“Ah! this is a bad job!” growled Chupin. “Go, go, and never stop!”
What exasperated him even more than his want of sleep was the thought
that his good mother must be waiting for him at home in an agony of
anxiety; for since his reformation he had become remarkably regular in
his habits. What should he do? “Go home,” said Reason; “it will be easy
enough to find this Wilkie again. There can be little doubt that he
lives at No. 48, in the Rue du Helder.” “Remain,” whispered Avarice;
“and, since you have accomplished so much, finish your work. M. Fortunat
won’t pay for conjectures, but for a certainty.”
Love of money carried the day; so, weaving an interminable chaplet of
oaths, he followed the party until they entered Brebant’s restaurant,
one of the best known establishments which remain open at night-time. It
was nearly two o’clock in the morning now; the boulevard was silent and
deserted, and yet this restaurant was brilliantly lighted from top to
bottom, and snatches of song and shouts of laughter, with the clatter
of knives and forks and the clink of glasses, could be heard through the
half opened windows.
“Eight dozen Marennes for No. 6,” shouted a waiter to the man who opened
oysters near the restaurant door.
On hearing this order, Chupin shook his clenched fist at the stars. “The
wretches!” he muttered through his set teeth; “bad luck to them! Those
oysters are for their mouths, plainly enough, for there are eight of
them in all, counting those yellow-haired women. They will, no doubt,
remain at table until six o’clock in the morning. And they call this
enjoying themselves. And meanwhile, poor little Chupin must wear out his
shoe-leather on the pavement. Ah! they shall pay for this!”
It ought to have been some consolation to him to see that he was not
alone in his misery, for in front of the restaurant stood a dozen cabs
with sleepy drivers, who were waiting for chance to send them one of
those half-intoxicated passengers who refuse to pay more than fifteen
sous for their fare, but give their Jehu a gratuity of a louis. All
these vehicles belonged to the peculiar category known as “night
cabs”--dilapidated conveyances with soiled, ragged linings, and drawn by
half-starved, jaded horses.
However, Chupin neither thought of these vehicles, nor of the poor
horses, nor, indeed, of the drivers themselves. His wrath had been
succeeded by philosophical resignation; he accepted with good grace what
he could not avoid. As the night air had become very cool, he turned up
the collar of his overcoat, and began to pace to and fro on the pavement
in front of the restaurant. He had made a hundred turns perhaps, passing
the events of the day in review, when suddenly such a strange and
startling idea flashed across his mind that he stood motionless, lost
in astonishment. Reflecting on the manner in which M. Wilkie and the
Viscount de Coralth had behaved during the evening, a singular suspicion
assailed him. While M. Wilkie gradually lost his wits, M. de Coralth
had become remarkably cold and reserved. He had seemed to oppose all M.
Wilkie’s propositions; but he had agreed to them at last, so that his
objections had produced much the same effect as a stimulant. It seemed
then as if M. de Coralth had some strange interest in wishing to gain
ascendency over his friend. At least such was Chupin’s opinion. “Oh,
oh!” he murmured. “What if HE should be working up the same little
scheme? What if he were acquainted with Madame Lia d’Argeles? What if he
knew that there’s a fortune waiting for a claimant? I shouldn’t at all
be surprised if I found that he wanted to cook his bread in our oven.
But father Fortunat wouldn’t be pleased with the news. Ah! no--he
wouldn’t even smile----”
While carrying on this little conversation with himself, he stood just
in front of the restaurant, looking up into the air, when all of a
sudden a window was thrown noisily open, and the figures of two men
became plainly visible. They were engaged in a friendly struggle; one of
them seemed to be trying to seize hold of something which the other had
in his hand, and which he refused to part with. One of these men was M.
Wilkie as Chupin at once perceived. “Good!” he said to himself; “this is
the beginning of the end!”
As he spoke, M. Wilkie’s hat fell on the window-sill, slipped off, and
dropped on to the pavement below. With a natural impulse Chupin picked
it up, and he was turning it over and over in his hands, when M. Wilkie
leant out of the window and shouted in a voice that was thick with wine:
“Halloo! Eh, there! Who picked up my hat? Honesty shall be rewarded. A
glass of champagne and a cigar for the fellow who’ll bring it me in room
No. 6.”
