments, in order to find an address it had contained. “And I’m quite
sure,” said the valet, “that the count intended to apply to you for the
address of the person who wrote the letter.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“As sure as I am of drinking Pomard!” exclaimed M. Casimir, draining his
glass.
Rarely had the agent experienced such emotion. He did not doubt but what
this missive contained the solution of the mystery. “Were the scraps of
this letter found?” he asked.
“I have them,” cried the valet, triumphantly. “I have them in my pocket,
and, what’s more, I have the whole of them!”
This declaration made M. Fortunat turn pale with delight.
“Indeed--indeed!” said he; “it must be a strange production.”
His companion pursed up his lips disdainfully. “May be so, may be not,”
he retorted. “It’s impossible to understand a word of it. The only thing
certain about it is that it was written by a woman.”
“Ah!”
“Yes, by a former mistress, undoubtedly. And, naturally, she asks for
money for a child. Women of that class always do so. They’ve tried the
game with me more than a dozen times, but I’m not so easily caught.” And
bursting with vanity, he related three or four love affairs in which,
according to his own account, he must have played a most ignoble part.
If M. Fortunat’s chair had been a gridiron, heated by an excellent fire,
he could not have felt more uncomfortable. After pouring out bumper
after bumper for his guest, he perceived that he had gone too far,
and that it would not be easy to check him. “And this letter?” he
interrupted, at last.
“Well?”
“You promised to let me read it.”
“That’s true--that’s quite true; but it would be as well to have some
mocha first, would it not? What if we ordered some mocha, eh?”
Coffee was served, and when the waiter had closed the door, M. Casimir
drew the letter, the scraps of which were fixed together, from his
pocket, and unfolded it, saying: “Attention; I’m going to read.”
This did not suit M. Fortunat’s fancy. He would infinitely have
preferred perusing it himself; but it is impossible to argue with an
intoxicated man, and so M. Casimir with a more and more indistinct
enunciation read as follows: “‘Paris, October 14, 186--.’ So the lady
lives in Paris, as usual. After this she puts neither ‘monsieur,’ nor
‘my friend,’ nor ‘dear count,’ nothing at all. She begins abruptly:
‘Once before, many years ago, I came to you as a suppliant. You were
pitiless, and did not even deign to answer me. And yet, as I told you, I
was on the verge of a terrible precipice; my brain was reeling, vertigo
had seized hold of me. Deserted, I was wandering about Paris, homeless
and penniless, and my child was starving!’”
M. Casimir paused to laugh. “That’s like all the rest of them,” he
exclaimed; “that is exactly like all the rest! I’ve ten such letters in
my drawer, even more imperative in their demands. If you’ll come home
with me after breakfast, I’ll show them to you. We’ll have a hearty
laugh over them!”
“Let us finish this first.”
“Of course.” And he resumed: “‘If I had been alone. I should not have
hesitated. I was so wretched that death seemed a refuge to me. But
what was to become of my child? Should I kill him, and destroy myself
afterward? I thought of doing so, but I lacked the courage. And what
I implored you in pity to give me, was rightfully mine. I had only to
present myself at your house and demand it. Alas! I did not know that
then. I believed myself bound by a solemn oath, and you inspired me
with inexpressible terror. And still I could not see my child die of
starvation before my very eyes. So I abandoned myself to my fate, and
I have sunk so low that I have been obliged to separate from my son.
He must not know the shame to which he owes his livelihood. And he is
ignorant even of my existence.’”
M. Fortunat was as motionless as if he had been turned to stone. After
the information he had obtained respecting the count’s past, and after
the story told him by Madame Vantrasson, he could scarcely doubt.
“This letter,” he thought, “can only be from Mademoiselle Hermine de
Chalusse.”
However, M. Casimir resumed his reading: “‘If I apply to you again, if
from the depth of infamy into which I have fallen, I again call upon you
for help, it is because I am at the end of my resources--because, before
I die, I must see my son’s future assured. It is not a fortune that I
ask for him, but sufficient to live upon, and I expect to receive it
from you.’”
Once more the valet paused in his perusal of the letter to remark:
“There it is again sufficient to live upon, and I expect to receive it
from you!--Excellent! Women are remarkable creatures, upon my word! But
listen to the rest! ‘It is absolutely necessary that I should see you
as soon as possible. Oblige me, therefore, by calling to-morrow, October
15th, at the Hotel de Homburg, in the Rue du Helder. You will ask for
Madame Lucy Huntley, and they will conduct you to me. I shall expect you
from three o’clock to six. Come. I implore you, come. It is painful to
me to add that if I do not hear from you, I am resolved to demand and
OBTAIN--no matter what may be the consequences--the means which I have,
so far, asked of you on my bended knees and with clasped hands.’”
