M. Isidore Fortunat was not the man to go to sleep over a plan when it
was once formed. Whenever he said to himself, “I’ll do this, or that,”
he did it as soon as possible--that very evening, rather than the next
day. Having sworn that he would find out Madame d’Argeles’s son, the
heir to the Count de Chalusse’s millions, it did not take him long
to decide which of his agents he would select to assist him in this
difficult task. Thus his first care, on returning home, was to ask his
bookkeeper for Victor Chupin’s address.
“He lives in the Faubourg Saint-Denis,” replied the bookkeeper, “at
No.--.”
“Very well,” muttered M. Fortunat; “I’ll go there as soon as I have
eaten my dinner.” And, indeed, as soon as he had swallowed his coffee,
he requested Madame Dodelin to bring him his overcoat, and half an hour
later he reached the door of the house where his clerk resided.
The house was one of those huge, ungainly structures, large enough
to shelter the population of a small village, with three or four
courtyards, as many staircases as there are letters in the alphabet,
and a concierge who seldom remembers the names of the tenants except on
quarter-days when he goes to collect the rent, and at New Year, when he
expects a gratuity. But, by one of those lucky chances made expressly
for M. Fortunat, the porter did recollect Chupin, knew him and was
kindly disposed toward him, and so he told the visitor exactly how and
where to find him. It was very simple. He had only to cross the first
courtyard, take staircase D, on the left-hand side, ascend to the sixth
floor, go straight ahead, etc., etc.
Thanks to this unusual civility, M. Fortunat did not lose his way more
than five times before reaching the door upon which was fastened a bit
of pasteboard bearing Victor Chupin’s name. Noticing that a bell-rope
hung beside the door, M. Fortunat pulled it, whereupon there was a
tinkling, and a voice called out, “Come in!” He complied, and found
himself in a small and cheaply furnished room, which was, however,
radiant with the cleanliness which is in itself a luxury. The waxed
floor shone like a mirror; the furniture was brilliantly polished, and
the counterpane and curtains of the bed were as white as snow. What
first attracted the agent’s attention was the number of superfluous
articles scattered about the apartment--some plaster statuettes on
either side of a gilt clock, an etagere crowded with knickknacks, and
five or six passable engravings. When he entered, Victor Chupin was
sitting, in his shirt-sleeves, at a little table, where, by the light of
a small lamp, and with a zeal that brought a flush to his cheeks, he was
copying, in a very fair hand a page from a French dictionary. Near the
bed, in the shade, sat a poorly but neatly clad woman about forty years
of age, who was knitting industriously with some long wooden needles.
“M. Victor Chupin?” inquired M. Fortunat.
The sound of his voice made the young man spring to his feet. He quickly
lifted the shade from his lamp, and, without attempting to conceal his
astonishment, exclaimed: “M’sieur Fortunat!--at this hour! Where’s
the fire?” Then, in a grave manner that contrasted strangely with
his accustomed levity: “Mother,” said he, “this is one of my patrons,
M’sieur Fortunat--you know--the gentleman whom I collect for.”
The knitter rose, bowed respectfully, and said: “I hope, sir, that you
are pleased with my son, and that he’s honest.”
“Certainly, madame,” replied the agent; “certainly. Victor is one of my
best and most reliable clerks.”
“Then I’m content,” said the woman, reseating herself.
Chupin also seemed delighted “This is my good mother, sir,” said he.
“She’s almost blind now; but, in less than six months she will be able
to stand at her window and see a pin in the middle of the street, so
the physician who is treating her eyes promised me; then we shall be
all right again. But take a seat, sir. May we venture to offer you
anything?”
Although his clerk had more than once alluded to his responsibilities,
M. Fortunat was amazed. He marvelled at the perfume of honesty which
exhaled from these poor people, at the dignity of this humble woman, and
at the protecting and respectful affection evinced by her son--a young
man, whose usual tone of voice and general behavior had seemed to
indicate that he was decidedly a scapegrace. “Thanks, Victor,” he
replied, “I won’t take any refreshment. I’ve just left the dinner-table.
I’ve come to give you my instructions respecting a very important and
very urgent matter.”
Chupin at once understood that his employer wished for a private
interview. Accordingly, he took up the lamp, opened a door, and, in the
pompous tone of a rich banker who is inviting some important personage
to enter his private room, he said: “Will you be kind enough to step
into my chamber, m’sieur?”