Chupin hesitated. By going up, he might, perhaps, compromise the success
of his mission. But on the other hand his curiosity was aroused, and
he very much wished to see, with his own eyes, how these young men were
amusing themselves. Besides, he would have an opportunity of examining
this handsome viscount, whom he was certain he had met before, though he
could not tell when or where. In the meantime, M. Wilkie had perceived
him.
“Come, you simpleton!” he cried; “make haste. You can’t be very
thirsty.”
The thought of the viscount decided Chupin. Entering the restaurant
and climbing the staircase, he had just reached the landing when a
pale-looking man, who had a smoothly-shaven face and was dressed in
black, barred his way and asked: “What do you want?”
“M’sieur, here’s a hat which fell from one of your windows and----”
“All right, hand it here.”
But Chupin did not seem to hear this order. He was beginning a long
explanation, when a curtain near by was pushed aside, and M. Wilkie
called out: “Philippe! eh, Philippe!--bring me the man who picked up my
hat.”
“Ah!” said Chupin, “you see, m’sieur, that he asks for me.”
“Very well,” said Philippe. “Go on, then.” And raising the portiere he
pushed Chupin into room No. 6.
It was a small, square apartment, with a very low ceiling. The
temperature was like that of a furnace, and the glare of the gaslights
almost blinded one. The supper was over, but the table had not yet been
cleared, and plates full of leavings showed that the guests had fairly
exhausted their appetites. Still, with the exception of M. Wilkie, every
one present seemed to be terribly bored. In one corner, with her head
resting on a piano, sat one of the yellow-haired damsels, fast asleep,
while, beside the window, M. de Coralth was smoking with his elbows
propped upon the table. The four other young men were looking on
phlegmatically. “Ah! here’s my hat,” exclaimed M. Wilkie, as soon as
Chupin appeared. “Wait and receive your promised reward.” And
thereupon he rang the bell, crying at the top of his voice: “Henry,
you sleepy-head--a clean glass and some more of the widow Cliquot’s
champagne!”
Several bottles were standing upon the table, only half empty, and
one of M. Wilkie’s friends called his attention to this fact, but he
shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “You must take me for a fool,” he
said, contemptuously. “A man doesn’t drink stale wine when he has the
prospect of such an inheritance as is coming to me.”
“Wilkie!” interrupted M. de Coralth, quickly; “Wilkie!”
But he was too late; Chupin had heard and understood everything. His
conjectures had proved correct. M. Wilkie knew his right to the estate;
M. Fortunat had been forestalled by the viscount, and would merely
have his labor for his pains. “No chance for the guv’nor!” thought the
agent’s emissary. “And what a blow after the De Valorsay affair! It’s
enough to give him the jaundice!”
For a youth of his age, Chupin controlled his feelings admirably; but
the revelation came so suddenly that he had started despite himself, and
changed color a trifle. M. de Coralth saw this; and, though he was far
from suspecting the truth, his long repressed anger burst forth. He rose
abruptly, took up a bottle, and filling the nearest glass, he rudely
exclaimed: “Come, drink that--make haste--and clear out!”
Victor Chupin must have become very sensitive since his conversion. In
former times he was not wont to be so susceptible as to lose his temper
when some one chanced to address him in a rather peremptory manner, or
to offer him wine out of the first available glass. But M. de Coralth
inspired him with one of those inexplicable aversions which cannot be
restrained “Eh! tell me if it’s because we’ve drank champagne together
before that you talk to me like that?” the young fellow retorted,
savagely.
It was only a random shot, but it reached home. The viscount seemed
touched to the quick. “You hear that, Wilkie,” said he. “This will teach
you that the time of your compatriot, Lord Seymour, has passed by. The
good-humored race of plebeians who respectfully submitted to the blows
with which noblemen honored them after drinking, has died out. This
ought to cure you of your unfortunate habit of placing yourself on terms
of equality with all the vagabonds you meet.”
Chupin’s hair fairly bristled with anger. “What! what!” he exclaimed;
“I’ll teach you to call me a vagabond, you scoundrel!”
