A CRUEL SLUR.
Florestan had conducted Tantaine to the sumptuous library, in which the
Count had received Mascarin’s visit; and, to pass away the time, the old
man took a mental inventory of the contents of the room. He tried the
texture of the curtains, looked at the handsome bindings of the books,
and admired the magnificent bronzes on the mantelpiece.
“Aha,” muttered he, as he tried the springs of a luxurious armchair,
“everything is of the best, and when matters are settled, I half think
that I should like a resting-place just like this----”
He checked himself, for the door opened, and the Count made his
appearance, calm and dignified, but very pale. Tantaine made a low bow,
pressing his greasy hat against his breast.
“Your humble servant to command,” said he.
The Count had come to a sudden halt.
“Excuse me,” said he, “but did you send up a card asking for an
interview?”
“I am not Mascarin certainly, but I used that highly respectable
gentleman’s name, because I knew that my own was totally unknown to you.
I am Tantaine, Adrien Tantaine.”
M. de Mussidan gazed with extreme surprise upon the squalid individual
before him. His mild and benevolent face inspired confidence, and yet he
doubted him.
“I have come on the same business,” pursued the old man. “I have been
ordered to tell you that it must be hurried on.”
The Count hastily closed the door and locked it; the manner of this man
made him feel even too plainly the ignominy of his position.
“I understand,” answered he. “But how is it that you have come, and not
the other one?”
“He intended to come; but at the last moment he drew back; Mascarin, you
see, has a great deal to lose, while I----” He paused, and holding up
the tattered tails of his coat, turned round, as though to exhibit his
shabby attire. “All my property is on my back,” continued he.
“Then I can treat with you?” asked the Count.
Tantaine nodded his head. “Yes, Count, I have the missing leaves from
the Baron’s journal, and also, well--I suppose you know everything, all
of your wife’s correspondence.”
“Enough,” answered the Count, unable to hide his disgust. “Sit down.”
“Now, Count, I will go to the point--are you going to put the police on
us?”
“I have said that I would do nothing of the kind.”
“Then we can get to business.”
“Yes, if----”
The old man shrugged his shoulders.
“There is no ‘if’ in the case,” returned he. “We state our conditions,
for acceptance or rejection.”
These words were uttered in a tone of such extreme insolence that the
Count was strongly tempted to hurl the extortionate scoundrel from the
window, but he contrived to restrain his passion.
“Let us hear the conditions then,” said he impatiently.
Tantaine extracted from some hidden recess of his coat a much-worn
pocketbook, and drew from it a paper.
“Here are our conditions,” returned he slowly. “The Count de Mussidan
promises to give the hand of his daughter to Henri Marquis de
Croisenois. He will give his daughter a wedding portion of six hundred
thousand francs, and promises that the marriage shall take place without
delay. The Marquis de Croisenois will be formally introduced at your
house, and he must be cordially received. Four days afterwards he must
be asked to dinner. On the fifteenth day from that M. de Mussidan will
give a grand ball in honor of the signing of the marriage contract. The
leaves from the diary and the whole of the correspondence will be handed
to M. de Mussidan as soon as the civil ceremony is completed.”
With firmly compressed lips and clenched hands, the Count sat listening
to these conditions.
“And who can tell me,” said he, “that you will keep your engagements,
and that these papers will be restored to me at all?”
Tantaine looked at him with a air of pity.
“Your own good sense,” answered he. “What more could we expect to get
out of you than your daughter and your money?”
The Count did not answer, but paced up and down the room, eyeing the
ambassador keenly, and endeavoring to detect some weak point in his
manner of cynicism and audacity. Then speaking in the calm tone of a man
who had made up his mind, he said,--
“You hold me as in a vice, and I admit myself vanquished. Stringent as
your conditions are, I accept them.”
“That is the right style of way to talk in,” remarked Tantaine
cheerfully.
“Then,” continued the Count, with a ray of hope gleaming in his face,
“why should I give my daughter to De Croisenois at all?--surely this
is utterly unnecessary. What you want is simply six hundred thousand
francs; well, you can have them, and leave me Sabine.”