The room which Chupin so emphatically denominated his “chamber” was a
tiny nook, extraordinarily clean, it is true, but scantily furnished
with a small iron bedstead, a trunk, and a chair. He offered the chair
to his visitor, placed the lamp on the trunk, and seated himself on the
bed, saying as he did so: “This is scarcely on so grand a scale as your
establishment, m’sieur; but I am going to ask the landlord to gild the
window of my snuff-box.”
M. Fortunat was positively touched. He held out his hand to his clerk
and exclaimed: “You’re a worthy fellow, Chupin.”
“Nonsense, m’sieur, one does what one can; but, zounds! how hard it is
to make money honestly! If my good mother could only see, she would
help me famously, for there is no one like her for work! But you see one
can’t become a millionaire by knitting!”
“Doesn’t your father live with you?”
Chupin’s eyes gleamed angrily. “Ah! don’t speak of that man to me,
m’sieur!” he exclaimed, “or I shall hurt somebody.” And then, as if he
felt it necessary to explain and excuse his vindictive exclamation, he
added: “My father, Polyte Chupin, is a good-for-nothing scamp. And yet
he’s had his opportunities. First, he was fortunate enough to find a
wife like my mother, who is honesty itself--so much so that she was
called Toinon the Virtuous when she was young. She idolized him, and
nearly killed herself by working to earn money for him. And yet he
abused her so much, and made her weep so much, that she has become
blind. But that’s not all. One morning there came to him--I don’t know
whence or how--enough money for him to have lived like a gentleman. I
believe it was a munificent reward for some service he had rendered a
great nobleman at the time when my grandmother, who is now dead, kept a
dramshop called the Poivriere. Any other man would have treasured that
money, but not he. What he did was to carouse day and night, and all the
while my poor mother was working her fingers to the bone to earn food
for me. She never saw a penny of all his money; and, indeed, once when
she asked him to pay the rent, he beat her so cruelly that she was laid
up in bed for a week. However, monsieur, you can very readily understand
that when a man leads that kind of life, he speedily comes to the end of
his banking account. So my father was soon without a penny in his purse,
and then he was obliged to work in order to get something to eat, and
this didn’t suit him at all. But when he didn’t know where to find a
crust he remembered us; he sought us out, and found us. Once I lent him
a hundred sous; the next day he came for forty more, and the next for
three francs; then for five francs again. And so it was every day: ‘Give
me this, or give me that!’ At last I said, ‘Enough of this, the bank’s
closed!’ Then, what do you think he did? He watched the house until he
saw me go out; then he came in with a second-hand furniture-dealer,
and tried to sell everything, pretending that he was the master. And
my poor, dear mother would have allowed him to do it. Fortunately, I
happened to come in again. Let him sell my furniture? Not I. I would
sooner have been chopped in pieces! I went and complained to the
commissary of police, who made my father leave the house, and since then
we’ve lived in peace.”
Certainly this was more than sufficient to explain and excuse Victor
Chupin’s indignation. And yet he had prudently withheld the most serious
and important cause of his dislike. What he refrained from telling
was that years before, when he was still a mere child, without will or
discernment, his father had taken him from his mother, and had started
him down that terrible descent, which inevitably leads one to prison or
the gallows, unless there be an almost miraculous interposition on one’s
behalf. This miracle had occurred in Chupin’s case; but he did not boast
of it.
“Come, come!” said M. Fortunat, “don’t worry too much about it. A
father’s a father after all, and yours will undoubtedly reform by and
by.”
He said this as he would have said anything else, out of politeness and
for the sake of testifying a friendly interest; but he really cared no
more for this information concerning the Chupin family than the grand
Turk. His first emotion had quickly vanished; and he was beginning to
find these confidential disclosures rather wearisome. “Let us get back
to business,” he remarked; “that is to say, to Casimir. What did you do
with the fool after my departure?”
“First, monsieur, I sobered him; which was no easy task. The greedy
idiot had converted himself into a wine-cask! At last, however, when he
could talk as well as you and I, and walk straight, I took him back to
the Hotel de Chalusse.”
“That was right. But didn’t you have some business to transact with
him?”