His gesture, his attitude, and his eyes were so expressive of defiance
and menace that two of the guests sprang up and caught him by the arm.
“Go, go,” they said.
But he freed himself from their grasp. “Go!” he replied. “Never! He
called me a vagabond. Am I to pocket the insult quietly and walk off
with it? You can scarcely expect that. First, I demand an apology.”
This was asking too much of the Viscount de Coralth. “Let the fool
alone,” he remarked, with affected coolness, “and ring for the waiters
to kick him out.”
It did not require this new insult to put Chupin in a furious passion.
“Come on!” he exclaimed. “Ah, ha! Where’s the fellow who’ll turn me out?
Let him come. I’ll teach him a lesson!” And as he spoke he squared his
shoulders, inflated his chest, and threw the weight of his entire body
on his left leg, after the most approved method of sparring-masters.
“Go, go!” insisted Wilkie’s friends.
“Yes, I’ll go with pleasure, but your friend must go, too. Is he a man?
Then let him come, and we’ll settle this outside.” And seeing that they
were again trying to seize him: “Hands off!” he thundered, “or I’ll
strike. You were not obliged to invite me here. It isn’t my business to
furnish amusement to parties who’ve drunk too much wine. And why
should you despise me? It’s true I haven’t any money while you have
plenty--that I work and you carouse. Still that’s no reason why
you should scorn me. Besides, those who are poor in the morning are
sometimes rich in the evening. Every dog has his day. I have an idea
that I shall have some coin when yours is all gone. Then it will be
my turn to laugh; and as I’m a good-natured fellow, I will give you my
half-smoked cigars.”
M. Wilkie seemed delighted. He had climbed on to the piano and seated
himself, with his feet on the keyboard; and there, as on a judgment
seat, he listened and applauded, alternately taking Chupin’s part, and
then the viscount’s. “Bravo, gamin!” or, “Give it to him, Coralth!” he
shouted in turn.
This irritated the viscount exceedingly. “I see that we shall be obliged
to call in the police to settle the affair,” he said, sneeringly.
“The police!” roared Chupin. “Ah! that won’t do, you scamp--” But his
voice died away in his throat, and he stood motionless, speechless, with
his arm raised as if he were about to strike, and his eyes dilated with
astonishment.
For a change of expression in M. de Coralth’s face had enlightened him;
and he suddenly recollected when and under what circumstances he had
known this so-called viscount. He remembered, too, the name he had borne
when he first met him. “Oh!” he stammered; “oh! oh!”
However, the effect of this discovery was to dispel his anger, or rather
to restore his calmness, and, addressing M. de Coralth, he exclaimed:
“Don’t be angry at what I’ve said, m’sieur; it was only a jest--I
know that there’s a wide difference between a poor devil like me and a
viscount like you--I haven’t a sou, you see, and that maddens me. But
I’m not so very bad-looking, fortunately, and I’m always hoping that
the daughter of some rich banker will fall in love with me and marry me.
Some people have such luck, you know. If I meet with any you may be sure
I shall pass myself off as the lost child of some great personage--of
a duke, for instance--and if the real son exists, and troubles me, why
I’ll quietly put him out of the way, if possible.”
With but one exception the persons present did not understand a single
word of this apparent nonsense; and indeed the yellow-haired damsels
stared at the speaker in amazement. Still it was evident that each of
these words had a meaning, and a terrible meaning for M. de Coralth.
Accustomed for years to control his features, he remained apparently
unmoved--he even smiled; but a close observer could have detected
anguish in his eyes, and he had become very pale. At last, unable to
endure the scene any longer, he drew a hundred-franc bank-note from
his pocketbook, crumpled it in his hand and threw it at Chupin, saying:
“That’s a very pretty story you are telling, my boy; but we’ve had
enough of it. Take your pay and leave us.”
Unfortunately, the note struck Chupin full in the face. He uttered a
hoarse cry of rage, and, by the way in which he seized and brandished an
empty bottle, it might have been imagined that M. de Coralth was about
to have his head broken. But no. Thanks to a supreme effort of will,
Chupin conquered this mad fury; and, dropping the bottle, he remarked
to the young women who were uttering panic-stricken shrieks: “Be quiet;
don’t you see that I was only in fun.”