Having finished the letter, M. Casimir laid it on the table, and poured
out a glassful of brandy, which he drained at a single draught. “And
that’s all,” he remarked. “No signature--not even an initial. It was a
so-called respectable woman who wrote that. They never sign their notes,
the hussies! for fear of compromising themselves, as I’ve reason to
know.” And so saying, he laughed the idiotic laugh of a man who has been
drinking immoderately. “If I had time,” he resumed, “I should make some
inquiries about this Madame Lucy Huntley--a feigned name, evidently.
I should like to know---- But what’s the matter with you, Monsieur
Fortunat? You are as pale as death. Are you ill?”
To tell the truth, the agent did look as if he were indisposed.
“Thanks,” he stammered. “I’m very well, only I just remembered that some
one is waiting for me.”
“Who?”
“A client.”
“Nonsense!” rejoined the valet; “make some excuse; let him go about his
business. Aren’t you rich enough? Pour us out another glass of wine; it
will make you all right again.”
M. Fortunat complied, but he performed the task so awkwardly, or,
rather, so skilfully, that he drew toward him, with his sleeve, the
letter which was lying beside M. Casimir’s plate. “To your health,” said
the valet. “To yours,” replied M. Fortunat. And in drawing back the arm
he had extended to chink glasses with his guest, he caused the letter to
fall on his knees.
M. Casimir, who had not observed this successful manoeuvre, was trying
to light his cigar; and while vainly consuming a large quantity of
matches in the attempt, he exclaimed: “What you just said, my friend,
means that you would like to desert me. That won’t do, my dear fellow!
You are going home with me; and I will read you some love-letters from
a woman of the world. Then we will go to Mourloup’s, and play a game of
billiards. That’s the place to enjoy one’s self. You’ll see Joseph, of
the Commarin household, a splendid comedian.”
“Very well; but first I must settle the score here.”
“Yes, pay.”
M. Fortunat rang for his bill. He had obtained more information than
he expected; he had the letter in his pocket, and he had now only one
desire, to rid himself of M. Casimir. But this was no easy task. Drunken
men cling tenaciously to their friends; and M. Fortunat was asking
himself what strategy he could employ, when the waiter entered, and
said: “There’s a very light-complexioned man here, who looks as if he
were a huissier’s clerk. He wishes to speak with you, gentlemen.”
“Ah! it’s Chupin!” exclaimed the valet. “He is a friend. Let him come
in, and bring us another glass. ‘The more the merrier,’ as the saying
goes.”
What could Chupin want? M. Fortunat had no idea, but he was none the
less grateful for his coming, being determined to hand this troublesome
Casimir over to his keeping. On entering the room Chupin realized the
valet’s condition at the first glance, and his face clouded. He
bowed politely to M. Fortunat, but addressed Casimir in an extremely
discontented tone. “It’s three o’clock,” said he, “and I’ve come, as we
agreed, to arrange with you about the count’s funeral.”
These words had the effect of a cold shower-bath on M. Casimir. “Upon
my word, I had forgotten--forgotten entirely, upon my word!” And the
thought of his condition, and the responsibility he had accepted, coming
upon him at the same time, he continued: “Good Heavens! I’m in a nice
state! It is all I can do to stand. What will they think at the house?
What will they say?”
M. Fortunat had drawn his clerk a little on one side. “Victor,” said he,
quickly and earnestly, “I must go at once. Everything has been paid for;
but in case you need some money for a cab or anything of the sort, here
are ten francs. If there’s any you don’t use, keep it for yourself. I
leave this fool in your charge, take care of him.”
The sight of the ten-franc piece made Chupin’s face brighten a little.
“Very well,” he replied. “I understand the business. I served my
apprenticeship as a ‘guardian angel’ when my grandmother kept the
Poivriere.” [2]
“Above all, don’t let him return home in his present state.”
“Have no fears, monsieur, I must talk business with him, and so I shall
have him all right in a jiffy.” And as M. Fortunat made his escape,
Chupin beckoned to the waiter, and said:
“Fetch me some very strong coffee, a handful of salt, and a lemon.
There’s nothing better for bringing a drunken man to his senses.”