“That’s been arranged, monsieur; the agreement has been signed. The
count will have the best of funerals--the finest hearse out, with six
horses, twenty-four mourning coaches--a grand display, in fact. It will
be worth seeing.”
M. Fortunat smiled graciously. “That ought to bring you a handsome
commission,” he said, benignly.
Employed by the job, Chupin was the master of his own time, free to
utilize his intelligence and industry as he chose, but M. Fortunat did
not like his subordinates to make any money except through him. Hence
his approval, in the present instance, was so remarkable that it
awakened Chupin’s suspicions. “I shall make a few sous, probably,” he
modestly replied, “a trifle to aid my good mother in keeping the pot
boiling.”
“So much the better, my boy,” said M. Fortunat. “I like to see money
gained by those who make a good use of it. And to prove this, I’m
about to employ you in an affair which will pay you handsomely if you
prosecute it successfully.”
Chupin’s eyes brightened at first but grew dark a moment afterward, for
delight had been quickly followed by a feeling of distrust. He thought
it exceedingly strange that an employer should take the trouble to climb
to a sixth floor merely for the purpose of conferring a favor on his
clerk. There must be something behind all this; and so it behove him to
keep his eyes open. However, he knew how to conceal his real feelings;
and it was with a joyous air that he exclaimed: “Eh! What? Money? Now?
What must I do to earn it?”
“Oh! a mere trifle,” replied the agent; “almost nothing, indeed.” And
drawing his chair nearer to the bed on which his employee was seated,
he added: “But first, one question, Victor. By the way in which a woman
looks at a young man in the street, at the theatre or anywhere--would
you know if she were watching her son?”
Chupin shrugged his shoulders. “What a question!” he retorted.
“Nonsense! monsieur, it would be impossible to deceive me. I should only
have to remember my mother’s eyes when I return home in the evening.
Poor woman! although she’s half blind, she sees me--and if you wish
to make her happy, you’ve only to tell her I’m the handsomest and most
amiable youth in Paris.”
M. Fortunat could not refrain from rubbing his hands, so delighted was
he to see his idea so perfectly understood and so admirably expressed.
“Good!” he declared; “very good! That’s intelligence, if I am any judge.
I have not been deceived in you, Victor.”
Victor was on fire with curiosity. “What am I to do, monsieur?” he asked
eagerly.
“This: you must follow a woman whom I shall point out to you, follow her
everywhere without once losing sight of her, and so skilfully as not to
let her suspect it. You must watch her every glance, and when her eyes
tell you that she is looking at her son, your task will be nearly over.
You will then only have to follow this son, and find out his name and
address, what he does, and how he lives. I don’t know if I explain what
I mean very clearly.”
This doubt was awakened in M. Fortunat’s mind by Chupin’s features,
which were expressive of lively astonishment and discontent. “Excuse me,
monsieur,” he said, at last, “I do not understand at all.”
“It’s very simple, however. The lady in question has a son about twenty.
I know it--I’m sure of it. But she denies it; she conceals the fact, and
he doesn’t even know her. She secretly watches over him, however--she
provides him with money, and every day she finds some way of seeing him.
Now, it is to my interest to find this son.”
Chupin’s mobile face became actually threatening in its expression; he
frowned darkly, and his lips quivered. Still this did not prevent M.
Fortunat from adding, with the assurance of a man who does not even
suspect the possibility of a refusal: “Now, when shall we set about our
task?”
“Never!” cried Chupin, violently; and, rising, he continued: “No! I
wouldn’t let my good mother eat bread earned in that way--it would
strangle her! Turn spy! I? Thanks--some one else may have the job!” He
had become as red as a turkey-cock, and such was his indignation that he
forgot his accustomed reserve and the caution with which he had so far
concealed his antecedents. “I know this game--I’ve tried it!” he went
on, vehemently. “One might as well take one’s ticket to prison by a
direct road. I should be there now if it hadn’t been for Monsieur Andre.
I was thirsting for gold, and, like the brigand that I was, I should
have killed the man; but in revenge he drew me from the mire and placed
my feet on solid ground once more. And now, shall I go back to my vile
tricks again? Why, I’d rather cut my leg off! I’m to hunt down this poor
woman--I’m to discover her secret so that you may extort money from her,
am I? No, not I! I should like to be rich, and I shall be rich; but I’ll
make my money honestly. I hope to touch my hundred-franc pieces without
being obliged to wash my hands afterward. So, a very good evening to
your establishment.”