But even M. Wilkie had found the fun a little rough, and even dangerous.
Several of the young fellows present sprang up, with the evident
intention of pushing Chupin out of the room, but he checked them with
a gesture. “Don’t disturb yourselves, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m going,
only let me find the bank-note which this gentleman threw at me.”
“That’s quite proper,” replied M. Wilkie, approvingly; “look for it.”
Chupin did so, and at last found it lying almost under the piano. “Now,”
he remarked, “I should like a cigar.”
A score or so were lying in a dish. He gravely selected one of them
and coolly cut off the end of it before placing it in his mouth.
Those around watched him with an air of profound astonishment, not
understanding this ironical calmness following so closely upon such a
storm of passion. Then he, Victor Chupin, who had, it seems to me, but
one aim in life--to become rich--Victor Chupin, who loved money above
anything else, and had stifled all other passions in his soul--he who
often worked two whole days to earn five francs--he who did not disdain
to claim his five sous when he went to hire a cab for his employer--he,
Chupin, twisted the bank-note in his fingers, lit it at the gas, and
used it to light his cigar.
“Ah! he’s crazy!” murmured the yellow-haired damsels, with despair in
their voices.
But M. Wilkie was enthusiastic. “There’s form!” said he. “Fine form and
no mistake!”
But Chupin did not even deign to turn his head. He opened the door, and
standing on the threshold, he bowed to M. de Coralth with an ironical
smile. “Until we meet again, Monsieur Paul,” said he. “And kindly
remember me to Madame Paul, if you please.”
If the others had been less astonished, they would have no doubt have
remarked the prodigious effect of this name upon their brilliant friend.
He became ghastly pale and fell back in his chair. Then, suddenly,
he bounded up as if he wished to attack his enemy. But pursuit seemed
likely to yield no result, for Chupin was already on the boulevard.
It was daybreak. Paris was waking up; the bakers were standing at their
doors, and boys in their shirt-sleeves, with their eyes swollen with
sleep, were taking down the shutters of the wine-shops. A cloud of dust,
raised by the street-sweepers, hung in the distance; the rag-pickers
wandered about, peering among the rubbish; the noisy milk-carts jolted
along at a gallop, and workmen were proceeding to their daily toil,
with hunches of bread in their hands. The morning air was very chilly;
nevertheless, Chupin seated himself on a bench across the boulevard, at
a spot where he could watch the entrance of the restaurant without
being seen. He had just experienced one of those sudden shocks which so
disturb the mind, that one becomes insensible to outward circumstances,
whatever they may be. He had recognized in the so-called Viscount de
Coralth, the man whom he had hated above all others in the world,
or, rather, the only man whom he hated, for his was not a bad heart.
Impressionable to excess like a true child of the faubourgs, he had the
Parisian’s strange mobility of feeling. If his anger was kindled by
a trifle, the merest nothing usually sufficed to extinguish it. But
matters were different respecting this handsome viscount! “God! how I
hate him!” he hissed through his set teeth. “God! how I hate him!”
For once, years before, as he had confessed to M. Fortunat, Chupin had
been guilty of a cowardly and abominable act, which had nearly cost
a man his life. And this crime, if it had been successful, would have
benefited the very fellow who concealed his sinful, shameful past
under the high-sounding name of Coralth. How was it that Chupin had not
recognized him at once? Because he had worked for this fellow without
knowing him, receiving his orders through the miserable wretches who
pandered to his vices. He had only seen him personally once or twice,
and had never spoken to him. Later--too late--he discovered what
vile intrigue it was that he had served. And when he became sincerely
repentant he loathed this Coralth who had caused his crime.
Nor was this all. The recognition of Coralth had inspired him with
remorse. It had aroused in the recesses of his conscience a threatening
voice which cried: “What are you doing here? You are acting as a spy for
a man you distrust, and whose real designs you are ignorant of. It was
in this way you began before. Have you forgotten what it led to? Have
you not sin enough already upon your conscience? Blood enough upon your
hands? It is folly to pretend that one may serve as a tool for villains,
and still remain an honest man!”