He paused and waited for the reply, believing that the day was his; but
he was wrong.
“That would not be the same thing at all,” answered Tantaine. “We should
not gain our ends by such means.”
“I can do more,” said the Count. “Give me six months, and I will add a
million to the sum I have already offered.”
Tantaine did not appear impressed by the magnitude of this offer. “I
think,” remarked he, “that it will be better to close this interview,
which, I confess, is becoming a little annoying. You agreed to accept
the conditions. Are you still in that mind?”
The Count bowed. He could not trust himself to speak.
“Then,” went on Tantaine, “I will take my leave. Remember, that as you
fulfil your engagement, so we will keep to ours.”
He had laid his hand on the handle of the door, when the Count said,--
“Another word, if you please. I can answer for myself and Madame de
Mussidan, but how about my daughter?”
Tantaine’s face changed. “What do you mean?” asked he.
“My daughter may refuse to accept M. de Croisenois.”
“Why should she? He is good-looking, pleasant, and agreeable.”
“Still she may refuse him.”
“If mademoiselle makes any objection,” said the old man in peremptory
accents, “you must let me see her for a few minutes, and after that you
will have no further difficulty with her.”
“Why, what could you have to say to my daughter?”
“I should say----”
“Well, what would you say?”
“I should say that if she loves any one, it is not M. de Breulh.” He
endeavored to pass through the half-opened door, but the Count closed it
violently.
“You shall not leave this room,” cried he, “until you have explained
this insulting remark.”
“I had no intention of offending you,” answered Tantaine humbly.
“I only----” He paused, and then, with an air of sarcasm which sat
strangely upon a person of his appearance, went on, “I am aware that
the heiress of a noble family may do many things without having her
reputation compromised, when girls in a lower social grade would be
forever lost by the commission of any one of them; and I am sure if the
family of M. de Breulh knew that the young lady to whom he was engaged
had been in the habit of passing her afternoons alone with a young man
in his studio----”
He paused, and hastily drew a revolver, for it seemed to him as if the
Count were about to throw himself upon him. “Softly, softly, if you
please,” cried he. “Blows and insults are fatal mistakes. I have better
information than yourself, that is all. I have more than ten times seen
your daughter enter a house in the Rue Tour d’Auvergne, and asking for
M. Andre, creep silently up the staircase.”
The Count felt that he was choking. He tore off his cravat, and cried
wildly, “Proofs! Give me proofs!”
During the last five minutes Tantaine had shifted his ground so
skilfully that the heavy library table now stood between himself and the
Count, and he was comparatively safe behind this extemporized defence.
“Proofs?” answered he. “Do you think that I carry them about with me? In
a week I could give you the lovers’ correspondence. That, you will say,
is too long to wait; but you can set your doubts at rest at once. If you
go to the address I will give you before eight to-morrow morning, and
enter the rooms occupied by M. Andre, you will find the portrait
of Mademoiselle Sabine carefully concealed from view behind a green
curtain, and a very good portrait it is. I presume you will admit that
it could not have been executed without a sitting.”
“Leave this,” cried the Count, “without a moment’s delay.”
Tantaine did not wait for a repetition of these words. He passed through
the doorway, and as soon as he was outside he called out in cheerful
accents. “Do not forget the address, Number 45, Rue Tour d’Auvergne,
name of Andre, and mind and be there before eight a.m.”
The Count made a rush at him on hearing this last insult, but he was
too late, for Tantaine slammed the door, and was in the hall before the
infuriated master of the house could open it. Tantaine had resumed
all his airs of humility, and took off his hat to the footmen as he
descended the steps. “Yes,” muttered he, as he walked along, “the idea
was a happy one. Andre knows that he is watched, and will be careful;
and now that M. de Mussidan is aware that his sweet, pure daughter
has had a lover, he will be only too happy to accept the Marquis de
Croisenois as his son-in-law.” Tantaine believed that Sabine was more
culpable than she really had been, for the idea of pure and honorable
love had never entered his brain.