M. Fortunat was amazed, and at the same time much annoyed, to find
himself forsaken on account of such a trifle. He feared, too, that
Chupin might let his tongue wag if he left his employment. So, since he
had confided this project to Chupin, he was determined that Chupin alone
should carry it into execution. Assuming his most severe and injured
manner, he sternly exclaimed: “I think you have lost your senses.”
His demeanor and intonation were so perfectly cool that Chupin seemed
slightly abashed. “It seems that you think me capable of urging you to
commit some dangerous and dishonorable act,” continued M. Fortunat.
“Why--no--m’sieur--I assure you.”
There was such evident hesitation in the utterance of this “no” that the
agent at once resumed: “Come, you are not ignorant of the fact that
in addition to my business as a collector, I give my attention to the
discovery of the heirs of unclaimed estates? You are aware of this?
Very well then: pray tell me how I am to find them without searching for
them? If I wish this lady to be watched, it is only in view of reaching
a poor lad who is likely to be defrauded of the wealth that rightfully
belongs to him. And when I give you a chance to make forty or fifty
francs in a couple of days, you receive my proposition in this style!
You are an ingrate and a fool, Victor!”
Chupin’s nature combined, in a remarkable degree, the vices and
peculiarities of the dweller in the Paris faubourgs, who is born old,
but who, when aged in years, still remains a gamin. In his youth he had
seen many strange things, and acquired a knowledge of life that would
have put the experience of a philosopher to shame. But he was not fit to
cope with M. Fortunat, who had an immense advantage over him, by reason
of his position of employer, as well as by his fortune and education.
So Chupin was both bewildered and disconcerted by the cool arguments his
patron brought forward; and what most effectually allayed his suspicions
was the small compensation offered for the work--merely forty or fifty
francs. “Small potatoes, upon my word!” he thought. “Just the price of
an honest service; he would have offered more for a piece of rascality.”
So, after considering a moment, he said, aloud: “Very well; I’m your
man, m’sieur.”
M. Fortunat was secretly laughing at the success of his ruse. Having
come with the intention of offering his agent a handsome sum, he was
agreeably surprised to find that Chupin’s scruples would enable him to
save his money. “If I hadn’t found you engaged in study, Victor,” he
said, “I should have thought you had been drinking. What venomous insect
stung you so suddenly? Haven’t I confided similar undertakings to you
twenty times since you have been in my employment? Who ransacked Paris
to find certain debtors who were concealing themselves? Who discovered
the Vantrassons for me? Victor Chupin. Very well. Then allow me to say
that I see nothing in this case in any way differing from the others,
nor can I understand why this should be wrong, if the others were not.”
Chupin could only have answered this remark by saying that there had
been no mystery about the previous affairs, that they had not been
proposed to him late at night at his own home, and that he had acted
openly, as a person who represents a creditor has a recognized right
to act. But, though he felt that there WAS a difference in the present
case, it would have been very difficult for him to explain in what this
difference consisted. Hence, in his most resolute tone: “I’m only a
fool, m’sieur,” he declared; “but I shall know how to make amends for my
folly.”
“That means you have recovered your senses,” said M. Fortunat,
ironically. “Really, that’s fortunate. But let me give you one bit
of advice: watch yourself, and learn to bridle your tongue. You won’t
always find me in such a good humor as I am this evening.”
So saying, he rose, passed out into the adjoining room, bowed civilly
to his clerk’s mother, and went off. His last words, as he crossed the
threshold, were, “So I shall rely upon you. Be at the office to-morrow a
little before noon.”
“It’s agreed m’sieur.”
The blind woman had risen, and had bowed respectfully; but, as soon as
she was alone with her son, she asked: “What is this business he bids
you undertake in such a high and mighty tone?”
“Oh! an every-day matter, mother.”
The old woman shook her head. “Why were you talking so loud then?” she
inquired. “Weren’t you quarrelling? It must be something very grave when
it’s necessary to conceal it from me. I couldn’t see your employer’s
face, my son; but I heard his voice, and it didn’t please me. It isn’t
the voice of an honest, straightforward man. Take care, Toto, and don’t
allow yourself to be cajoled--be prudent.”