It was this voice which had given Chupin the courage to light his cigar
with the bank-note. And this voice still tortured him, as seated on the
bench he now tried to review the situation. Where, indeed, was he? With
rare good luck he had discovered the son whom Madame Lia d’Argeles had
so long and successfully concealed. But contrary to all expectations,
this young fellow already knew of the inheritance which he was entitled
to. M. de Coralth had already achieved what M. Fortunat had meant to do;
and so the plan was a failure, and it was useless to persist in it.
This would have ended the matter if Chupin had not chanced to know
the Viscount de Coralth’s shameful past. And this knowledge changed
everything, for it gave him the power to interfere in a most effectual
manner. Armed with this secret, he could bestow the victory on M.
Fortunat, and force M. de Coralth to capitulate. And he could do this
all the more easily, as he was sure that Coralth had not recognized
him, and that he was perhaps ignorant of his very existence. Chupin had
allowed himself to be carried away by a sudden impulse of anger which
he regretted; he had made an ironical illusion to his enemy’s past life,
but after all this had done no particular harm. So nothing prevented him
from lending M. Fortunat his assistance, and thus killing two birds with
one stone. He could have his revenge on Coralth, and at the same time
insure his patron a large fee, of which he could claim a considerable
share for himself. But no! The idea of deriving any profit whatever from
this affair inspired him with a feeling of disgust--honor triumphed over
his naturally crafty and avaricious nature. It seemed to him that any
money made in this way would soil his fingers; for he realized there
must be some deep villainy under all this plotting and planning; he was
sure of it, since Coralth was mixed up in the affair. “I will serve
my guv’nor for nothing,” he decided. “When a man is avenged, he’s well
paid.”
Chupin decided upon this course because he could think of no better
plan. Still, if he had been master of events he would have acted
otherwise. He would have quietly presented the government with this
inheritance which he found M. Wilkie so unworthy of. “The devil only
knows what he’ll do with it,” he thought. “He’ll squander it as my
father squandered the fortune that was given him. It is only fools who
meet with such luck as that.”
However, his meditations did not prevent him from keeping a close watch
over the restaurant, for it was of the utmost importance that M. Wilkie
should not escape him. It was now broad daylight, and customers were
leaving the establishment; for, after passing what is generally conceded
to be a joyous night, they felt the need of returning home to rest and
sleep. Chupin watched them as they emerged. There were some who came out
with drooping heads, mumbling incoherent phrases; while others who were
equally intoxicated, but more nervous, evinced considerable animation,
and sang snatches of songs, or jested loudly with the street-sweepers as
they passed on. The more sober, surprised by the sunlight, and blushing
at themselves, slunk hastily and quietly away. There was one man,
moreover, whom the waiters were obliged to carry to his cab, for he
could no longer stand on his feet.
At last Chupin saw the individual clad in black whom Wilkie had
addressed as Philippe, and who had endeavored to prevent him from
entering the restaurant, come out, and walk rapidly away. He was warmly
clad in a thick overcoat, but he shivered, and his pale, wan face
betrayed the man who is a martyr to the pleasures of others--the man who
is condemned to be up all night and sleep only in the daytime--the man
who can tell you how much folly and beastliness lurk in the depths of
the wine-cup, and who knows exactly how many yawns are expressed by the
verb “to amuse one’s self.” Chupin was beginning to feel uneasy. “Can M.
Wilkie and his friends have made their escape?” he wondered.
But at that very moment they made their appearance. They lingered awhile
on the pavement to chat, and Chupin had an opportunity of observing
the effect of their night’s dissipation on their faces. The brilliant
sunlight made their eyes blink, and the cold sent purple blotches to
their bloated cheeks. As for the young women with yellow hair, they
appeared as they really were--hideous. They entered the only cab that
remained, the most dilapidated one of all, and the driver of which
had no little difficulty in setting his horse in motion; whereupon the
gentlemen went off on foot.
Many persons would have been vexed and even humiliated by the necessity
of appearing at this hour on the boulevard in disorderly attire, which
plainly indicated that they had spent the night in debauchery. But
with the exception of the Viscount de Coralth, who was evidently out of
humor, the party seemed delighted with themselves, as it was easy to
see by the way they met the glances of the passers-by. They considered
themselves first-class form--they were producing an effect--they were
astonishing people. And what more could they desire?
One thing is certain--they were irritating Chupin terribly. He was
following them on the opposite side of the boulevard, at some little
distance in the rear, for he was afraid of being recognized. “The
wretches!” he growled. “One couldn’t draw a pint of manly blood from the
veins of all six of them. Ah, if they knew how I hate them!”
But he had not long to nurse his wrath. On reaching the Rue Drouot,
two of the gentlemen left the party, and two more went down the Rue
Lepelletier. M. Wilkie and the viscount were left to walk down the
boulevard alone. They linked their arms and carried on an animated
conversation until they reached the Rue du Helder, where they shook
hands and separated. What had they said at parting? What agreement had
been made between them? Chupin would willingly have given a hundred sous
from his private purse to have known. He would have given as much more
to have been able to double himself, in order to pursue the viscount,
who had started off in the direction of the Madeleine, without having to
give up watching and following his friend. But the days of miracles are
over. So Chupin sighed, and, following Wilkie, he soon saw him enter
No. 48 of the Rue du Helder. The concierge, who was at the door busily
engaged in polishing the bell-handle, bowed respectfully. “So there it
is!” grumbled Chupin. “I knew he lived there--I knew it by the way that
Madame d’Argeles looked at the windows yesterday evening. Poor woman!
Ah! her son’s a fine fellow and no mistake!”
His compassion for the unhappy mother seemed to recall him to a sense
of duty. “Scoundrel that I am!” he exclaimed, striking his forehead with
his clenched fist. “Why, I’m forgetting my own good mother!” And as his
task was now ended, he started off on the run, taking the shortest cut
to the Faubourg Saint-Denis. “Poor mother!” he said to himself as he
tore along, “what a night she must have had! She must have cried her
eyes out!”
He spoke the truth. The poor woman had passed a night of agony--counting
the hours, and trembling each time the door of the house opened,
announcing some tenant’s return. And as morning approached, her anxiety
increased. “For her son would not have allowed her to remain in such
suspense,” she said to herself, “unless he had met with some accident or
encountered some of his former friends--those detestable scamps who had
tried to make him as vile as themselves.” Perhaps he had met his father,
Polyte Chupin, the man whom she still loved in spite of everything,
because he was her husband, but whom she judged, and whom indeed she
knew, to be capable of any crime. And of all misfortunes, it was an
accident, even a fatal accident, that she dreaded least. In her heroic
soul the voice of honor spoke even more loudly than the imperious
instinct of maternity; and she would rather have found her son lying
dead on the marble slabs of the Morgue than seated in the dock at the
Assize Court.
Her poor eyes were weary of weeping when she at last recognized Victor’s
familiar step approaching down the passage. She hastily opened the door,
and as soon as she FELT that he was near her, for she could not see him,
she asked: “Where have you spent the night? Where have you come from?
What has happened?”
His only answer was to fling his arms round her neck, following alike
the impulse of his heart and the advice of experience, which told him
that this would be the best explanation he could give. Still it did not
prevent him from trying to justify himself, although he was careful not
to confess the truth, for he dreaded his mother’s censure, knowing well
enough that she would be less indulgent than his own conscience.
“I believe you, my son,” said the good woman, gravely; “you wouldn’t
deceive me, I’m sure.” And she added: “What reassured me, when you
kissed me, was that you hadn’t been drinking.”
Chupin did not speak a word; this confidence made him strangely uneasy.
“May I be hung,” he thought, “if after this I ever do anything that I
can’t confess to this poor good woman!”