However, it was quite unnecessary to recommend prudence to Victor
Chupin. He had promised his assistance, but not without a mental
reservation. “No need to see danger till it comes,” he had said to
himself. “If the thing proves to be of questionable propriety after all,
then good-evening; I desert.”
It remains to know what he meant by questionable propriety; the meaning
of the expression is rather vague. He had returned in all honesty and
sincerity of purpose to an honest life, and nothing in the world would
have induced him, avaricious though he was, to commit an act that was
positively wrong. Only the line that separates good from evil was not
very clearly defined in his mind. This was due in a great measure to his
education, and to the fact that it had been long before he realized that
police regulations do not constitute the highest moral law. It was due
also to chance, and, since he had no decided calling, to the necessity
of depending for a livelihood upon the many strange professions which
impecunious and untrained individuals, both of the higher and lower
classes, adopt in Paris.
However, on the following morning he arrayed himself in his best
apparel, and at exactly half-past eleven o’clock he rang at his
employer’s door. M. Fortunat had made quick work with his clients that
morning, and was ready, dressed to go out. He took up his hat and said
only the one word, “Come.” The place where the agent conducted his
clerk was the wine-shop in the Rue de Berry, where he had made inquiries
respecting Madame d’Argeles the evening before; and on arriving there,
he generously offered him a breakfast. Before entering, however, he
pointed out Madame d’Argeles’s pretty house on the opposite side of the
street, and said to him: “The woman whom you are to follow, and whose
son you are to discover, will emerge from that house.”
At that moment, after a night passed in meditating upon his mother’s
prophetic warnings, Chupin was again beset by the same scruples which
had so greatly disturbed him on the previous evening. However, they
soon vanished when he heard the wine-vendor, in reply to M. Fortunat’s
skilful questions, begin to relate all he knew concerning Madame Lia
d’Argeles, and the scandalous doings at her house. The seeker after lost
heirs and his clerk were served at a little table near the door;
and while they partook of the classical beef-steak and; potatoes--M.
Fortunat eating daintily, and Chupin bolting his food with the appetite
of a ship-wrecked mariner--they watched the house opposite.
Madame d’Argeles received on Saturdays, and, as Chupin remarked, “there
was a regular procession of visitors.”
Standing beside M. Fortunat, and flattered by the attention which such
a well-dressed gentleman paid to his chatter, the landlord of the house
mentioned the names of all the visitors he knew. And he knew a good
number of them, for the coachmen came to his shop for refreshments when
their masters were spending the night in play at Madame d’Argeles’s
house. So he was able to name the Viscount de Coralth, who dashed up to
the door in a two-horse phaeton, as well as Baron Trigault, who came on
foot, for exercise, puffing and blowing like a seal. The wine-vendor,
moreover, told his customers that Madame d’Argeles never went out before
half-past two or three o’clock, and then always in a carriage--a piece
of information which must have troubled Chupin; for, as soon as the
landlord had left them to serve some other customers, he leant forward
and said to M. Fortunat: “Did you hear that? How is it possible to track
a person who’s in a carriage?”
“By following in another vehicle, of course.”
“Certainly, m’sieur; that’s as clear as daylight. But that isn’t the
question. The point is this: How can one watch the face of a person who
turns her back to you? I must see this woman’s face to know whom she
looks at, and how.”
This objection, grave as it appeared, did not seem to disturb M.
Fortunat. “Don’t worry about that, Victor,” he replied. “Under such
circumstances, a mother wouldn’t try to see her son from a rapidly
moving carriage. She will undoubtedly alight, and contrive some means of
passing and repassing him--of touching him, if possible. Your task will
only consist in following her closely enough to be on the ground as soon
as she is. Confine your efforts to that; and if you fail to-day,
you’ll succeed to-morrow or the day after--the essential thing is to be
patient.”
He did better than to preach patience--he practised it. The hours wore
away, and yet he did not stir from his post, though nothing could have
been more disagreeable to him than to remain on exhibition, as it were,
at the door of a wine-shop. At last, at a little before three o’clock,
the gates over the way turned upon their hinges, and a dark-blue
victoria, in which a woman was seated, rolled forth into the street.
“Look!” said M. Fortunat, eagerly. “There she is!”