But he hadn’t time for sentimental reflections. He had gone too far
to draw back, and it was necessary for him to report the result of his
researches as soon as possible. Accordingly, he hastily ate a morsel,
for he was faint with hunger, and started out again, promising to return
to dinner. He was in all the greater haste as it was Sunday. M. Fortunat
was in the habit of passing these days in the country, and Chupin feared
he might fail to see him if he was not expeditious in his movements. And
while running to the Place de la Bourse, he carefully prepared the story
he meant to relate, deeply impressed by the wisdom of the popular maxim
which says: “It is not always well to tell the whole truth.” Ought he
to describe the scene at the restaurant, mention Coralth, and say that
there was nothing more to be done respecting M. Wilkie? After mature
deliberation he decided in the negative. If he revealed everything, M.
Fortunat might become discouraged and abandon the affair. It would be
better to let him discover the truth himself, and profit by his anger to
indicate a means of vengeance.
It happened that M. Fortunat had decided not to go to the country
that Sunday. He had slept later than usual, and was still in his
dressing-gown when Chupin made his appearance. He uttered a joyful cry
on seeing his emissary, feeling assured that he must be the bearer
of good news, since he came so early. “You have succeeded, then?” he
exclaimed.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“You have discovered Madame d’Argeles’s son?”
“I have him.”
“Ah! I knew that you were a clever fellow. Quick, tell me everything.
But no, wait a moment.”
He rang the bell, and Madame Dodelin at once made her appearance. “Put
another plate on the table,” said the agent. “M. Chupin will breakfast
with me--and serve us at once. You agree, don’t you, Victor? It’s ten
o’clock; I’m hungry; and we can talk better over a bottle of wine.”
This was a great honor; and it gave Chupin a fitting idea of the value
of the service he had rendered. He was not too much elated, however;
though he felt very sorry that he had eaten before he came. On his side,
M. Fortunat by no means regretted having conferred this favor on his
clerk, for the story which the latter related, caused him intense
delight. “Very good!--well done,” he exclaimed every other minute. “I
could not have done better myself. You shall be abundantly rewarded,
Victor, if this affair is successful.” And at this thought his
satisfaction overflowed in a complacent monologue: “Why shouldn’t it
succeed?” he asked himself. “Could anything be more simple and certain?
I can make any demand I please--one, two, three hundred thousand francs.
Ah, it was a good thing that the Count de Chalusse died! Now, I can
forgive Valorsay. Let him keep my forty thousand francs; he’s quite
welcome to them! Let him marry Mademoiselle Marguerite; I wish them
a large and flourishing family! And Madame d’Argeles, too, has my
benediction!”
He was so confident his fortune was made that at noon he could restrain
himself no longer. He hired a cab and accompanied by Chupin he set out
for M. Wilkie’s abode, declaring that he would wake that young gentleman
up if needs be, but at all events he must see him without delay. When he
reached the Rue du Helder, he told Chupin to wait in the cab, and then
entering the house, he asked: “Monsieur Wilkie?”
“On the second floor, the door to the right,” replied the concierge.
M. Fortunat ascended the stairs very slowly, for he felt the necessity
of regaining all his composure, and it was not until he had brought
himself to a proper frame of mind that he rang the bell. A small
servant, M. Wilkie’s fag, who took his revenge in robbing his employer
most outrageously, came to the door, and began by declaring that his
master was out of town. But M. Fortunat understood how to force doors
open, and his manoeuvres succeeded so well that he was finally allowed
to enter a small sitting-room, while the servant went off, saying: “I
will go and inform monsieur.”
Instead of wasting time in congratulating himself on this first
achievement the agent began to inspect the room in which he found
himself, as well as another apartment, the door of which stood open. For
he was of the opinion that a dwelling-place indicates the character of
its inmate, as surely as a shell indicates the form of the creature that
inhabits it. M. Wilkie was comfortably lodged; but his rooms were
most pretentiously ornamented. They were indeed decorated in more
than doubtful taste. There were very few books lying about, but costly
riding-whips, spurs, rifles, cartridge-boxes, and all the paraphernalia
of a fashionable sporting man, were here in abundance.
The only pictures on the wall were a few portraits of celebrated horses,
which foreshadowed the fact that M. Wilkie must have, at least, an
eighth share in some well-known racer. After this inspection, M.
Fortunat smiled complacently. “This young fellow has expensive tastes,”
he thought. “It will be very easy to manage him.”
However his reflections were interrupted by the return of the servant,
who exclaimed: “My master is in the dining-room, and if monsieur will
enter----”
The heir-hunter did enter, and found himself face to face with M.
Wilkie, who was partaking of a cup of chocolate. He was not only up,
but he was dressed to go out--dressed in such a style that he would have
been taken for a respectable groom. A couple of hours’ sleep had made
him himself again; and he had regained the arrogance of manner which was
the distinguishing trait of his character, and a sure sign that he was
in prosperous circumstances. As his unknown visitor entered he looked
up, and bruskly asked: “What do you want?”
“I called on business, monsieur.”
“Ah, well! this isn’t a favorable moment. I must be at Vincennes for the
races. I’m interested in a horse. So, you understand----”
M. Fortunat was secretly amused by M. Wilkie’s nonchalance. “The young
fellow won’t be in so much of a hurry when he learns my business,” he
thought. And he replied aloud: “I can explain what brings me in a few
words, monsieur.”
“Proceed, then.”
M. Fortunat began by closing the door which had been intentionally left
open by the servant; and then, returning to M. Wilkie’s side, he began
with an air of the greatest mystery: “What would you give a shrewd
man if he suddenly placed you in undisputed possession of an immense
fortune--of a million--two millions, perhaps?”
He had prepared this little effect most carefully, and he fully expected
to see Wilkie fall on his knees before him. But not at all; the young
gentleman’s face never moved a muscle; and it was in the calmest
possible tone, and with his mouth half full that he replied: “I know
the rest. You come, don’t you, to sell me the secret of an unclaimed
inheritance, which belongs to me? Very well, you have come too late.”
If the ceiling had fallen and crushed M. Fortunat there and then he
would, mentally at least, have not been in a more pitiable condition. He
stood silent, motionless, utterly confounded, with his mouth wide open,
and such an expression of consternation in his eyes that M. Wilkie
burst into a hearty laugh. Still the agent struggled against fate, and
ultimately faltered: “Let me explain--permit me----”
“Oh, it would be useless. I know my rights. I have already arranged with
a party to prosecute my claims; the agreement will be signed on the day
after to-morrow.”
“With whom?”
“Ah, excuse me; that’s my affair.”
He had finished his chocolate, and he now poured out a glass of
ice-water, drank it, wiped his mouth, and rose from the table. “You will
excuse me, my dear sir, if I leave you,” he remarked. “As I said before,
I am going to Vincennes. I have staked a thousand louis on ‘Pompier de
Nanterre,’ my horse, and my friends have ventured ten times as much. Who
knows what may happen if I’m not there at the start?” And then, ignoring
M. Fortunat as completely as if he had not existed, M. Wilkie exclaimed:
“Toby, you fool! where are you? Is my carriage below? Quick, bring me my
cane, my gloves, and my glasses. Take down that basket of champagne. Run
and put on your new livery. Make haste, you little beast, I shall be too
late.”
M. Fortunat left the room. The frightful anger that had followed his
idiotic stupor sent his blood rushing madly to his brain. A purple mist
swam before his eyes; there was a loud ringing in his ears, and with
each pulsation of his heart his head seemed to receive a blow from
a heavy hammer. His feelings were so terrible that he was really
frightened. “Am I about to have an attack of apoplexy?” he wondered.
And, as every surrounding object seemed to whirl around him, the very
floor itself apparently rising and falling under his feet, he remained
on the landing waiting for this horrible vertigo to subside and doing
his best to reason with himself. It was fully five minutes before he
dared to risk the descent; and even when he reached the street, his
features were so frightfully distorted that Chupin trembled.
He sprang out, assisted his employer into the cab, and bade the driver
return to the Place de la Bourse. It was really pitiful to see the
despair which had succeeded M. Fortunat’s joyful confidence. “This is
the end of everything,” he groaned. “I’m robbed, despoiled, ruined! And
such a sure thing as it seemed. These misfortunes happen to no one but
me! Some one in advance of me! Some one else will capture the prize! Oh,
if I knew the wretch, if I only knew him!”
“One moment,” interrupted Chupin; “I think know the man.”